Chapter Text
Farkas hugged his twin brother tight before they parted ways for the first time in their lives. Jorrvaskr had been their home for about as long as they could remember, their father having raised them in the ancient longhouse until the day he died. The Companions had always been their de facto family, the small coterie of adventurers helping to raise the two boys and teaching them everything from weapons handling to smithing to how to kill and prepare wild game while out on the road.
Farkas had of course left home plenty of times, but only ever with his shield-siblings when they went out to hunt or fight or explore. They went out together, and they came home together. The structure and predictability was comforting. No bad surprises, no complicated thought required. Vilkas had always been the smart brother, and Farkas was happy to defer to him and follow his lead. He had never sought authority or wanted to be in charge; stuff like that made his head hurt. Besides, he was already good at following orders and winning fights. If Vilkas was the one calling the shots, it meant Farkas didn't have to worry about anything and that he could focus on the stuff that mattered, like how many ways he could kill a bear without using a weapon.
It had always been that way, for as long as either twin could remember.
Farkas would have been happy to uphold this dynamic for the rest of his life, until the night he overheard Kodlak Gray-Mane in quiet conversation with Skjor.
The old man and the middle aged warrior had been like fathers to him, and he took tremendous pride in having earned their trust and approval.
Possibly the proudest moment of his life had been when Skjor brought the twins into the inner circle. In the secret chamber beneath the Skyforge, Farkas and Vilkas were offered a blood pact with the Daedric prince Hircine, Father of Wolves, Master of the Chase, and Patron of Manbeasts.
It was simple enough. In exchange for their souls joining Hircine's Wild Hunt when they died, they'd be granted the power to transform their bodies at will into terrifying beasts. The promise of strength, power, and domination was all but impossible for two teen boys to refuse, and they eagerly accepted. This was the condition of entry to The Circle, and Farkas had never felt joyous freedom the way he did on full moons when The Circle hunted together as a pack.
The gift was not without cost. There were philosophical and spiritual concerns that Vilkas and Kodlak both had, something about letting the beast eat away at their souls and never joining the honored dead in Sovngarde. Farkas didn't really know about that kind of stuff, so it didn't bother him much. What did bother him was that he'd had been a restless sleeper ever since. The blood of the beast that flowed through his veins howled to be let out every single night, often keeping him awake until dawn.
Sex helped. It was easier to rest with another warm body next to him, and it was an effective way to both satisfy the voice in his blood and to exhaust his restless body. He wasn't really picky about who he spent the night with, either. Vilkas had told him relationships were a waste of time when they should be focused on more important things like protecting the people of Whiterun and making their ancestors proud, and Vilkas was usually right about things. To avoid disappointing his brother for not being tough enough, Farkas never sought relationships with any of the people he slept with, even when he really wanted to. Instead, he pushed the loneliness down deep and pretended he didn't wish he had someone who loved him the way all the couples in town loved each other.
That night was one of the inevitable nights where the Nord found himself facing an empty bed, and he gave up on the idea of getting any sleep.
The housekeepers in Dragonsreach were often receptive to the handsome young warrior, but with some diplomatic party from High Rock scheduled to arrive soon, none of the maids could afford to slip away for the night.
The bard at the Bannered Mare was a notorious skirt chaser, but he'd never once turned Farkas down when he invited him to the longhouse for the night. Still, he wasn't a great option if the goal was sleep. Being a bard, he never shut up, and Farkas wasn't in the mood for nonstop conversation.
He might get lucky and find a guard willing to slip away from the barracks, but he ran the risk of getting them in trouble if their absence was noticed, something he always felt sick with guilt about when it happened.
With a heavy sigh, he decided he'd just relieve whichever Companion was on guard duty for the night and offer to take over for them. Moving quietly through the shadowy halls, he was surprised to see firelight coming from the Harbinger’s quarters. If the old man was awake, Farkas would see if he needed anything. As he approached the door, he heard quiet conversation and stopped, not wanting to intrude.
“Kodlak, you're nowhere near old enough to be worried about this yet. Yes, it's important to have a successor lined up, but I can't see you wanting to retire for at least another decade.”
“It's not about what I want, Skjor. There's a change in the air. We are coming into interesting times, and interesting times tend to shorten a man's life. If something happens to me, you need to be prepared to carry this family without me.”
“I know. I know. I just wish it didn't have to be me. I can't lead them the way you can. They respect me, but they love you.”
“You're not worried that they'll reject your claim, are you?”
“What? No, of course not. Aela would be the first to congratulate me. Vilkas would accept your choice because he respects your leadership. And Farkas doesn't have the brains to disagree with his brother, or to form an opinion for that matter.”
Farkas winced. Skjor was right, and it hurt. He knew he wasn't smart like Vilkas and that he was best utilized as the muscle in any team, but hearing a man he liked and respected say it out loud like that cut more sharply than the youth would have expected.
“Leadership could only ever pass to one of the Circle, and it has to be you. Aela is too bloodthirsty to be a good leader, she'd put the others in danger chasing greater and greater challenges. Vilkas is simply too young. Perhaps in time he could be a truly great Harbinger, but he's not there yet. And as you say, Farkas was born to take orders, not give them. Besides, he's too kindhearted to bear that kind of responsibility. The weight would crush him.”
Farkas realized he'd been holding his breath, and felt a little dizzy. He was definitely not supposed to be hearing this. He turned back and moved with practiced silence, keeping to the shadows until he made it outside.
Overhearing his two surviving father figures speak so bluntly about his shortcomings left him with a lot of confusing feelings. Nothing they had said was untrue or anything he hadn't already known, but it had never occurred to him that anyone would find it worth discussing in the quiet of the night.
He had always taken for granted that he belonged in the Companions, and that the others knew what they were doing when they brought him into the Circle, but what if he was wrong? What if all along, he was just an extension of Vilkas, and not actually valuable in his own right? The twins had always been inseparable, but was he holding Vilkas back in life, nothing but stupid dead weight that was keeping him from true greatness?
These thoughts kept him awake as he set out to the stables to see Lukka, the silver dappled mare he had saved up for and finally bought. She wasn't fast or brave or vicious, but Farkas knew all that when he bought her. He didn't want her because he needed a warhorse. He wanted her because he liked her and she made him happy. Every time he looked at the available steeds, he gravitated back to the sweet ash-colored mare who snuffled at his pockets for treats and whose bright eyes shined with warmth every time she saw him.
Her quiet patience and gentle nature were exactly what he needed in that moment, and he simply stood in her stall with his face buried in her mane, letting it absorb tears of shame. Lukka whickered quietly and turned to nuzzle her handler, her warm breath ruffling his long dark hair. The mare waited patiently for the Nord to do something; she had nowhere special to be. He took his time brushing her down, smoothing the tangles from her mane and tail, and massaging her from ears to hindquarters.
They watched the sun rise together, having never left the stables. He kissed his friend on the side of her face and walked back to the longhouse. Skjor might have thought he wasn't capable of so lofty a task, but Farkas had actually made a decision, all on his own.
††††††††††
“Brother, I don't understand. What do you mean you have to leave?”
Vilkas was trying to understand. He and Farkas were happy here. They were thriving. It didn't make sense for Farkas to broadside him with the news that he wanted to essentially run away from home.
“Vil, I have to earn it. Everything I have, I have because you or dad or Kodlak held my hand and made sure I didn't fail. I have to know that I deserve to be here.” Farkas looked his brother in the eye, needing him to understand.
“Farkas, you do deserve to be here! None of us got here without help, it's why we're called The Companions. Family is supposed to lift each other up.” Vilkas was on the verge of tears.
“I just-” Farkas sighed, struggling to put his thoughts into words. “I'm not good at explaining stuff like you. I just know this is something I need to do. Not just for me, but for you too.”
“I don't need you to do anything but be my brother! How is leaving going to help?”
“Vilkas, I have to do this. Please. I never ask for anything. Just let me try, and when I come back, I can know I'm bringing my best to the table.”
Vilkas looked away and rubbed his eyes. He felt ashamed of the way he was reacting, but he also never thought the twin who had shared a womb with him would ever want to leave his side.
He let out a shaky breath and nodded.
“Okay. If it's this important to you, then it's important to me. But you better come home, okay? You go and– and prove whatever it is you need to prove to yourself, and then you and that stupid horse of yours better come straight back to Whiterun or I'll hunt you down myself and drag you back.”
Farkas had never appreciated his brother more.
“I will. I promise. I'm gonna make you proud to be my twin.”
“I'm already proud of that, idiot.” Vilkas sniffed and brushed away another tear. “I'll tell the others you had to take off. They're going to want to know where you're going and when you'll be back, and I'm going to have to tell them something.”
“I know. But if anyone can think of the right thing to say, it's you.”
A few hours later, Vilkas hugged his twin tight before they parted ways for the first time in their lives.
He stood at the gates to see his brother off, Farkas riding the big dumb horse he loved so much. He couldn't even ride her into battle, she was too slow and placid. He'd told Farkas that Lukka was a draft horse, bred to pull a plow, and he should get a proper warhorse, but Farkas didn't care. She wasn't even a steed, she was just an incredibly expensive pet that he couldn't even bring in the house with him. His big dumb brother on his big dumb horse shrank in the distance, and letting him go was the hardest thing Vilkas had ever done. How was Farkas supposed to survive on his own when he couldn't even buy a horse right? How was Vilkas supposed to survive when he felt like half of himself had just been torn away and he was left bleeding on the ground?
††††††††††
The young Nord rode southeast from Whiterun, with no clear plan or destination. He considered walking the seven thousand steps to High Hrothgar, at the top of the Throat of the World, and after that, who knows? Maybe he'd just keep going east until he reached Morrowind and see what happened.
Skirting the edges of the highest mountain in Tamriel, Farkas kept his eyes and ears open as he made his way to Ivarstead. The ramshackle little town was the point of entry to the Throat of the World, and he could maybe pick up some work or get directed to some local points of interest when he stopped at the tavern. Along the way, he helped a farmer deal with a bear that had been killing their chickens, watched a massive herd of elk cross the snowy road and bound away into the forest, and repaired an elderly woman's roof after she waved him down to ask for use of a strong young man.
Ivarstead was the same as it ever was. The tavern was quiet but welcoming, and they offered to put him and his horse up for the night if he was willing to bring some supplies to the top of the mountain. Farkas would have done it for free, but maybe it wasn't the worst idea to save some coin where he could while he was out on his own.
“What's the news around town?” Farkas sat at the bar to chat up the barkeep.
“What news? Recession is hitting everyone. Only visitors we get are the ones going up to High Hrothgar and they never stay more than a single night. If it's women you're looking for, there are none, and if it's work you need, you're probably better off heading to Riften.”
Farkas finished his drink and ordered another.
“Why, what's going on in Riften?”
“The whole city is a cesspit of crime, but from what I hear there's money to be made. The Jarl is always hiring more guards, the Black-Briars have always got something going on between the meadery and owning half the town, and if you believe the rumors, the Thieves Guild have a hideout somewhere in the sewers under the city.”
Farkas scoffed. “The Thieves Guild is a myth, I don't think it even actually exists.”
The elderly bartender shrugged. “Just telling you what I heard, kid.”
The young Companion left an extra septim on the counter for the information and decided that after the mountain, Riften would be his next stop.
He set out at dawn the next morning, alone and on foot. Some people probably counted the seven thousand steps to the top as they went, but Farkas used the time to empty his mind and focus on the winter silence that lined the path. If he stood still, he could hear the snow crackle and shift in the icy wind. His eyes followed animal tracks that moved erratically between rocks and brush before disappearing. One trail ended in the perfect imprint of a hawk’s outstretched wings, the tiny wanderer's journey cut abruptly short as they were carried back to a raptor’s nest.
As he climbed, there were fewer trees and the wind became harsh and bitter. Farkas shrugged the supplies back over his shoulder and continued the climb. The mountain would almost certainly be home to wolves, bears, and sabrecats. Most big predators kept away from humans, but it was best to keep his eyes open just in case.
With the awareness of large carnivores on the edge of his thoughts, he let himself otherwise relax into the climb, step after step, breath steady, low sunlight turning the snow into dazzling crystal.
Farkas moved at a steady pace, refusing to hurry. He kept his thoughts quiet and continued to focus on his environment. It was something he'd always done when the voice in his head that hated him and predicted constant disaster started to get too loud. Focusing on things that were real, the sensory truths that surrounded him, made it easier to shove that voice back down for a while so he could get on with his life. The voice had gotten louder since he left Whiterun, but climbing this mountain was good. That shitty little voice couldn't nag at his attention while he was surrounded by nature and looking across the whole world from halfway up these ancient peaks.
He didn't think about home. He didn't think about Vilkas. He didn't think about that one maid who put butterflies in his stomach when she smiled at him. He didn't think about what he was doing out here or what he was hoping to accomplish. All he thought about was the next step and the next, the crunch of snow underfoot, the cold wind lifting his hair off his shoulders. He thought about the birdsong he heard coming from further down. He thought about the white fox that startled and fled when it noticed his approach. He thought about the stacked stone pillars that marked the path where the steps had worn away over the centuries. Looking up to see how far he was from the top, Farkas was surprised to find that he had arrived. A large wooden chest sat a little further ahead, the place where folks left supplies for the monks who lived at the top. Farkas had heard that they never spoke a word, spending their entire lives studying the language of dragons and shunning the comforts of society.
The Nord unlatched the chest and deposited the bag of supplies, and then he sat beside it, taking in the view.
In every direction, Skyrim stretched outward from the Throat of the World. From this height, the highest point in all of Tamriel, he could see the sulfur pools of Eastmarch to the northeast, his own home of Whiterun to the northwest, and the curving chain of mountains that divided Skyrim from Cyrodil to the south and Morrowind to the east.
It was strangely frightening to see so much at once, and he had never felt so small. Farkas leaned into the feeling, following the thought to its natural conclusion. He was small, but he was part of the fabric that made up this vast landscape. The little fox he'd startled was a part of it. The wolves that cried in the far distance were part of it. The entire tapestry of mountains and rivers and ancient forests was threaded together with countless tiny little lives, and he was glad that he got to be one of those threads.
He sat with the silence for a while longer, giving himself permission to continue to disconnect from thinking and enjoy the feeling of oneness with the natural world. He was starting to understand how a person might want to leave the world behind to become a monk at the top of this mountain, if this was how they got to feel all the time.
Not wanting to be stuck on the mountain after dark, Farkas reluctantly got to his feet. There were only so many hours of daylight left, and he still had to make his way back down to Ivarstead.
It was dusk by the time Farkas returned to the ground, and the magic had begun to wear off as cold and hunger crept in. The old man brought out a bowl of stew and a tankard of warm mead when he saw the young adventurer come through the door and kick the snow from his boots. He hadn't expected the kid to stay a second night, but it was nice to have some company besides the handful of townies who came in every night to drink. The Nord boy made himself at home in front of the fire while he ate, and the old barkeep hoped he'd found whatever he was searching for at the top of that old hill.
Back on the road, the air warmed considerably the further they got from the high altitude of Ivarstead. The wildlife went from the snowy white fur he'd seen on the mountain, back to the reds and browns he was more familiar with. Farkas and Vilkas had survived twenty-one winters together and it felt strange to think he would be spending the twenty-second one alone. Well, the sooner he found adventure and glory without anyone holding his hand, the sooner he could return to Jorrvaskr and know that he deserved to be there. Riften wasn't far now.