Chapter Text
So that’s Whiterun, huh.
Bretagne Le Roi looked at the crumbling walls of the city as she approached by carriage and wondered how old they were and if they’d ever be repaired. As the carriage drew closer, the stone walls grew in size and for the first time since she left Falkreath earlier that day, she felt anxious knots form in her stomach. The petite Breton took a few deep breaths to steel herself, preparing to give herself a pep talk.
It’s going to be alright, Bretagne. This is just temporary. You’re going to work hard, save up money for your dowry, and then get married. It’s only six months. You can do this.
But the entire time she tried to talk herself up, her fists clenched tightly in her lap.
She had heard good things about the city, having never been there before. “The jewel of Skyrim,” she had heard people say. She wasn't much of a traveler; she had never been outside of Falkreath for any extended period of time. So, this trip was both exciting and terrifying for her.
As soon as Bretagne stepped inside the gates, she was met with a bustling city: the thudding of a blacksmith at a forge; the shrieking of playing children; the scent of fresh flowers and baked bread. It was certainly a change of pace from the muted, hum-drum town she used to call home. Well, in all fairness, it still was her home–after her stint in the city, she’d move back to Falkreath to marry, a beneficial arrangement made between her parents and the family of her fiancé, Khor Tree-Faller. Bretagne had only met him once, but he seemed decent enough. He was heir to a lumber mill and tree-cutting empire that had been in his family for generations. Bretagne wouldn’t want for anything. Not exactly the life she would've chosen for herself, if she'd had a choice, but not a bad option. Most importantly, it was to secure her own family's future and legacy–she could certainly put aside her own wishes for that.
Hesitantly, she made her way through town, up to the Wind District, past a shouting priest and the small crowd he had gathered, up the stairs to her new residence: Jorrvaskr.
Once inside, Bretagne was met with quite a violent sight: two people, a blonde woman and a Dunmer, going fisticuffs in the middle of the hall. A ring of cheering spectators had formed around them.
“Twelve septims on the girl! Look at that speed.”
“Come on, you can do better than that!”
“Hope they don't get carried away here.”
“Strike when the shoulder turns. He's giving you openings.”
The fighters themselves were hurling insults at each other as well as their fists:
“You're pathetic!”
“Azura curse you!”
Why isn't anyone stopping them?! Bretagne wondered. She skirted the edge of the group, trying not to draw attention to herself. Towards the front stood a young blonde man.
“Not now! I'm trying to watch this.”
Bretagne ignored his comment. “Who's in charge around here?”
“In charge of what?” the man asked. “I'm in charge of me and you're in charge of you. If you're looking to join up, Kodlak’s the one to be talking to.”
Okay, where is this Kodlak person? she wondered. She had vaguely recalled someone by that name when her parents set her up for this job. Just then, she spotted a kind-looking older lady, setting away her broom and taking a seat at the long table.
“Excuse me,” Bretagne politely interrupted.
“Hm? Oh I'm just a servant, dear. You want to talk to one of the Companions, I'm sure.”
“I was just wondering where to find a Kodlak, er, Whitman?”
“Ah,” the elderly lady said, “Kodlak Whitemane. He's down those stairs at the end of the hall.”
Bretagne smiled, and the elderly woman gave a kind one in return. She thanked her and scurried down the stairs. The servant woman just chuckled to herself, shaking her head. “Ah, youth.”
.
.
As she cautiously approached, she could hear a muffled conversation.
"But I still hear the call of the blood."
Another male voice, considerably older, spoke up. "We all do. It is our burden to bear. But we can overcome."
The first man spoke again. "You have my brother and I, obviously. But I don't know if the rest will go along quite so easily."
"Leave that to me."
Bretagne shifted her weight anxiously from one foot to the other. She felt like she shouldn't be privy to this conversation, so she stood just outside the doorway. “Excuse me,” she said quietly.
Both men looked up at the interruption. “A stranger comes to our hall,” the older man announced.
Bretagne took a small step forward. “I heard there was an opening for a position with the Companions?”
"Did you now?” the older man asked, waving her in. “Here, let me have a look at you.” He looked her up and down appraisingly and Bretagne fought the urge to fidget. “Hm. Yes, perhaps. A certain strength of spirit."
The younger man scoffed. "Master, you're not truly considering accepting her?"
What's that supposed to mean? she thought, frowning before quickly softening her features again.
"I am nobody's master, Vilkas,” the old man chided. “And last I checked, we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts."
Bretagne stood up a little straighter at that.
"Apologies. But perhaps this isn't the time. I've never even heard of this outsider ."
The one called Vilkas scowled at her, and she fought not to cower under his gaze. For the first time since entering the room, she really got a good look at him: dark hair, chiseled jaw, silver-blue eyes. She thought he was actually rather attractive––that is, if he wasn't being such an ass.
So that meant the older man was Kodlak Whitemane, who spoke next. "As I always say, ‘some are born great, some achieve greatness, and’–”
“‘And some have greatness thrust upon ’em,’” Vilkas interrupted, “yes, I know.”
“What I am saying, boy ,” Kodlak scolded, “is that it makes no difference. What matters is their heart."
"And their arm,” Vilkas muttered under his breath, but Bretagne caught it.
Now she felt impossibly embarrassed. “Um, pardon me. I think maybe I’ve given the wrong impression. I’m not here to join the Companions, necessarily. Er, I mean, I am. What I mean is that I’m here for the apprenticeship."
The old man smiled. "Of course. How are you with money, girl?"
She squared her shoulders. "I do alright. I have much to learn."
"That's the spirit. Vilkas, here, will get you settled in. Vilkas, take her upstairs and introduce her to Brill and Vignar.”
He nodded silently and strode out of the room, not slowing down for her to catch up.
.
.
.
Vilkas stopped in front of two older men, one with long white hair and tanned skin, and the other a balding man dressed in yellow.
“Brill, Vignar. This is your new apprentice. Apprentice, Brill and Vignar Gray-Mane,” Vilkas introduced as quickly as possible. He didn't even bother asking her name. After, he gave a curt nod and turned on his heel.
So much for a warm welcome, Bretagne thought.
The one called Brill took the lead. “You must be Bretagne. Well met.”
“Likewise,” she said. “I was told you'd have a room for me?”
“We weren't expecting you for another few weeks, so you'll have to share the quarters downstairs in the meantime. Apologies,” Brill said.
Vignar just grumbled. “If you'd let us know sooner, we wouldn't be in this mess. Now I gotta push up the timetable on building my new house.” At that, he got up and walked off, muttering something about “back in the good old days.”
“Sorry about him. He's nearing retirement and can get a little impatient.”
“That's all right,” she reassured with a smile. Her own father was nearing the same age, so she was well-acquainted with the particular habits of cantankerous yet well-meaning old men.
For the next two hours or so, Brill showed Bretagne around, giving her a lay of the land and showing her the ropes. Her first official day would be tomorrow morning.
“‘Til then,” he said, “I suggest getting to know the folks around here. You'll be spending quite a bit of time with them.”
.
.
.
She had just tried to make small talk, so how did it end up like this? Bretagne recalled what Vilkas had told her out on the porch later that afternoon.
"You might just make it. But for now, you're still a whelp to us, new blood. So you do what we tell you. Here's my sword. Go take it up to Eorlund to have it sharpened. And be careful, it's probably worth more than you are."
She rolled her eyes. "'You do what we tell you', he says. 'This sword's worth more than you,' nyeh nyeh nyeh ," she mocked quietly. It had to be some sort of joke–she didn’t know much about weapons, but it seemed like the sword wouldn't even make a decent toothpick for a giant, it was that sh*tty. And it was worth more than her? She continued to grumble all the way up to the Skyforge. When she reached the top, she paused before approaching the blacksmith, an older man with platinum hair and matching beard, who was wearing only a chest rig at a forge that was actively spewing embers.
That can't possibly be safe, she thought.
He must have heard her approaching, because he set down his tools and turned to face her. "What brings you here?" It was a rhetorical question because he was already taking the sword from her. "I'm guessing you're the newcomer then?"
She nodded. "Does Vilkas always send newcomers on errands?"
"Oh, don't worry too much about it. They were all whelps once. They just might not like to talk about it. And don't always just do what you're told. Nobody rules anybody in the Companions."
“I’m just doing what I’m asked,” Bretagne said, shrugging.
"That attitude would get you far, if you were some stuffy merchant or a Jarl's footstool. Around here, you'll want to learn to live your own life.”
“But surely, someone is in charge, right?” she asked. “Someone’s got to give out orders.”
"Not sure how they've managed it, but they have. No leaders since Ysgramor. Kodlak is the Harbinger, and he's a sort of advisor for the whole group, but every man is his own.” Eorlund gestured to her. “Every woman, her own…"
“Then, does that make you a Companion?”
"No, but none of them know how to work a forge properly, except maybe Farkas. But I'm honored to serve them. We Gray-Manes have always worked the Skyforge, and we always will. Best steel in all of Skyrim. All of Tamriel."
“So I’ve heard,” Bretagne said with a smile, and made her excuses before leaving.
"Wait, before you go... I have a favor to ask."
She turned back. “What is it?”
"I've been working on a shield for Aela. My wife is in mourning, and I need to get back to her soon. I'd be much obliged if you could take this to Aela for me." Eorlund held out a sizable shield that surprisingly was not as heavy as Bretagne expected.
She raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Didn't you just tell me not to be a servant?”
"This isn't a command. Just decency,” he explained. “Help out an old blacksmith. I've got to get back to my work.”
"I'm happy to lend a hand.”
“Good lass.”
Bretagne paused at the top of the steps, debating whether to ask a rather stupid question. “Um… which one is Aela, again?”
.
.
.
After navigating her way back to the living quarters, Bretagne finally located the fiery redhead. "Ah, good,” the Huntress said, “I've been waiting for this. Are you new here?"
She ducked her head. “Yes. Bretagne, but please, call me Bret.” She figured maybe toning down the blatant Breton image might help her reputation around the hall.
Just then, an imposing middle-aged man, with a nasty scar over his left eye that Bretagne tried not to stare at, entered the room. "I told you, this is the whelp that Vilkas mentioned."
"Ah, yes,” the redhead mused, “I heard you’re here to replace the old man."
"Don't let Vignar catch you saying that."
"Do you think you could handle working here?" Aela asked. “We do a lot of jobs and make a lot of money.”
“I don't care for boasting,” Bretagne admitted. She hoped that was a better answer than, “I’m terrified and don’t know if I can do it.”
"Ah, a woman who lets her actions speak for her. I knew there was something I liked about you." Aela gave the slightest of smiles. "Here, let's have Farkas show you where you'll be resting your head for now."
“FARKAS!!” the balding man shouted.
After a few moments, a man appeared around the corner. "You call me?"
"Of course we did, icebrain. Show this new blood where the rest of the whelps sleep."
"New blood?” The man looked down at Bretagne and smiled warmly. “Oh, hello. I'm Farkas. Come on, follow me."
He was out the door before she could say anything, and she hoped that her confusion hadn’t shown on her face. This “Farkas” person had longer hair, and trimmed his beard in a slightly different way, and probably wore different armor but honestly Bretagne couldn’t tell the difference. But he still had the same strong jawline, and eyes so blue they looked white. Of course, it was just for a few moments, but she talked to him earlier that day, didn’t she? He was the one with the sword–the one who was being an ass. Vilkas. Did they call him by the wrong name…?
“Skjor and Aela like to tease me, but they're good people. They challenge us to be our best."
Bretagne nodded in agreement. “They seemed like the type to enjoy a challenge.”
He purposely slowed his pace so she could keep up as they walked down the hall. "Gets boring here sometimes, so it’s nice to have a new face around. ‘Specially one as nice as yours."
Bretagne blushed when he actually winked at her. “Oh, thank you.”
"I hope we keep you. This can be a rough life."
“Well, accounting is a pretty dangerous job.”
That made him chuckle. “The quarters are up here. Just pick a bed and fall in it when you're tired.”
“And my things?”
“Nobody’s gonna steal ‘em. And Tilma will keep the place clean. She always has."
That’s still no excuse not to pick up after yourself, Bretagne thought.
"Alright, so here you are. Looks like the others are eager to meet ya. Come to me or Brill or Vignar if you got any questions. Once you’re settled in, Skjor and Aela might have things for you to do if you get bored. Good luck. Welcome to the Companions.” He patted her on the shoulder a bit hard and gave her a dazzling smile. He definitely couldn’t have been the man she talked to earlier. That Vilkas had been perpetually grumpy, whereas this man had such an easy air about him, he’d probably never scowled in his life.
“Um, before you go,” she called out as he started up the stairs. “I think I spoke with someone named Vilkas this morning?”
“Ah, sorry. Vil can be kinda gruff sometimes. Just stay on his good side and you’ll be fine. Oh, and try not to argue–my brother loves to argue.”
That’s when it all clicked in Bretagne’s head: oh, Mother Mara. How on Nirn are those two even related?!
