Vilkas || The Elder Scrolls: Skyrim

Vilkas sat alone in the long hall of Jorrvaskr, his elbows resting on the carved table, a tankard untouched before him. The fire in the central pit had burned low, little more than embers now, the occasional crackle stirring faint shadows across the walls. Everyone else lay below in their bunks, the rhythmic snoring of Farkas and the quieter breaths of the others drifting up faintly through the floorboards. Sleep eluded him, as it often did when his thoughts grew too heavy.

The Circle carried many burdens, but Vilkas’s own felt sharper of late. He had been young when he joined, fiery and eager, but the weight of years had not dulled his edge—rather, it had carved it into something harder, heavier. The curse of Hircine pressed at the back of his mind. The silvered chains of the beast were invisible yet unyielding, a constant reminder of what he was and what he might one day become. Some nights he feared it would be all that was left of him: claws, teeth, and hunger, rather than the steel and honor of Ysgramor’s legacy.

Kodlak’s words often lingered with him during such hours. The Harbinger spoke of Sovngarde, of purity, of release from their curse. Vilkas wanted to believe him, wanted to find peace in those visions, but faith was a harder thing to wield than a sword. It did not come naturally to him. He could cleave an enemy’s helm in two, split their bones with a single blow, but he could not strike down doubt. Doubt festered. Doubt kept him awake.

Then there was the matter of the newest recruit.

His brother, ever trusting, had vouched for them after their first trial together. Farkas saw honesty and strength easily, and he rarely questioned the instincts that guided him. Vilkas respected that about him, though he found it maddening at times. He did not doubt his brother’s courage or judgment on the battlefield, but he had seen many come and go through these halls. Some joined with dreams of glory and coin, only to fall in the first real clash of steel. Others sought the Companions’ name for their own selfish gain. It was Vilkas’s duty—his burden, perhaps—to measure them more carefully.

The Dragonborn, some whispered them to be. A grand title, one sung by priests and poets alike, yet titles meant little in the blood and mud of Skyrim. Power did not always make a man—or woman—worthy. Vilkas had watched them, weighed their actions. He had seen flashes of something true, but it was not enough. Not yet. His respect had to be earned, not given freely like mead at a feast.

He shifted in his chair, running a hand across his tired face. The hall was silent save for the fire’s sigh. He told himself he would try to sleep soon, though he knew it would be another restless night. Perhaps he would spar Farkas in the morning, tire himself enough to dull the noise in his head.

A sound stirred him from his thoughts—the heavy doors at the far end of the hall creaked open. The hour was late, so late even the taverns in Whiterun had long since emptied. Few would come to Jorrvaskr at such an hour, and fewer still without announcement. Vilkas straightened, eyes narrowing as the figure slipped inside.

It was them. The newest recruit.

They moved with care, quiet as if hoping not to disturb the hall, though the door’s groan had already betrayed them. Vilkas’s brows drew together. He had not expected their return tonight, nor at this hour. He had assumed they were below with the others, asleep after the day’s training. Where had they gone?

The question prickled at him, though he told himself it was not his concern. He was not their keeper, and he had no intention of prying into secrets they were unwilling to share. Everyone had ghosts that drove them into the night—some were better left unspoken.

But then he saw it.

The faint gleam of firelight caught along their arm, a wet shine that was unmistakable. Blood. It stained the sleeve of their tunic, dark patches spreading unevenly where the cloth had already soaked through.

Vilkas rose to his feet in a heartbeat, his chair scraping back across the floor. His jaw tightened, eyes locked on the crimson mark. The scent of iron reached him faintly as they stepped closer, and he felt his stomach knot. This was no sparring scratch or careless training wound. This was fresh, and deep.

He did not bother with caution in his tone.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, voice sharp as the edge of his greatsword. His arms crossed over his chest, though his posture leaned forward with restrained urgency. “Where in Oblivion have you been?”