#this was going to be Farkas/Miraak but this is WAY too early to be tagging that properly

[danse-or-farkas]

TESFEST22 Day 1: Dreams

June 11th – Dreams / Bees

I lied, I had something after all! I remembered a WIP unopened for literally years that could be cleaned up enough to be postable. Its just the first chapter of something bigger that I might never finish but I can at least say I did this much. It works as an odd little standalone, a chance encounter between two characters who have never even heard of each other.

Also posted to AO3. Just slightly over 3000 words.

Farkas arrived at the hall just as the sun was starting to set, finding it oddly empty. He had no intention of doing anything other than sleep, but made the choice to at least check in with his brother and Aela before doing so.

The city was currently sat under a lingering storm, circling back and forth for weeks unable to settle. It was thick with Red Mountain ash carried far too far from Morrowind. He didn't much like it, the hair on his arms standing on end and the fur inside stood hackles raised.

Vilkas had seen these storms before on his travels, had described them himself upon his return. The air tasting like magicka and something that might have been either meat or metal, heavy and insistent against senses made sharp by the gifts of Hircine.

Athis had once recounted the history of the ash storms and their darker cousin the blight storm, Vilkas dutifully listening and Farkas entertaining a mug of good mead instead. He almost regretted it now. Almost. Vilkas was the sort to have his eyes on the past, Farkas found the present more than enough for him to care about.

The job had been less than completely successful, the bounty recovered alive but not as intact as had been requested. The captain of the guard had insisted they be brought in for interrogation, and the bandit had insisted considerably more that he would be never be taken in so long as he had hands to hold his axe. Farkas found a compromise, much to the sheer horror of the guard and the temple healers that had to bandage and salve two bleeding stumps. Farkas had at least kept the axe, along with a set of hands just in case they could be reattached. They could not. He didn't consider it a great loss. The bandit probably did.

The fire was lit, the doors unlocked, so they were not all away on duties.

He found near the whole guild assembled in the training yard, forming a half circle. All but Kodlak, and that alone was never a good omen. His absence always led to chaos.

The newest recruit was cheering, blood pouring from their nose and arms raised in the air. Athis was on the floor, the bruise around his eye already ugly and blotchy. If his eyes were not already a deep red at least one would most certainly have been now.

“Who’s next?” They bellowed, turning a swaggering full circle and issuing the challenge to all assembled.

Aela nudged Vilkas, motioning over her shoulder with just her eyes. Farkas didn't have time to duck away, his scent had caught on the wind and tipped her off to his arrival.

“I volunteer my brother.” Vilkas looked to him, a raised eyebrow and a look daring him to refuse.

Farkas swore under his breath as the crowd collectively turned. Now that his honour was at stake he had no choice, and certainly Vilkas and Aela both knew it.

Geir grinned like a fool, kicking his heel into the dust and licking his lip expectantly. Newest of the guild but with the arrogance of a seasoned Circle veteran, carrying himself like he had some great destiny to fulfil.

“I’ll give it a try.” He shrugged his travel pack off and entered the arena.

“Don’t feel too bad when I beat you down, I know how that Nord pride can get.” They were a Nord too, pale in skin, hair and eye, but their accent had a Colovian Imperial lilt to it that betrayed their birth outside Skyrim.

Farkas took his place a handful of steps apart from him, raised his sword and shifted his feet to a more defensive posture. He knew that his opponent preferred a much heavier offensive style with little regard to defence, Skjor many times calling it ‘undisciplined’ at its best.

The new recruit just flashed him a sharp smile and raised his own sword with a flourish, shooting a proud smirk to the assembled Companions.

Vilkas and Aela both rolled their eyes at him, hoping that Farkas would strike the whelp and his ego back down.

Geir struck first, Farkas shifting back with a feint before lashing out and narrowly missing.

There was another strike, the angle too high and easily deflected away by Farkas.

The pattern was easy and familiar to him, his opponent the sort to tire himself out too quickly to be a true threat.

The next strike was born of frustration, too much weight behind it. With the opportunity dragged open by his mistake Farkas caught him with the pommel of his sword right above the arch of his eyebrow, the wound flowing freely and quickly.

Geir staggered back before Farkas could press his advantage, pressing a hand to the cut and streaking his face and hair red.

He managed to back up just enough to miss the edge of Farkas’ swing, the blade whistling past him, putting him on the back foot and parrying.

With a moment of boldness Farkas took the offensive with a wide swing carrying his weight behind it, a considerable measure more control over it than his opponent. He could have sworn there was a shimmer of blue as they managed to somehow weave under the blade lightning fast, a deliberate flick of their wrist splattering his eyes and mouth with their blood.

He stumbled past his smirking opponent, heart thundering as he felt it rise in him. He turned, baring teeth a little too sharp with a snarl. It mattered little as a knee connected with his stomach and knocked the air from him, an elbow to the back of his skull knocking him to the dirt.

“I call foul.” Aela stormed in separating them, shoving Geir back hard enough he almost fell back on his rear.

Vilkas helped his brother to his feet, hissing something under his breath that Farkas couldn’t quite understand through the hunger and the need to tear at warm flesh.

“I won.” Geir pounded at his chest with his free hand and crowded into Aela’s personal space with none of the respect due to the Circle.

“By dishonourable means.” Aela had dealt with more than her share of pups that thought they had teeth sharper than hers so did not flinch nor move, fully ready to put him back down where he belonged if needed. And he certainly needed it. “Go clean yourself up.”

Geir opened his mouth to protest, drawing a sharp breath that Vilkas almost swore carried some threat with it before deciding else wise. They simply stormed off, jaw clenched and fire behind their eyes.

Farkas stumbled slightly as he was pulled upright by his brother, the taste of blood and ash and lightning still rich on his tongue. He shivered, having to take a steadying breath and push down hard on the feeling until it subsided. He had to wonder just what potion was still in his blood for it to be so rich and strange.

The rest had scattered quickly partly in disappointment, part in fear Aela might turn her wrath toward them.

The Whelps carried Athis away to be healed now that the evenings entertainment had turned sour, Aela and Vilkas staying near. Skjor had chosen to follow Geir, giving Aela a knowing look as he left. He was uncertain that the newest recruit would reign their temper in before doing something that might land them in the Dragonsreach dungeon for a week or two, and someone needed to be present before he embarrassed the whole guild.

Once Vilkas was certain Farkas was well his mood shifted, concern melting away to brotherly contempt.

“What in Shors name was that?” He stood up tall, folding his arms across his chest.

“I got sucker punched by that dishonourable bastard and that's all you’ve got to say?” He hadn't been expecting sympathy, only some restraint. Vilkas was perpetually short on both when it came to his dearest brother.

“All I’ve got to say?” Vilkas scoffed. “I should be dragging your bed back to the Whelp quarters after that. Swap that skyforge steel for wood.”

“That bad?” That stung, Farkas drawing a whistling breath through his teeth and almost taking it seriously.

“It was bad.” Aela snorted a laugh. “Worry not. We can drown your sorrows, forget your losses and remember the victories.”

“We got a fresh batch of mead in, few ills can’t be soothed by a good honey brew.”

“I hear that.” Farkas smiled broadly, getting a near matching one from Vilkas.

“You’ll not be hearing the end of this for a while.”

They returned to the hall, mood lifted and in a surprisingly great mood for a man beaten into the ground.

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Farkas was pleasantly warm, well fed and more than well filled with mead. The Markarth Bronze always had such a nice afterglow to it, slow and molten in his veins and in his head, leaving his thoughts delightfully clouded. It had paired well with the slab of roasted pork Tilma had served, Farkas’ portion just the slightest bit more generous at the expense of Geir, and not unnoticed too from the way the recruit had watched him every time he though he wasn't looking.

He found his bed easily, kicking off his boots and finding no energy or will left for anything else. Sleeping in his armour was now a problem for the sober Farkas yet to be.

Face down in his pillow sleep took him quickly. He would have been out cold until long after dawn had been and gone if not for the chill wind that stirred him to consciousness. He had thought through a sleep addled mind that the inn had left its doors open, as had once happened in Winterhold on a particularly awful job. It returned quickly that he was home, deep enough underground that no breeze could ever reach him.

Without opening his eyes he took a shallow breath, scenting the air. Old and stale, wrong, damp, heavy with salt. It wasn't even the familiar salt of sweat and blood, it was more like the stagnant salt marsh of Morthal without the rich earth beneath.

Awareness and sobriety came too easily, Farkas on his feet and reaching for the spare candle and striking stone he kept near to his bed. Even late into the night Tilma kept a few lanterns burning in the hall, a trickle of light under his door enough to navigate by and now starkly absent.

He got a spark, just enough that the candle sputtered to life with a too pale light. The dark retreated a little, but not near as much as it should have. The corners of the room stayed inky black, textured and heavy, and Farkas was almost certain, watching.

His door opened not to Jorrvaskr, but to a stone floored corridor illuminated by pale orbs floating in the near dark like anglerfish. Something unseen fluttered nearby, the sound most certainly living but like no bird nor bat he had ever encountered.

He raised his light high, something small and chattering retreating away from him and dropping the thing it had been gnawing on. He approached, tapping it with his foot. A book, small and unmarked, leatherbound and oddly shiny.

He crouched low, sweeping it up swiftly without taking his eyes off the way ahead for any danger. It was oddly stiff to the touch, considerably heavier than its size suggested.

He tried to shake it open onto a random page and found them stuck together, only the first page free and blank. After rattling it a few times it seemed it didn't want to cooperate.

He made the mistake of trying to turn the page with the hand holding his candle. He snapped away from it with a hiss, throwing the candle doing so, sucking on the pad his thumb to stop the bleeding. The pages were razor thin glass etched with words in some shifting language unreadable, and Farkas was quite certain there was a hint of aggressive intelligence there. It fell hard, landing flat soundlessly. Farkas kicked it away, a splash telling him there was deep water in the gloom and that he ought to watch his step.

The candle rolled away from him, the dark coiling up around the flame and choking it.

“I expected more.” The voice rolled down the corridor, accented and smooth.

Farkas reached to where his blade should have been on his back, a well practised move. So well practised Oblivion did not protest when the image he pressed on that thinner reality shifted just slightly to accommodate.

The stranger raised their hand with a flourish as they approached, casting a pale light that did little but illuminate the gold of their mask.

“You brought me here?” Farkas took a step toward them, a flicker of reflection and the turn of his stance suggesting he was carrying some kind of blade. No blade Farkas had ever seen writhed and squirmed, but he had heard stories of the Dunmer making weapons from flesh and bone.

They drew a breath to speak, then paused, tilting their head ever so slightly as if only now really seeing Farkas.

“Grohiik sunvaar.” The man hissed, words carrying a resonance Farkas swore he recognised, clearly irritated at what thing they had seen in him. “I call for kin and get this instead.”

“What did you call me?” Farkas knew an insult in any language. He also knew what to do with someone bold enough to think they could speak ill of him and keep all of their teeth inside their face.

“In your inelegant tongue, werewolf. A half made thing cursed by Hircine.”

“Better a wolf than a coward hiding in the dark.”

“I am no coward, and you are not who I called.” He pulled his hand close to his chest, lightning coiling ready to be thrown.

Farkas moved at the last moment, crossing the space at a sprint with his sword ready.

Their blades met, a foolish move on both their parts. If their swords were real they would have destroyed the edge of both. Farkas knew Eorland could fix his, the stranger might have a harder time reforging whatever monstrosity they wielded.

If not for Miraak’s mask Farkas would have immediately headbutted him. He instead stopped to consider it for almost a half second before doing it anyway. Miraak had just enough time to see his fate coming, and not enough to do anything about it.

Farkas struck hard enough that his sight grew blurry, stumbling backward and falling on his rear.

Miraak swore in dragontongue, tearing the mask from his face as blood streamed from his now very crooked nose. He cursed Mora for putting that bastard wolf in his presence, wondering if it was some twisted joke. The last time his master had shown him even a passing interest was two centuries prior, when Miraak had been quite entertained by the Bloodmoon hunts and Azura’s pet fumbling their way through them. This felt like a pointed message, a lesson about paying more attention to werewolves than the pursuit of knowledge.

He stood up, clutching his broken nose and failing to even slow the tide pouring between his fingers. With a wet crunch and a howl of pain he twisted it back into shape.

He took several deep breathes through clenched teeth, drawing up healing magic to dull the pain and speed the recover.

With his guard lowered he didn’t see Farkas rise to his feet too, and he had no defence when Farkas ran his blade through him.

Miraak stumbled back, Farkas barely having time to swear when they took a deep breath and shouted.

They should have been dead, Farkas had never seen a man refuse to die with a sword sheathed front to back in them, and for the mistake of assuming what he fought was entirely mortal he took the full brunt of an Unrelenting Force to the skull. The last thing he saw was those black eyes so full of quiet rage before being thrown. Had he been physically present there would have been little left of his skull intact, less so what was inside.

Miraak grasped at the hilt, dislodging the length of skyforged steel from his chest awkwardly. With each pull he had to grip farther along the length of the blade, gouging his fingers more than once, finally freeing himself from it and letting it fall to the floor with none of the care or reverence a blade of that calibre typically deserved.

He took a rattling breath, insides burning but vaguely held together by his pact and the pressure of Oblivion upon it. In one hand he pulled at the light spell snuffing it out, with the other pulling at the threads of his ritual. With a clenched fist he severed the coiled layers of intention and invocation meant to bring the Dragonborn to him, the glyphs scored into the stone floor burning green and extinguishing in a cascading pattern inwards.

Farkas was already on his back with ears ringing so loudly it had struck him blind, suddenly falling as if into water and dragged down into the sea of Oblivion. He struggled, flailing as he sank, taking a deep breath and getting a chest full of cold liquid entirely without flavour or texture.

He emerged coughing into his quarters, tangled in his sheets but otherwise entirely unscathed.

For a long moment he searched for danger, by sight and then scent, finding nothing but the familiar and comforting. As his heart slowed and calm thought returned he tentatively put the whole experience down as just having been a dream. He gripped at his now crumpled bed sheets, letting a breath free, a sudden sting of pain and the scent of blood catching his attention. Just faintly by the light coming in under his door he could see three deep cuts running across his thumb, already healing but darkened as if tattooed. Alongside the blood was just the slightest hint of salt water, ink, and something like spent magicka.