Straag Rod: Book 1, Part 2, Chapter XV: The Priest of Jorrvaskr

• Posted by The Long-Chapper January 3, 2018 - Filed in TSC: Long Story - #TSC:Skyrim  #TSC:Long  #Straag Rod Part 2  - 1,893 views

  

   

  Warning: Foul language and dark themes, for adult readers

  

  1^st of Sun’s Dawn, 202, nightfall

   

  “Skjor?”

   

  A hushed whisper brought Skjor out of his thoughts and his eye lazily veered to its left, briefly catching the black and white form of Koor wagging his tail before his eye shifted to the husky’s Master.

   

  He had to admit, the armor looked good on the Old Mary.  Fucking tall Old Mary would look regal in a potato sack, but Skjor gave Eorlund credit. The smith worked his magic on that impossible body.  And then the fucker goes and ruins the look with that old bearskin cloak, taken from an Orc bandit. It nearly shrouded the Elf in the blackness, blending him with the Underforge’s dark rockface. Only his face stood out, white, like how snow sometimes faintly glows under the moons. Skjor made a tiny nod that made the Elf’s eyes narrow at the gesture.

   

  “My apologies, were you waiting long?” Äelberon asked, his breath forming steam in the night. Snow, Skjor thought absently, feels like snow. “It is a little chilly, so the ladies at the shops say, Maiden-Loom and all that. Looks like snow.” The Altmer wrinkled his bird’s beak to the sky. “Feels like snow.” The Mer continued, repeating Skjor’s thoughts, the brows creasing. “Bruma had snow…”

   

  Skjor smiled.  Old Cyrodiil ain’t got nothing on Skyrim snow, old Mer. “Aye, we’ll get snow.” He answered with a pat on the Mer’s broad back. “Was beginning to wonder about winter. It’s been on the mild side”

   

  “Aye.” The Mer nodded. “I had felt it more some winters past in Bruma. In the mountains especially.” The eyes fell upon Nord, two shots of pure fire, slanted and large, full of questions. “You do not feel the cold the same way then?” the Altmer asked, shifting his position. “As a werewolf?”

   

  “No.” Skjor grinned with pride. “And I’m a Nord too, so even better. Certainly, helps with those asshole frost mages, necromancers, draugr, and… vampires.” He added. The red-orange eyes snapped. Aye, brother, you will like that a lot.

   

  “Vampires?” Only whispered, but the Mer diverted his eyes, the jaw muscle clenching slightly, as if restraining himself.  The flicker of whatever emotion surfaced upon saying that word then died, and he became unreadable again.

   

  “Old Mer,” Skjor continued, “we hunt them quite a bit. Born to hunt them, I say, for we will never catch the foulness that they bring with them. Me and Kodlak mostly, but I think Aela will be ready soon, and you?” The Veteran nodded in approval. “Oh, you’ll definitely join us for those. Believe me, brother, you’ll like it. They will fear you!” He sighed when he found that he couldn’t contain the excitement racing through his blood. “The glory, the victory… The ‘not being cold’ part too.” He quickly added with a smirk and another pat on the Mer’s back, as much to be friends with the Mer as to curtail his own enthusiasm. Not yet, old Veteran. He was enjoying this conversation, though. Kodlak didn’t like them speaking of the Beast Blood anymore and it felt good to just share the wonders of it with a friend again, to not hide his real feelings. Who knew that it would be a demon hunter that would give him such freedom? “I’ve seen you. You were cold in the beginning, almost like a little snowberry with your little silly foot coverings, but something’s snapped inside you, Äelberon.” The Mer opened his mouth to speak, but Skjor didn’t let him finish, waving his hand in dismissal. “You belong in the cold, in the north. It’s like it fits with you.  Definitely not like the Old Mary princes we usually get here.” He winked his eye and leaned in closer. “You sure a Nord didn’t crawl up one of your ancestor’s fancy skirts and have some fun?”

   

  “Hmph, my family did not wear fancy skirts, Skjor. As fun as your theory is, no, I am not Nord.” The Mer’s mood became introspective, his red-orange eyes meeting Skjor’s. “But I am not what my people would call ‘pure’ either.” He’s, of course, going to explain it.  You really need to watch what you say around him, Skjor, or we’ll be here talking all night. Well, let him explain this ‘one’ thing and then walk right into the Underforge.

   

  “Oh?” Skjor let his eyebrows raise.

   

  “I call myself Altmer,” the Mer began, “Summerset was my home. I have always known its golden beaches, its blossoms, its scents, but my blood is also mixed with the blood of Ayleid and Snow Elf refugees fleeing from what could be called mistakes.”

   

  “Mistakes? Never heard an Elf call it that.”

   

  “Aye, I am not afraid to point out folly when I see it.  In others, in myself. They paid for it, dearly, so they fled. And some found Summerset, called it home.” He released a bitter chuckle. “But sometimes, that wild, restless blood of theirs heeded the call of the North. For penance? Redemption? Who knows? The pale skin you see is from my mother’s, my lenya’s side.  She considered herself Altmer, as all in her family did, but the Snow Elf was heavy. My ata? His family came from Ayleid refugees, their braids and beads in tow. But Skjor, thousands of years have passed. Blood mingled. We are Altmer. They just did not see. Only the color, only the shape of the eyes, their hue, not the souls, not the pride and love for Summerset, not that generations of my clan had died willingly for that blessed land…” The Elf’s jaw clenched and Skjor could see the eyes faintly mist in the night. He blinked quickly. “If I am a tenth the Mer my lenya and ata were, I count myself honorable in the eyes of my ancestors, honorable in the eyes of my family…” His last words were punctuated by a slow gust of air, visible in the night.

   

  “I would have been honored to have met them.” It was all Skjor could say. His own parents were assholes, still alive old assholes with the Thalmor up their fancy robes, but it was clear that Äelberon had loved his family a great deal. And then lost them. To that Thalmor vampire.  We’ll avenge them, brother. We’ll find the fucker who slew them and we’ll kill him. He really wanted to do this. When Kodlak’s business was done, they would go and track the vampire down. It needed to be done. He didn’t think Äelberon would allow himself to really live until it was done.

   

  “They would have welcomed you into their family, Brother.” The Mer said thoughtfully, recovering from his sadness.

   

  “Ha! You are too kind to an old shit head like me.”

   

  “Where is Aela?” The Mer asked, abruptly changing the subject.

   

  You’re right, enough small talk. That’s for old women. “Aela is already inside.”

   

  “She is to be my forebear then?”

   

  “You know about that?” Skjor narrowed his eye.

   

  “It has been my life’s work to study your habits, Skjor.”  The Mer spoke frankly.

   

  The Nord nodded. “I guess so. The irony, eh?”

   

  “Aye, the irony. And Skjor?”

   

  “What?” There was a hesitation. “What?” Skjor insisted.

   

  A deep breath and then the Mer smiled warmly, his eyes twinkling in the dim light, as if he was happy about something. “Not now.  Later. As you have your ceremonies, I have mine.”

   

  “Oooo, a ceremony, eh? Do I need to dress up? Stain my lips with snowberry? Take a bath?”

   

  The Mer laughed and his hand slapped Skjor’s back. “No, unlike most Altmer, my family did not have, how do you say it?”

   

  “Poles up your arses.” Skjor replied.

   

  “That is right. I do not need to grab a pole and stick it up my arse for this, do I?”

   

  Skjor exploded, which only made Koor start making happy dog noises, his tail going all over the place. He grabbed the dog’s snout to shut him up while he contained his own laughter. Dammit, I’m laughing too, Snowberry, but we can’t wake up the Old Man. He made a sour face when he felt the dog’s tongue slobber all over his hand. You learned that trick from me, didn’t you? Been snooping around Jorrvaskr spying on me and Aela.

   

  “No, poles up arses will not be necessary.” He cleared his throat and wiped Koor’s spittle from his hand onto the kilt of his armor before he straightened up. Aela would have killed them if she caught them acting like this. He worshipped Hircine, of that there was no doubt, but he was more relaxed about his faith than Aela was. She was almost like Äelberon in her devotion to the Daedric Prince, impressing him on several occasions with how beautiful her invocations to Hircine could be. Do her honor tonight and don’t be a buffoon. “On the other hand, this is nothing to take lightly. You needed to be ready. Are you prepared?” He asked, assuming the role of future Harbinger.

   

  “I am prepared, my Brother.” The Elf said, locking eyes with the Veteran.

   

  Skjor had been present in the making of three Moon Born at Jorrvaskr. He was forebear to Aela and she, in turn, was forebear for the twins. She would act as forebear for Äelberon.  They had squabbled like a bunch of wolves for the honor of turning the Old Mary, but he let Aela have her way. Well, don’t lie to yourself, Veteran, what she did to you afterwards certainly sweetened the deal. He was going to let her regardless of the sex. The woman felt a certain kinship to Äelberon, seeing that he was also an archer.  Granted, Skjor like using a crossbow, but that wasn’t like a bow, but rather a mini ballista practically.  Just to be an archer was strange to Skjor. Like when she and the Old Mary would speak to the Bosmer brothers and Jenassa, he would tune them out. Give me a good, fast blade any day. Hircine’s Balls! Now you sound like Athis. Skjor rolled his eye and started walking. “Then let’s go.”

   

  He continued to study the Mer’s expression in the moonlight, trying to find a word to describe it while they walked to the entrance to the Underforge. The twins had been nervous, talkative, laughing messes. Damn, even he had been a little nervous when Kodlak acted as his forebear all those years ago. Aela had been predictably excited, even that was an emotion, but Äelberon was not nervous or excited at all, only serious. That stupid Altmer unreadable face, but with a serious cast.

   

  Don’t worry, brother, those dragons won’t give you much more trouble after this. Skjor pushed the stone wall and the door gave, shifting to the side. He shifted his glance to the Elf. Nothing, no surprise, nothing. When the way was clear, he was about to go in when he felt a head butt against his thigh. Skjor paused, grinning as he pointed towards Koor. “He coming with us?”  Äelberon was about to stoop to the husky to bid him stay, but Skjor stopped him. “No, never mind, you won’t harm the dog, I promise. It’s safe for him to be there. He should be there really, to learn you in your new form. To understand. It will be good for him.”

   

  “And Allie?” Äelberon asked.

   

  “I’ve safe-guarded her so she’ll be safe as well. We will not eat your horse, I promise. Let’s go in. It is time.” Skjor replied, feeling his own impatience build.

   

  Yeah, if you don’t hurry up and move your fat Nord arse, Aela will skin you alive.

   

  “A cave.” The Mer noted when they entered, his eyes darting about, trying to penetrate through the void. “This is under Skyforge? How… fascinating…” Skjor could practically hear the cogs turning in the Altmer’s head. Äelberon stopped and took a breath. “There is magic here. I feel it. Age as well, impossible age.” The Mer shook his head and continued when Skjor didn’t stop. I’ll explain while we walk, Old Mary. “But I cannot see. It is very dark.”

   

  He will be the most talkative werewolf in Jorrvaskr. Skjor rolled his eyes.

   

  “Follow me.”

   

  That’s right, he can’t see like you can, Veteran. Soon, my brother, it’ll be clear.  

   

  The smallest of snorts. “I can still hear your fat arse when you walk, Veteran. Old Mary knife ears, remember?”

   

  “Very funny. Damn, I don’t want to imagine your fucking ears when you take this gift. We’ll never get away with anything again. But back to the old Underforge. Aye, Jorrvaskr is the oldest building in Whiterun, and the Skyforge predates it. It is older than Men or Mer and it taps into that old magic. I knew you’d be attuned to it.” Skjor faced Äelberon, making out the Elf’s features. The natural Altmer curiosity in the old Mer’s features was mixed with something else, that seriousness from outside the Underforge, along with deeper things that Skjor wouldn’t really try to sort out. “By Hircine, this is going to be an awesome thing. We have never had one with your abilities take this gift.” He turned and continued walking.

   

  “My eyes.” The Mer said quietly from behind, as if a thought had just occurred to him.

   

  “So what if you can’t see. Just follow me and don’t be such a milk-drinker.” It wasn’t that, though, so Skjor stopped and sighed, finding the red-orange eyes again. What the fuck now? “What?”

   

  The eyes in the dark narrowed. “They will change. Your eyes are not your eyes. They are silver. All have silver eyes. With Nords the difference is not so apparent, but I am Elf.”

   

  “So?”

   

  “The old man will know. And Whiterun—"

   

  “Leave it to me, Äelberon.” He no longer masked the annoyance in his voice and the tone immediately silenced the Elf who now resumed following the sounds of Skjor’s steps. You better not be having second thoughts, old Mer, Skjor grumbled to himself. Though the Old Mary did have a point. Hiding that those big dragon eyes were suddenly different was going to be a challenge. Smoothing the Old Man’s bristles wouldn’t be too hard, especially if they focused their efforts on finding his cure. Whiterun was another matter and truth be told, Skjor had not considered this and by the sound of Äelberon’s voice, he had not either. Skjor chuckled to himself, eye condition, we’ll just call it an eye condition. 

   

  “We’ll just call it an eye condi—”

   

  “Koor, no!” Both warriors froze when Koor bolted ahead of them. Shit! Walking became running to close the distance to the main chamber, illuminated by its wall sconces.  

   

  He heard Äelberon’s gasped “Auri-El’s Bow! Aela…” and smirked when the Mer stopped dead in his boots.  Yeah, old Mer, meet your Shield-Sister, ain’t she something?

   

  Though she was not the largest of lycanthropes, she was still impressive. Powerful muscles supported a frame built for speed, elegant and efficient, with auburn fur with some darker ticking along the spine. Her yellow eyes blazed as she blew air from her snout, and for a second Skjor wondered if he should pull Koor away before the poor fool was eaten, but he needn’t have been worried. Not with Aela. The little snowberry greeted Aela like he always greeted her in the Mead Hall after a long day away. And she responded in kind, bending down to nuzzle the top of the husky’s head with her chin, their yaps and growls of pleasure ringing in the cavern. Ha! See, boy, she understands you now, eh? He shook his head and chuckled before bidding Äelberon to stop just short of an empty font of stone. He continued towards Aela, speaking as he walked.

   

  “I’m glad you came to us. I wasn’t in the beginning, I made that well known, and I am sorry for my hardness to you then. I let myself be clouded by my past instead taking the time to learn your heart.”

   

  “Do not worry, Skjor, Dec threw a dagger at me when we first met.”

   

  “I’m sure he did.” He chuckled. “It’s been a long time since we had a heart like yours among our numbers. And when you came to us, asking for this, we felt joy, for we knew deep down that that pitiful ceremony at the courtyard nowhere near befit a warrior of your status. You deserved far more than just calls and feasting.” Skjor faced Äelberon and gestured to Aela, as he rubbed Koor’s ears. “Feel flattered, my Altmer friend, my beast of a woman and I fought over who’d be your forebear, but I let her have her way.” Aela gave Skjor a quick snarl and the Veteran gave her a playful shove, which she answered with a head butt. He grabbed her snout and brought it to rest on his shoulder. She let out a contented gust of air, closing her yellow eyes and Skjor blinked when he felt the emotion suddenly burn hard in his heart. He faced the Altmer after a moment, and he could hear how hoarse his own voice was. “We have to do this in secret because Kodlak’s too busy finding his cure. It’s like he doesn’t care anymore. He made us and now doesn’t care. We used to be a pack. I want to be a pack again. We’re not monsters, Äelberon. We’re not cursed.”

   

  The Old Mer took a breath, his eyes going between Skjor and Aela, like he was debating something in his mind and he could just make out traces of sympathy. From the demon hunter, of all people. You see, Old Mer, you see that it is unfair, don’t you? “Ah, Skjor, you are not as Kodlak. He is in the winter of his life, and the Hunting Grounds is not what he wants when he dies. Not all feel Hircine’s pull as strongly as you and Aela do. Would you deny him the opportunity to seek his cure? To seek Sovngarde if that is his choice?”

   

  “I don’t not want to help him, Äelberon. But he isn’t being fair. It should be a choice, I agree, but he’s denying us the celebration of the choice we had made, as a family.”

   

  “Each man is his own.” The Mer said quietly.

   

  Skjor held Aela close to him, giving her a kiss to the snout. “Aye, and each woman her own. How do we know Kodlak won’t cast her out once he has his precious cure? I don’t care, the Companions don’t define me. Sure, I will accept the mantle when it’s given to me, but it’s not the same. For Aela, it’s all she’s ever known and I will protect that.”

   

  “Family…” The Mer murmured, looking very weary to Skjor just then.

   

  The Nord snorted. “Yeah, welcome to the fucking family.” He shook his head and let out a gust of air. “No, I’m sorry. Tonight is not the night to talk about this. It’s your night, Äelberon. But I know in my heart that you’ll bring much balance to our troubled circle. For my sake.” He let Aela’s snout go. “And hers.”  Skjor took another breath, blinking a few times to compose himself. It was intense, raw emotion, the ache in his heart that came with being frustrated and fuck, very much in love. The pain that their world was going to fall apart. And the hope that this new brother in the blood would mend the broken ties. It was a huge gamble on the most unlikely of saviors. A demon hunter. “Are you prepared to join your spirit with the Beast World? Are you prepared to be my brother? Her brother? Family?”

   

  The Altmer rose to his full height and stared straight at Skjor. “You are my family, let this be done.”

   

  It was a relief to hear the words, because he didn’t know for sure if the Altmer would accept. You can go through the stages, but when you finally understand what it is, you then don’t understand… His mind suddenly flashed back to Fjona, remembering the Nord girl’s face as she stood in the Underforge just where Äelberon was now, the last to be let into the Circle before the Mer arrived. Several years ago. She saw Farkas in his hulking black Beast Form, eager to act as forebear.  Kodlak, Aela, and Vilkas stood next to her, expectant.  But it wasn’t what they expected. The horror in her face and then, the disdain. Her assured silence was the only gift she gave them before she left. They had given that street rat everything, taking her in, and she repaid them by rejecting them, planting the seeds of doubt in Kodlak’s mind with her talks of Ysgramor and what he would think of all this, saying that he would be ashamed of the Companions now.  That was what did it, what made Kodlak want to seek a cure and it made them all feel like cheap whores that day, made them feel ashamed.  She broke their Circle, not making the right choice for her family and tearing them apart. If I ever see you again, you bitch, I’ll kill you, Skjor swore to himself—Put it away, Veteran, Äelberon is no Fjona. He will not betray you.

   

  “Skjor?” The Altmer pressed. “Are you alright?”

   

  He’s seeing your anger.

   

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” He then let himself laugh, which made the Altmer blink. “You want this? Then strip!” He barked, catching the Mer off-guard for a moment. The features then relaxed and with a resolute chuckle, Äelberon began to remove his armor, beginning with the hood and cloak, setting them upon the floor of the Underforge. The dog settled on his haunches next to his mistress and Skjor was feeling both of their eagerness, their impatience matching his and Aela’s power as a werewolf on full display, the control to last so long in that form. “I don’t know where you put all that hair.” Observed the Veteran casually while Äelberon pulled his long hair from his cuirass.

   

  “Sometimes I do not know either.” The Mer grunted as he gave his hair a final rough tug to free it, and Skjor saw him wince. He loosened his hair and removed the lacing, tucking it in a small pouch like it was the most precious thing to him. Alright, brother, I'll be careful with that because you still are. It was rare to see the Mer's hair completely loose, driving home his sometimes other time quality. He then unfasted his gauntlets, handing them to Skjor as the Nord stooped to pick up his cloak and hood.

   

  “Where are we going after this?” Äelberon asked. Still curious, eh?

   

  “It’s a surprise,” Grinned the Nord. Gods the Altmer was damn perceptive. Äelberon began to work the snaps and fastenings of his cuirass. “I thought you liked surprises.”

   

  “I do, for the most part.”

   

  “Trust me, you’ll like this one.” Skjor grabbed the cuirass.

   

  “Hmm, you sound like a child who is about to steal a sweet treat.” He remarked as he slipped his wool shirt over his head.

   

  “What makes you say that?”

   

  “Because it is the very tone I sported whenever I was up to no good as a youngling.” 

   

  Aela snorted, making both warriors smirk. “Yeah, you don’t say? Äelberon the trouble-maker.” A low growl. “Aela’s growing restless, so finish, eh?” The Mer quickly removed the rest of his clothes and Skjor let out a chortle. Fucking whiter than a piece of tundra cotton, but a fucking bear you are, old Mer. Old Snow Bear. “Damn, you really do glow in the dark. And, ha!” He pointed at the mer’s sated stomach. “Enjoyed the pie tonight, eh? You’re getting fat.”  

   

  “Very funny.” The Altmer’s eyes glinted with mischief, “Your glow is all concentrated at the top.  And you are not so skinny either.” The Nord let out a great laugh, rubbing his balding head. “Furthermore, just because you have seen me naked, does not mean we head to the Temple of Mara now, eh?” The Altmer grinned as Skjor laughed again. Salty, salty, salty, no wonder he and Dec get along, thought Skjor. “Besides,” He leaned in to whisper in the Nord’s ear “We would not want to make Aela jealous.”

   

  “Stop it!” Skjor said as he shoulders shook with laughter, “This is supposed to be serious. Very serious,” He chuckled again, but a low growl shut him up. She’s going to kill me. I can feel her scowl behind me.

   

  “It is impossible to be serious, my Brother, when I am naked and you look like a pack animal. If the Old Man were to barge in right now…”

   

  “Hircine’s hairy arse cheeks! Stop! I don’t want to even think about that. It would be like one of Decimus’ dirty stories come to life.”

   

  “Ha! He has told you those, eh?” Spoken like the old Elf knew every single one of them.

   

  “Aye, we really need to catch up with that fucker. Say, after this and our little surprise, let’s go take a week or two and visit him in that old Fort of his. Bringing gossip and drink like a bunch of old women—well, you can have milk.” Skjor shifted Äelberon’s gear so he could hold it all in one arm and extended his free hand to the Old Mary. “Deal?”

   

  A white hand firmly clasped his forearm as a smile found the Mer’s features. “Deal.”

   

  

   

  He returned moments later to find Äelberon in roughly the same position, his face reverting from the prior good humor to its unreadableness, the eyes focused on the fountain. Calm, so fucking calm. Or resigned, or thoughtful, Skjor couldn’t really figure it out what exactly.

   

  “There is an alternative exit?” The Mer asked.

   

  “Aye, makes it easier. Allie’s all loaded up and ready to go. Bitch only tried to bite me once.”

   

  The Mer’s eyes were still on the blood font at the center of the room. “To keep it secret.”

   

  “Yes, you really want Whiterun on this? Shit, even the whelps don’t know. And it’ll stay that way.” Skjor didn’t pretend to hide that the last words were a warning.

   

  “Is that not hypocritical?”

   

  “Well, when what we are doing isn’t exactly legal…” Skjor frowned. “You having second thoughts?”

   

  “No, Skjor. You have my silence.”

   

  He didn’t like that word choice from the Mer, but he didn’t know about Fjona, so Skjor put away how hard the phrase sounded in his mind at that moment.

   

  “May I ask another question?”

   

  “Sure, you can ask while I prepare Aela.” Skjor bade the she-wolf to him and he couldn’t help but smile at how incredible she was as she walked.  He took her large, clawed hand, and rested it over the edge of the font. “Ask.”

   

  “I have never seen a werewolf like her. So controlled.”

   

  “Told you, not monsters, but don’t let her demeanor fool you, she can rip you in half.” Skjor grumbled, fumbling for his Skyforge dagger, hating that his hand was beginning to tremble, that his heart was going crazy with Aela next to him, making him want to burst from his shell. To feed and run wild in the night, but this was his job right now, to make sure everything went smoothly. Werewolves were extremely unpredictable. His time would come later at Gallow’s Rock.

   

  All the heartbeats at the Underforge, in fact, were fast, save the Mer’s. His was slow, steady.  Fucker would make a great forebear one day, or filling the role Skjor was filling now.  Old Marys and their love of ceremony—he nearly dropped the dagger and hissed when the blade nicked his finger. Did you pack mead? Aye, yeah, in that fucker’s horse. Good, because you’re going to need it before Gallow’s Rock. Gone too long without drink, just because he didn’t want to fuck up this night. He felt the sweat bead on his forehead and let out a tiny gust of air when the dagger finally securely found his hand, clenching it hard to keep his hand still.  “That your question?”

   

  “No.” Skjor saw the Mer’s eyes travel to the three small stone altars along the wall surrounding the raised central font, where the totems would eventually be placed. Bloodlet Throne, yet another item on your ever-growing list of responsibilities, Skjor thought, rolling his eyes. “Are those some type of shrine?” the Mer asked.

   

  “When we find the Old Man’s cure and kill the fucker who murdered your family, filling those altars will be our priority.” Skjor explained. “It is our responsibility. For his honor and for ours, to prove ourselves worthy. This place is incomplete without them.”

   

  “I understand.”

   

  “It’s good that you do.” He gave Aela’s hand a quick squeeze and then faced the Mer. “Äelberon, to reach the height of the Companions, you must join with us in the shared blood of the wolf. Are you ready to be reborn as Moon Brother? To embrace the call of the Huntsman?”

   

  Two points of dragon fire rose from their study of one of the altars and met Skjor’s eye. And the hairs on the back of his neck stood at that stare. The fucker was as cold steel. Unflinching. Unafraid. The Mer took a deep breath and let it out slowly, almost as if he had made the decision to stop breathing and he was taking his last one. Skjor nearly laughed at the notion because it was silly, but that’s what it seemed like to him. Alright, stop thinking—

   

  “Yes, I am ready.”

   

  Skjor lifted Aela’s hand over the font and slashed it with the dagger, spilling her blood. She roared, but it wasn’t out of pain. She was calling, calling for Lord Hircine to send a spirit wolf worthy of their Shield-Brother. They all eyed the blood slowly gather in the font, red, warm, full of life, full of power. Äelberon’s rite of passage into his new family and Skjor was glad it was Aela’s blood. He always believed that Aela’s blood was the best for this ceremony because her heart was in it.  Äelberon would be strong, of that Skjor was certain, because Aela truly believed. They really weren’t all that different, except that Aela didn’t suffer for her faith like Äelberon did.

   

  “Drink,” Commanded Skjor. The Priest of Auri-El approached the font, his jaw squared and his back straight, and Skjor watched him, feeling his heart fill with pride. Priest of Auri-El? Well, fuck Auri-El.  Yes, brother, abandon the cruelty of the Aedra, abandon what was done to you and embrace your true healing, so you can finally live.  The Mer cupped some blood in his hand and without breaking eye contact, he drank of it, baptizing himself to a new order, the deep red streaking his white beard and skin like little rivers. The Priest of Jorrvaskr, Skjor thought, really has a nice ring to it. Well, my brother, you’ll be preaching one bloody Oblivion of a sermon to those fucking Silver Hand and their Skinner at Gallow’s rock tonight.  

   

  

   

  All four Shield-Siblings stood still in the Underforge for some time, exchanging confused glances at each other, waiting, and Skjor then wondered if this was even going to work.  He saw Äelberon drink the blood, the proof was in his blood-stained beard and chest, yet he was not transforming. He made Äelberon drink several more times even, just to be sure.  The thought of it not working had never occurred to Skjor. And then he remembered, the fucker was an Old Mary, some of the most disease resistant assholes in all Tamriel. With everyone else the transformation had been almost immediate. Skjor suddenly had a sinking feeling in his stomach that this was not going to go as planned. Aela sniffed at the Altmer, unsure, and Koor was dozing lightly, bored.

   

  “Is it supposed to take this long?” Äelberon asked, his voice sounding uncharacteristically weak, his skin paler than Skjor could ever think possible. Like no color, at all. He narrowed his eyes, that wasn’t normal.

   

  “I don’t know.” The Nord replied, “It’s always been immediate.” He then saw the Altmer teeter a bit, his body covered in a sheen of sweat. No, something was definitely wrong, it never went like this.

   

  “I feel very sick, Skjor. I cannot…” 

   

  Skjor’s eyes widened, finally understanding. The fucking pie! Apples! Shit!

   

  A large stream of vomit hurled violently from the Äelberon’s mouth onto the Underforge’s floor, bringing the Elf hard to his knees. Skjor was immediately by his side, feeling the Mer’s skin burn to the touch, drenched with sweat.  He heaved and heaved, his eyes closed and tearing profusely, his face going dark from the effort.  It was as if he was fighting some terrible disease. Aela growled and moved in closer.

   

  “Not now, woman!” Skjor barked, warning with his hand to stop. “Fuck, not know.”

   

  Another rumble from her and she started to fidget while Koor started to whine.

   

  “No, I know, I know, I know, just let me handle it. Shit.” Skjor tried to reassure, holding his Shield-Brother while trying to calm down the other two. Heart rates were up, the smell of fear was heavy in the air. Äelberon vomited until there was nothing left, but it took several moments for his heaving to completely subside, clear fluids still oozing from his nose and mouth. “Shit, Äelberon, what’s wrong? Come on, talk to me.” Should he get potions? Yes, and he thought to get up.

   

  No, if you get something, they will know.

   

   

  The Mer suddenly sagged against Skjor like a ragdoll and the Nord could feel his panic build while he prevented the Mer’s head from hitting the floor. He shifted the heavy Elf so he could hold him better, supporting his head on his shoulder, wiping his face with his free hand. What was burning before was suddenly like ice. The Underforge was a mess, vomit, blood, stink. Kodlak is going to kill me…  “Come on, Old Mary, stay with me.” Skjor nudged the Mer when he looked like he was about to pass out, the whites of his eyes—fuck, he doesn’t have whites. Shit. He slapped Äelberon a few times on the cheek, ignoring the remaining bits of whatever he ate. The Altmer moaned at that, eyes, bright with what looked like fever to Skjor, now opening, dazed and glassy. The breathing was too labored and heavy for Skjor’s liking, congested. Panic was turning into dread.  

   

  “Is it thus?” Äelberon gasped, shaking. The heart hammering like Skjor had never heard before, like it was going to burst from the Mer’s very chest. And he could feel it, the spirit pervading the air, making its journey from the Hunting Grounds to its new host. It was going to happen, soon. If he survived. Just hold a little longer, brother.

   

  “No, my Brother.” Replied Skjor, his voice betraying fear as he cradled his Shield-Brother in his arms, “It is not thus.”

   

  “Ha!” Äelberon croaked. “I was never one for doing things by the book.” A funny chuckle then escaped his lips. “A shanta as sou, Ancar alda, A…shanta...  as…sou. ”

   

  The Mer’s eyes closed, the trembling stopped and Skjor hated the sudden weight of the body he was holding. Like iron, limp like dead stone. The heart silent. Like in the Great War, the stench of bowels being released when the body relaxes into—No! He shook Äelberon, but nothing, the Mer’s skin was waxen, spent, and he could only blink when the shaking yielded nothing, letting the Mer fall upon the floor, his head bouncing eerily on the stone,  his loose hair a tangled mess.  Now kneeling over the Elf, Skjor raised his hand and struck the Elf full-force on the face, feeling the keen sting of tears beginning to form. The rage, the regret. A mistake. This was a mistake. “Äelberon.” He growled, striking the Mer again. “Don’t you fucking die!”

   

  Nothing from the Mer. The ramifications. Kodlak. Jorrvaskr. The Dragonborn. Skjor couldn’t think on this now. Another blow. “Come on, you fucking Old Mary son of a bitch!”

   

  He killed a Shield-Brother, he and Aela just killed a Shield-Brother doing something they weren’t supposed to do. She would lose everything. He killed the Dragonborn.

   

  A growl from Aela, the dog was now full-blown crying and Skjor snapped. “I FUCKING know! Shit, he’s dead.” He nervously rubbed his face with both hands, and then grabbed the old Mer’s shoulders and resumed shaking. “No, no, no, I don’t accept this.”

   

   

  He clung to the Mer’s shoulders and felt the overwhelming cold of reality seep deep in his stomach, felt his face grimace and contort with pain, saw the still body only through the thick veil of building tears. His breath became gasps and his own chest hurt as the silent sobs shook his shoulders.

   

  I have killed a Shield-Brother. Not in years has this been done.

   

  Skjor released his grip on Äelberon and quickly moved away, afraid, his back finding a wall.  Frozen in place and in shock.  Aela didn’t move either, her eyes wide, still in her form. So many questions ran through his mind in the seconds that seemed like eternities. Was the Mer too old? The wrong race? Was it that he was a priest? A mage? That he was Dragonborn? So many variables that they just didn’t think through when they planned this.

   

  He felt something brush against his arm and he weakly turned his head, only now noticing that the crying had ceased. It was Koor, the dog’s blue, blue eyes staring at him, the teeth beginning to bare in a snarl, but at the same time, the body language was unsure. What did you do to my father, those eyes seemed to ask. He grabbed the dog before the animal could protest or bite and buried his face in the soft fur of the animal’s neck. Immediately, he felt the creature relax and he could sense the soft whines from deep within the animal’s throat. “I am so sorry, Little Moon Brother. I am so sorry.” He sighed against the dog’s fur.  A few more moments of grief and he would tell the old man. Accept responsibility. “I’m so sorry, Äelberon. I knew deep down it wouldn’t happen, that old Auri-El had you too deep in his selfish talons, jealous maybe of the true eagle that served him. That was better than him. That he would rather kill you than let you live the life you deserved for all the good you have done. But I hoped, you know? Because you made me hope. Asshole...” He released another mournful sigh and held Koor close to him, letting the pain surge through him, remembering his time with the Mer. Their hatred passing into a deep friendship, their talks, everything.

   

  A odd-sounding yelp from Aela and the dog’s now frantic struggling brought Skjor back and he whipped his face away from the comfort of the dog’s fur to see. Skjor’s mouth hit the floor and he now fought the dog’s struggling. “No, boy, not now.”

   

  Fuck, it was happening. The Mer was lying on the floor, his open eyes on the ceiling, the old heart hammering again, his chest moving, breathing again. There was an odd light emanating from the Mer, as if it was draining from him and gathering, concentrating to a position just above him. Skjor furrowed his brow, not understanding. He then recognized the smell of the Hunting Grounds from his dreams, the grass, fur, blood, sweat, the wolf spirit’s presence now extremely strong and fuck, it was, something else. Aela’s roar was true. Hircine sent one Oblivion of a fucker for Äelberon—Koor squirmed, snapping and snarling, trying to bite Skjor’s hand so he could escape and protect his master. Protect? Why did you say that? The fuck, no, this needs to happen. Skjor grabbed the dog hard and snarled. “No, dammit, boy. Don’t, it’s why we’re here. This needs to happen.”

   

  With a whoosh the light flared brightly and then died.  Gone as fast as it came. Skjor smelled the old blood, felt the power of the old ways in the room. It overwhelmed his senses, made his heart leap to join in the ancient hunt, and he could not tear his eyes away from the Altmer who now bolted up into a sitting position.

   

  “Wo krilon?” The Mer spoke, in a voice that wasn’t his. It was the voice that sang the song a month ago, the night Äelberon learned he was Dovahkiin.

   

  “Let me in.” Another voice, also from the Mer.

   

  “Wah dii fen?!” Thundered in a way that shook the Underforge.

   

  “You know the rules of this game. Now let me in.”

   

  “Zu'u fen dir us Drogsenir kren zey!”

   

  “That is the plan.”

   

  “Hi fen gebahlok ko zey, hokzii.” Snapped like an angry animal.

   

  “I will feed on something, don’t worry...” And with those last words, Äelberon rose to his feet, on unsteady legs, but stand he did. The eyes found Skjor and it looked to the Nord like he had just woken from a dream, but still wasn’t seeing. Skjor blinked. He could hear Aela’s rumbles and noises as if from a distance, but he was ignoring her. He needed to see this. The dog stopped moving and both just stared.

   

  Just when he thought that the Mer’s hammering heart would literally hammer through his chest and fall upon the floor, Äelberon doubled over with a scream, his body no longer his. Skjor’s eyes widened when he saw it, the skin, begin to split and fade from the Mer’s back, the magic of the Huntsman’s realm manifesting on their plane. The first transformation never ceased to amaze, and he released the tiniest gasp he dared. The Priest of Jorrvaskr would be like the very silver-white snow upon the mountains. A thickly furred, muscled back burst through Äelberon’s weak mortal shell, the arms lengthening, bulging, while the legs bent, turning into their unnatural, yet natural angle. Claws formed, extending from his finger tips and toes. From the Mer’s nose grew the snout, the teeth sharp like daggers. And Skjor then released an unconscious laugh through his drying tears. The nose had a hook! Some features stay with you when you change! Aye, bigger, more pointed ears too!  The long hair became a ruff of purest silver-white, almost like the mane of a lion. The Mer grew and grew, and Skjor wondered if he would ever stop growing, he grew so much, all the while releasing terrible screams and cries of pain. That was not normal, and Skjor felt terrible for his brother, his suffering cutting into the joy that he would live, that that old heart would still hammer away.  It had never hurt anyone else in their family like this and he hoped later transformations would be much easier.  

   

  Let me in, Skjor wondered on the words as he watched the Mer finish the change. Did he resist? You can’t resist, that’s not the way, you old fool. Why would he resist? Was that why it was hurting him? It was confusing, and he would have to speak with the old Mer when he came back to himself, but now there were more pressing matters. The final test.

   

  Was he feral? And the cold dread crept into Skjor’s gut again. There was always that chance. Get up, fucker, and find out. He glanced at Aela, who was already bristling, her teeth bare, ready to kill if the Mer turned.  He nodded at her slowly and used his feet to push himself up, his back still against the wall. Skjor reached for his dagger and then smirked to himself, rolling his eyes. What the fuck is that little needle going to do against that beast? A third larger than Skjor in Beast Form by his reckoning and Skjor was big. It was then that he finally noticed the beast’s eyes. They were Äelberon’s, the same shade, like dragon fire, the same shape. Fuck, that was not what he expected, and he didn’t know if it was a good thing or not. Werewolves eyes were always yellow. It was their Lord’s mark.

   

  Skjor was now standing, the only sounds in the Underforge were the rumbling breaths of the two werewolves he was sharing the Underforge with. His eyes found Koor, and saw that the dog was as still as a statue, the blue eyes homed in on his master. You’re not breathing either, eh Snowberry? Yeah, they’re pretty fucking big. Timing was everything. Äelberon seemed calm now, quickly scanning the Underforge with those keen eyes of his, but Skjor didn’t know how long it would last, for he could see the mane begin to bristle and the muscles on his hind legs tense. The dog tilted his head to the side quizzically, snorted, and then bolted straight to his master, tail wagging, tongue lolling like a moron.  

   

  “Fuck! Koor! No!” Called Skjor, but it was too late and Skjor held his breath, not really wanting to move when the New Born’s eyes found him, narrowing. Aela inched closer to Äelberon and Skjor knew she’d defend the dog if Äelberon was indeed feral. Koor stopped at his Master, looking up, all happy, and Skjor watched as Äelberon leaned close to the dog and sniffed. Don’t eat your dog, I will never forgive myself if you eat the Snowberry, please Hircine, he can eat anything else in Tamriel if he wants, just not the dog…

   

  “That’s it, Old Mer,” he heard himself carefully say, “smell the dog. He’s your little boy. He only wants to make sure you’re alright. You gave us all a big, big scare.” Skjor squeezed his eyes shut. That he had, he was going to need a serious drink when all this was done and two weeks visiting Decimus sounded like great idea right now. It would give them time away from the Old Man so the three of them could figure out what to say. Sure, the Imperial was still probably hibernating, but one of the Goldpact Knights would let them in, he was sure of it. “Don’t eat him.” He said aloud, opening his one eye and Äelberon shot him a look that would have made a lesser man piss his pants. The Nord swallowed hard and pointed to Koor, regaining his composure. “Hey, don’t you look at your next Harbinger like that, you fucking Old Mary. That’s your dog, he’s saying hello, now go greet him before I kick your arse.”

   

  An obstinate snort from the giant beast, but Äelberon quickly turned to the dog again and Skjor then smiled as the silver werewolf extended his right hand slightly. Those claws!  The dog found the hand, nuzzling it with his head as the werewolf gently rubbed the husky’s ears with its long-clawed fingers, rumbling low in contentment. Skjor let out a sigh of relief. This was no feral werewolf.

   

  Until he let loose a ferocious roar and barreled right towards the exit of the Underforge, Aela and Koor happily giving chase. Time to play one big fucking game. No, they couldn’t walk out of the Underforge like sensible werewolves, Skjor thought as he sprinted to follow them. At least they went out the right way and not the way that led back to Jorrvaskr and Whiterun. He heard a horse’s whinny and growls, followed by a horse’s angry roar, yelps, and loud running. “Please don’t eat Allie.” Skjor huffed while he willed his legs faster. “You will kill me if you eat Allie. Also guards, well, just try not to eat people, in general. Well, you can eat Thalmor, that would be great.” Dammit, he hated the unpredictable ones.

   

  He emerged from the Underforge into the crisp night air, the moons suspended in the cloud-gathering black, and the serpent dancing in the sky, the promise of a late snowfall to cool raging bodies finished with their hunt. Allie was alive, stomping, impatient, and snorting like a bull, but alive and he ran towards her, finding himself grinning. He practically jumped on her and she reared in response, roaring. Skjor gave the reins a slap and they were off. Old Bitch knew exactly where to go.  

   

  

   Part2, Chapter XIV * Straag Rod Book 1 ToC * Part  2, Chapter XVI