Walking through the corridor of Jorrvaskr's living quarters, Torin felt sothing loosen in his chest that he hadn't even realized was tight.
The stone walls. The wooden beams. The sll of old ad and older dust and the faint undertone of wolf that never quite washed out of the place no matter how many tis the whelps scrubbed.
This was ho. Had been since Kodlak carried him through those doors as a squalling infant, and would be until the day he died.
He was so caught up in the familiar comfort of it all that he almost walked straight into Farkas.
The big Nord was coming out of the Harbinger's quarters, ducking slightly through the doorway like he always did—even though the door was plenty tall enough for him, old habits died hard.
He looked up, noticed Torin, and stopped dead.
For a mont, they just stared at each other.
Then both of them broke into grins.
"It's been a while, little brother." Farkas's voice was the sa as ever—deep, rumbling, with that gentle quality that made everyone who t him relax despite his size. He walked forward, arm extended.
Torin t him halfway, clasping his wrist and pulling him into a brief hug. It was like hugging a mountain wrapped in fur, but a warm mountain. A mountain that was genuinely happy to see you.
"It's been a while indeed." Torin stepped back, letting his grin widen into sothing smug. "I see you've stopped growing taller."
Farkas raised his gaze—very slightly, just a fraction of an inch—to et Torin's eyes.
Now they were damn near eye to eye.
"And I see you still haven't," Farkas rumbled. "Are you trying to give old Magnus a kiss? Maybe he'll bless you with so more height if you pucker up right."
Torin chuckled, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "I bet he'd teach so new spells too if I do it well enough."
Farkas shook his head wearily, that long-suffering expression he'd perfected after years of dealing with Vilkas's lectures and Aela's sharp tongue. "What, the elves in Winterhold aren't teaching you enough? That's why you went up there, is it not? To learn from the pointy-eared lot."
"There's a surprising number of Nords and Bretons too." Torin shrugged, falling into step beside Farkas as they walked toward the main hall. "But yeah, plenty of elves. They make for good teachers, though. I must admit."
Farkas grunted. "Thank the gods I don't need to learn magic. Seems like too much thinking." He glanced around, peering past Torin like he expected soone to materialize out of the shadows. "Speaking of elves... where's what's-her-na? Auri? Last I heard from Aela, she went chasing after you. Sothing about you needing soone to watch your back."
Torin nodded. "Auri's upstairs. In the hall, with the orcs."
Farkas blinked. "The orcs?"
"The orcs." Torin's grin returned. "She caught up to on the road, yeah. Followed all the way to Winterhold, actually. And then—" He shook his head, still half-amazed by how it had all worked out. "She joined the College. Passed the tests, got admitted, and eveything. Been studying there with for months now."
Farkas's brow furrowed. "An elf hunter, studying magic with a bunch of mages." He processed this slowly, the way he processed most things—deliberately, like he was turning it over in his hands to examine from all angles. "Huh."
"That's one word for it."
"And now she's upstairs. Feasting in Jorrvaskr. With orcs..."
"With orcs," Torin confird. "She's got a way with people. Doesn't hurt that she can shoot the eye out of a skeever at a hundred paces. Orcs respect skill and might."
Farkas considered this. Then he shrugged, that massive shoulders-moving-under-fur gesture that ant he'd decided it wasn't worth worrying about.
"Well, good. More people watching your back ans less work for ." He clapped Torin on the shoulder, a blow that would have staggered a normal person. Torin barely moved. "Kodlak's gonna be happy to see you. He's been... you know. Kodlak."
Torin's expression softened slightly. "That bad?"
"Not bad. Just..." Farkas searched for the word. "Thoughtful. More than usual. Staring at things. Vilkas says he's got sothing on his mind, but he won't talk about it." He shrugged again. "Maybe he'll talk to you."
"Maybe." Torin clapped him back, sa shoulder, sa force. "Good to see you, brother."
"Good to see you too, little brother." Farkas grinned, the simple honest grin of a man who didn't know how to be anything but genuine. "Even if you did get tall enough to be annoying about it."
They parted ways at the hall entrance—Farkas heading out for whatever patrol or training or simple wandering he did with his free ti, Torin turning toward the Harbinger's quarters.
But he paused at the door, hand raised to knock.
Through the wood, he could hear Kodlak moving around. The familiar shuffle of his step, the creak of the chair by the fire, the soft clink of a cup being set down.
Ho.
Torin knocked.
...
As he entered the Harbinger's quarters, Torin felt his lips curve into a smile he couldn't have stopped if he tried.
Kodlak sat in the chair at the table facing the door. Sa chair Askar used to sit in, back when Torin was small enough to run through these halls without ducking. Sa position, too—leaned back slightly, one hand resting on the table, the other curled around a cup of sothing that stead in the firelight.
The old Harbinger had sat exactly like that, Torin rembered. Sa spot. Sa pose. Like Kodlak had grown into the role so completely that he'd absorbed the previous Harbinger's mannerisms along with the title.
But there were differences.
Kodlak looked... tired. Not physically—he was still solid, still strong, still the man who'd raised Torin from a squalling infant. But there was sothing in his eyes, sothing thoughtful and distant, that hadn't been there before.
Or maybe it had, and Torin just hadn't noticed. Maybe he'd been too busy with his own journey, his own problems, his own life to see what was happening right in front of him.
Was Kodlak feeling the passing of the years? Starting to think about what ca after? About the curse that lived in his blood and what it ant for his soul?
The old Nord's face brightened the mont he saw Torin, chasing so of that tiredness away.
"How nice of you to finally darken my door." His voice was warm, teasing, the voice of a father greeting a son who'd been away too long. He looked around Torin, the way Farkas had, searching for soone else. "But I see you didn't bring your shadow this ti."
Torin smiled, moving further into the room. The fire crackled in its hearth, pushing back the chill that always lurked in these stone walls. "Echo t a new friend in the wilderness. A snow bear, if you can believe it. They've been running together for months now." He shrugged. "She's unfit for travel at the mont."
Kodlak's gaze wandered off, focusing on sothing Torin couldn't see. The fire, maybe. Or mories.
"Such is life, my boy." His voice softened, took on that reflective quality Torin rembered from late nights and quiet conversations. "Clever she might be, but she remains a beast. And so she must live like one, as ordained by Shor's Widow."
His eyes moved back to Torin, sharpening. "But enough of that. Co closer. Let look at you."
Torin rolled his eyes—so things never changed, and Kodlak's tendency to treat him like a child was definitely one of them—but he obliged. Stepped forward until he was standing right in front of the old Harbinger, close enough to touch.
Kodlak stared into his eyes.
Not at his eyes. Into them. Searching for sothing only he knew, so marker or asure he'd been using since Torin was old enough to hold a gaze. The fire crackled. A log shifted. Sowhere above, muffled by stone and wood, Torin could hear the orcs in the hall, their deep voices rumbling in celebration.
After a long mont, Kodlak nodded. Satisfaction settled onto his weathered features.
"Still clear," he said. "Still sharp. I see those hermits and their books didn't change you." He leaned back, releasing Torin from that searching gaze. "I was worried. When you said you wanted to go to that place. Worried you'd get lost in all that knowledge, forget who you were."
"Couldn't if I tried." Torin pulled out the chair across from Kodlak and sat, the wood creaking under his weight. "You made sure of that."
Kodlak's smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Good answer."
Torin gave Kodlak a strange look, half amused, half curious.
"Still, you must tell who taught you that eye-reading skill, old man." He grinned, leaning back in his chair. "Such a talent might be useful in my hunt for this killer in Falkreath. Imagine if I could just look at soone and know if they're the murdering, torturing type."
Kodlak shook his head firmly, but there was warmth underneath the refusal. "You already know my teachers, though not as intimately. They're called ti and experience. It took decades to learn what I can read in a pair of eyes. You don't have that kind of ti, and even if you did, you wouldn't want to pay the price."
Torin chuckled. "Fair enough. But now that you've had your look at ..." He gave the Harbinger an up-and-down glance, a deliberate mirror of Kodlak's earlier examination. "Let look at you. How have you been? Really?"
Kodlak's expression flickered—just for a mont, just enough for soone who knew him to catch it.
"Farkas tells you have worries you refuse to share." Torin pressed, gently but firmly. "Sothing on your mind. Sothing heavier than usual."
Kodlak sighed, the sound carrying the weight of years. "Farkas. That boy talks too much." He shook his head, but there was no real anger in it. "He ans well. They all an well. But yes, I have... concerns. Worries, if you want to call them that."
He t Torin's eyes. "They're not for you, my boy. You have your own road to walk, your own path to follow. I won't burden you with an old man's troubles."
He gave a dismissive wave, like he was shooing away a persistent fly.
Torin raised an eyebrow.
"Who's to say it would burden ?" His voice was calm, reasonable. "I might lready have the solution to whatever troubles you. You never know unless you ask."
Kodlak studied him for a long mont. The fire crackled between them, casting dancing shadows across the old Nord's weathered face.
"Perhaps," he said finally. "But tell this first, boy." He leaned forward, his eyes sharpening. "Do you know the deepest, darkest secret of the Companions?"
Torin gave him a blank look. Not confused—blank. The kind of expression soone wears when they're deciding how much to say.
"What, that the inner circle is a bunch of werewolves who can't even go to Sovngarde?"
The words hung in the air between them.
Kodlak just stared.
For one long, stretched mont, neither of them moved. The fire popped. Wind rattled the shutters. Sowhere above, an orc laughed loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling.
Then Kodlak sighed. A deep, resigned sound that seed to co from sowhere in his bones.
"I always suspected you might know." He shook his head slowly, wonder mixing with weariness in his expression. "The way you watched us sotis. The questions you asked as a boy, innocent on the surface but... pointed, underneath..." A pause. "Even then, I didn't expect you to be this blunt about it."
Torin shrugged, unapologetic. "There's nothing to gain in being coy. Not with you." He paused, then added, "But there's no need to worry." He patted his chest, a casual gesture that sohow carried weight. "Why do you think I joined the College anyway?"
Kodlak didn't say anything. Just gave him a pointed, knowing look—the kind that said I've been doing this longer than you've been alive, boy, don't play gas with .
Torin chuckled, sheepish despite himself. "Well. Maybe it's not the only reason. But it's a big one." He took a deep breath, letting it out slow. "I'm already looking for a cure to lycanthropy. Have been for a while now. Reading everything I can find, talking to anyone who might know sothing. And I'm going to find one."
He t Kodlak's eyes squarely.
"But that might be difficult alone. The College has resources—libraries, scholars, knowledge that doesn't exist anywhere else in Skyrim. If I want access to that, I need to be soone worth helping. Soone they'll go out of their way for, not just another student passing through."
He spread his hands. "So that's what I'm doing. Building a reputation. Making connections. Becoming the kind of mage they'll actually listen to when I co asking about things that shouldn't be possible."
Kodlak's expression shifted. Hardened.
"If I wanted the help of those old cowards in that rundown ruin in Winterhold, I'd at least have the decency to ask them myself." His voice was flat, dismissive. "We don't want their help. We don't need it."
Torin rubbed his forehead, frustration bubbling up despite his best efforts to stay calm.
This was the problem. Kodlak was surprisingly open-minded for a Nord—he'd let Torin learn magic right under his nose, never once tried to beat the "elf tricks" out of him like so fathers would have.
But that trust was in Torin. In the boy he'd raised, the man he'd shaped. Not in the magic itself, and definitely not in the place where that magic was taught.
Kodlak trusted Torin. Torin's judgnt, Torin's choices, Torin's path.
The College? The Arch-Mage? The masters with their books and their theories and their complete lack of understanding about what it ant to be a warrior?
Kodlak wouldn't trust them to sharpen a sword, let alone cure a curse that had plagued the Companions for generations.
"I know you don't trust the people of the College," Torin said carefully, keeping his voice level. "And I'm not asking you to. But you're going to have to trust ."
Kodlak's eyes stayed hard, but he didn't interrupt.
"I'll only ask for their help when I absolutely have to. When I've exhausted every other option, every path I can walk alone. And when I do ask..." Torin leaned forward, willing the old man to understand.
"I'll make sure nothing wrong cos of it. No strings attached, no debts owed, nothing they can hold over us. Just information, freely given, by people who respect enough to offer it without expecting sothing in return."
The fire crackled between them. The wind howled outside. Sowhere above, the orcs were still feasting, their deep voices rumbling through the stone.
Kodlak studied him for a long mont. Searching his eyes again, that old habit, looking for sothing only he knew how to find.
"You really think you can do this," he said finally. Not a question. An observation.
"I know I can." Torin didn't hesitate. "Might take months. Might take decades. But I will find a way to cure you. To cure any of the inner circle who wants it. And when I do..." He smiled, sudden and fierce. "I'll open the way to Sovngarde for you... and maybe not just you."
Kodlak stared at him.
For a long, breathless mont, sothing shifted in those old eyes. Sothing that might have been hope. Or tears. Or both.
Then he laughed.
It wasn't a big laugh—more of a huff, really, air forced out through a smile. But it was real. Genuine. The kind of laugh that ca from sowhere deep.
"You were never one to talk big," Kodlak said, shaking his head. "Even when you were small enough to fit in one arm, you'd sit there and listen to the twins and Aela talk about all the great things they'd achieve, the glory they'll gain... and you'd just scoff, questioning the point of it all..."
He reached across the table and gripped Torin's forearm, hard. "But you know what? I think you'd make for a good braggart."
Torin gripped back. "Things change... I'm still not looking to do great things, but I just might have to..."
"Yes," Kodlak's eyes were bright, that hope still flickering underneath all those years of weariness. "I suppose you might..."
...
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