Kodlak's death was something the Bosmer felt he was unworthy to watch. The vigil, the heartbreak and togetherness of the grief of their people. They burned the body, admitted him into his personal space, to read his journal. Why? Why did he deserve that right? Why did the man need to die anyway? If only he could have been there sooner. No one felt it wrong that he be made Harbinger- but he'd been there only for so long!
Not even a year.
He may have been Dragonborn but that gave him no right to replace such a praised warrior. Farkas felt grief. Aela felt hate, but it was Vilkas who wanted to see blood the most. He wanted each head on a pike, their bodies desecrated. But in all honesty, when the Silver Hand was destroyed, all he could feel was crippling emptiness.
Revenge wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Somehow for Vilkas, it made his heart all the more bitter. When the fires of hate where over, the ache set in and the man sought no chance of escape. All of the others tried to sleep, tried to continue their duties, but their pain was clear. They would heal soon. But for Vilkas, this was not so. He chose to hide and “stew” as he remembered calling it. During the day he was withdrawn, Aela noticing the young man's thoughts nearly handicapping him from his simple duties. She thought he was a fool.
But the Dragonborn didn't. He knew Vilkas' kind, they where stubborn and felt the need to play invincible because it made them feel strong. It was just the way Vilkas was, and by the gods he needed to stop before he could crumble. The Bosmer would press his ear up against the man's door in the deepest night, hearing shuffling, silence. Shuddered breaths, more silence. And it just went on like that for days until a week had gone by.
The companions where allowed to laugh again, their mead hall in subdued sadness as supper was eaten. Stories began to exchange again, friendly competition and the trade of coin. But reserved Vilkas stayed an intangible distance away. Few words, fewer smiles. Tonight's dinner seemed no different, until Farkas decided it was enough with constantly worrying for his brother's sanity.
They saw Vilkas push himself up and out, bidding them a goodnight. He hadn't bothered to finish his meal, withdrawing to his room and Farkas could'nt hold himself back, fearing that Vilkas will lock himself up in his room again tonight and read those stupid books. Quite abruptly, the hulking Nord approached the bosmer, grabbing him by the arm and asking if they could talk.
“It's about your brother, isn't it? I noticed.”
“You need to do something about Vilkas.” Farkas sounded like he was begging. “I'm afraid he might lose his mind if he keeps up the way he's been going.” His brother didn't know anyone else who'd be wise enough to get through to him, why not the Harbinger? They where all supposed to be good at this kind of thing.
Turns out, they did.
Because he had an idea. Leaping up from his chair the Bosmer gathered a handful of scrolls from under his bed, he marched his way to Vilkas' room. The door was open, but the hall reeked of inhospitable air, the Dragonborn's ears pricking back with discomfort. “Hey, Vilkas?”
“Aye?” He heard flatly from the desk. Vilkas was inside, hunched over a book, near its last few pages. The bench space next to him was open and the nord politely made enough room for him, holding his page in the novel. If Kodlak where still alive, they'd be long past this air of awkwardness...it made the Dragonborn's heart ache for him.
“These are a few classics I wrote from famous poets of Falinesti. I was thinking maybe you wanted to read them.” Vilkas merely thanked him. Said that he'd read it later. It became obvious that Vilkas didn't want him around, he just wasn't being a bastard about it this time.
The bosmer didn't allow the awkward silence that followed to go on for long. He cleared his throat, tried to let Vilkas know he seemed genuinely happy to see him.
Muses and Mead 12 (Vilkas M/M)
Weeks went by.
Kodlak's death was something the Bosmer felt he was unworthy to watch. The vigil, the heartbreak and togetherness of the grief of their people. They burned the body, admitted him into his personal space, to read his journal. Why? Why did he deserve that right? Why did the man need to die anyway? If only he could have been there sooner. No one felt it wrong that he be made Harbinger- but he'd been there only for so long!
Not even a year.
He may have been Dragonborn but that gave him no right to replace such a praised warrior. Farkas felt grief. Aela felt hate, but it was Vilkas who wanted to see blood the most. He wanted each head on a pike, their bodies desecrated. But in all honesty, when the Silver Hand was destroyed, all he could feel was crippling emptiness.
Revenge wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Somehow for Vilkas, it made his heart all the more bitter. When the fires of hate where over, the ache set in and the man sought no chance of escape. All of the others tried to sleep, tried to continue their duties, but their pain was clear. They would heal soon. But for Vilkas, this was not so. He chose to hide and “stew” as he remembered calling it. During the day he was withdrawn, Aela noticing the young man's thoughts nearly handicapping him from his simple duties. She thought he was a fool.
But the Dragonborn didn't. He knew Vilkas' kind, they where stubborn and felt the need to play invincible because it made them feel strong. It was just the way Vilkas was, and by the gods he needed to stop before he could crumble. The Bosmer would press his ear up against the man's door in the deepest night, hearing shuffling, silence. Shuddered breaths, more silence.
And it just went on like that for days until a week had gone by.
The companions where allowed to laugh again, their mead hall in subdued sadness as supper was eaten. Stories began to exchange again, friendly competition and the trade of coin. But reserved Vilkas stayed an intangible distance away. Few words, fewer smiles. Tonight's dinner seemed no different, until Farkas decided it was enough with constantly worrying for his brother's sanity.
They saw Vilkas push himself up and out, bidding them a goodnight. He hadn't bothered to finish his meal, withdrawing to his room and Farkas could'nt hold himself back, fearing that Vilkas will lock himself up in his room again tonight and read those stupid books. Quite abruptly, the hulking Nord approached the bosmer, grabbing him by the arm and asking if they could talk.
“It's about your brother, isn't it? I noticed.”
“You need to do something about Vilkas.” Farkas sounded like he was begging. “I'm afraid he might lose his mind if he keeps up the way he's been going.” His brother didn't know anyone else who'd be wise enough to get through to him, why not the Harbinger? They where all supposed to be good at this kind of thing.
Turns out, they did.
Because he had an idea. Leaping up from his chair the Bosmer gathered a handful of scrolls from under his bed, he marched his way to Vilkas' room. The door was open, but the hall reeked of inhospitable air, the Dragonborn's ears pricking back with discomfort. “Hey, Vilkas?”
“Aye?” He heard flatly from the desk. Vilkas was inside, hunched over a book, near its last few pages. The bench space next to him was open and the nord politely made enough room for him, holding his page in the novel. If Kodlak where still alive, they'd be long past this air of awkwardness...it made the Dragonborn's heart ache for him.
“These are a few classics I wrote from famous poets of Falinesti. I was thinking maybe you wanted to read them.” Vilkas merely thanked him. Said that he'd read it later. It became obvious that Vilkas didn't want him around, he just wasn't being a bastard about it this time.
The bosmer didn't allow the awkward silence that followed to go on for long. He cleared his throat, tried to let Vilkas know he seemed genuinely happy to see him.