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Forged in Skyrim #67
🕑 Added 2026-01-08 11:20:52 +0000 UTCTorin reached for the iron handle of the Harbinger’s door, his hand stopping an inch short as the heavy oak panel swung inward on its own.
Aela stepped out, her movements as silent and fluid as always.
She pulled the door almost shut behind her, then paused, her sharp eyes locking onto Torin.
A slow, wolfish grin spread across her face. Without a word, she jerked her thumb back over her shoulder toward the room, her meaning crystal clear: We’ll talk later. Don’t keep the old man waiting.
Torin just made a shooing motion with his hand, as if to say that much is obvious.
Aela’s grin didn’t falter. In one smooth, deceptive motion, she planted her elbow deep into Torin’s ribs with a force that would have cracked a normal man’s sternum. It was a Companion’s greeting.
“Try not to get lost in a book on the way out,” she muttered, her voice low.
Then she reached past him to give Echo a rough, affectionate scratch behind the ears before melting into the shadows of the corridor, leaving the scent of leather and cold steel in her wake.
Torin let out a soft oof, rubbing his side with a wry shake of his head. Some things never changed. He turned his attention back to the now-open doorway.
Inside, rooted in his usual spot on the chait, was Kodlak. The candlelight danced over his features, highlighting a profound amusement in his wise, tired eyes. Time had written its story on the Harbinger.
His hair and beard were now a pure, snowy white, a stark contrast to the weathered bronze of his skin. But that was where the signs of frailty ended.
Even sitting, relaxed, the man was a monument of packed muscle and quiet power. His shoulders were still as broad as an ox yoke, his arms thick with the corded strength of a lifetime of warfare.
He was an old wolf, grey around the muzzle, but with teeth that could still settle any quarrel in the pack.
The old man offered a slow, acknowledging nod. “There you are, boy. Was starting to think you’d forgotten where the door was.” His deep voice was a familiar rumble, like stones shifting in a riverbed. His gaze shifted past Torin to the hulking shadow in the doorway. “And I see you brought your other shadow with you. Good.”
Torin rolled his eyes as he watched Echo shamelessly pad into the room. The massive bear went straight to Kodlak, letting out a soft chuff before nudging her broad head insistently against the Harbinger’s outstretched hand.
Kodlak chuckled, his fingers digging into the thick fur behind her ears.
Damn kiss-ass bear, Torin thought without any real heat.
He sighed, the sound heavy with a feigned exasperation he didn’t truly feel. “Well,” he said, stepping fully into the room and letting the door swing shut, cutting off the distant roar of the main hall. “I knew at least one of you would try to murder me in my sleep if I didn’t bring her for a visit.”
Kodlak turned his head toward Torin, a single white eyebrow climbing toward his hairline. “Shame on you, boy,” he rumbled, though his eyes sparkled. “I wouldn’t need to find you in your sleep. I’d just send a runner.”
His smile widened as he looked back at the bear practically purring under his touch. “Her on the other hand… she’d track you to the top of the Throat of the World and push you off for forgetting her supper.”
Torin just rolled his eyes again, a familiar, comfortable gesture, and dropped into the worn leather chair opposite Kodlak.
The light's warmth seeped into his eyes. “So,” he began, his tone shifting to something more genuine. “How’ve you been holding up? Aside from being mobbed by new recruits.”
Kodlak gave him a slow, sidelong glance, a dry humor in his weathered face. “As well as I can be, cooped up in this room playing nursemaid and bookkeeper while younger men and mer chase their glory across the holds.”
He didn’t sound bitter, just… weary of the chair.
Torin couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’ve hoarded enough glory for ten lifetimes, old man. You could pave the road to Sovngarde with the skulls of your enemies. So long as Tsun isn’t blind, deaf, and senseless, he’ll be waiting at the Whalebone Bridge to guide you through himself when the time comes.”
At the mention of Sovngarde, a shadow passed behind Kodlak’s eyes. The amusement faded, replaced by a deep, familiar melancholy. His gaze lost its focus, drifting to the dancing flames.
He let out a long, slow sigh that seemed to carry the weight of decades. “I’m… not so sure about that, lad.”
Torin just grinned, but it was a softer expression now, laced with a fierce, unshakable conviction. “Well, I am.”
Of course, Torin knew exactly what Kodlak was talking about. The blood of the beast. The lycanthropy that flowed through the veins of the Inner Circle was a spiritual poison. As long as Hircine’s mark was on his soul, Kodlak wouldn’t see the golden halls of Sovngarde. He’d be dragged to the Hunting Grounds instead, an eternal trophy for the Daedric Prince.
Torin wasn’t officially supposed to know—he’d refused the Circle and its “gift”—but in a hall full of werewolves, some secrets were just poorly kept.
But it didn’t matter.
Official knowledge or not, the truth was clear. If Kodlak Whitemane wanted to feast in the Hall of Valor with Ysgramor and the Five Hundred, then that’s exactly where he was going to go.
Torin would make sure of it. He’d tear the curse from the old wolf’s soul with his bare hands if he had to. It was a big part of the reason his path was now pointing north, to the College of Winterhold.
In the game he remembered, a solution existed. The Dragonborn himself would eventually show up.
They’d hunt down the witches of the coven that first cursed the Companions, use their heads in some grisly ritual, and cleanse the soul of the Harbinger. A neat, pre-packaged fate.
Torin wanted no part of that bet. Relying on some mythical stranger he’d never met? In a world this chaotic? From what he recalled, the so-called Dragonborn had the option to lead half the factions in Skyrim.
They could become Archmage, Guildmaster, Listener, Nightingale, and Harbinger. There was no guarantee they’d ever set foot in Jorrvaskr, or that they’d give a damn about Kodlak’s haunted soul if they did.
Hoping for a savior was a fool’s game.
No. If there was a cure to be found, Torin would find it himself. He’d tear the knowledge from the bones of the earth if he had to.
He cleared his throat, the sound rough in the quiet room. “Anyway… I came here to say a proper goodbye. I’ll be gone for a long while this time. Heading to Winterhold soon.”
Kodlak paused, his wise eyes sharpening. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. “Ah,” he said, the single syllable heavy with understanding. “So that’s why you’re darkening my door. You usually find a reason to be halfway across the province when he’s lurking about the hall.”
Torin let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Yes. I figured it’s time I finally went and severed whatever twisted thread of fate keeps tying me to that well-meaning, troublesome fool. Can’t put it off forever.”
Kodlak merely nodded, his expression unreadable. “I know you’re not here to ask for my blessing, boy. You never do. But you have it nonetheless.”
He shook his head slowly, a faint, fond smile touching his lips. “I still don’t understand your passion for those glowing rocks and ancient gears. It’s a quieter magic than I’m used to. But I won’t deny it’s yours to follow.”
A warmth that had nothing to do with the hearth spread through Torin’s chest. He reached over and gave Kodlak’s massive, scarred hand, resting on the arm of the chair, a firm, brief pat. It was as close to a hug as either of them would ever get.
“And I’m thankful for that. More than you know.” He pushed himself to his feet, the chair scraping softly on the stone floor. “I suppose I’ll see you in three years. Maybe five. Try not to let the whelps burn the place down before I get back.”
With that, he turned and started for the door. Echo gave a soft, rumbling growl of farewell to Kodlak—more of a deep purr—before falling into step behind Torin, her bulk a comforting presence at his back.
He didn’t look back. Goodbyes were easier that way.
...
Late at night, on the wild border between Whiterun’s tundra and the jagged teeth of the Reach, the only sounds were the crackle of a small fire and the slow, rasping slide of steel on whetstone.
Torin lay on his bedroll, his back a solid line against Echo’s warm, furry side, a weathered book on Dwarven metallurgy propped open in his hands. The firelight danced over the dense, technical diagrams.
Across the flames, Qasim sat in perfect stillness, methodically running a cloth down the elegant curve of his scimitar. The oily rag whispered along the blade, catching the light on its polished surface.
The silence between them wasn’t comfortable, but it was settled.
Torin had never made a secret of his annoyance at the Redguard’s presence, and Qasim, for all his quirks, wasn’t a fool.
He’d received the message. Their paths had crossed a handful of times since parting ways in Markarth—brief, functional encounters usually involving the exchange of information or the mutual killing of bandits.
Though Qasim didn’t fully grasp why Torin wanted so little to do with him, he seemed to accept it as one of life’s mysteries. The gods, in their inscrutable wisdom, had woven their fates together for a purpose. That didn’t mean they had to share stories over mead.
The silence was their truce.
The truce, however, soon broke with the soft but deliberate crunch of footsteps on gravel, approaching from the darkness beyond the firelight.
In one synchronized motion, the silence shattered. Torin’s book snapped shut. Qasim’s scimitar halted mid-stroke. Both men were on their feet in an instant, weapons in hand—Torin’s axe a solid weight, Qasim’s blade a gleam of intent—turned toward the source of the sound.
Two figures emerged from the gloom, stepping into the circle of flickering orange light. Aela, her face a mask of hunter’s calm, and behind her, the smaller, wiry form of Auri, the Bosmer’s sharp eyes scanning the campsite.
Torin froze for a heartbeat, then a slow, incredulous grin spread across his face. He lowered his axe. “Well, well. Did you miss me already, sister?”
Aela didn’t grace him with a look.
She strode past him as if he were a stump and settled directly by the fire, extending her hands toward the flames. “You wish,” she grunted, her voice rough from the trail.
She flexed her fingers, working the cold out. “Kodlak said we should help you with the Forsworn.”
Auri silently took a seat beside her, pulling a waterskin from her pack, her gaze flicking between Torin and Qasim with open curiosity.
Torin watched them for a moment before making his way back to his spot, leaning once more against Echo’s solid bulk. The bear let out a low, questioning rumble but didn’t move.
“Did he, now?” Torin asked, his tone laced with deep skepticism. He gave Aela a narrow-eyed look. “Because I clearly remember him saying that no one else but me and him over there were supposed to get involved. That it was ‘our path to walk.’”
Aela let out a short, annoyed sigh that fogged in the cold air. “I remember what he said,” she conceded, still staring into the flames. “But then, this afternoon, he called me into his study. Said he had a contract come in—a nasty bit of business with Hagravens and their pet Briarhearts, deep in the Reach.”
A faint, predatory grin touched her lips. “He gave it to me and Auri. Said the two of us were the best trackers for the job.”
She finally looked up, meeting Torin’s skeptical gaze.
Her grin widened. “Then he got that old, knowing look in his eye. Stroked his beard and said, ‘Strange, the timing. Almost like a sign. Perhaps you should… lend your bows to your brother’s task while you’re in the area.’ Then he shooed me out before I could ask questions.”
Torin just stared at her, speechless. She wasn’t one for elaborate lies, and the story rang true. It was exactly the kind of clever, sideways maneuvering Kodlak was known for, or perhaps it was just his old habit of over-interpreting everything.
And honestly, Torin would prefer more company. Qasim was about as conversational as a rock.
He turned and cast a questioning look at the Redguard, who had resumed his silent sword maintenance as if the new arrivals were of no more interest than a change in the wind.
Qasim merely offered a single-shouldered shrug. He didn't speak, but in Torin's mind, he could already see him mouthing the words. The path is the path, the gesture seemed to say. How many walk it is irrelevant.
Torin turned back to Aela, a reluctant smile finally breaking through. “Alright, fine. Consider your bows officially lent. You’re welcome to join the party.”
He reached over and gave Echo’s broad stomach a fond, solid pat. The bear’s fur was thick and warm. “If nothing else, you’ll definitely help me keep this bottomless, furry pit fed. She’s eaten two of my emergency rations already.”
Echo, insulted by the implication she was a mere stomach on legs, let out a profound, rumbling huff. With a deliberate, grumpy shift of her enormous weight, she rolled onto her other side.
The movement was sudden and massive. The ground seemed to lurch. Torin, who had been leaning comfortably against her, found his support yanked out from under him. He flailed for a moment, arms windmilling, before stumbling backward and landing hard on his back in the dirt, narrowly avoiding cracking his skull on a protruding root.
A sharp, startled curse died on his lips as he looked up to see Aela’s stern mask finally crack. She threw her head back and let out a full-throated, honest laugh that echoed in the quiet night. Even Auri smirked, a flash of white teeth in the firelight.
From across the flames, Qasim didn’t look up from his blade, but Torin could have sworn he saw the Redguard’s shoulders shake once, very slightly.
Comments
Bonobo
Thanks for the chapter, loved it !
