Chapter Text
A week had passed since they had returned from Riften, and Kaidan had quickly run out of ways to occupy himself.
Jobs were few and far between as of late it seemed, even for the Companions. In response to recent skirmishes along the eastern border of the Hold, the Jarl of Whiterun had grown cautious, sending his own soldiers out on routine patrols through the farmlands. With fewer people inclined to travel in the area and bandits forced to hunker down in the hills for a time to avoid the soldiers, mercenary work was temporarily drying up. The cost to the city, however, was beginning to show. Less trade with the other Holds made the merchants uneasy, and the residents of the lower districts were fearful at the lack of a prominent guard presence within the walls.
Farkas was away in the Reach dealing with one of the few available jobs, and Vilkas spent most of his time training his charges or shut away in his room. Skjor and Aela seemed to prefer hunting together almost constantly when there were no duties to attend to, and Kodlak hardly left the underchambers of Jorrvaskr during the day. The younger members of the Companions were a rather insular group, and spent most of their time scrapping and drinking together, complaining of their lack of responsibilities, yet never particularly showed interest in being productive with their training unless pushed.
Aesya threw herself back into training the horse, up before dawn and returning late in the evening. Kaidan began to suspect she was avoiding him. She was quieter than usual, and he knew it had something to do with what had transpired on the night before they arrived back in Whiterun. He had been, admittedly, rather harsh with her, even though it had come from a place of concern. He worried for her habits, and her lack of care for herself in all the things that he considered vital. He would need to talk to her again, and implore her to see his side of things, at the very least to quiet his worries about a stray arrow piercing through her barely functional armour.
Kaidan woke early the next day, and as usual found the bed opposite his empty. Aesya was rather regimental with her space, leaving everything so neat and uncluttered that it hardly looked lived in at all. After washing his face and buckling up his armour, he headed up the stairs to the great hall, pausing by the kitchen when he caught the scent of heart stew.
“Hope I’ve not missed breakfast” he called out to Tilma, who was busy cutting up an enormous pile of bread.
The old woman laughed, shaking her head as she clapped her hands together, creating a little cloud of flour. “Oh dear lad, so long as you keep contributing to the meat larder, there's always a meal for you.” she said, smiling over her shoulder. “Just don’t be pushing your luck with the portions, otherwise the others will start complaining.”
“Aye, I’ll try to reign it in,” he said with a sly wink. “Have you seen Aesya by any chance?”
“Ah, the quiet little thing with the white hair?” she asked, furrowing her wrinkled brow. “Hard to keep up with all the young ones running about these days. Yes, I believe I saw her leaving earlier.”
He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “Off to the stables as usual then. Thanks, Tilma.”
“Before you go lad,” Tilma said, turning around and pointing the bread knife at him. “You take a bit of this food with you. That skinny waif needs some meat on her bones, and I’ll start to take offense if she keeps missing meals like this.”
Kaidan smiled, bowing his head in acquiescence to the old woman's kindly threat. “You’re a true sweetheart, Tilma”
She merely grunted in response, quickly bundling up various bits of fresh cooked goods in a piece of cloth and pushing it into his arms. He left her to her work, glad not to be the only one fretting about his companions poor eating habits. As he crossed the great hall, he spied Vilkas lazily sprawled across one of the long benches in the east corner, engrossed in a weathered looking book. He acknowledged Kaidan with a scowl, his dirty-smeared face drawn and tired. “Where are you off to so early?” Vilkas asked hoarsely.
“Stables” Kaidan said, giving him a once over. “You look like you’ve been up all night, mate.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” Vilkas growled, his cold expression suggesting he did not wish to elaborate.
“Fuckin’ hell, Vilkas” he replied, rolling his eyes. “And you always sayin’ im a grumpy fucker.”
“You are,” he said, shrugging indifferently. “Anyways, tell the new-blood there’s a job here if she wants it. Nothing fancy, but coin is coin.”
Despite his gloomy disposition, Vilkas at least appeared to be trying not to be such an arse to Aesya as of late. It was clear the two were still giving each other a wide berth, but it was better than the uneasy tension from when she first joined.
“Thanks, mate”
“Mhm” Vilkas grumbled, turning his attention back to his book.
Probably missing Farkas, not that he’d admit it, Kaidan mused as he headed out into the city. The weather was pleasant enough, breezy with a little warmth. It was a welcome change from the dull grey skies and clinging drizzle of the previous few days. He took the less direct path along the ramparts, not feeling particularly enthusiastic about shouldering his way through the busy marketplace. He was well used to getting a fair few looks from others given his unusual appearance, but ever since his imprisonment, he was finding it much less palatable to be ogled and whispered about by passersby. Even the attentive gaze of women gave him much less satisfaction. The scars on his back, though they no longer gave him pain, still felt raw and unfamiliar. In his experience, most women found a man's scars attractive, but the thought of having to explain those particular ones soured any notion of getting tangled in the sheets with some tavern wench, even if it had been some months.
He paused for a moment to take in the length and breadth of the vast expanse of Whiterun’s plains. As much as he disliked the poor state of the city’s structural defenses, there was at least a clear view of any incoming threats, and it was a rather nice view. He didn’t have to look for long before he caught a glimpse of a silver horse grazing beside a thin sliver of a stream. Not far away, sitting beneath a leafless gnarled tree, was Aesya. He was glad she was sensible enough not to stray far from the farmlands, especially given that she rarely wore her armour or carried a weapon bigger than a knife.
He was glad that Tilma had given him an excuse to go and see her, and hopefully the prospect of a job after a week of waiting would be as much of a relief to her as it was to him. As he passed the stables, he saw that the roan mare he had admired previously was still unclaimed.
Part of him still wished he had the funds to buy her, but a quality steed like that was a luxury that would have been wasted on him. He had only ever ridden a horse in his younger years, sharing a saddle with Brynjar.
As he approached the serene little spot that his companion had claimed, her stallion raised its head, ears flattening back warily, making him pause in his tracks. “I’ll not come too close, don’t want to spook him” he called out to her, holding up Tilma’s bundle of food. “Tilma sent me to give you this.”
Aesya looked surprised to see him as she peered out from the shade of the tree, slowly rising to her feet. She put a hand on Maní’s neck, smoothing her fingers along the dappled, downy skin beneath his mane. The horse let out a soft little chuff, nosing at her shoulder. “It’s alright” she said. “You can come closer.”
With slow, deliberate movement so as to reassure the steed, he moved towards the tree and set down the food. “He's looking well,” he observed, leaning back against the flaking wood. “Hardly seems like the same beast he was when you claimed him.”
She patted Maní on the nose and left him to his grazing. “His doing more than mine,” she shrugged with indifference. “But I’m grateful for his trust. Skulvar says he hardly frets over the noise of the stables now.”
“No small feat to be able to trust again after a bad start in life” he said, glancing sidelong at her as she sat down on the grass. “I’d imagine he’s grateful you gave him a second chance at life.”
“Mhm” she said, pursing her lips. “You said Tilma sent you?”
“Aye, with breakfast,” he said, folding his arms. “Worried you’ve been missing meals. Her words, not mine.”
“I see” she sighed, rather dejectedly, untying the cloth and inspecting the contents. “Thank you.”
“She's used to feeding warriors that eat like horses,” he said reassuringly. “It's her way of showing she cares, I think.”
Aesya nodded silently, taking out an apple and setting it aside. Given her sullen expression, the prospect of a fresh, hearty breakfast did not seem to hold the same appeal to her as it would most. “Have you eaten?” she asked, without looking up.
In his hurry to find her, he realized he had not thought to grab himself something as well. Before he could answer, she inclined her head to the ground across from her. “You should eat too, then.”
He took the invitation without protest, sitting cross-legged in the grass. Aesya spread out the little square of cloth between them. As if the old woman had anticipated a meal for two, there was more than enough food between them, and a couple of bottles of Honningbrew, much to his delight. With apparent reluctance, Aesya picked at a piece of chicken breast, tearing off a thin sliver. He noticed that she always seemed to eat in a strangely dainty manner, slow and meticulous, with her head bowed low.
“Not a fan of Nord Cuisine?” he enquired conversationally.
She stopped chewing for a moment. “It’s very nice,” she said quietly. “I wish I could enjoy it more.”
“Why can’t you?”
He realized it was probably a stupid question, but she answered nonetheless.
“I’m unused to the richness,” she said. “I was reared on simpler foods, porridge and thin stews mostly.”
“Doesn’t sound very appetizing” he remarked.
She shrugged. “It wasn't,” she said. “We used to eat our meals in this big hall. The magisters would sit at the top on a sort of raised platform, overlooking all of us, with these big lavish feasts laid out on the tables in front of them. They’d barely eat half of it. All the scraps went to the hounds.”
Kaidan tore up a chunk of sweetbread, rolling the soft, still warm dough between his thumb and forefinger. He did not want her to see the glimpse of rising, morbid curiosity he was struggling to suppress.
“I was on kitchen duty once,” she continued. “Thought I was being clever, squirreling away a couple of pieces of pheasant before everything got tossed in the slop buckets going out to the yard. Didn’t even manage to get outside before they hauled me off to the dungeon.”
Her tone was eerily conversational, almost as if she were describing a normal, healthy childhood memory. He recalled the times with Brynjar when game was scarce and they were forced to settle for pheasant for a few weeks. He had complained, as he suspected many children would after eating the same thing for more than a week, wanting something more filling, more flavourful. Pheasant was dry and mealy, not something worth risking punishment for. Not to him.
“The magistrix came, with a plate full loaded with pork and beef, big rinds of fat on them and all. Those fancy cuts the masters usually ate” she said wistfully. She smiled, not the sweet smile he wished to see again, but the tired, detached sort that he had more commonly seen on the faces of veterans recounting their time in the Great War. “Soon as she put it down in front of me, I knew something was wrong. I could smell it, something tart and sour. She took the switch to my back until I ate every bite.”
“Poison” he said, his voice raspy and dry. He uncorked the bottle of mead and took a long sip.
She nodded. “Not enough to kill, but enough to have me vomiting for a few days.” She snorted, shaking her head. “Soup held more appeal after that.”
A shiver ran down his spine as he realized with sickening clarity that she must have been quite young when she endured such a harsh punishment, and it pained him to think of what else the Thalmor might have her through. He knew full well just how sadistic they could be, after all. He remembered Cyrelian, taunting him with his mother’s blade, sneering at his weak attempts to lash out as he was whipped and beaten. He remembered the humiliation, the fear, the pain. A couple of weeks had almost broken him. What did a decade do to her?
The sight of the poor state of her arm after her alchemical experiments had rattled him greatly. Aesya seemed unnervingly unconcerned about such things, despite how much care she put into healing even his minor wounds. Even when she scalded her hand, she did not so much as cry out. Like a wounded predator, she hid the pain and retreated, wild eyes warning that she was on the cusp of lashing out. The way her fingers trembled, so small yet solid beneath his own, as if she were holding back an overwhelming tide…
Somehow he knew, on some deep and primal level, that she had grown accustomed to the belief that an outstretched hand only promised pain. The very thought of that hit him with a powerful combination of emotions; sorrow for what she must have endured, and a roiling rage against the ones who had caused her such harm.
If she was so determined to throw herself into the path of vengeance, there was no way in hell he was going to let her do it alone.