Watching the pyre burn over the Skyforge, I honestly didn't know what to feel. It's not like Askar and I were close. I'd fetched him mead, sure, and he'd give me that slow, silent nod in the mornings. But that was about it.
So why did I feel this weird, hollow ache in my chest?
Maybe Kodlak's whole "the Companions are your family" speech was finally getting to me. Or maybe I'd just gotten so used to seeing the old man as part of the furniture—a permanent, grumpy feature of Jorrvaskr—that the place felt wrong without him.
Empty.
According to the stories Kodlak and Ulf told, Askar was a legend back in his day. Apparently, the Companions were on the verge of falling apart before he became Harbinger.
That's why there aren't that many of us now. Looking around the funeral, it was pretty obvious. It was just our inner circle: Kodlak, Eorlund, Ulf, us whelps, Fralia and her kids, and the Jarl himself. That was it.
But even with so few, Kodlak said Askar had a knack for finding the right people. He recruited warriors who were capable and, more importantly, honorable. He basically spent his life rebuilding our reputation from the ground up.
And I know from, well, knowing, that it works. Jorrvaskr is gonna be packed in a few years. The old man wasn't wrong.
We all stood in silence as Kodlak said the final words. His voice was steady, but you could hear the weight in it. Then they lit the pyre. The flames caught fast, roaring up toward the sky, swallowing the old Harbinger's remains.
After a few moments, Jarl Balgruuf stepped forward to pay his respects. It was the first time I got a proper look at him.
And yeah, it was weird. He looked… pretty much like he did in the game. A little younger, maybe. A lot bigger in person, the way everyone is.
But it was definitely him. The same face, the same bearing. Seeing him here, for real, just drove home how tangled up my life had become with this world.
...
The crackle of the sacred flames was the only sound for a long moment, until Jarl Balgruuf cleared his throat, the sound respectful but firm in the quiet.
"Kodlak," he began, his voice carrying the weight of his station without being overbearing. "If I may, I would offer a few words for the Harbinger."
Kodlak's brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of a frown. The Companions traditionally kept their rites to themselves. But after a brief pause, he gave a slow, solemn nod. The Jarl was paying a significant honor.
Balgruuf acknowledged the gesture with a nod of his own and turned to face the small assembly, his gaze sweeping over the pyre.
"To my misfortune," the Jarl started, his tone measured and sincere, "I did not know Harbinger Askar as well as I would have liked. Not personally. But my father, before me, spoke of him often, and always with the highest admiration."
He paused, letting the connection to the past settle in the air. "It was through his strength and his wisdom that the Companions held fast through lean years. They maintained their place, and in doing so, they have continued to be the shield of this hold, defending our people from bandits, beasts, and the dangers of the wild."
He shook his head slightly, a look of genuine respect on his face. "I fear no words of mine can truly do a life like his justice. So, I will let my actions speak."
He looked directly at Kodlak, his offer formal and public. "In three days' time, I will hold a banquet in Dragonsreach. It will be in honor of Askar, in honor of the Companions, and in honor of all who carry the legacy of Ysgramor."
Kodlak dipped his head. "The honor is appreciated, Jarl. Thank you." His voice was deep with gratitude, but also held a note of finality. "But for now, the Companions will withdraw to Jorrvaskr. We must mourn our loss privately."
"Of course," Balgruuf agreed without hesitation. "You have my condolences, and the condolences of all Whiterun."
With a final, respectful glance at the pyre, he turned and made his way down the steps, where his housecarl, Irileth, stood waiting for him, her red eyes watchful and her hand resting on the hilt of her sword.
As the Jarl departed, the somber spell seemed to break. The few others who had remained began to drift away, leaving only our core circle in the shadow of the Skyforge. Without a word, Kodlak turned and started the slow walk down to the mead hall.
The rest of us fell in behind him, a silent, grieving procession heading home.
...
A heavy silence had settled within Jorrvaskr's great mead hall, thick as fog and just as suffocating. The long table was laden with food and drink, a somber feast laid out by a grim-faced Tilma, but every plate and tankard remained untouched.
The Companions sat in a loose circle, each lost in their own thoughts.
Torin, in particular, stared blankly at the grain of the wooden table, his mind a thousand leagues away, wrestling with the strange, personal weight of a loss that shouldn't have felt so profound.
The silence was finally shattered by Ulf clearing his throat, a rough, deliberate sound. All eyes turned to the veteran hunter. His face was set in a grimace, as if the words he was about to speak were physically painful.
"Since no one else is going to say it, I will," Ulf began, his voice gravelly. "We need to elect a new Harbinger."
The statement landed like a physical blow. Every gaze in the room instantly swiveled to Kodlak, who was seated at the head of the table.
Kodlak met Ulf's gaze, his own eyes filled with a deep, reproachful sorrow. "The man's ashes haven't even cooled on the wind, Ulf, and you would speak of passing his mantle?"
Ulf sighed, the sound weary but resolute. "It's what he would have wanted, and you know it. A ship without a captain drifts. The Companions cannot function without a Harbinger."
He let the stark truth of his words hang in the air for a moment before pressing on. "I, for one, nominate Kodlak. Only he and I are eligible, with Jergen away at the war. The rest of you," he said, his gaze sweeping over Vilkas, Farkas, Aela, and Torin, "are still whelps."
Vilkas, ever pragmatic even in grief, was the first to break the tension. "All in favor of Kodlak taking the Harbinger's mantle, say 'aye'."
A chorus of "Aye" echoed around the table—from Vilkas, Farkas, Aela, and Ulf. Only Kodlak himself remained silent. He closed his eyes for a long moment, absorbing the weight of the responsibility being thrust upon him.
When he opened them, his expression was one of solemn acceptance.
"So be it," he said, his voice low and heavy.
A faint, relieved smile touched Ulf's lips. "Not much will change, old friend. You've been the Harbinger in all but name for years."
His smile then faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown. "And we couldn't very well go to Balgruuf's banquet without someone to represent us properly..." He trailed off, his brow furrowing. "Speaking of which, what do you make of that? The Jarl is not one for empty gestures. What do you think it's truly about?"
The question shifted the mood in the room, turning the raw grief into something more complex and wary: the sharp-edged speculation of warriors sensing a shift in the political winds.
Kodlak leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his fingers steepled. "You spend most of your time in the wilds, Ulf, so the news may not have reached you. But the word from the south is grim. The Empire is losing the war."
Ulf's eyes widened a fraction. "By Shor's bones... How? They had the largest legions in Tamriel."
"They are a shadow of what they were," Kodlak replied, his voice heavy. "Weakened by decades of turmoil, from the Oblivion Crisis to the Red Year. Rotted from within by strife and corruption." He tapped the table with a blunt finger for emphasis. "It is very likely, now, that the Empire will fall. And when it does, the Dominion will inevitably turn its gaze north. To High Rock. And to us."
A low growl rumbled in Ulf's chest. "So those Thalmor bastards might actually bring their golden armor to Skyrim? And you think Balgruuf's banquet is his way of securing our axes for the city's defense?"
Kodlak gave a slow, grim nod. "Aye. Balgruuf is no fool, and he has that sly Imperial, Proventus, whispering in his ear. They know our traditions, that we take no sides in the squabbles of Jarls or Emperors."
He paused, his gaze hardening. "But an invasion of Ysgramor's homeland by Elves? That is not politics. That is a desecration. We would not be able to stand by."
Ulf's expression was grim. "And? What would you have us do? We are two old men and a handful of whelps."
He gestured around the table at the young, untested faces. "It is a shameful truth, but the best we could offer is to help train the Jarl's troops. We are not the army we once were."
It was then that a young, clear voice cut through the heavy atmosphere.
"There's no need to worry about that. The Empire won't fall so easily..."
All eyes turned to Torin. The other whelps—Vilkas, Farkas, Aela—had long since zoned out of the political talk, but Torin had been listening with unnerving intensity.
Ulf and Kodlak turned to him with nearly identical expressions of bemusement, the gravity of the moment momentarily broken by the boy's audacity.
Kodlak raised a single, bushy eyebrow, his gaze pinning Torin in his seat. "And what," he asked, his tone a mixture of curiosity and sternness, "would you know of the fate of empires, boy?"
Torin met Kodlak's gaze without flinching, though he offered a nonchalant shrug, as if discussing the weather. "The Empire is stretched thinner than a drumskin, and the Thalmor took advantage of that. But Titus Mede is no fool. He's already consolidating his forces, pulling them back from the periphery to protect the heart."
He gestured toward the main gate of the city. "Ask any merchant passing through Whiterun. They'll tell you they've seen Imperial garrisons vacating holds in Skyrim and marching south. We just haven't noticed it here because Whiterun has always been light on Imperial troops."
Kodlak's frown deepened, his strategist's mind turning over the information. "Even if that's true, pulling a few battered legions back to Cyrodiil will barely even the odds against the full might of the Dominion."
"It wouldn't," Torin agreed readily. "But reinforcements from Hammerfell might."
This time, a skeptical grunt came from Ulf. Kodlak's expression was one of pure doubt. "Hammerfell? The Imperial forces there were shattered. The survivors were forced to retreat into the Alik'r with little food and less water. I know desert warfare. Their chances of survival, let alone mounting a counter-offensive, are slim."
"Maybe," Torin conceded, his tone infuriatingly calm. "Or maybe you're not giving the Redguards enough credit. They're fighting for their homeland on ground they know. Either way, the Thalmor have had victory after victory. They'll get overconfident. Greedy. And that, more than any legion, could be their downfall."
He leaned forward slightly, his young voice carrying a weight of conviction that belied his years. "The Empire has stood for a very long time. It shouldn't be underestimated just because it's bleeding."
Kodlak let out a long, weary sigh, the sound of a man balancing hope against harsh reality. "You make a compelling point, boy, and by Shor, I hope you're right. But hope is not a plan. We must prepare for the worst."
"Of course," Torin said, settling back. "I'm just saying we shouldn't prepare for a funeral just yet."
While Kodlak seemed to be considering the logic, Ulf was staring at Torin with a strange, intense look, his head tilted like a wolf examining a new scent.
"That's a lot of fancy talk about legions and strategy," he rumbled, his eyes narrowing. "How in Oblivion do you know all this, you little imp? You can barely reach the top shelf in the pantry."
Torin chuckled, a disarmingly casual sound in the tense room. "Reading books, mostly. And pestering every peddler and caravan driver in the market square with questions until they pay me to go away. You'd be surprised what people will tell a 'harmless, curious kid'."
Ulf turned to Kodlak, the grimness of their previous conversation melting from his face, replaced by a strange, amused glint in his eye. "Maybe we were a bit hasty in our choosing, old friend," he rumbled, a slow grin spreading across his weathered features.
He let out a short, sharp chuckle. "Maybe he should be Harbinger instead of you."
A genuine, if weary, grin broke through Kodlak's solemn expression. He leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard as if giving the idea serious consideration. "Perhaps you're right," he mused, his tone theatrically thoughtful. He then gestured toward Torin. "Come here, boy. Let me take a good look at you."
Torin remained firmly planted in his seat, his eyebrows twitching in a mixture of indignation and resignation. He knew this routine all too well. The moment the conversation shifted from grave matters to mocking him, the other whelps instantly perked up.
Vilkas, Farkas, and Aela, who had been lost in their own worlds moments before, were now watching with keen interest, already pointing and snickering.
Kodlak ignored their rising mirth, studying Torin with an exaggerated, critical eye. "Hmm. A little too short for my liking. Missing a few chest hairs, definitely. But clever enough, I suppose..." He nodded slowly, as if reaching a grand conclusion. "Yes. You'd make a fine Harbinger, boy. A bit short on stature, but long on tongue."
That was the final cue. The snickering from the other whelps erupted into full-blown, loud laughter. Aela let out a sharp, triumphant bark of a laugh, Farkas's deep guffaws echoed in the hall, and even Vilkas was shaking his head with a rare, broad smile.
Torin's shoulders slumped in utter defeat, the weight of their collective amusement pressing down on him. He let out a long-suffering sigh, the picture of a beleaguered scholar surrounded by barbarians.
"Yeah," he muttered, the word barely audible over the din. "No thanks."
....
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