Companions: Ria

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Notes: I'm going back through some old work and editing and revising it. I'll slowly be adding to this anthology as I complete updates. Feedback is always appreciated!

When they were little girls, Ria and Sabrin had dreamed of becoming warrior maids. Running through the streets of Skingrad with sticks for weapons, they'd always stopped before the doors of the Fighter's Guild and watched through the windows. The men and women inside had seemed impossibly brave and tall, their armor gleaming and faces hard-set.

Ria lived on one side of the lane and Sabrin on the other; their parents were both merchants, though Ria's father specialized in importing delicacies from other parts of the Empire and Sabrin's had a shop selling fine textiles. Each girl had a tutor and after their lessons, their tutors would allow them to spend some time together in one home's garden or the other while the older women drank tea and gossiped. It was during these hours that the girls would get into the most trouble, with one of the tutors sighing, "When your mother hears about this…" The tutors seemed to take turns saying this, and there was never a day where one of them failed to say it.

Though both were Imperial by birth, Sabrin was nearly as fair as Ria was dark. Her great-grandmother had been a Nord, and the blonde hair and blue eyes had passed down through the line; Sabrin's skin was pale and rosy and sprinkled with tan freckles; she stood nearly a head taller than Ria, though she was born at the end of Last Seed where Ria had been nearly walking by then.

Ria was dark, and small, and quick, with delicate bones and fine wrists. Sabrin always said that the older girl had eyes like an ember.

And so the girls learned sums and music and dancing - all appropriate things for young ladies who aspired to the upper class to learn – and meanwhile they dreamed of picking up swords and running off and having adventures. They'd grown up hearing stories of the Hero of Kvatch, of great deeds and sacrifice, and as children, these possibilities seemed so real, so exciting.

They didn't know yet what fear was.

"Someday," Sabrin told her as they hid under the giant leaves of a bush that grew at the back end of her garden, "We'll have armor that shines in the sunlight, and swords so sharp that they will cut through bone. We'll save whole towns from marauding orcs and rescue children held hostage."

Ria thought she'd take just about any armor that would stop a blade, whether it was dented or not.

It was shortly after Ria's tenth birthday the day they first heard about the Companions.

As usual, they'd escaped their tutors and were on their way to lurk in front of the Fighter's Guild to see if the windows might be open and they could hear some of the boasts the warriors would tell each other. Ria was getting old enough to tell that some of them might be tall tales, or at least embellishments, but Sabrin still loved them, and there was likely still some truth to the stories.

As they neared the gate, they saw three men and a woman enter the city; four Nords, tall enough to see over the Imperials lingering near the gate. All had fearsome painted designs on their faces, and two of the men wore queer-looking, heavy armor with fur lining. His skin glistened with sweat in the Imperial humidity. They were laughing as they headed for the West Weald Inn, even though they were exhausted and dusty from the road. She felt a longing in her stomach as she watched them adjust their weapons with practiced ease. The oldest man, the one with the braids, opened the door to the Inn and the foursome walked in.

Ria stopped Sabrin with a hand on her friend's arm and pointed to the two warriors. "Who do you think they are?"

"Probably Companions from Skyrim," Sabrin said, her voice a little dismissive. "I've heard about them in stories from my mother. She says one of my great-great grandfathers was in the Companions, but it sounds like they're little more than barbarians." She sniffed. "We better get going."

Ria allowed herself to be dragged down the street by her friend, but she kept looking back, wondering what stories the travelers might have.

She heard a few of them that very night.

Nearly frantic with yearning to know more, she'd waited until she knew her parents were settled by the fire, and pulled her dress back on. In the next room, she could hear the rise and fall of her tutor's quiet breathing. She held her slippers in her hands and snuck down the stairs.

Mother and Father were laughing quietly by the fire, each with a cup of wine in their hands; neither looked towards the door as Ria eased it quietly open and stepped outside. Slowly – so, so slowly – she shut the door behind herself and looked around.

She'd never been out alone after dark before – it wasn't "becoming," whatever that meant – and it was amazing to her how beautiful the city looked, all burning lamps and dark shadows. It felt dangerous to be out alone even though it couldn't be later than half past eight, and she felt a thrill in her step as she slid one slipper onto each foot.

She hadn't bothered to ask Sabrin on this trip, and it was the first time she'd avoided sharing something exciting as this with her best friend. But even though she thought of Sabrin as a sister, she kept hearing that derisive little sniff in her friend's voice, and wondered idly how Sabrin could think so little of such impressive warriors. For the first time, she wondered a little if she and her friend still shared the same goal.

Sneaking into the West Weald Inn was short work; despite her nerves and buckling knees, she walked through the front door as if she belonged there and headed upstairs. It was easy enough to hide behind the bannister at the top of the stairs and hear everything; at this hour, most all the patrons were downstairs drinking and eating. The inn was busy enough that no one noticed her.

The Companions were seated by the fire and - judging by the bottles on their table - had been there for quite some time. They were jolly with wine, and the younger blond man in the finely-wrought leather armor kept making toasts.

"To the orcs!" He'd toast. Or, later: "To the Imperials!" It sounded as if there was nothing he wouldn't drink to. She wondered what the orcs had done to deserve a toast.

Ria peered through the bars that held up the bannister and smiled. He seemed a merry sort.

The woman leaned against one of the men in the heavy armor, her dark auburn hair mingling with the shadows. He smiled then did something strange – he sniffed her hair, and then nuzzled the top of her head with his nose.

Somehow, these four Companions seemed more interesting, more vital than the members of the Fighter's Guild ever did. For a moment, Ria remembered Sabrin's comment about barbarians and wondered why her friend would make such a claim. But it was a brief thought, because the oldest man at the table was beginning to regale the woman and the blond man – who was looking very drunk indeed, after all his toasts – with a story involving some orcs.

"It must have been twenty orcs," the man was saying. His voice was rich, and his accent was the most musical thing Ria had ever heard. It reminded her of when she heard her tutor singing in the bath, but somehow was even better – the deepness of it resonated, and something about just the tenor of it made her listen more raptly. "Every one of them was angry and ready to kill us."

"Mayhap it was more like twenty-five," the younger man in heavy armor cut in. The woman smiled at him indulgently, and he smiled back at her, then leaned in and – quick as you can – kissed her on the forehead.

"Mayhap it was," the older man said. He paused again, took a drink from the cup before him. "And all were armed to the teeth. But we'd promised to clear the mine and had taken payment, and a Companion's word is his honor."

The blond man gave a laugh that was part snort. "I'm surprised you made it."

"Well, it's rare to win a fight worth having with no scars," the older man admitted. He pointed to the scar over his white eye, the angry red line that sliced through his brow. From here, Ria couldn't see what made it look so weird, but it looked different from the other eye. "They got me pretty good."

The blond man laughed. "I've seen worse, old man."

They all laughed at that.

Ria lingered, listening to their stories for the next couple hours. When they began to break up and leave for bed, she realized what time it was – long after midnight, and she had better sneak home before she was missed. Her parents would were impatient enough with her wild trips through the city – they would be furious if they found out she snuck out after dark.

As she made her way home that night, she stuck to the shadows and stepped into alleyways when she heard people coming. She missed three town guards and a young man that she thought must surely be a cutpurse from the catlike way he moved down the walk. And all the time, she kept hearing the older man's voice saying, "It's rare to win a fight worth having with no scars."

She snuck into the West Weald Inn the next three nights and listened to their stories. Sometimes the blond man told boastful tales that all seemed to end with a buxom wench in his bed; other times, the woman would talk of tracking prey through a forest. Sometimes the woman and the man in the heavy armor – Ria thought they must be lovers – would argue and when they scrapped, it was like two dogs fighting over a bit of meat. Their fights seemed to always end with a passionate run back to their shared room, earning them a frown from Erina over the bar.

It was the third night that it happened: as she was leaving the inn, the older man caught her. She felt his hand on her shoulder, firm but gentle, and she turned.

His face was lined with more wrinkles than she'd realized; this close she could see the shadow of a blue iris. A network of red lines formed a design on one cheek, but for all his fearsome qualities, the expression he gave her was kind, even warm. His smile seemed genuine, where so many in Skingrad were false.

"What brings you here, girl?"

Ria thought for a long moment. "The stories."

This brought a smile to the man's face. If it weren't for the scar and the face paint, he might have been her grandfather.

"Yes, the young ones do know how to tell a good tale," he sighed.

"I want to be a Companion," Ria blurted out. She hadn't actually considered it before that moment but as soon as the words were out, she realized that yes, this was exactly what she wanted.

"An Imperial Companion," the older man mused. "That would be something." He met her eyes again, and it unsettled her how the white eye moved. It seemed as if it could still see, but how?

"I am Kodlak," he said to her.

"Ria." She was not afraid.

He smiled again. "Come see me in six years' time, Ria, and we will talk about your future."

Ria became obsessed. She asked every minstrel she could find for a song or a story about the Companions, and eventually heard the one about Skjor and Kodlak – that was the one who'd told her to see him! – fighting off a horde of over a hundred orcs (ah, but she knew it was many times fewer!).

Sabrin quickly tired of Ria's constant pestering for stories of the Companions. "I don't know any stories about them," was her refrain.

But Ria kept on. By the year's end, she'd finally discovered that the Companions were based in a city called Whiterun, far to the northeast and over the border, in Skyrim.

She tried to find out everything she could about Skyrim, but most everyone she talked to had the same attitude of Sabrin, mumbling about barbarians and snow and how she'd be mad to care about Skyrim with the Imperial City right up the road.

A fire had been lit inside of her, one that burned brightly for frost-tipped spires and the mountain she'd heard of, called the Throat of the World.

This was the year that Sabrin discovered boys. Once crude beings that spat in the streets and made a variety of unappealing smells, suddenly boys were all she spoke of. She began to wear her hair down instead of the braid she'd always favored, and laughed at every ludicrous thing the boys said. When Ria wanted to head down to the Fighter's Guild to see if any of the members would teach her a move or two with a sword, her friend would laugh in that derisive way and say that she had better things to do.

It was during dinner one night that summer that Ria's mother first mentioned marriage. Her little sister, at the far end of the table, gave out a giggle.

"But I'm barely eleven!" Ria complained.

"It's never too early," Mother scolded. "Eat your pease."

With talk of marriage and Sabrin attempting to flirt with boys, Ria sometimes felt she was the only one staying still with everyone else changing around her.

She always spent her late afternoons at the Fighter's Guild now. She'd found an older woman willing to teach her how to use a small sword and shield. Though Ria had no money for her own gear, the woman – a Redguard named Isa – was happy to let the girl borrow hers. They'd drill for at least an hour and then, when Ria was warmed up, they'd spar.

Without fail, Isa would win. Ria was often left with bruises to hide and stories of tripping down stairs to concoct. One afternoon, Isa pulled Ria's long braid to gain the upper hand, tugging on it to pull the girl off balance and then disarming her before she could get her feet back under her.

"That wasn't fair," the girl cried from her back on the hard stone floor.

"Fair doesn't matter if you're dead." The Redguard's face was impassive beneath her turban. She held her wooden practice sword at Ria's throat for a moment longer, as if to make her point, then moved it to one side and helped the girl up.

But the point was made; the next day, Ria took a small knife and cut her hair to chin length. Her mother cried and locked her in her room for a couple days, but by week's end, Ria was back out with her friend, watching Sabrin try to flirt with the boys and wondering when she'd be able to get away to practice with Isa again.

Armor was the most difficult hurdle. Ria could think of no better way to get it than to sell something of value, but she didn't have much. She had some nice dresses, but nothing ornamental enough to afford a set of armor, and she had no jewelry to speak of. Sabrin was no help with ideas – by now her friend had gone off the idea of being a fighter entirely and, at fifteen, spent all her time planning her wedding to the son of another merchant, who specialized in fertilizer.

Imagine: married forever to a man who sold dung for a living. Ria thought she'd rather die.

But somehow, despite how distant they'd grown, it was Sabrin who gave her the idea. Not intentionally, of course, but one afternoon as the two girls sat in Sabrin's family's garden drinking tea – and when, exactly, had they become tea-drinkers? – Sabrin mentioned the number of young men who had sent her family gifts in an attempt at securing a betrothal.

"Naturally, we didn't keep them," Sabrin chattered. Ria looked at her friend, at her carefully styled blonde hair and the pearl-embroidered neckline of her gown, and wondered when exactly Sabrin had turned into the kind of girl they used to mock.

It was easy enough for Ria to find young men who were looking for marriage. She didn't aim nearly as high as Sabrin did, being content with those who would soon inherit shops selling dry goods or other wares. Those who worked in successful businesses were able to send enviable enough bride-gifts, and before long, a small pile had amassed in the entry way.

Ria didn't harbor any illusions that this had much to do with her, or her somewhat questionable charms. She knew what kind of connections her father had, and knew that most young merchants would be anxious to access them. It didn't matter; it was the value of the items she was after.

Early one morning, long before the sun came up, she climbed out of bed. She carefully pulled on some clothes she'd stolen from her younger brother: a tunic, pair of roughspun trousers, a heavy and unembellished cloak. She carried her rucksack and the boots under her arm. Downstairs, in the kitchen, she packed a loaf of bread, salt pork, some cheese, a flagon of water.

In the front hall, she took every last piece of jewelry and stuffed it in the bag; altogether, it should fetch a nice price. She hoped it would be enough to cover armor and a sword and passage to Whiterun; while she felt bad about the young men losing what they'd spent to woo her, she found that she felt less badly about it than expected. Perhaps they should have known it would be a waste; perhaps her parents should have known she would never marry some dull and reedy boy and live out her days in Skingrad.

Last of all, she left a note on the table in place of the necklaces and rings. It simply told her family thank you for their care over the years and not to worry about her.

She was off to become a legend.