Cycle of the Serpent

by AngelofAftermath

Summary:

Surviving the dragon attack at Helgen by the skin of their teeth, three elves find themselves tossed into the midst of ancient legends, a civil war, and a hell of a lot of problems. They may all have different reasons for being in Skyrim, but if they have any hope of reaching their destinations alive, it lies in learning to trust their strange new companions... no matter what.

 

Updates monthly.

Chapter 1: Unbound

 

  The violent pounding of Athenath's head reverberated like a fist to the door of a grand hall, silencing everything within. 

  Consciousness muddled and fleeting, the elf struggled to open his eyes. One, then the other, lazily raising their eyelids until the dark gave way to shapes, then to color and identifiable details. Morning, in some dim, clouded manner, danced against the mountainous skies as the Altmer caught the sounds of wagon wheels and horse shoes trotting against worn stone. He had no memory of meager gold changing hands. No memory of the wagon, or its driver. Just inky shapes where the past few hours should be, if even that long ago. 

  Early light prickled through the branches of the high conifer trees, mountains still blanketed by snow clinging to a winter long-passed. A slowly fading fog still clung to the air, humidity mingling with the chill and brushing through the fabric of their light tunic. They knew he should've dressed warmer. Bruma was not the kind of place to take lightly, but he'd been in such a rush that they'd headed into the mountains without tossing on much else than their usual traveling clothes. Remembering the cloak bundled up nice and neat in their pack, Athenath silently cursed his past self.

  He looked up, neck craning for anything identifiable above. Nothing but the clouds and the trees and the deepening blue sky. Finally, as if against their own better judgment or some nagging feeling not to, they looked at the man driving the cart. The back of an Imperial helmet raised their alarm, nerves digging at the back of their neck as they turned their gaze to the other people in the cart, finally taking the time to view these passengers in full, eyes darting around as their heart went from a steady rhythm to a hammering drum. And the way the other people in the cart slouched over, weary and unaware of the Altmer's presence, and the way they all sat with their hands at the knees...

  Looking down, he knew why. 

  Fear balled up like a fist in their throat. He made a strangled noise of surprise, struggling against the tightly-knotted leather around their slim wrists. The Nord across from them turned his gaze, his blue-and-silver armor gleaming in the now-heightening daylight, mussed blond hair catching the shocks of sun that pushed through the stubbornly thick trees. He offered them a weary smile, like he was trying to earn their trust the same way one did a stray animal, circles under his eyes dragging down his features, aging him by a decade or more. 

  "Hey, you. You're finally awake." He held up this ghost of a smile against his bedraggled features, like he was trying to comfort the Mer that continued to struggle against the binds. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush. Same as us, and that thief and those two over there." He jabbed his head in a small motion to the flighty-looking man next to him, whose gaze rarely rose from the splintered, wooden floor of the cart. Athenath looked to him, then turned their eyes to the right, to the stoic figure in dark finery whose mouth was bound as tight as a belligerent hounds. He did not struggle, but sat with slumped shoulders, brow set in a permanent glower.

  They looked then to the others in the cart. Beside the thief sat a Dunmer, his round, gold-rimmed glasses firm on his nose as though he'd enchanted them to remain there, no matter what skirmishes he may encounter. To his side, at the end of the cart's bench, sat someone Athenath couldn't define clearly. His dark, sage-green cowl obscured his ears, and his stature lent itself to him possibly being a Breton. He noticed Athenath, the pair locking dark eyes across the cart. He nudged the Dunmer next to him. The three exchanged looks.

  Something in Athenath's stomach told him that none of these three had done anything to wind up here, that something had gone very, very wrong for all three of them.

  Of course it had, they mentally chastised themself. No one means to get caught by guards or tossed into a prison cart, right? But this was different. Why? They couldn't say. But the man in dark finery, and the Nord in armor, they shared something in their eyes that told Athenath that not only did the pair know each other, but this was not a normal arrest, this was targeted. And what was that about an Imperial ambush?

  Athenath shifted his attention back to the arguing pair, the Nord and the thief. Something about Stormcloaks. They'd heard the word before, a fragment of fleeting conversation from the night they'd spent in Bruma before crossing over into...

  Skyrim. Gods, that's right, he'd been crossing into Skyrim this morning. The sun had barely even begun lifting its head over the horizon when they'd been on the road, eagerness chilling their fingers as they gripped a map that he wasn't entirely sure he was reading correctly, and the strangers that they fell in step with while attempting to ask for directions. And then a shooting pain, and then nothing, and then here.

  In binds.

  "Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

  "Ulfric?" The thief exclaimed, his gaze lurching to the man in finery. "The Jarl of Windhelm? But if you're here, then... Oh gods, where are they taking us?" His voice left in a quiver, face growing pale as the snow drifting off the mountain peaks.

  "I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits." Solemn, the Nord looked to the Imperial that drove the cart. The man in the cowl opened his mouth as though he were going to make some sort of remark, but as if the Dunmer next to him knew, he nudged the other with his elbow. Did they know each other? Athenath watched the two, puzzled, as the one in the dark cowl raised his head. He looked to the sky. Was he praying? Athenath couldn't tell, but saw him staring off into the distance, lips barely moving and no sound coming out. 

  "General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!"

  The thief hurried out the names of the Nord gods, ones barely familiar by their association to the Imperial pantheon. His own heart raced and battered against the cage of his sternum as his brow collected cold sweat. The Dunmer attempted to cast some sort of spell and cursing himself in words Athenath couldn't parse when it fizzled out against all the Mer's best efforts. The Imperial soldier continued to drive the cart with an ease that turned their stomach. He knew what lay ahead, and by the tune he was whistling, he was glad to take them there.

  "Look at him," Spat the Nord, "General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this." He raked a bound hand through his mussed, dark blond hair, his eyes not flicking over to the elves in the cart with him. Athenath lurched his eyes to the Thalmor soldiers that patrolled through the outpost, golden armor and black robes decorating their figures. Athenath watched them as the cart rolled by, searching their faces, each one that passed like a dream he struggled to remember. As they disappeared from view, Athenath looked to the other Mer in the cart, then to the Nord who was - if they wanted to put a name to what he was doing - currently aiding the atmosphere of despair with his nostalgia for the town they'd wound up in. Vilod and mead, or something, they didn't know. 

  "Why are they stopping?" The thief quavered.

  "Why do you think? End of the line," came the dour reply from the blue-and-silver clad Nord. The cart stopped and began to unload. Other carts trotted up to surround the tower, the sun bathing the scene in its embrace as blue-and-silver and red-and-brown armor corralled around the courtyard.

  "Step towards the block when we call your name, one at a time!" 

  At the call for Ulfric, there was muttering among the blue-clad prisoners. Honoring him, a pleasure to serve him, none of it met the blood rushing through the Altmer's ears as they still struggled against their binds, furiously now. Ragged breaths met his lungs, aching from the force of each. Their eyes flitted back and forth over the people, all soldiers, and then the other Mer, begging their goddess that something, anything could save them. He'd not lead a great life, sure, but this wasn't it. This wasn't how things were supposed to go, gods, they weren't even thirty yet-

  The man in the dark cowl placed one of his own bound hands against Athenath's, the Altmer meeting his gaze, their hands pausing. The other met their eyes, the Dunmer looking over as well, as the tallest of the three shook his head, the sound of metal beneath the cowl jingling against the air. 

  "No, I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"

  In his blind panic, the thief made a desperate sprint up the cobblestone pathways like a fleeing dog. The archers didn't take long, each arrow piercing a different part of his torso like a hot iron through fresh meat. Athenath swallowed down the bubble of a scream until all that came out was a barely-audible whimper. They didn't know what to do. They didn't know who to go to, if there was anyone to go to. Had Mara abandoned them? Had their goddess cast him aside, compassion forgotten? The feeling surged through their spine as the list-reader called out for the Dunmer.

  His irises were as white as snow, sclera dark as the foggy morning they'd ridden the cart through. He stepped up and cleared his throat, but this was not a brave act as he gave his name, the one he'd be buried under, here in the mountains of Skyrim. "Wyndrelis Femer," He spoke calmly, but with an accent Athenath couldn't recognize. It sounded vaguely like one they had heard on the borders of Morrowind and Cyrodiil in their travels, bringing to mind one small town in particular, but...

  "Next, you," the list-reader pointed his quill to the one in the dark cowl, who stepped up calmly, chin held high. 

  "Emeros Nightlock." 

  "Nightlock?" The list-reader repeated, jotting down the name. "Not many wood elves would choose to come alone to Skyrim."

  "Thrilling, I'll be sure to mention that next time I write home," he retorted, the bitter tinge of his voice leaving Athenath with more questions. He sounded straight from the gleaming shores of Alinor, a place Athenath had never seen, themself.

  And now they'd never get to.

  "I said, your name?" The list-reader quickened his words, harsh against the edges of Athenath's mind. They turned their attention to him, trying to suppress the wide-eyed horror that threatened to spill over into pleas for freedom. 

  "Athenath Aelsinore," they pushed their name through shaking lips, enunciating, then looking to the two other elves they stood beside. The soldier paused, and after writing every name down, turned to the Captain.

  "Captain, what do we do? None of these three are on the list."

  The Captain waved her hand in a wide motion. "Forget the list. They were with the Stormcloaks, right? Then they all go to the block."

  The list-reader turned his attention back to the three Mer, apprehension in his voice as he spoke. "By your orders, Captain." He looked each of them up-and-down, as though the last vestiges of a conscience scrambled to explain why he was sending them to death. "I'm... Sorry. We'll make sure that each of your remains are sent to your homelands." 

  Athenath and Wyndrelis both opened their mouths to speak, but Emeros clearing his throat silenced the pair. The Altmer looked up at him, but only saw the calm of his gaze, the steadiness with which he stepped into line. Wyndrelis, as though resigned to it all, followed behind without a hint of an expression. Athenath inhaled slowly, and murmured again to their patron, begging Mara for a way out of this. They ignored the disdain in the faces of the Stormcloak soldiers, whose eyes latched to the Mer. In their head, they swore he heard the thoughts of the Stormcloaks. Grow up, be strong, die with honor.

  "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne." Muffled protests. The General went on, "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace."

  Unfamiliar noise rang out across the mountains. The sun obfuscated his vision, but Athenath still looked up into the clouds. They swore, momentarily, that something had swept along the high peaks beyond the outpost, ducking beneath the jagged ridges before it could be caught.

  "What was that?" The soldier clutching the list spoke.

  "It's nothing, carry on."

  A priestess of Arkay stepped forward. As she gave the last rites in a steady, half-bored voice, Athenath wondered if this was her first execution this week, or even the last. His breaths grew ragged and panicked, struggling hard against the leather bindings, fingers attempting to find any weak spot, unable to reach the knot that barred them from freedom. He looked to the Bosmer, his hair, his shoulders, then to the Dunmer just before them, whose own shoulders slumped in defeat. 

  The axe swung true. 

  "Next, Ralof!" 

  As Ralof was pulled forward by guards, the shrill noise rang out again, clear as the Anvil chapel bells. Athenath darted their gaze to the sky, a large, dark shape disappearing just when they'd get a good look at it. At first, it swept distantly, riding the winds, before it rose high above the town. The beast, dark as night, spilling shadow over everything it crested with it's massive wingspan, pulled the wind aside and into it's maw. 

  "What in Oblivion is that?" General Tullius cried out. The sky went black as the thing spread its wings.

  "It's in the clouds!"

  The enormity of the creature was beyond belief enough for the Altmer that he almost didn't think that what they were witnessing was real, but as it landed on the tower with a horror both surreal and divine, the world shuddered. 

  Then, the world screamed.

  A blast of something like thunder bounded from its jaw, splitting the headsman's body open like a vivisection gone terribly wrong. Then, it turned it's attention on the land below, and with what sounded like words, it scorched the earth. Athenath didn't look up. He didn't even remember doing it, but found themself with their back pressed to the stone of the tower the beast perched atop. Maybe it couldn't get him if they hid here? Like when they couldn't see someone hiding unless they looked directly down off the roof of a house? Their throat burned, was it from the heat as fires erupted and spread from the creatures mouth, or was it from screaming? 

  Emeros had darted behind the cart the three had been captives in, ducking below as he used a dead soldier's axe to drag his bindings across, trying to cut himself free while cursing loudly, brow lowered in an anger that only came about through intense fear. Athenath watched the tiniest glimpses of his figure as the creature swept over the town, circling like a hawk to a mouse. 

  Wyndrelis' back pressed tight to the post of one of the houses, watching the creature through small duckings in and out of his hiding, eyes wide as Secunda in full bloom, his terror so deep he dared not breathe. 

  "Hey, you three! Come on, the gods won't give us another chance, this way!" Ralof called, making wide windmill motions with his arm as he sprinted to another tower. The three Mer locked eyes. One to another to the last. They had no other options.

  The tower was already being flanked by the beast, who rose higher into the heavens. Kynareth herself pushing the three through the courtyard as they sprinted into the stone building, taking little time to assess the situation outside. Ulfric had managed to get his gag off and cut himself loose, soldiers in blue-and-silver flocking to him, desperate for instruction, or better, for explanation. 

  "Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?" A soldier asked in ragged breaths, trying to hide how terribly burnt his left arm was. 

  "Legends don't burn down villages." Ulfric looked to Ralof, who returned the gaze with a grin. "We need to move, now."

  Ralof looked to the three elves, urgency in his voice as he gestured up the stairs. "We can't allow it to find us. This way!" 

  Before any of them could process his instructions, Ralof rushed up the stairs. Athenath tried not to focus on the screaming outside. Besides, all they could hear was their heart and the pounding in their head. Still alive.

  Emeros was the first of the three to bound up the stairs after Ralof. Athenath followed quickly after, Wyndrelis right behind them, using the stone wall for support as he attempted to balance his run while his hands were still bound. As they sprinted up the stairs, Wyndrelis stumbled, Athenath turning back to see him crouched on the stone, attempting to shove himself up. 

  Emeros grabbed both their wrists by the leather bindings, pulling both up to the stone landing just as the wall collapsed, a massive, red eye peering in. He threw the three of them to the ground, fire cascading over their heads, the winged beast turning to continue its massacre on the town below. The moment the Bosmer thought the coast was clear, he pulled the other two up as he rose, Ralof gesturing through the hole. 

  "See that inn on the other side? Jump through the roof and keep going! Go, we'll follow you when we can!" Ralof instructed before sprinting off, answering some unheard call. Emeros looked between the pair, then to the remains of what used to be an inn, apparently. The three looked at the broken-down frame of it, a child's toy crashed into by an older sibling from this view, wooden beams blackened and teeming with fire, threatening to collapse if they hesitated any longer.

  "You heard the man." Emeros grit his teeth as he peered down at the burning structure on the ground. He waited only long enough to catch his breath, take a few steps back, and run forward, jumping through and landing with a thud. Wyndrelis looked to Athenath, then to Emeros, who waved frantically for the other two with his still-bound hands. It would've been almost comical if not for the screech of the monster in the distance, getting ever-closer, coming back for more. Wyndrelis dashed towards the burning inn and landed beside Emeros, the Bosmer helping him up. 

  Then, there was Athenath, teetering on the precipice with the cold sweat running down the back of their neck, clinging to their dark curls, their throat tightening by the moment. 

  "Just jump!" Shouted Emeros, the other's terror-wild eyes trying to deny the moment was even happening as the Bosmer continued to shout. "You either die to that- that thing, or you have a chance to leave this place!" 

  Athenath was out of time. The beast swept along the mountains, circling the town like a starving vulture over a feast of fresh meat. No decisions left to make, it was this or die. They stepped back and sprinted like he'd watched the other two do, jumping through, landing with a hard thud, but nothing broken, nothing too bruised. Wyndrelis looked to the other two.

  "Where do we-" 

  "Down here," Emeros rushed to the stairs leading down into the lower floor of the inn, "come on, we need to keep moving or we're dead!" 

  The pair knew they had no choice but to follow, feet carrying them down the stairs after him. The inn crackled, threatening to crumble above them, beams jagged and broken, support beginning to splinter under the weight of the world. The three rushed out the back, survival instinct carrying the three Mer until they found another figure, recognizable among the carnage. 

  The list-reader, covered in ash and red-faced, did everything in his power to get the civilians to safety among the wailing, panicked voices surrounding them in a chorus of hell. He turned to a man just as the shadow blotted out the sky once more. "Gods... everyone get back!"

  He did his best to shield a young boy with his body as the fire came down, scorching the land as the creature ducked again into the mountains. Athenath swallowed the taste of bile and clutched the amulet beneath their tunic as the stench of burning flesh reeled through his senses, bodies strewn about the street, some burned to points beyond recognition, some split open through some otherworldly force, still others merely scattered parts from getting caught in the beasts jaws and tossed out like broken toys. 

  The list-reader moved, shoving the child into the arms of another soldier who promised in shaking words to keep him safe. He knew the kids name. Gods damn it, these people knew each other, the Altmer thought as he looked to the list-reader, who was now examining the three. 

  "Still alive, prisoners?" He caught all three's attentions, the elves meeting his gaze. "Keep close to me if you want to stay that way. Gunnar, take care of the boy, I have to find General Tullius and join the defense."

  "Gods guide you, Hadvar," Gunnar spoke gravely as he took the boy into his care, rushing to another part of the town as yet another building began to shake, stones and wooden framework ignited. Hadvar gestured widely for the three to follow, and out of options, they did. 

  Hadvar lead them through the town in a mad-dash, Emeros looking back every few moments, ensuring the other two ran after him. He turned his eyes forward just as Hadvar yelled for them to get down, the four pinning their backs to what remained of a stone wall as the beast soared low overhead, the acrid stench of smoke getting more and more nauseating. The moment the beast fled away from them, Hadvar took the helm again, rushing after the familiar, grey-haired figure, who looked his direction only momentarily.

  "Hadvar! Into the keep, soldier, we're leaving," General Tullius announced quickly as he gathered the soldiers and began a retreat, word carrying from mouth to mouth of the new orders. Hadvar shouted something back before sprinting another direction, the courtyard spilling with soldiers in different armors, all trying to escape this cruel end. Hadvar turned to face someone, but stopped in his tracks, drawing his sword.

  Ralof did the same, the pair facing each other. Time around them stopped. The fires didn't matter. The beast didn't matter. They eyed each other with exhaustion and anger and fear, all mingling into something sour and palpable. 

  The two stood in the courtyard of what was once an Imperial outpost, Hadvar in Legate red, Ralof in his Stormcloak blues, ash and soot and injuries coating them both. "Ralof! You damned traitor, out of my way!" He barked.

  "We're escaping, Hadvar. You're not stopping us this time." 

  "Fine. I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde," Hadvar snapped in return, something carried in both their voices that Athenath couldn't decipher. It didn't matter. He followed Hadvar with the other elves, the keep door slamming open, inhaling the four figures and shutting tight behind them. 

  Hadvar bolted the large door, sweat pouring down his face and streaking the soot on his cheeks from the fires around the town. He mumbled something to himself, the echoes of the outside world muffled in here, but still evident. 

  "Looks like we're the only ones who made it," he remarked as easily as noting the time they'd arrive to some grand city far away by some even grander passage. Athenath pressed their spine to the warm stone wall as Hadvar mused to himself, something about dragons, but they couldn't be sure. The dark of the room mixed with the dark of their vision. He swallowed his breaths, trying to get their pulse under control. 

  The flames flickering among torches seemed to mock the group. Rows of beds and chests sprawled through the stone room, armor scattered about haphazardly. Some pieces were in several states of cleaning, rags and bottles set about. Athenath wondered if the owners of these sets would ever come back. 

  Wyndrelis snatched one of the rags and, in an awkward motion, tried to clean his glasses while his hands were still bound. He managed well enough, turning them in strange positions until the lenses were clear, pushing them back up his nose. 

  "What's this about a dragon?" Emeros asked, the barely-disguised agitation pushing up against every word. His patience with Hadvar was wearing thin, as though the soldier bore the entire responsibility for the day's events on his own shoulders.

  "The bringer of the end times," He tried to explain, but the Bosmer only looked more confused. "Nord legends, it's said that at the end of the world... This isn't the time, we need to keep moving. Come here, let me see your bindings." 

  Emeros took this second to shake his cowl off his head, the heat of the fires bringing a ruddy flush to his cheeks, presenting his still-bound wrists to Hadvar. The marks from the axe had dug into the leather, but did little more than that. Wyndrelis, whose gaze had gone far away in the few moments he'd been standing in silence, only seemed to return to the room around him when Hadvar spoke. He presented his wrists and flinched as the soldier dug a blade through one strap of leather, then another, slowly pulling the strips away as he had just done for Emeros. The Dunmer turned to Athenath, while Emeros began to rifle through chests and wardrobes.

  "You, too. Come on." 

  They stumbled to their feet, nodding and shambling forward. He squeezed his eyes tight as they held out his wrists, the tugging and snapping of leather filling the air until his flesh tasted freedom. 

  "There you go." The Altmer opened their eyes once more, and rubbed at the sore skin as Hadvar spoke. "Take a look around, there should be plenty of gear to choose from. I'm going to see if I can find something for these burns." He rummaged through chests and cupboards with more familiarity than the Bosmer had, the three searching the dark.

  "Hadvar, would there be a place where prisoner's belongings may be kept?" Emeros asked, watching the soldier grab a container from one of the wardrobes, opening it and rubbing the contents on his arms. At the question, he perked up, then tucked his chin to his neck, grimacing.

  "The, um, interrogation chamber."

  "I think we all know what that means." Emeros stated plainly, words somehow signaling to Hadvar that he didn't need to tell them any more. The soldier obliged, and instead continued to work the salve against his wounds. 

  "We should look for weapons. Who knows what's lurking in the rest of this place." Wyndrelis managed to subdue most of the tremor in his voice, but the slightest note of it snuck through as he suggested the idea. 

  It didn't take long at all to find some armor to toss on top of their clothes, and bows, arrows, swords, and daggers to arm themselves with. Emeros snagged a bow, some arrows, and a sword, giving it a close examination before sheathing it at his side. Athenath grabbed a sword as well. This was one of the only weapons he could reliably wield, and in this situation, gods knew they needed some familiarity. Wyndrelis, following suit, found himself a sword, and after digging around in another chest, swept a mace from the depths of some likely-dead Imperial's belongings. 

---

  The fights through the keep were tiresome on top of a horrifically exhausting day. Hadvar lead them through the interrogation chamber, but stopped at the far end of the room once the Stormcloak soldiers had been dealt with. 

  "This would be where prisoner's belongings get kept. I can't guarantee any of your belongings wound up in here, but-"

  "Do you have the keys?" Athenath hurried to the soldier's side, words tumbling over one another.

  "I think they're around here somewhere-"

  Athenath moved to the chest, bashing the hilt of their sword against the lock, swearing quietly until they figured it broke enough that he could open it. It didn't work. They snatched the sword of a dead Stormcloak from the ground - no use in breaking their own - and shoved it into the small opening between the lid and the chest, forcing it to open. They set the sword aside and pushed the lid up, face brightening for the first time all day.

  He reached within and tugged their arms out, holding the deep, garnet-red knapsack to their chest, chirping, "yes! It's okay, it's still okay- is it?" They opened the knapsack, pushed a hand around inside, and visibly relaxed, "It is! It's still okay, holy shit-" 

  "Careful," Emeros chastised them sharply, "you could have broken something! One of my things, in fact, if you bloody well care." He pulled his own knapsack from the chest and examined the contents, bottles and items clinking and clanging about. Finding all was well, he reached for an ornate hunting dagger tucked neatly within, seeming relieved it was still there. He donned his pack slowly, cautiously, as though the bottles inside might burst if he moved them too much. "You're very lucky you didn't spill one of my experiments, or out there wouldn't be the only place going up in flames." 

  "Experiments?" Athenath repeated as Wyndrelis grabbed his own bag, a deep, greyish blue knapsack with small golden stars embroidered along the lip in the shape of a constellation that Athenath couldn't make out. He peered around the bottom of the chest, scrutinizing it's wooden surface. The scrunch of his face and knit of his brow told Athenath that something was missing. 

  None of them had time to think about it. Hadvar warned them that more Stormcloaks were coming, and if they didn't leave now, they'd be in another fight in just a few moments. 

---

  "This looks like the way out! I was starting to wonder if we'd ever make it," Hadvar breathlessly admitted as the sprinted towards the hole in the cave, the light almost blinding the four after the murky darkness of the cave they'd wound up in below Helgen. Hadvar exited first, then assisted Emeros through the tight space, Wyndrelis, then Athenath. It was just large enough that all of them could get through without much issue beyond a couple snagged threads of their tunics and some hair mussed. 

  When Athenath finally rose to his feet, they took in the sight before them. The sky, impossibly bright and blue beyond the crack. The world, still turning. Gods, it was overwhelming. He wanted to cry. To curl up in a ball on the ground and sleep off the entire day, sleep away a week. 

  That thought extinguished itself as Hadvar motioned for all of them to hide in the shade of a stone, the dragon flying low overhead, barely missing sight of the four by moments. It glided off into the distance, letting out a bellowing roar that none of the four would soon forget as it went from being a shape so large it blacked out the sky, to nothing but a tremoring dot, to gone. 

  "Looks like he's gone for good this time, but I don't think we should stick around to see if he comes back," Hadvar cautioned, rising to his feet. He dusted off his knees, his shoulders, dirt clinging to his clothing. 

  "Where's the nearest town? Where are we, even?" Emeros pulled his fingers through his chestnut-brown hair, trying to comb it out quickly, his earrings making the smallest, metallic sounds as he leaned and tilted his head. 

  "Riverwood. My uncle's the blacksmith there, I'm sure he could help you out." He hesitated, before speaking again, "listen, you should go to Solitude and join up with the Imperial Legion. We could really use people like you. And if the rebels have themselves a dragon, General Tullius is the only one who can stop-"

  "You place quite a lot of confidence in this General Tullius," Emeros interrupted, arms folded over his chest, his dark eyes leering at Hadvar. "Either way, does it look as though any of us have a map on hand? You'd best lead us there. You can introduce us to your uncle in person." 

  Hadvar considered his words carefully for a moment, coughing as though his lungs protested the clean air. "Perhaps you're right. Well, then, we need to be going."

  The road wound itself down from the perch Helgen must have once sat on. Even this far into summer, the jagged rocks and shrubbery still sat powdered in snow like the sweets Athenath vaguely remembered from their childhood. Further down, grasses sprung up in brilliant green hues, and as the four marched their way far from the smoldering fortress, the greenery only multiplied. Logs toppled over decades ago scuttled with insects, distant deer hooves trotted along the mountainside, and the rush of a large river spread through the air. Birds swarmed the highest trees, or poked at the bark of the conifers, or flew along the ridges of the mountain now that the sky above this road was theirs again to claim.

  "See that ruin up there?" Hadvar pointed across the road to a gigantic, sprawling structure, coated in thick snow. "Bleak Falls Barrow. When I was a boy, that place always used to give me nightmares. Draugr creeping down the mountain to climb through my window at night, that kind of thing. I admit, I still don't much like the look of it." He gave an exaggerated shudder as though even the sight of it chilled him to the bones. 

  Athenath stared at the enormous, sprawling ruins atop a mountain. All the while, Wyndrelis walked behind the group, digging through his pack and muttering to himself. The Dunmer had dressed for cold weather, appearing prepared to rush north of this place, and now found himself stuck here. His dark, grey-blue tunic was topped with a darker blue cape, the gold moon-crescent fastens of which glittered in the southern Skyrim sun, the summers-end heat and his fur-lined boots a mismatch for one another. He seemed to now be searching for something on his person, moving hands over his leather belt, dyed the same color as his cape. 

  "Hadvar-"

  "These are the Guardian Stones, three of the thirteen ancient standing stones that dot Skyrim's landscape. Go ahead, take a look."

  "Hadvar," the Dunmer enunciated harshly, the Nord turning to face him, "have you perhaps seen a book lying about somewhere? It would be attached to a belt, it should have been in the evidence chest, but..." He trailed off.

  "I don't think so," each word came out slowly, "but I'll keep an eye out, I don't think a book could have gone far." He tried to make the joke, but Wyndrelis remained as grave-faced as before. He turned to the other two, who shrugged their shoulders. None of them would have it. Athenath certainly didn't. The Dunmer tried to appear as though it weren't too important, even as worry etched the corners of his features.

  The three stepped up to the stones. Athenath didn't care for the strange structures, the floor of which was covered in vines and forest detritis, but the view... 

  He gazed out at the water, the glittering surface, the distant mountains, the endless horizon. Tiny, barely-islands dotted parts of the river, a tree or two stubbornly making its perch on the outcroppings. Rocks split up the grasses between them, and further out, the mountains sprawled wide and free. 

  They looked to Hadvar, who stared at the three expectantly, and shrugged. 

  "These stones are very nice," Emeros started, examining the one engraved with a Nord warrior carrying a battle axe and shield on its aged surface, "but I'm not sure what we're supposed to... Do, exactly."

  "If you touch them, they're said to bless you with whatever powers each stone possesses. I'm not sure I believe it myself," he chuckled, managing a toothy smile, "but that's what I was told growing up, anyways. The mage stone sure never turned me into much of a wizard, as you can tell," he gestured to himself, his sense of humor fumbling its way to the surface. 

  Athenath looked to the stone they stood before, the engraving of a shadowy figure crouched low catching his eye. They ran their fingers over it. He didn't know what to expect, or to expect anything at all, but the fact nothing happened when his fingers made contact with its surface dragged an unexpected pout down their lips.

  He turned, watching as the other two rested their own palms to the stones. Wyndrelis had made a staunch march to the one engraved with a mage in fine robes, and Emeros reluctantly pressed his palm to the one with the warrior. Maybe because it was the only one left. Maybe because he wanted to. Athenath couldn't tell. Hadvar looked to be silently gauging their selections, but he couldn't read the Nord's face either. Everything tumbled together, the day splitting in two, the morning and the present moment like entirely separate islands, or differing landmasses split by the river they followed. 

  Once Hadvar seemed satisfied, the three followed him down the further sloping path that was perfectly designed to sprain any unprepared ankles. It followed the natural curves of the mountain, a blessing and a curse. They walked a few paces in silence, the thick trees and the chirping birds returning some level of comfort to the group. 

  "Listen," the soldier began, "as far as I'm concerned, you've already earned your pardon. But until we get that confirmed by General Tullius, just stay clear of other Imperial soldiers and avoid any complications, alright?" A moment's pause, a small smile meeting his features, "anyways, we're almost to Riverwood. I'll introduce you three." 

  Athenath didn't know whether to believe him or not until a worn, stone gate came into focus, the arch sprawling over the wide pathway that lead through the town. If the elf was seeing things right, then this path was a straight shot through, as they could see the figure of an identical gate at the other end of the town. Hadvar moved swiftly, boyish excitement of the sight of his hometown mismatched with the deadened eyes and injured figure he bore. The three followed behind him with caution, each of their own reasons for being in Skyrim plunging into the background of the day's events. 

  Wooden houses spilled along the side of the river which undoubtedly gave this town it's name. Athenath examined the soldier more clearly now in the calm, his features sturdy, his lip still bearing a small tremble from the stress of the day's events. They wondered if he understood the strangeness of this moment, escorting three elves through the wilderness and into this small town right after sending them to their deaths. They wondered if he'd ever feel anything about it. Guilt, or something. 

  Hadvar waved to an older man, blond hair milled with grey, beard kept neat but beaded with sweat from the day's work at the forge. The barrel-chested man caught Hadvar's voice, and turned from where he'd been seated for a small break, rushing to the edge of the porch.

  "Hadvar? What are you doing here? Are you... Shor's bones, what happened to you, boy? Are you in some kind of trouble?" He shoved the words through as he stepped closer to the group, examining his nephews exhausted features, the soot still staining his body and his clothes, marks here and there on his face. He was in worse condition than Athenath had previously thought, and looking at their other companions, it seemed they noticed the same thing.

  "Shh, uncle. Keep your voice down. I'm fine, but we should go inside to talk," Hadvar cautioned as Alvor's gaze turned to the Mer. The older man seemed to realize something the elves did not, and gestured quickly.

  "Hadvar, explain to me what's going on-"

  "I will," Hadvar breathed, looking between the three, then his uncle, "these are friends of mine, and I promise you, I will explain everything inside."  

  "Okay, okay," Alvor relented, pulling open the door. He called something into the small house, and another voice replied, but none of it managed to catch Athenath's ears. He gave curious looks to the three Mer as he welcomed them into his home, but none of them carried disdain. Rather, it seemed he was trying to process the sight before him, the elves and the soldier, all stained with ash and covered in bruises. 

  The simple home was more than enough for Athenath's shoulders to drop from the tension he'd not realized they'd been holding them to, a dull ache pinching at the muscles around their upper spine. They inhaled the scent of something cooking in the hearth, closing their eyes to let it fully fill their senses. People were speaking, but they didn't want to hear it yet, finding a chair and sitting down and listening as Hadvar and Alvor spoke to one another. Emeros took a seat, Wyndrelis following suit, all crowding the small family table with not enough space for more than a handful of guests.

  "Now then, boy," Alvor leaned forward on his large, sturdy arms, speaking lower to his nephew, "what are you doing, looking like you lost a fight with a cave bear?"

  Hadvar managed a laugh, and the smaller laugh of a young girl jabbed Athenath's attention. He looked to the figure on the bed, playing with a cloth doll, her own eyes looking quickly from Hadvar to her toy like she was afraid of being caught eavesdropping. Hard not to, in this small house. 

  "Uncle, I know you may not believe me at first, but... I don't know where to start. I was- I was assigned to General Tullius' guard," Hadvar gingerly wrapped his fingers around a glass as his aunt, Sigrid, brought over a silver pitcher of water. She poured a glass and sat down at the table herself, taking the final chair.

  "You wrote to us about this," Sigrid commented, "you said there was something important that General Tullius was planning, but you couldn't tell us the details. Do these... Elves have anything to do with it?" She asked, arching a brow as she looked around the table. 

  Athenath shrunk back into their chair awkwardly. Hadvar laughed, waving the question away.

  "No, auntie, but these three have done a great favor. They saved my life when Helgen was attacked-"

  "Attacked?" Exclaimed Alvor, gripping the arms of his chair. "Those damned Stormcloaks-"

  "Those damned Stormcloaks," the girl repeated to her doll with a giggle. Sigrid shot her a look, but the girl didn't notice, continuing on with her eavesdropping as she played on the nearby bed. 

  "It wasn't the Stormcloaks this time."

  "It wasn't?" The girl piped up, her doll drooping in her hands as she gave her cousin a ruffled brow and a confused downturn of her lip. 

  "Not this time, no. This time, Helgen was attacked by a dragon." 

  Alvor's eyes shot wide open, watching Hadvar as the soldier sipped from the glass when his tense shoulders told everyone he wanted to chug it and the full pitcher, too. His uncle leaned back. "A dragon? That's... ridiculous. You aren't drunk, are you, boy?" He quirked his brow at his nephew, who waved his hand.

  "No, uncle, I swear to you. These three could tell you, too!" 

  Alvor turned his attention to the strange elves, all appearing to be shouldering their own levels of confusion and weariness of the day's events. "Is this true? Did you four really see a dragon?" 

  "I believe so, yes," Emeros replied calmly, "it certainly looked like the legends I've heard, though I'd never think they still existed. Didn't dragons die out in the Merethic era?" 

  "Does it matter?" Wyndrelis massaged his temples. He didn't appear annoyed, his voice was level, but the words still came out harshly against his teeth. A silence fell over the table, disrupted momentarily by Sigrid rising, grabbing some wooden bowls and spoons, and beginning to slowly fill the bowls from the pot over the fire. 

  "I guess dragons didn't die out if we saw one," Athenath finally added, "but I think that'd be the best way to describe it. Sure sounds like the other people there thought it was."

  "This dragon flew over and just wrecked the whole place. Mass confusion. I don't know if anyone else got out alive. I doubt I'd have made it out if not for my friends here." Hadvar gestured to the three with a small motion of his palm, before gingerly taking a warm bowl from Sigrid's offering hands, thanking her in a quiet voice as he turned back to his uncle. "All I know is that I need to get back to Solitude. I need to tell them what happened, and let General Tullius know I got out. For now, though, I thought you could help us out. Food, supplies, a place to stay." 

  Just before Athenath and Emeros could try to protest, Wyndrelis motioned his hand, lowering it down slow in the air. They bit their tongues.

  "Any friends of Hadvar's are friends of mine, but we need something of you in return," Alvor leaned closer on his elbows, gaze darting between each of the faces at the table. The last of the bowls set on the table, and Sigrid rejoined the group, giving her husband a curious look. "I need your help, we need your help, not just us, but Riverwood. The Jarl needs to know there's a dragon on the loose. Riverwood is defenseless... We need to get word to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever soldiers he can. If you'll do that for me, I'll be in your debt."

  After far much longer being silent than she could take, the girl piped up again, excitement sprawling over her face. "Hadvar, did you really see a dragon? What did it look like? Did it have big teeth?" Her questions bounced forth.

  "Hush, Dorthe. Don't pester your cousin." Sigrid turned back to the group, looking to her nephew, subduing her still-apparent disbelief. 

  As the six at the table ate, visible relaxation settled on the trio's shoulders. A good, warm stew can do that, it seemed, with the taste of smooth meat and leeks melting off much of the tension that had accumulated between the former prisoners. The sounds of wind outside, quiet and tempered, the late-summer air, the chance for calm. The chance to process what had happened.

  Alvor finally broke the silence, rising from the table and stretching his back. "Well, I better get back to work. You all can make yourselves at home." He finished the last bite of stew and placed the bowl in a basin seated near the hearth, giving Sigrid a kiss on the cheek and his daughter a ruffle of her hair before heading back outside, the sunlight no longer feeling so harsh. 

  "It's nice to be back in a friendly spot, huh?" Hadvar chuckled and took the cloth Sigrid had laid next to his place at the table, pouring some water from the pitcher onto it and gently wiping at the ash still staining his face and arms. "Listen, I'm going to lay up here for awhile. I recommend heading to Whiterun, just down the road from here. From there you can take a carriage to Solitude."

  "If not by carriage, then how do we get to Whiterun?" Wyndrelis asked, pushing his glasses further up his nose. Aside from his eyes, there was nothing too out of place about him. His glasses were thin lenses in full circles, cupped by small gold rims. As with all Dunmer, his ears were level with his eyes, pointing straight back with the slightest tilt upwards. 

  "Just head north on the road out of town. You can't miss it, just follow the road leading to Dragonsreach," Hadvar replied lightly, before continuing, "Whiterun is the biggest and best of all nine holds in Skyrim, but see for yourself." 

  "And just who were those other prisoners, exactly?" Emeros questioned this time, unwrapping his cowl and tugging it from his shoulders, bundling it up and placing it in his knapsack. In the stillness of the moment, Athenath finally focused in on the gleaming, golden earrings adorning his ears. On his right ear, two thin, gold cuffs cupped at his upper helix, a delicate chain attached to one and down to a hoop which circled his lobe, the chain dangling down to a thin star. A simple gold stud rested in the lobe of that ear. His left ear was much simpler, with one, thinner gold cuff at his upper helix, and a gold stud in his lobe. Athenath didn't even want to think about how many septims the jewelry cost. 

  Shock tinged Hadvar's features as he replied in a hush. "You didn't know? That was Ulfric Stormcloak and his top lieutenants."

  "By Mara, who is Ulfric Stormcloak?" Athenath finally let the question on his mind since the execution leave his lips, exasperated. If all of this mess was because of this Ulfric man, then Athenath had already made up their mind that they'd rather keep a very, very large distance between himself and the other. 

  "He's the leader of the Stormcloaks. They claim to be fighting for Skyrim's freedom, but the war is really all about Ulfric wanting to be High King of Skyrim."

  "What war?" Athenath questioned, knitting their brow. While the stew helped life return to their features, it still didn't fix the confusion that coated every word that left their mouth. 

  Hadvar paused, rolling the other's questions over in his mind. Astonishment lowered his brow and his voice both. "You haven't heard of the civil war in Skyrim?" 

  Athenath shook their head. 

  "It's pretty simple. Ulfric founded the Stormcloaks years ago, as a sort of private army to advance his ambitions. He's always used the ban on the worship of Talos to stir people up against the Empire. He never succeeded in getting much support, so a few months ago he murdered the High King! That got the Empire's attention."

  "Gods," Emeros muttered. "How'd you manage to capture a man like that?" 

  At this, Hadvar brightened. "A masterstroke by General Tullius! He's only been in charge here for a few months, but he's turned things around for the Empire. We've been trying to catch Ulfric since the war started, but he always seemed to slip through our fingers, like he knew we were coming. This time, the General turned the tables on him. Ulfric rode right into our ambush with only a few bodyguards. He surrendered pretty meekly, too. So much for his death-or-glory reputation." He scoffed. "I thought we were taking Ulfric back to Cyrodiil, but I guess the General changed his mind. You know the rest."

  The meal, mostly, went quietly onwards, with Hadvar imploring the three to join the Legion. Everything he said tumbled in one ear and out the other for Athenath, the Altmer trying to keep everything straight in their mind. So, Ulfric had founded his own private army. Then, murdered someone called the High King. Then, started a war. Then, on some unfortunate morning in some unfortunate strip of land between Skyrim and Cyrodiil, Athenath and the other two elves had been walking without knowing it, and found themselves in the middle of an ambush, then in a prison cart, then nearly executed. 

  Great.

  "Why should we join the Legion? General Tullius is the one who ordered our execution for the mere crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, why would we ever work under someone like that?" Emeros finally protested, his voice level, but the edge of a blade tilted in his words, cutting beneath the niceties of the moment.

  "I don't blame you for being angry about it. I would be, too, in your shoes. But you understand it was all a mistake," Hadvar looked between the three, who each gave him their own brands of quizzical looks - Wyndrelis with the faintest ghost of an expression, Athenath with an arch of a brow and slight downward curl of their lip, and Emeros with the furrow of his brow and the straightening of his mouth - trying to make them understand the situation that the three had lived all too well. "None of you were supposed to be on that cart, gods know it was a terrible misunderstanding. But you were there. You saw the dragon. You know that now, we need your help more than ever, because now there's a dragon out there, and Ulfric is back on the loose." 

Notes:

thank you for reading! this is the longest chapter thus far, and i hope you enjoyed it. if you'd like, you can find me on tumblr as throughtrialbyfire for updates as i write more, plus just general TES stuff and infodumping about these three elves. take care <3333

Chapter 2: The Sleeping Giant

Notes:

welcome to the revised chapter 2! i'd recommend rereading this one if you're coming back, some things get changed around a little. however, from this point on, it would be a good idea to reread up to chapter 10, since after this chapter i added scenes/altered scenes more drastically. thank you, i hope you enjoy it, and let me know what you think <3

  It was a generous offer, but the cramped house on the river was already starting to balk at the extra visitors, and none of the three Mer wanted to be a bother to the family inside. Still, Sigrid insisted on them stopping by from time to time, and when the three assured her that they would, they headed off into town, warm air singing through the pines and caressing the river's rippling surface. A long path wound from one end of Riverwood to the other, businesses and a couple homes placed on either side, the sounds of a mill in operation filling the air. The winds blew in the sound of birds and their wings along the rustle of the high, imposing trees, only marred by the stench of smoke which clung to the Mer's clothes.

  Athenath couldn't find words to break the silence. Normally, striking conversation wasn't this hard. Sure, it could be awkward, but the simple staples of where-are-you-from's and where-are-you-goings served him in their years on the roads of Cyrodiil. Still sore from the last few hours and the weight of his knapsack growing more and more tiresome, they silently prayed for someone else to start the conversation. They tried not to kick themself for not staying at Alvor and Sigrid's place. He didn't want to be a bother, and Hadvar probably needed the extra space even more than they did, and...

  "Is that an inn?" Emeros broke the unsteady silence, pointing to the round sign that swung lightly from a post, its paint chipped and fading with age. Squinting, Wyndrelis read the carefully painted words, before nodding. Relief swept the Bosmer's features, barely-concealed weariness to his voice as he said, "good, we should get something to eat and sit down for a moment." 

  It was as though Emeros had said what was on all of their minds, his stride picking up pace as he bounded up the stairs, turning back to look at the other two elves. He motioned with his hand, the other gripping the door handle as he waved them slowly inside.

  The Sleeping Giant, the name was, based on the sign Athenath barely glimpsed before he stepped into the inn, raised on a high foundation. The hall bore a long, stone hearth that stretched from one end of the room to the other, with food roasting on spits or stewing in large cauldrons. The sight of fire stopped Wyndrelis at the door, processing the sight before him before he stepped fully inside, skirting the wall. Athenath pretended not to notice, their own pulse spiked at the sight of the flames. The smell of smoke made his head hurt. Helgen was still fresh in their minds, soot smudged and staining along their clothes. Emeros looked around, and although he appeared to be making a conscious effort to relax in the warmth of the hall, the tension never quite melted off his shoulders, more apparent since he'd tucked his cowl away. The Bosmer retrieved a coinpurse from his pack carefully, peering inside to be sure everything was in order. If the guards had rifled through all of their belongings, then Athenath hoped they'd missed his own coinpurse. 

  The three turned their gazes in the direction of the man leaning his elbow on the counter, his relaxed demeanor furthered by the bored expression he carried. "Orgnar," came the voice of a woman emerging from an adjacent room, one hand rested on her hip. Her blonde hair, tied back so severely that her hair ribbon seemed to protest its position, rolled down her shoulders with streaks of white emerging along her temples. Her ears bore the slightest upward slant and sharpening at the tips. After no reply, she spoke up again authoritatively. "Orgnar! Are you listening?"

  "Hard not to." Came the mans droning reply, dark hair mussed with strands poking out here and there from a long day, jaw unshaven. His voice said yes. His distant, glazed over eyes indicated his mind was floating away like the plumes of smoke from the hearth.

  "The ale's going bad." Another pause. "Did you hear me?"

  "Yep, ale's going bad."

  The woman shifted her footing, arms crossed over her chest. "I guess you don't have potatoes stuck in your ears after all. Just make sure we get a new batch soon." With that, she set off in the direction of the inn's cellar. The moment he registered she'd left, Orgnar retrieved a worn, frayed cloth, dipped it in some water, and gently wiped down the counter, busying his hands as his mind continued to roam far from the room around him. 

  "Excuse me," Emeros chimed up, snapping Orgnar's attention to the three. The man looked each elf up and down, then with a dismissive shrug, settled on his usual sales pitch as he went back to the task at hand. 

  "We got food and drink. I cook. If you need a room, talk to Delphine. Ain't much more to tell." 

  "We're only passing through, what would a room here cost?" The Bosmer asked, the other two Mer keeping a curious distance.

  Orgnar twisted in the direction of the open cellar. "Delphine, we got some guests looking to board for the night."

  "That so?" Came a reply, surprise in her tone as she rose from the cellar, appearance into focus. Her eyes were a shocking, pale shade of blue, a single drop of dye in clear wax. Her dress was in the typical Nord fashion; the underdress made of a pale, thick cotton, with the woad blue outer garment nearly reaching the same length. The golden embroidery along the hem and sides of the outer garment twisted in shapes like some sort of snake, interlocking and weaving along. The hem of her sleeves, however, bore embroidery in the outer lines of an anvil, similar to the innkeeper's sleeves in Bruma, if the fuzzy memories of yesterday served the Altmer right. Something about Zenithar, if they remembered the vague comments they'd heard in their travels.

  She arched her brow. She looked from Emeros, to Wyndrelis, to Athenath, then back again as though trying to discern their reasons for being in Riverwood. Her eyes went to their ears, then to their clothes, and the scrapes and soot decorating their figures. "So, you three need a room?"

  "Rooms," Emeros stressed. 

  "Well, we've got one available, if you're staying the night." She ignored the barely-concealed discomfort in all of their faces at the suggestion. The years worried at her features, an ever-present tiredness in her eyes. The lines at her mouth indicated plenty of stress, yet she moved with confidence, with purpose, like she'd seen her fair share of hells and come out the other side swinging. "It's one big bed, though. If that's alright, then that'll be ten gold." 

  Emeros grumbled inaudibly to himself and handed over the gold. As Delphine led the group to the open doorway to the left of the counter, she made small comments about the roads being hard to travel these days, and business in Riverwood dried up as a result. Still, a level of suspicion never left her. Athenath figured that was fair, three strangers appearing in a town that barely saw even one.

  For such a small inn, the room was a decent size. It was close to the bar, and the age-worn bed against the right wall was just large enough for three people if they squeezed, with heavy, green blankets and what looked like bear fur draped over them. The sturdy chest at the end of the bed looked good enough to put their belongings in, and the table against the left wall bore two chairs. That was fine, Athenath didn't intend to spend much time sitting there. 

  "Well, this is it." She gestured with a flat palm to the space. "I'll leave you three to rest. Oh, and a word of advice, lose the armor. This town isn't exactly decided on the war, and getting in trouble is the last thing any of you want."

  With that, the innkeeper left to complain of bad ale and needing Orgnar to fry up more potatoes. 

  Wyndrelis sat his pack on the bed and dug through it, scrutinizing all of the items within. The day's events must have jostled everyone's things. A couple items clinked together as he rooted around in his knapsack, quietly mouthing to himself as he took a mental inventory.

  "She's right," Emeros stated as he tugged against the buckles and straps of the Imperial armor the three had donned in a hurry back in the Keep, "we're strangers here. No use causing any trouble." 

  Athenath had almost adjusted to the feel of the armor. The leather had settled fine over their regular clothes as far as it could despite the ill fit, but it dug into their shoulders and weighed them down and made them sore. He unbuckled slowly and tossed off the leather, Wyndrelis following suit until the three had taken the gear and set it into the wardrobe pressed to the wall nearest the door. If nothing else, maybe Imperial armor could be sold for gold. 

  Wyndrelis returned to digging through his pack, cloak, spell scrolls, soul gems all shoved aside until he found whatever he was looking for. Tugging it out from the depths, he brought a slightly battered paper into view. Upon unfolding it, the ink on it's surface revealed a well-made map of the province of Skyrim, with a singular quill mark on Winterhold. He stretched it out on the table in the small room, the other two staring at him, bewilderment plastered on both their faces.

  "Good gods, you had a map this entire time?" Emeros breathed, mouth agape, shock laced tight to his voice.

  "Yes." Wyndrelis replied plainly.

  "And you didn't-"

  "Frankly, I didn't think we'd make it out of there alive, and I much prefer the exposition we got from traveling with our friend. I think it was helpful, don't you?" 

  Emeros paused, then muttered some half-annoyed agreements and took a seat at the table. Athenath sat their knapsack against it, dropping into the chair across from Emeros. Wyndrelis pulled open the chest at the foot of the bed, the creak from the old hinges making him wince as he dropped his knapsack inside. He sat atop its surface with a long and shaky exhale while his pale grey fingers rubbed the sides of his face, hanging his head low. His elbows dug into his knees, and for a moment, he shook like a wraith in the wind, tremors he tried to hide. He removed his glasses and set them aside, raking his fingers through his thick, dark hair, and drew in a few slow, cautious breaths.

  Athenath looked away, giving the Dunmer all the privacy he could in the small space. They pulled their knapsack into his lap, opening it, and brought out the single item he'd been so determined to get to once Hadvar told them about the evidence chest. He wrapped his fingers around the wooden frame, the tambourine a little worn from the years, the jingles silenced by a long piece of thick cotton, dyed the same garnet red as the knapsack he'd woven between the spaces. They unwound the fabric and pulled it loose, shaking the instrument in the air, the small, silvery noises catching Emeros off-guard. 

  "A tambourine?" The surprise in his face from moments prior only intensified. Hands on his hips, incredulous, he watched Athenath as the Altmer thumped the instrument idly. "You broke a chest open for a tambourine?"

  Athenath rolled their eyes. "It's not just a tambourine, it's my tambourine, first of all. Secondly, I'm a bard, come on, I need my tools of the trade." 

  "You could've broken something." Emeros' lip curled into a one-cornered frown, arms folded over his chest. 

  "Yeah, but I got the chest open, didn't I?"

  "Keys exist."

  "And so do Stormcloaks. Hadvar said more were coming our way right when I got it open, right?" Athenath offered with a smirk and a gleam in their round, dark eyes. Emeros watched him carefully with a cold expression, before relenting with a heaved sigh. 

  "Fine, fine." He put his hands up, in a relenting gesture, then set his elbow on the table and peered down at the map. He looked to be busying himself with studying it's geography, so Athenath turned in their chair, pressing the tips of their fingers to their collarbone, elbows spread out high and wide, an exaggerated posture.

  "Well! Now that that's out of the way," he shot a smug, fleeting grin to Emeros, "as you already know, my name is Athenath Aelsinore! I'm from Cyrodiil, and one fun fact about me is I love the color red," they announced as they held up the fabric they'd unwound from their tambourine as some sort of evidence, then gestured to their garnet-dyed vest, and matching trousers. "You guys?" 

  Wyndrelis appeared to be nursing a headache with small rubs at his temples, so Emeros spoke. "Emeros Nightlock, of Valenwood. One fact about me, I suppose, is that I am an alchemist." 

  "I already figured," Athenath chided with a smirk, "what's something else about you?"

  "Do you truly need to know?" 

  "Well, if we're going to Whiterun together, might as well get to know one another." 

  Emeros squeezed his eyes tight, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Fine, fine. I suppose another fact about myself, is that I'm here in Skyrim to speak to an alchemist named Nurelion. He owns a shop in Windhelm, and I brought some experiments to show him," then, with a sigh, "but I doubt they'll last the journey, if it takes much longer." 

  Wyndrelis, finally, turned his full attention to the pair. Athenath studied his slumped posture as it gradually straightened out, the way his face always appeared half-tinted with gloom, and the ornate, silver, star-shaped buckle of his belt. The Dunmer shifted his gaze from Athenath to Emeros, gaze drifting between the other two. He appeared to have recovered from whatever had shaken through him, and now the other Mer had their eyes on him in anticipation. He caught the meaning, and spoke to clear the uncomfortable silence. "I am Wyndrelis Femer, also of Cyrodiil, and one, er... fact, about myself is that I worship Julianos."

  "I thought that the Dunmer were opposed to the Aedra?" Emeros leaned his head, resting his chin now on a fist, posture relaxed.

  Wyndrelis replied, "being raised in Cyrodiil, you take on different traditions. Besides, I've had many mentors who worshiped Julianos, taking him on as patron seemed fitting." The others seemed satisfied with this answer. Wyndrelis turned his eyes to Athenath, who was now fumbling with the chain of what appeared to be a necklace. They tugged it out from under their tunic, and in the day and torchlight, revealed an amulet of Mara. The Altmer turned it over, small indents on the back of the amulet catching the light, but nothing distinct. Emeros chuckled, raising his brow.

  "Ah, you're one of those hopeless romantic bards, then?" He teased. Athenath rolled their eyes.

  "Why yes, I am." Indignant, they pressed a hand to the amulet. Then, dropping the dramatics, laughed and ran fingers through their long, dark hair. "Well, no luck yet, but we'll see if Skyrim fairs well."

  "I don't see why not," Wyndrelis shrugged, leaning back, hands pressed to the chest's cold wooden surface, "I think Skyrim could work out well for a young..."

  "Man." Athenath interjected, Wyndrelis nodding.

  "For a young man such as yourself." He then turned to Emeros, who appeared be thinking something over, his chin clutched in the crux of his thumb. The Bosmer pressed the tip of his index finger to the quill mark on the map, tapping it gingerly.

  "Winterhold? Are you heading to the College, then?" He asked. Wyndrelis nodded.

  "That was my plan, before all of... This," he gestured to the room around them, "I intend to take up my studies with the mages there." 

  Athenath's face brightened, smile plastering wide on their lips. "I'm heading to Solitude for the same thing! Well, not the magic part, but y'know. The studying. I'm uh, not actually that good with magic," they gave a tiny, nervous chuckle, setting their tambourine back into his pack. Emeros clicked his tongue, a mischievous grin slinking across his lips. 

  "Quite strange for an Altmer, then?" He joked. Athenath groaned, placing their head in their hands. Wyndrelis stifled his own laugh, palm over his mouth. 

  "Just about as strange as a tall Bosmer," Athenath retorted as they leaned back in their chair, toe of his boot pressed to the hard floor, slowly rocking an inch back and forth. Emeros rolled his eyes, chin raising high, arms folding over his chest.

  "And what of you, then? You're terribly short."

  Athenath huffed, raking fingers through the ends of his hair. Being the shortest member of their family wasn't something they enjoyed, but it hadn't bothered them too harshly. Still, the memories of their grandmother and grandfather fretting that Athenath was unwell when they were growing up nagged their mind. No, not unwell, just vertically challenged, as their old friends used to joke. At least their father came in second place at just two inches taller. It made him glad that they didn't grow up in their mom's home town in Alinor.

  When they turned their attention back to the room, Emeros again resting his chin in the crux of his hand. He looked to the other two Mer, and cocked a brow. "Do either of you have any supplies? If we're going all the way to Whiterun, then we'll need to be prepared. Who knows how long the journey could take." The other two turned their attentions to him, silent.

  The group realized in one single moment that they were entirely out of luck. 

  Athenath dug through their knapsack, pulling it into his lap, cream-colored hands pushing items away until they finally looked up, grimacing. "I think whatever I had was confiscated. And, y'know, probably eaten." 

  "Mine, as well," Wyndrelis noted, "perhaps we should look for a shop?" 

---

  "Well, one of us has to do something!"

  "I said no! No adventures, no theatrics, no thief-chasing!"

  The Riverwood Trader was a decently stocked shop, from the look of it, but the sound of an argument halted the trio in the doorway. An exasperated woman sat by the fire, looking up from notes she'd been jotting down. A disgruntled man stood behind the counter, hard hands resting on it's surface. Pushing the words against the air like an overloaded minecart, the exasperated woman replied, "well what are you going to do then, huh? Let's hear it!"

  "We are done talking about this!" The man pressed his hands harder to the surface of the counter. When the woman relented with a loud, dramatic exhale, he turned to the door and startled, clearing his throat. "Oh, customers," he hesitated, embarrassment hot at the tips of his ears as he murmured, "sorry you had to hear that." 

  Emeros waved his hand absently, as if to say it was alright, nothing to worry about. Athenath looked between the man behind the counter at the woman seated near the fire, the rouge on her cheeks blending with the flush of anger. She wrote something down with harsh quill strokes, the ink flicking onto her other hand. She didn't seem to notice. Meanwhile, the man behind the counter sorted inventory along the shelves, his hands moving in hurried motions, organizing, turning, sorting...

  "Did something happen?" Emeros asked. His confident, easy stride to the counter and the curious lilt of his voice caught the Imperial off-guard, who turned to face the elf. Slowly, the man's shoulders lowered, and he stepped back to the counter, resting an elbow against it and carding his other hand through his dark hair. In the dim light of the store's hearth, the circles under his eyes drew more severe. 

  "Yes, we did have a bit of a... break-in. But we still have plenty to sell!" He tried to perk up, but the three Mer only stared at him. 

  "They stole Lucan's ornament," the woman shifted in her chair, folding her arms across her middle, "and now he's insisting he doesn't want me to go get it for him."

  "Damn it, Camilla, not in front of customers-" Lucan murmured through tight-clenched teeth. 

  "No, I think it's high time you ask for help. You're upset about it, I'm upset about it, and if you don't ask for help, then I will go get it myself."

  "Ornament?" Athenath repeated, looking up from a shelf stocked with potions. 

  Lucan sighed, pressing his face into his hands, elbows on the counter. After a moment of getting his breath, he nodded. "Solid gold. In the shape of a dragon's claw."

  Wyndrelis, curiosity piqued, turned over an apple in his palm as he repeated, "a claw?"

  "Yes. Anyways, I don't know what you overheard, but the Riverwood Trader is still open, feel free to shop." He insisted. This did little to deter the strange group from the idea of the claw, but they needed supplies, and this seemed the best place to get them, all things considered. It was a long road to Whiterun, and if they were to go warn about a dragon, it would be wise to prepare. The three stood at the counter, asking about local goods, Athenath gleaning small bits of information on the town as they paid for slices of cheese and bread and wrapped the food tightly in cloth.

  "So, was the claw anything important?" Athenath asked as he approached Camilla, who now silently sat, reading over some papers that she'd retrieved from behind the counter. She shook her head, occasionally giving a glance upwards as she spoke.

  "No, nothing that important," she let out a slow, wistful breath, "but the shop feels kind of... Empty, without it. I'll admit," she hushed her voice, Athenath lucky to have caught the admittance, "I thought it was garish. Obvious thief-bait, but... Well, without it, the shop feels incomplete." 

  The bard shrugged. "We could help you get the claw back." Athenath ignored the surprise on the faces of their companions, Emeros in the process of trying to find a specific potion, his hands hovering over one that shimmered with green. Wyndrelis stood beside the bard, wincing at the idea. All the same, Lucan's face brightened at the suggestion, as though all those sleepless nights had fallen away.

  "You could?" He exclaimed. 

  "We could?" Emeros murmured in bitter disbelief. 

  Lucan rested his palms to the counter's surface, continuing with a smile that crept higher up his cheeks, "I've got some coin coming in from my last shipment. It's yours if you bring my claw back. If you're going after those thieves, you should head to Bleak Falls Barrow, northeast of town." Then, turning his attention to his sister, he gave a satisfied, semi-mocking smirk. "So now you don't have to go, do you?"

  Camilla rose from the table, returning the smirk. "Oh really? Well, I think your new helpers here need a guide. They're strangers in town, surely they won't be able to find the path up to Bleak Falls Barrow on their own." 

  Lucan rolled his eyes, throwing his hands up. "Oh, by the Eight, fine! But only to the edge of town." 

Chapter 3: Arrangements

  They decided that they'd meet Camilla in the morning. Helgen still rode the sore aches of their bodies, and they hadn't even purchased their supplies yet when they talked it over with the other shopkeeper. Camilla seemed satisfied with the arrangement, waving the elves goodbye as they paid for their supplies and quickly returned to whatever work she'd been absorbed in before the three had arrived. 

  The Mer budged open the door of the Sleeping Giant Inn, a high-pitched squeak loudly announcing their arrivals. Orgnar mumbled something to himself about oiling the door hinges, before leaving his perch behind the counter to check on the stew bubbling pleasantly in the cauldron. They all made their way to the room they were renting for the night, Emeros having to twist the key a few times in the aged and seldom-used locks before it finally swung open. 

  "Bloody thing," he muttered to himself as he propped the door open for the other two with the toe of his boot. His companions passed him and set about to sort out their supplies. Athenath tugged their knapsack from the chest and rooted around inside, making room for the bundles of food and potions, the new waterskin, double-checking that it all nestled neatly together. Wyndrelis did the same, pocketing an empty soul gem to give the precise amount of room he needed for a couple of necessities. Emeros raised his brow at this, but whatever curiosity or comment that half-breached his mind wound up dead on his tongue. Enchantment, perhaps, was the mage's specialty.

  They sat on the stone floors as they sorted their supplies, warmed by the noon sun, the high windows, and the heat of the hearth that swept under the door frame. After some discussion on what to do, they decided to purchase a meal in the inn. This would be the easiest option, as it meant they wouldn't be digging into their supplies before the march to Bleak Falls Barrow, however long that took. 

  Bleak Falls Barrow. The name rambled through the air as the three emerged from their room and paid for quick meals, taking a seat at one of the long tables lining the hearth. Well-cooked slices of meat, vegetables grilled over the fire, and sliced eidar cheese on warm bread was enough to soothe the end of the day, the world melting into hues of orange outside as the sun began its slow march down the mountainsides. The memory of Hadvar describing the old barrow still haunted the group's minds, the task of plunging into somewhere entirely unfamiliar for someone's stolen belonging didn't seem like the best of ideas, but they'd sworn to Lucan and Camilla that they would. After all, he did say that he'd pay them, and if they were going to be on the road for any length of time, gold was worth more than the trouble they'd go through.

  The door to the inn swung open again, a chill breathing through the wide room before it shut with a few firm, audible shoves. Two men said some quick words to one another, then the new arrival took a seat and began to warm up on the lute, strumming with delicate hands and easy motions. Athenath snapped their gaze in the direction of the music, meal entirely forgotten on their plate as he listened to the other man play. He looked between the other Mer, grinning.

  "You think he'll teach me some local songs?" They whispered, the glint in their eyes growing in the hearthlight. 

  Delphine emerged from the cellar the moment she heard the lute, trudging over to the young Nord. Emeros looked to him, eyeing the man - Sven, he thought he caught the name - as he spoke with Delphine, the sharp gestures of his hands, his shoulders, the sneer of his lip that lasted only a moment. He turned back to the table and shrugged.

  "I suppose you could ask," he replied, his ears catching the small, snide comments the Nord made under his breath when Delphine was out of earshot, the lute sitting idle in his lap as he drank from a bottle he'd brought in with him, "but I would advise against it."

  Athenath knit their brow, staring at the Bosmer as he sipped something warm from a tankard. It smelled spiced and sweet, and Athenath half-wished they'd gotten some himself. "Why?" 

  Wyndrelis, leaning in so only his companions could hear, looked between them with his usual, plain expression. "He sounds... well, he sounds unpleasant, like..." he muttered to himself, searching for the word he needed, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he fumbled for the right phrase.

  "He sounds like a bit of a bell-end," Emeros snorted, glancing back to Sven as he tuned his lute. Wyndrelis snapped his fingers quietly, as though his observation sufficed for what descriptor he couldn't find himself.

  The Altmer took a second, turning in time to catch Sven rolling his eyes as Orgnar told him something about the ale, another snide remark muttered under the Nord bard's breath. He deflated, groaning quietly as they returned to their meal. "Fine, alright, I guess I see your point." 

  "Chin up," Emeros smirked, "you'll have plenty of time to hone your craft without needing people like him to teach you." 

  Athenath knit their brow, looking up at him. Then, they looked to Wyndrelis, who'd chosen to sit at the end of the table. He'd pulled a chair over, refusing to put his back to the flames, and after today, no one thought to question it. This day had been hard enough, and affected each of them in it's own unique and vicious ways. If Wyndrelis wanted to never let the flames out of his sight, who were the other two to judge him? 

---

  The bed would need to be negotiated. 

  Emeros, once the door was shut and locked, piped up with the issue that none of them had wanted to address. "We need to discuss sleeping arrangements."

  "Agreed, who takes the floor?" Wyndrelis questioned briskly. Both of the other Mer looked to him, confusion plain on their features. As he caught the looks, gaze flitting back and forth between them, the tips of his ears warmed. "So, I do, then." 

  "No...?" Athenath lowered a brow, arching the other high. "None of us take the floor. But we need to figure out who sleeps where, y'know." 

  "Besides," Emeros chimed, spine leaned against the wardrobe, "sleeping on the floor means less quality sleep. We agreed to meet Camilla in the morning, which means we need all of the rest we can get. And, of course, that's not factoring in breakfast, the journey to Bleak Falls Barrow, and inside the barrow itself. Gods know how long we'll be in there, so lets get as much rest as we can." 

  Wyndrelis shrunk back. "Hm, I suppose that makes sense."

  "So, how do we decide this?" Athenath slid into one of the chairs at the small table, leaning his chin onto their palm. 

  "Draw straws, simple." Emeros grasped a fistful of straw from under the mattress, the bundle clutched tight. "Close your eyes. Shortest takes the wall, largest takes the edge." 

  Shrugging, Athenath closed his eyes. Wyndrelis followed suit, Emeros shutting his own as the three plucked a straw from the Bosmer's fist. "Everyone ready?" He asked. When he got no reply, the Bosmer said, "alright, open your eyes." 

  They laid the straws on the table. Emeros got the smallest. Wyndrelis the largest.

  "Which means," Athenath stretched, sitting on the edge of the bed and digging through their pack, "I'm in the middle. We should get ready for bed if we're gonna get any rest." He retrieved an old comb and a small bottle of what appeared to be a diluted oil, dropping the smallest amounts onto the comb and brushing it through the ends of their hair, curls bouncing against the ivory teeth. Emeros shrugged and examined the map, taking his time to study it. 

  "Should any of us keep watch?" Emeros suggested. Athenath snorted, Wyndrelis quietly tittering at the question as well. "What? We don't know these people, this inn-"

  "It's an inn, not the middle of the forest. What, you expect a scamp to appear out of nowhere and fireball us in our sleep?" They teased, Wyndrelis struggling harder to hide his own amusement.

  "Do you truly trust this place?" He quirked his brow, looking up from the table. 

  "I've slept in worse. Relax, we'll be fine." 

---

  The bed was much softer than anticipated. Athenath pulled the blankets and furs up to their shoulders, bedshirt warm around them, it's long linen sleeves feeling more like security than they had expected. 

  This had been a horrific day.

  Wyndrelis laid awake, staring at the ceiling, the group listening idly to the conversations that filtered in. Orgnar and Sven were bickering, but it sounded more friendly than not. The firelight danced beneath the door, creating shadows unfamiliar and long, and outside their windows, Secunda and Masser twisted in orbit, the sky still, and night alive. 

  Athenath looked to the Dunmer, then to the Bosmer, and even if they didn't want to admit it, he wasn't ready to leave their sides. He knew the group would split apart in Whiterun and go their separate ways, but he wished for more time with them. Maybe going through Helgen together had solidified something between the three, like amber around an insect, preserved in time. The inn smelled of ale and cooking food and too much of the dust that had managed to settle on some corners of it, but in this moment, with these two, it was comforting.

  From the moment Hadvar had mentioned Bleak Falls Barrow, Athenath had wanted to explore it. They had never considered himself an adventurer, but maybe here in Skyrim, that could change. He could be the person he'd wanted to be for so long; fearless, brave, ready for anything. They thought back to that massive, black shadow of the ancient ruins. The arches snaked through the snow, piercing through the rocks and giving the whole place the feeling of impenetrability, of looming what-if, or moreso, what-was-and-is-not's. Living dead, the stone corpse of an age long passed.

  Athenath intended to charge through into its depths, and find its heart. 

---

  Emeros should have taken the edge of the bed. Less chance to wake up pinned like a spider between another person and a wall. 

  He mentally cursed himself as he awoke, the Altmer's long hair sprawled across the pillow, prickling his face and smelling faintly of rosemary. In the cold morning light that slid into the room, he reminded himself how fortunate he was to still be alive after the events of Helgen, but this did little to stop the ache in his legs from the Altmer kicking him in his sleep. Fitful sleeper, he figured, and this was proven when the other rolled over, facing him, eyelids flickering with the slightest movements of deep sleep. Emeros laid there in silence, thinking about how he might have found the situation strange and somewhat amusing under any other circumstances. But for now, he was simply tired, and wanted to get up and prepare for the day ahead. Gods knew it would be a long one.

  As for Wyndrelis, the Dunmer had rested his glasses on the table atop the map, and he'd chosen to sleep in his under tunic, a dark grey that complimented his pigeon blue complexion. If there was ever a being committed to a specific color scheme, it was him, dressed in greys and blues, accented with gold and silver. A wintry palette, muted as the snow that drew to mind his destination. Winterhold would have to wait, they had duties here in Riverwood, then to Whiterun, and if the group didn't set out soon, then the day would get away from them like a fleeing bird. 

  It occurred to him, as he took note of his companions and their closed eyes, that he was the first to wake. He sat up slowly, carefully, so as not to disturb them, rising first on his elbows, then his palms. He softened at the sight of them, deep in a well-needed sleep that all of them had deserved. Bruises from yesterday would ripen into dark splotches along all three of their bodies in the coming days, but in this moment, none of it mattered. 

  He was still alive. And all of them had made it.

  Everyone had been exhausted, including himself. Helgen still bled fresh in his mind, but he did his best to shut the memories away for now. He could mull them over later. He could have his nightmares in the evenings like everyone else. For now, he gingerly peeled the blanket up off his form, meticulous as to not wake the other two Mer as he slid down to the edge of the bed, down atop the chest, then to his boots waiting on the floor beside it, woolen socks making contact with the stone floors. He shuddered at the cold, then stretched, and started his morning. He checked his belongings, meditated, and readied himself for the day ahead.

  When Wyndrelis rose, he blinked his bleary eyes, allowing the world to tumble back into his mind's focus. He looked to Athenath, still fast asleep, then to the table, where Emeros sat, sipping a tankard of watered-down coffee. He turned back to Athenath, reaching a hand over and shaking their shoulder lightly. A few more shakes and the Altmer startled, springing upwards, their eyes frantically darting around the room until they landed on Wyndrelis, who shrunk back slightly at the sudden motions. He locked eyes with the Dunmer, then with the Bosmer, and exhaled a breath he hadn't realized had been choked in his throat. The morning light hit their skin, comforting as the blankets he pulled back around himself.

  None of them commented on this. Wyndrelis crawled out of the bed mournfully, and Athenath followed with murmured protest about the bed being warm and soft, and the room being cold at this hour. All of them were wishing for nothing more than to curl up back under the linen and furs, but the day was starting, and they had much laying ahead. After all, they told Camilla they'd meet her outside the Riverwood Trader, and that's what they planned to do. 

  "Morning," Athenath yawned, raking fingers through their tangled hair. They reached for his knapsack, and finding it at the edge of the bed, retrieved their ivory comb and began to methodically untangle his curls.

  "Good morning," Emeros replied, sipping again from the tankard. Coffee was a rare treat in some of the places he traveled, but it seemed that even this Civil War hadn't stopped the trade of it in Skyrim, whether through local merchants and their shipments, or Khajiit caravans. 

  Wyndrelis dragged on his tunic and cape, murmuring a quiet good morning and fastening his belt, the ornate, star-shaped buckle glinting in the light. At last, he seized his glasses, pushing them up the straight bridge of his nose. "I suppose we should eat, then find Camilla?" 

  "Precisely." Emeros confirmed with a small nod. He flitted a glance to the door, gesturing with a quick tilt of his head. "There's breakfast being served right now, alongside entertainment, if you wish to listen to Sven and his... Singing." If the Nord's ululations could be called that, Emeros thought. He had a fine voice for some of the songs, but the aspiring bard had a habit of reaching into ranges he should keep his hands well away from. 

  Athenath tugged their own day clothes on, buckling a dark brown belt. While there was nothing remarkable about his choice of dress, Emeros did note the Colovian style of clothing they wore, with a fawn-light tunic and a suede vest that he realized matched the material of their trousers. He set his comb away and laced his boots, stepping out after the promise of a warm breakfast. 

  Wyndrelis sat in the empty chair, and offered his comb to Emeros, who gladly took it. "Thank you, it seems I can't find mine." The Bosmer raked his fingers through his tangled, dark hair, taking the comb and gently picking at the sparse knots. 

  "It happens," Wyndrelis replied in his usual, perpetually tired voice. He always sounded on the verge of annoyance, but the Bosmer had learnt quickly that he simply sounded that way, and not to take it to heart. The Dunmer sounded unlike most Dunmer he'd met, his vocal cadence flat and quiet most of the time, but hadn't he said that he grew up in Cyrodiil? That must have made him younger than the Red Year, and he looked it, with a face still brushed with youth despite the high arch and definition of his cheekbones, the circles under his eyes and melancholic draw of his brow, the exhaustion that was more mental than physical now.

  The mage folded his arms over his chest, trying to think of something to keep the conversation flowing between them, but words swimming away from him like tiny fish in a net woven for much larger catches. "So, you're an alchemist?" 

  "Yes, I've been practicing alchemy for many years." Emeros worked his fingers through his hair and finished picking out the tangles, combing through his straight, chin-length hair. He pointed to a jug he'd filled with water earlier, while the others had been sleeping, "if you wish to brush your teeth, there's water in here, and a basin under the table." 

  Wyndrelis seemed relieved, muttering something quickly that sounded almost like a thank you, and when Athenath returned with breakfast on a platter and two more coffee-filled tankards, the group brightened. Wyndrelis quickly folded the map and tucked it into his pocket, Athenath setting the platter in the center of the table, the tankards after, before dragging in another chair from the inn. The Altmer had done their best to find anything all three might like, with hot bread and a wedge of cheese pressed to one end, fried eggs to another, and another end containing meat that had only just been plucked from a hook over the hearth. 

  "So," Athenath started, sipping from the still-hot tankard and jerking back slightly when it was, unsurprisingly, still hot, "I guess once we get ready, we head out?" 

  "That'd be the best option, yes." Emeros pulled some of the items closer to himself. Plates would have been nice, but the platter was large enough that each of them could move food to their own corners. 

  Wyndrelis piped up, "if we time it right, we'll be out of the ruins within a day."

  "Within a day?" Athenath furrowed their brow. Wyndrelis looked to them, almost as baffled by their reply as they were that the ruins would take so long.

  "Have you ever been inside of the Ayleid ruins, back in Cyrodiil?" When Athenath shook his head, Wyndrelis nodded sagely, picking at the eggs he'd dragged over with a fork. "I have. They are much, much larger than they appear on the surface, and with how Bleak Falls Barrow appeared even from a distance..." He trailed off, but it seemed the Altmer got the message. 

  "That depends," Emeros sipped again from his tankard, cutting a slice of meat in half, "we're still not sure what's even inside. If there's traps, we'll need to navigate them. If there's bandits, as we should be anticipating, we'll have to be prepared for a fight. And, of course if there's, gods forbid, draugr in there as Hadvar mentioned to us, then we'll have to be fully prepared to fight for our lives." 

  Athenath swallowed. "Uh, what are draugr, anyways?"

  "Undead Nords, some say they protect the tombs," Wyndrelis stated calmly, "I have only heard of them a few times in my research, but they're not to be taken lightly."

  "So," Athenath inhaled, expression marred now with tinges of anxiety, "we gotta be ready for bandits, traps, and draugr?"

  "Precisely." Emeros winked. 

  "I don't think I like this idea anymore."

  "Well, you volunteered us," the Bosmer pointed out, sipping his coffee, "so we'll simply have to be prepared." 

  They tidied the room and gathered their belongings, finishing their morning routines and double-checking that they left nothing behind. They fastened the Imperial armor over their forms - better safe than sorry, even with Delphine's warning - and headed to the Riverwood Trader, Camilla already waiting on the porch.

  "Great," she said as she laid eyes on the approaching travelers with a broad smile, "you know, it's... Good, actually. Strangers coming into town who actually want to help. It's a nice change of pace."

  "Yes, I believe it would be," Emeros replied in a polite but curt manner, "shall we?"

  "Oh, right. If you're going after the claw, you'll need to know the way." The Imperial marched onward, down the stone path and to a bridge, the elves trudging behind her as quickly as they could. Emeros could feel the other two's apprehension, and did his best to conceal his own, as well. It wasn't as though he wouldn't help people, but the idea of plunging into these ruins was eating away at him. Who knows what was in there, and what they would find? Gods knew it was dangerous enough already from being likely thousands of years old, but bandits made it worse, and if there truly were other things lurking in there... 

  Wyndrelis shared in this hesitance, but there was something else in those bright eyes, a sort of determination. Perhaps he thought he might find his book, the one he'd mentioned to Hadvar. Emeros shifted his gaze to Athenath, the Altmer keeping a grin on their face, having made several comments before they met with Camilla about the item being made entirely of solid gold.

  Emeros made a mental note to remind Athenath that this was a retrieval, not something they would be keeping.

  "Those thieves must be mad, hiding out there. Those old crypts are filled with nothing but traps, trolls, and who knows what else!"

  "Do you have any idea why they may have stolen the claw alone?" Emeros inquired, raising a brow. Camilla shrugged.

  "Not a clue. I mean, it's not like we don't have plenty of other things in the shop worth stealing."

  The stones thudded under the boots of the men behind her, the three taking in the scenery as they walked closer to the path out of town, the bridge already in view. The light blue of the sky was beginning to gain its daylight hues, tinging deeper, the water mirroring with its clarity. It was the sort of clarity perfect for an afternoon swim, or to simply dig around looking for interesting plants. Emeros thought to himself that he may decide to try searching its shores for Nirnroot later, should they come back earlier than expected.

  "This is the bridge out of town. The path up the mountain to the northwest leads to Bleak Falls Barrow." After a moment lingering at the bridge with her hand gesturing the direction of the road, she spoke again, "I guess I should get back to my brother. He'll throw a fit if I take too long. Such a child..." She rolled her eyes as she headed back in the direction of the shop. "Good luck. We'll be waiting for your return, you three." 

  The Mer watched her make the slow walk back down the road, the mill nearby having begun its operations an hour or more ago. The sun lit the way, the trees casting long, warm shadows along the earth, animals distantly rushing through the thick woods. Birds swept their wings over the water, some eager to catch small fish that leapt occasionally from the surface. 

  Then, turning in the direction of the path, they strode across the aged stone bridge, anticipation brewing with their curiosity. Whatever this golden claw was, however much value it held, none of them could argue that all they wanted now was a chance to see it up close. And, even more so, a chance to see just what Bleak Falls Barrow was truly hiding.

Chapter 4: Into the Unknown

  The road twisted narrowly from the bridge, angled and sloping, lined with strange stones. Some appeared intentionally arranged and stuck in their ways, watching the young elves through every crack in their worn surfaces. Some were more incidental, shrugging off the weather. Some appeared to be severed off from old pillars, smoothed by the many years gone by and wondering where their extra heights had gone. Emeros kept an eye on the greenery, on the land that gradually grew more and more distant, the town that faded from view as the three marched up the pathway. 

  The gradual drop in temperature intensified itself the further they got from Riverwood, the dusting of snow that cropped up at the tops of new and unfamiliar trees still preserved this far into Last Seed, and by the looks of the powdery texture, had fallen not too long ago. The pathway in its drastic angles took on more danger, as ice collected at the bases of the evergreens. Meticulous with their footing, the three carried themselves up the path to the barrow, careful to examine each stone they pressed their boots against.

  Emeros had been in various ruins for any number of purposes over the years. He'd adventured into Ayleid ruins in his earliest days in Cyrodiil, never leaving the first chamber if he could help it, collecting samples of the mosses and fungi that grew within. Sometimes, he'd find an interesting vine, or a plant he hadn't recognized from the surface world. He'd take great pains to preserve them until he could examine them safely, testing new potions and properties, inspiration his guide in every experiment. If he combined this amount of imported trama root with this amount of the unidentified fungi, placed it in an already known potion recipe, how would it change the effects? Would it create something to heal, or to harm? 

  What new concoctions could he make with the native flora of Skyrim? And maybe, if luck was on his side, would he find something previously unknown in this ancient place?

  The trio trudged onward, the wind whipping at their faces, brushing flakes of snow like tiny spears against their skin. The cold was one factor all of them wished they'd prepared more thoroughly for, but if they were going to explore this place and bring back the claw, then they had to keep going. Day had long since crest the mountains, rising above them in a lustrous sheen of blue, light bleaching the landscape before them a harsh, eye-pulsing white. 

  As they turned their eyes to the top of the mountain, a strange stone tower came into view. Weathered by the ages and capped with snow, the sight alone sent shivers through the Bosmer. Emeros hissed for the others to get down, snagging the other two by their tunics, hidden behind a massive stone. When Wyndrelis was about to quietly protest, Emeros pressed a finger to his own lips and then gestured to the tower. The other two Mer looked. 

  A figure marched the slim, dreadful bridge from the tower to the mountain, back and forth at an easy pace. Bandits. And they'd almost walked right into their line of sight. 

  "What do we do?" Athenath asked in a hushed tone, partially unsheathing their newly acquired sword. Wyndrelis pressed his spine to the rock they huddled behind, with the spare, occasional glance to the figure.

  "Emeros, you have a bow. Can you use it?" Wyndrelis asked in a hush, Emeros already nocking an arrow.

  "I've been hunting in Valenwood since my childhood," he answered, taking aim. He shut one eye, lined up his shot, and stilled his breaths.

  "Not yet!" 

  Emeros startled at Athenath's hard whisper, grip on the arrow tighter. He slid it forward, letting the string go slack. He cursed under his breath as he turned to Athenath, brow quirked and eyes narrow. The Altmer pressed palms to the sides of Emeros' head, and as the alchemist was about to protest, his eyes landed on a detail he'd missed.

  Up the incline, pacing back and forth before them, a bandit that no one else had seen. 

  Two targets, then.

  He looked to his companions, then to the bandit. This would come down to timing, by his own analysis. If he took one out without the other noticing at first, it would give him a few seconds to get another arrow and put the last one down. Then, they could safely traverse the mountainside. He gave Athenath one last look, this time the slightest gleam of a grin on his lip, not daring to speak too much. He knelt in the snow, nocked his arrow, and waited.

  When the bandit at the fortress had their back turned, he fired. This arrow pierced through a weak spot in the incline-bandit's armor, injuring them, stunning for a moment before Emeros got another arrow through their neck. He shifted his attentions to the fortress-bandit, who dashed to the crumpled body of their companion. He fired, and this shot went clean through the torso, spearing the upper chest, likely a lung, if he guessed from here.

  "I think that's all of them." Wyndrelis rose from behind the stone, wiping the snow from his trousers as he grabbed his belongings. The three rushed to the bodies, and as they confirmed that the bandits were dead, Athenath began to rifle through the pockets of the corpses. Emeros sputtered protests, but as the Altmer produced some gold, some new arrows, and a set of leather gauntlets, he found himself complaining much less. They handed the leather gauntlets to Emeros, then stood and stretched.

  Wyndrelis thought something over for a moment. Then, he knelt, slowly undoing the fastens and buckles of the much warmer-looking armor the bandits wore.

  "What in Oblivion are you doing?" Emeros hissed, Wyndrelis looking up at the other momentarily before returning to his task. Athenath joined in, helping Wyndrelis lift the fur-lined piece from the first body before they descended on the second.

  "It's not like they need it, and we can't run around looking like soldiers forever," Athenath retorted. 

  Wyndrelis agreed, pulling the first set of armor to himself. He shifted his gaze to Athenath, brow knit. "Tell me, why did he get the gauntlets?"

  Athenath shrugged as they looked up to Emeros momentarily, before handing over a soul gem they'd dug out of a bandits pack Dunmer, who tucked it into his pocket. "Archers usually need them, right? Something about the string?" 

  Emeros gave a small, apprehensive nod, and even though his features were marred with the shock of the pair descending upon the dead like carrion birds, he figured that they had a point. It wasn't like any of them could afford to buy armor right now, and none of them needed to run around dressed as Imperial soldiers in potentially-hostile land.

  He donned the gauntlets. The leather fit well over his fingers, and most importantly, they were warm. The other two bundled up fur and leather armors, before they stepped into the tower, nudging their steps with extra caution over the frail bridge. Rifling through drawers gave them more gold and a place to toss the Imperial armor without much worry. They'd have to hurry, though. Taking too much time here meant that they were both wasting time they could be using to get in and out of the barrow, and meant that it gave the bandits more time to come find them, and the bodies of their compatriots. 

  Once Athenath and Wyndrelis had donned the bandit armor - "Well, you didn't seem to want it," Wyndrelis shuffled the explanation awkwardly out - the three inched back to the stability of the mountain, the wind whipping furiously around them. The steep pathway lead further upwards, to the enormous stone arches and sharp angles of the ancient ruins. Stairs slick with ice rose up to a gigantic platform, the air thick with worry. Something innate gnawed at Emeros, the warnings of old friends from northern High Rock not to head into similar structures rumored to line the furthest reaches of the province murmuring in the back of his mind. He shook them away. This was not the same. This was something he'd said he'd do, and he would bloody do it. 

  "We should be on our guard. Two bandits means there's probably more, and if we're not careful, we'll walk right into a trap."

  "Or another ambush." Wyndrelis joked dryly. Emeros rolled his eyes, but still, he laughed.

  "Or another ambush." He repeated, grinning.

  The dark, snow-covered stone gathered in points towards the sky. They made a calculated approach, the three in a line as they focused on any potential movement from the structure. When bandits emerged from the shadows of the ancient, high-arched ruins, the caution came in handy. One of them fired arrows down at the three, barking at them to leave with their lives or they'd gut them like a purse. Athenath flinched and dodged the barrage, Wyndrelis holding up a ward, magicka pouring into his fingertips, collected in arching light. He pushed forward, Emeros using the ward's cover as a shield to fire his own arrows behind. This time, it took several shots, moving as he fired at a simultaneously moving target. He cursed and hissed as he fired at the figure until he saw them kneel, then another, then down. 

  A second bandit charged with a war axe, Wyndrelis using his other hand to fire a bolt of lightning that struck through the middle, jarring the bandit enough to give Athenath an opening. The Altmer charged, bashing the hilt of their sword into the back of the bandits head, hoping they'd only knocked them out. 

  The final bandit rushed Emeros, nearly swiping their blade into him. The Bosmer ducked down by an inch, bringing his own sword from its hilt and striking them through the chest, pushing it as deep as he could muster in the moment. The armor gave way as the bandit struggled to block, a fight that lasted mere seconds and ended just as quickly. The three caught their breaths, snow now pelting down at them from the pale clouds above their heads. Whatever world they'd just ambled into gave them one hell of a welcome.

  Better than the one they'd all received at the border, Emeros thought as he tugged his cowl tighter, thefurious winds knocking the fabric off his head every time he attempted to right it. Grumbling, he left it around his neck as a scarf, and trudged up the final stairs to the doorway of Bleak Falls Barrow. 

  Adrenaline throttled their veins. The Mer looked between one another. Then, Emeros slowly pushed open the door to the barrow, into the dim chamber that would seal their decision. No going back from here, the decision decreed. No turning back. 

---

  The floor of the massive chamber was littered with the frozen corpses of skeever, half-frozen with the mountain cold. Pillars which must have once stood, dignified and imposing, had crumbled into heaps of large stone, some in the shapes of animal heads, some as simply blocks, knocked over by the hands of the ages. Snow drifted in from outside, coating the floors near the doorway in a thin layer of white flakes and ice. Holes in the ceiling illuminated what would have been a pitch-dark space, more snow drifting in and making the already-freezing chamber unbelievably frigid. A single light at the end of the room burned bright, the only source of heat. The elves carefully knelt behind one of the only standing pillars, close enough to get a clear look at the bandits that stood near a fire, and more importantly, in front of a passage. Two figures, revealed only by the light of the small fire they'd made and the extreme shadows they cast, paced back and forth, speaking. 

  "So we're just supposed to sit here while Arvel runs off with that golden claw?"

  "That dark elf wants to go on ahead, let him. Better than us risking our necks."

  "What if Arvel doesn't come back? I want my share from that claw!"

  "Just shut it and keep an eye out for trouble."

  The pair of thieves patrolled their end of the chamber. Emeros readied his bow, but again, Athenath shook their head rapidly, making gestures with his hands that neither of his companions could decipher. Emeros narrowed his gaze at them. "Would you rather do it, then?" 

  The whisper came out much harsher than he intended, but Athenath, unfazed, motioned to a column a few paces away, near an empty stone coffin. They whispered back, "don't risk it from here. That'll get you closer, and it's a good hiding spot." 

  He hesitated. As much as he wanted to object - drawing nearer would mean drawing attention to himself if he didn't tread lightly - he had to admit, if only to himself, it was a fairly good idea. Less distance, less chance of missing, less chance of drawing attention to himself. And it provided ample cover, plenty of shadows to blend into, and if that was the case, then if the bandits noticed motion out of their periphery, then he would be concealed enough to wait out their investigations. Plus, if the bandits did come to check out the strange movement, it gave the other two plenty of time to attack from behind.

  Emeros shifted, edging his way across the room, through the dark, eyes locked in the pacing bandits. Neither of them seemed to notice him, and as soon as he knelt behind the stone coffin, he readied his bow. He stilled his breathing, his heartrate slowing. He pulled back, locked in on one figure. 

  One shot. The other bandit jolted and began to search for him. They trudged through the dim and found the back of the coffin, inching ever closer, but before they could glimpse the crouched Bosmer, Wyndrelis smashed his mace against the bandit's skull with a sickening crack that reverberated all throughout the chamber. They tumbled to the floor, dead eyes facing the high, arched ceilings. 

  After a moment in the still, Wyndrelis gestured to the body. "Armor, if you want." 

  Emeros stifled down a chuckle, bleeding over into a grin and a shake of his head, a twist of amusement curled into the motion as he rose. "Excellent. Let's rest a moment and adjust our armor and be off." 

---

  The three found the bedrolls the bandits had set around the fire to be the perfect place to take a break. Aside from where blades and arrows had punctured the material and the still-damp bloodstains, it fit well. They adjusted one another, Emeros' scrupulous eye examining straps and buckles to ensure everything came together enough to protect them from whatever lay ahead. He looked between the other two as they sat by the fire, warming themselves before they had to head into the icy depths, and asked Athenath to help adjust his own armor. They looked at him, grinning like he'd made a joke.

  "You want my help now?" They teased, and Emeros drew his lips in one thin line, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  "You spotted things that neither of us could, I think it's a wise bet. Hurry, I have a feeling that we're not exactly alone in these ruins." 

  The Altmer fixed some of the buckles to where the armor hugged the Bosmers frame beneath the leather, and ensured everything set in it's place. Then, getting Wyndrelis' opinion and approval, they all sat around the fire that the bandits had left, stoking it with the end of a sword and letting themselves breathe a moment before they descended further, into the uncharted depths.

  "Do you think there's much further to go?" Wyndrelis raised the question, and the other two shrugged. Emeros was unfamiliar with Nord ruins, so he didn't know what to prepare the group for. If these were anything akin to the Ayleid ruins, then they would sprawl almost endlessly, tales of other alchemists and scholars ringing in the very distant reaches of his memory. He pulled his knapsack close to himself, opening it and dragging his waterskin from inside, taking a long drink. 

  "I'm unsure of what lay ahead, so be very wary of your surroundings. If there's just more bandits, at least we know what we're up against, and know how to handle it with certainty." 

---

  The tunnel sloped downward into the ruins, spiderwebs covering the walls and breaking apart on Wyndrelis' mace. He spun it into the webbing, then wiped it off on the wall until the webs stuck, stripping off from the metal. The altar and small urns ahead were the least concerning feature of the newly discovered space. Instead, the fully lit brazier, burning calmly in this abandoned space caught all three's attentions, Emeros swallowing down his apprehension at the sight.

  "Maybe there's more bandits?" Athenath suggested in a quiet voice.

  "There must be. Don't you recall, they mentioned someone else? Then there's other life in this barrow." He hoped it came out more assuring than it likely did, but the Bosmer wasn't sure it had the intended effect. Wyndrelis tugged open an urn, Athenath pulling the book off the altar, flipping through it, and setting it back down as though bored immediately. Emeros looked to the further-extending tunnel, leading the group slowly, taking great pains not to trip on the vines that crept the floors, thick along the walls. Were these vines or were these roots? Just how far down below the mountain were they, actually? Emeros couldn't think too much on it, pressing forward, using the fading light of the brazier as a guide. 

  The barrow shirked light off as easily as it granted it, the three making their careful ways in dim lighting from whatever braziers were lit. A dead skeever at one, and a turn to a narrow passageway lined with rotten bookshelves that almost seemed to creak as the three stepped between them and the smaller brazier. Did this place exist to taunt them? Emeros had always had an interest in ruins, but since he'd been warned heavily of any that may have dotted the northern countryside of High Rock, he'd always declined a chance to search them, and exercised great caution when entering any others. Now, he had the opportunity to see the Nord variety up close, and he wasn't enjoying it nearly as much as he may have ten, fifteen, thirty years ago. 

  Still, a promise held itself over his head, and breaking them was not a habit he intended to create.

  The roots grew thicker now, firmer, and multiplied in their numbers as Athenath gingerly toed between them, careful of their footing. Emeros lead the way, showing his own steps, how he examined every space to be sure he wouldn't press his foot down wrong and slip and twist his ankle. Wyndrelis followed the other two, his eyes flicking from the brazier to the pathway downward. 

  "Hold on," he whispered harshly, causing the other two Mer to snap their eyes to him, flames reflecting in the lenses of his spectacles. He moved quietly from the brazier, creeping along the wall, his lanky figure reminding Emeros of a salamander with the way he pressed to the wall and moved along it. The Dunmer pulled from its surface and peered into the chamber ahead, a figure passing in front of the entrance, shadow pushing its way into their observations. "Bandit."

  "What do we do?" Emeros whispered, looking to his companions. None of them knew how many were ahead, and taking risks seemed the last resort in this situation. Athenath quickly wove between the roots and crept down, inching ever closer to the chamber entrance. Silently, the other two followed, mimicking the same posture as the three watched the bandit pull a large lever rising up from the floor.

  Arrows, quicker than any person could fire, struck through the body that was well dead before it hit the ground. That didn't stop them from flying from every direction, more piercing the corpse that now slumped against the lever, the sounds of the barrage finally ceasing. 

  "Right, then," Emeros breathed, inching into the room, shoulders tensing, "is there any way we can figure thi-"

  "Look," Athenath pointed up at the ceiling. The row of stone animals stared back at the three Mer, all examining their surfaces from the distance. A snake and a whale. Then, shifting his extended index finger downward, Athenath pointed to the one that had long since fallen and become entangled in stone. 

  Another snake.

  "That's assuming these are not just decorative," Wyndrelis hummed skeptically as he looked around. He glanced between the pillars on the floor, then to the carvings, then to the other two. "Perhaps the same animals are on both?" 

  Emeros looked to the pillars in a neat line on the ground. All had some other animal on them. "I don't know, perhaps they move?" He stepped closer, rubbing a hand over the surface of a depicted hawk, brushing years of dust from its surface. He rubbed his hand on his thigh, scrubbing off the dirt with a scrunched nose. Athenath moved to the middle stone, grasping the top of it. He grunted and cursed at the stone until it shifted, thousands-years-old mechanisms springing to life as it spun. Emeros looked back to the depictions on the ceiling, Wyndrelis getting the same idea.

  "Snake, snake, whale," Wyndrelis instructed, watching as the other two Mer turned the stones with exertion, twisting them until they spun on their own mechanisms. When the pattern matched Wyndrelis' instructions, the three crowded around the lever, the air thickening with their apprehensions.

  "Who should pull it?" Athenath darted his gaze between the other two.

  "We all should. Do it together, I mean. It feels... Wrong, to volunteer someone to death if we fail." Wyndrelis turned to the Bosmer, who shrugged.

  "We could draw straws. I'm sure that would-" Wyndrelis pressed his heel into the toe of Emeros' boot, causing the other to grunt in pain and, after a moment, throw his hands in the air in resignation.

  "Fine, fine! Let's all pull the bloody lever together." If we die, at least it's not alone, he mentally added.

  One palm around it for each. Three hands to pull an ancient mechanism. As they all pushed it down, they waited for darts to puncture their bodies, to send them flying to the ground, but none came. Athenath squeezed their eyes shut in anticipation. Emeros looked to Wyndrelis, who stared straight ahead, motionless, all waiting.

  The metal gate hurled itself upwards, the sound jolting the elves. Emeros spun on his heel, releasing the lever. He readjusted his posture, all tension dropped as though he never believed there were any danger to begin with, and marched through at a brisk and easy pace. He heard Wyndrelis' calculated footsteps, then Athenath's, the different materials of their boots easy sounds to differentiate in the stone chambers. Emeros turned, pressing his gauntlet-covered hands to the surface of what had likely once been some sort of altar, then glanced to the spiral staircase which descended into the depths of the rest of the barrow below them.

  "Now, then, let's get our bearings and head on, shall we?" 

Chapter 5: Fus

  A word to the wise: never trust a man with "the Swift" after his name. 

  The Mer cursed themselves as he ran off into the dark. They shouldn't have let him go. They shouldn't have cut him out of the frostbite spider's webs. They should have just reached into his pockets - if possible at the angle he'd been hanging, frankly - and stolen everything off him. But now he'd run off farther into the dark, and even if they didn't want to, the three had to go in after him.

  It had been simple enough, to realize danger was up ahead. Especially as the amount of webs increased from scattered here-and-there's to utterly overwhelming. Wyndrelis wound the silk around his mace again, and the three had pushed into the strangely-lit chamber where an injured frostbite spider descended upon them, drooling from its venom-coated fangs, ready for fresh kills. It probably hadn't eaten so well in years, subsisting on skeevers and whatever other small creatures scurried their ways in here. Taking it down had been harder than they'd expected, but Emeros' skill with a bow, Athenath's stumbling-but-sturdy sword-swings, and Wyndrelis' magic and mace had done them well. 

  Then, there came the squirming Dunmer in the webs, blocking off a tunnel.

  Sweat poured down the three elves' brows. The fight had torn through a lot of their energy, but it didn't matter. Their stamina would recover. In the meantime, they all turned their attentions to Arvel. 

  "You did it. You killed it. Now cut me down before anything else shows up." The figure writhed in the webs, tangled up and tightened in them expertly by the spider that now lay on the stone floors, legs curled tight to its form. Emeros approached, examining the Dunmer. From everything he'd overheard the bandits saying in the first chamber, this must be Arvel. 

  He narrowed his gaze. "Where's the claw, Arvel?" 

  The Dunmer ceased his squirming. Suspicion donned his features, brow creased and red eyes locked on the alchemist. "How do you know my name?" 

  "I'm afraid that's not relevant. Where's the claw?" He repeated, voice heavier. The Dunmer bandit rolled his eyes. 

  "Dramatic one, are you? Tell me, do you boss around your friends like that?" He flicked his chin in the direction of the other two Mer who made their cautious approach, Wyndrelis bundling a healing spell in his palm, the soft chimes of which danced through the air as he sent magicka through Emeros, then to Athenath, then himself. 

  "That's none of your concern," Wyndrelis let the spell fade from his hand as he spoke, the mace clutched in a tight grip at his side, "we came looking for the claw, and we would like to know where it is. If you feel so generous," he gestured with an extended palm, bending his fingers back as though telling Arvel to hand it over like a small child. Arvel rolled his eyes in a comically large arc, lolling his head for emphasis.

  "Good gods, you three, you'll have to cut me down first!" He squirmed even harder now. Some of the webs snapped behind him, but not nearly enough to release him. "You won't get far without my help, anyways! I know how it works! The claw, the markings, the door in the Hall of Stories. I know how they all fit together! Help me down, and I'll show you. You won't believe the power the Nords have hidden there."

  Emeros shook his head at Wyndrelis, who was already prepared to cut away some of the binding webs. They locked eyes, and exchanged a knowing look. Without Arvel, they had no chance to have the claw, and to return it to Lucan and Camilla would be an impossibility. Athenath stood back, sword still readied and watching him carefully. 

  The moment the last of the webs pulled free from his body, the bandit spun on his heel and dashed down the corridor, shouting that they'd never catch him, that the treasure was his. He lived up to his name, with his feet flying under him at a pace none of them could keep up with.

  So, they didn't. 

  Wyndrelis stretched his arm out to his side, Athenath stumbling in an effort not to run full-force into the Dunmer. Emeros looked to him, bewildered. "If I know anything about Nord ruins, then I don't believe he'll be trouble any longer," the mage hummed.

  "Okay, so like, do we just let him run?" Athenath blinked rapidly, disbelief staining his face.

  "Precisely." 

  "Emeros," Athenath turned to the Bosmer, "tiebreaker, what do you think?"

  He stopped, taking a few steps back, arms folded over his chest, the crux of his thumb at his jaw as he mulled the options over. The three could all go in, or stay back, or one could go after and the other two hang behind. But if one of them went after Arvel alone, what if the thief cornered them? Or worse, what if there was something waiting ahead, and it overpowered them both? What if there were other bandits waiting in the shadows for all three to break away, to take them out one by one? 

  So, although he thought he may regret it, he suggested, "lets let him have his fun. We'll chase after him in a moment, but for now, we should rest and catch our breath." 

  Athenath groaned to conceal that they were somewhat glad that Emeros had suggested a break. The sunlight through the ceiling, what little they could see, had shifted in hue. It looked deeper now, richer, and something told Athenath from the slant of it through the hole above them that at least an hour had passed. Maybe more, but that didn't seem possible. This place wasn't that large, right? 

  Still, Wyndrelis led the three back to another chamber. They'd regain their energy and recuperate, address any injuries his spells didn't fix, and head through when they knew they were ready.

---

  Wyndrelis was right. Arvel certainly wouldn't be a problem anymore. 

  The dust of millennia shirked off the shoulders of the slinking undead, corridors now occupied by the glowing-eyed draugr. Their jaws rested permanently open, with too much frozen muscle to close entirely, bones creaking among the dim chambers. They shambled restlessly, Arvel's limp body spilled on the floor. His belongings scattered out away from him. A potion or two, bottles cracked and leaking now, a leather-bound journal, and glittering away from him, the golden claw.

  Emeros crouched, lowering to the ground. "Don't make a sound, just move when I move," he instructed, readying his bow. He reached into his pack, pulling out a vial just large enough to fit the head of an arrow through, and dipped it in. The clear liquid clung to the metal, Emeros careful not to touch it with his bare hands as he pressed the cork back into place and passed it to Athenath. "Hand it to me when I've finished." Nodding, the Altmer placed it into the pocket of their trousers and readied their sword, Wyndrelis with his mace, all preparing for the possibilities ahead.

  The draugr which the arrow pierced went down after a few moments, paralyzed by whatever potion had been in the small vial. It may not be sent back to the realms of death, but it was certainly no longer a threat. Emeros crept from his position against the wall and ducked into another hiding spot, creeping ever closer to where Arvel's body lay. "Use a few drops on your weapons, both of you, it will help." 

  Athenath pulled the vial from his pocket. He dropped some of the clear potion on his sword and Wyndrelis' mace. "What is it?"

  "Canis root, milk thistle, larkspur, several other ingredients."

  Wyndrelis' brows shot up high. "In other words, powerful, then." 

  Emeros chuckled quietly, muffling it as well as he could. "Yes, quite. Be careful not to get any on your skin, even absorption can be dangerous." 

  Athenath made a mental note of this as he gingerly corked the vial again and set it into his pocket.

  The second draugr went down with an arrow for distraction, a mace to the skull for impact. The cranium caved in at the immediate strike, bone shards splintering off from the force. The third went down from Athenath's blade, the Altmer crouched in the dark like a panther until it marched in front of them. He leapt from the shadows, pushed forward by both determination and fear, blade shooting straight through its spine. The shorter Mer kicked the corpse off his blade, and the three marched deeper, toeing carefully around the pressure plate, but not before Emeros snagged up the journal and claw that Arvel had so very graciously left for them. 

  The pathways ahead held more draugr, but most importantly, they also held more shadows. Less light illuminating the Mer meant less likelihood of being seen, more time to prepare, more poison and more space. Taking these down was easier, now that they knew what they were up against. Horrified and still standing, the white-hot terror grasping each of their hearts, but still alive and still slashing and firing and smashing through the ancient bodies. 

  Of course, the swinging axes that lined the passageway forward tore all hopes from under them. 

  "Damn," Wyndrelis hissed, catching his breath, the body of one of the larger draugr at his feet. The unsaid question hung in the air: what do we do this time?

  They couldn't send all of them through at once. Impractical didn't narrow down the half of the reasons why this would be a bad idea. The axes moved at their own unique paces, but swiftly and cleverly designed. Most importantly, there was no chain to pull to stop them, no lever, no switch, nothing. 

  "Okay, how the fuck could the Nords think this was a good design choice," Athenath exclaimed, gesturing widely to the corridor which loudly reminded the three that passing through would mean either submitting to death in this barrow, or calculating each step as though it were their last. Emeros paced slowly back and forth in the dim torchlight, hands behind his back as he tried to piece together any method which would work to keep them all alive. Two was too many. All three was far, far too many, and only one seemed cruel. To sentence someone to death like that... These two may be strangers, but this deep into the barrow, somehow, something had changed. Emeros couldn't contend with the idea of sentencing them to the end at an axe's blade when they had just so narrowly escaped a similar fate only a day ago. He paused his pacing, the image of Wyndrelis clinging to the wall of the root-encased corridor coming back to the surface of his mind.

  He looked to the Dunmer, locking eyes.

  The mage grimaced. "Oh." 

  "You're more agile than I think you even believe. If you can memorize the patterns they swing in, then you may be able to pass through and see if there's a chain on the other side."

  Athenath's mouth hung open, gaping protest, but he couldn't conjure any words to go along with the expression. Gods damn it, Emeros had a point, the collective agreement filling the air as the Bosmer looked slowly back to the corridor.

  "Besides, you're a mage. A healing spell in both hands..."

  "Restoration does not return life." 

  "But it can help prolong it." 

  Wyndrelis cursed to himself, but he didn't want to argue. Gods knew it was a horrible, but very clever idea. The one of them that knew Restoration and could easily apply it under duress... Gods. 

  He stepped closer to the corridor.

  Swing.

  He focused into his palms the golden light, the windchime-like sound of the spell blinking into existence as he pushed one foot in front of the other, against all instinct. 

  Swing.

  He pressed himself into a stiff, stock-still figure between the first two. One down. Two more. He sent more of his magicka into his palms, the gold light brightening.

  Swing.

  He stepped ahead. One more to go. 

  Swing.

  He pushed himself out of the corridor with all of his might, feet flying from under him as he landed on his palms, spell dissipating, catching himself. The other two crowded to the entrance of the corridor, Athenath covering his eyes. Wyndrelis stood up, dusting himself off. 

  Looking to the metal chain on his end, he wrapped a lithe hand around the links and pulled it tight. The axes slowed until they stopped in the spaces they'd come from. "Done," he called quietly, unsure where he was, or what lay ahead. He watched his companions awkwardly shuffle through the corridor, still suspicious of the chance that the axes might spontaneously ignore the designs of the trap itself and decide against staying firmly put. 

  Once all three were on the other side, Wyndrelis took charge, slinking carefully through the halls. "Where are we?" Athenath whispered, following close behind him, much too close to being in Wyndrelis' personal space than the mage liked.

  "A tomb," he whispered back, pressing his index finger to his lip, "and we don't know what is in here." 

  The warning could not have come at a better time, the three locking their eyes onto the figure of a draugr, stood in an alcove, eyes shut and arms folded over his chest. They glanced between one another, unsure of how to communicate in the presence of the being, before Wyndrelis crouched down and gestured for all to be silent. They would sneak past it, he seemed to be communicating. Emeros agreed with a sharp nod, trailing the end of the line as the three put one foot in front of the other in calculated motions, passing under the close-eyed draugr without incident, their slow procession through each upcoming tomb taking even more care as they all focused with tremendous efforts in not slipping on the oil that lined the passage. The lantern above swung off its line, foreboding, like the glint of a knife in the dark of the night. It threatened them to crash right down and set them all ablaze, each tiny swing of the rope causing their hearts to all accelerate, pulses racing in their heads, bodies tense and on edge. One wrong move and they would either die to an accident or a draugr up ahead. One wrong step and they would alert the statuesque monstrosity, falling into the oil, giving time for the lantern to swing down.

  The mental sigh of relief, luckily, did not roll into a physical one as they all checked that everyone was alive and well, the moment they'd left the thin passageway and toed their way through others. The tombs receded as they ascended the stairs, but danger had not left them. 

  The chamber up ahead contained a small bridge and a waterfall, which sprayed freezing droplets on the three as they contemplated their next move. The stone coffin did all the contemplating for them, as the lid of it flew onto the ground and another draugr emerged, prepared to take them with him into the worlds of the dead.

  Athenath gasped hard, then grit their teeth. "Fucking draugr, don't we have enough draugr?!" 

  "I suppose the barrow doesn't think so," Emeros drew his blade. Wyndrelis readied his mace, the three charging the creature which slashed expertly. Death had not muddled its instinct, the only kind which said to protect this place with as much force as possible, and carried the skill of the wielder's life of battle. The shield blocked and nearly knocked the Mer down, Emeros stumbling as it stopped the strike of his blade. The draugr turned its gaze to Athenath and held its battle-axe high above its head, the Altmer slipping on the mud and stumbling for any foothold against gravity, the blade coming down, clean and true-

  Magic coursed through the body, the draugr pausing every motion in mid-swing like it had been frozen in time. The Dunmer held the spell as Emeros and Athenath cut it down, finally letting the corpse drop to the ground. 

  "Gods, how much longer to go?" Athenath hurled the words through grit teeth, breaths staggering with the receded panic. Emeros looked between the other two Mer, and wished he'd never agreed to this. Even if only just two of them had agreed to this wild guar chase, then maybe they all would be back in Riverwood right now, warming by the hearth and chatting with Orgnar and Delphine and learning all about the town and the hold it sat in. 

  He subdued the fact that, if even just one of them had stayed behind, the other two would have gone, and probably be dead by now. 

---

  The river poured over jagged rocks and smooth stones alike. "Ugh," Athenath pulled his boot up and dangled it in the air, watching the water creep up to the hem of his trousers, the sound of disgust leaving his throat. Wyndrelis tittered, the three following a strange glow, Emeros leading again. The light of glowing mushrooms drew him in, that eerie, greenish light that he liked to see on the rare occasions he found himself in these positions. Glowing mushrooms were good for a few many things, versatile in their properties, and made great lights for a night or two when cut from a cave. He'd gotten in the habit at one point of keeping at least one or two on him in a large jar, if he anticipated he'd be anywhere dark. 

  The moment Athenath's feet hit dry land, he shook their feet, lifting one, then the other, like a housecat emerging from a pond with faux-dignification. But they were on dry land, and now, they could hear the sound of birds ahead. The same thought pounded through all three Mer's heads, the way out. The way out. 

  It was not, in fact, the way out. The draugr waiting for them went down easy, though, and the icy land-bridge was the much more frightful of the two things to face. But they did, shouldering the icy cold and the dimming light coming from outside, skirting the wall the moment they could find one and using every muscle in their bodies to guide them in the right direction. If this golden claw didn't lead them to riches beyond their wildest dreams, then maybe it wasn't even worth it. Maybe they should even just sell it to someone else, Emeros thought, glancing at the other two Mer as he tried to lead them down to stable land. 

---

  The Hall of Stories was an enormous chamber that stretched into the dark, a door on one end, and something none of the three Mer had ever seen before on the other. The walls stood, stoic and strong, their carvings like tattoos telling the story of their existence. Each one carried unreadable narratives, depicted in engravings and illuminated by braziers lit for hundreds, if not thousands of years. The stone composition of the room echoed every sound, from the flickering of the fires to the thud of footsteps, the wall at the end of the room mocking them with its lack of anything that made a door a door. Were they trapped in here? Emeros snatched Arvel's journal from his pocket and flipped through, each page making a loud, whipping noise against the reverberations of the chamber. Wyndrelis and Athenath walked to his side, peering down at the writings as Emeros dragged a pointed finger under each line written within, mouthing the words to himself. 

  "My fingers are trembling. The Golden Claw is finally in my hands, and with it, the power of the ancient Nordic heroes. That fool Lucan Valerius had no idea that his favorite store decoration was actually the key to Bleak Falls Barrow. Now I just need to get to the Hall of Stories and unlock the door. The legend says there is a test that the Nords put in place to keep the unworthy away, but that 'when you have the golden claw, the solution is in the palm of your hands'."

  Athenath grabbed the claw from Emeros' knapsack, the other furrowing his brow. Wyndrelis looked at it, the metal practically glowing in the light of the small fires, Athenath knitting his brow as they turned it over, again and again, rotating it in their palm. The Dunmer took it into his hands gingerly, running his thumb over what he thought was protrusions on the palm of the shape.

  He paused.

  He did so again.

  "The solution is in the palm of your hands," Wyndrelis repeated. Emeros' brows rose, eyes widening as he shut Arvel's journal with a thunderous slam, pushing it back into his pocket and rushing to the wall before them, feeling its surface. He pushed into one of the golden, illustrated circles, his fingers tremoring as it shifted under his hand. The stone clicked down, then rose up, the circle it lay in spinning. 

  "They move!" He announced, breathless. Athenath put a hand on the second one, both turning expectantly to Wyndrelis as he gazed carefully at the details of the raised illustrations on the claw.

  "Bear."

  Turn.

  "Moth."

  Turn.

  "Owl."

  The final wheel spun into place. Wyndrelis walked over steadily, pushing the tips of the golden claw into the holes. It turned against his own hand, twisting in one direction. The wheels spun rapidly, dust spitting out and spilling from the top of the wall, the door, as it lowered itself down into the ground. 

  Beyond the door, birds sang. Water gushed and ran. Athenath sprinted ahead, smile stretched wide over his mouth. This had to be the end, the ordeal was finally coming to a close, running into the open space as fast as he could manage, elation in every movement. Finally out, free from the cursed barrow and all its fucking traps and fucking draugr. Birds sang far away and the waterfall spilled gleefully into small streams and a tiny sliver of a stone bridge making its stride to the most intriguing structure of all.

  A wall, curved and carved with unfamiliar script, beckoned the trio closer, it's words scrawled long ago. It must have been here before this chamber, but remained untouched by nature, as though some force kept it's writing legible. It was clear that, if nothing else remained of Bleak Falls Barrow thousands of centuries from now, this would still be standing strong. 

  Athenath stopped at the bridge, the other two Mer sprinting after them. The dread that pitted their stomachs and lined their chests came directly from whatever force kept that curved wall standing. The room filled with a low humming noise, steady and calm. The light filtering in from outside was significantly dimmed, the cold deeper. But the wall was the only thing on their minds, here in the ever-growing dark. 

  "What's that?" Athenath whispered, breaking the fragile, tense silence. Wyndrelis shook his head, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

  "I don't know, but I'm not sure I trust it," he looked to the Bosmer, similarly skeptical, but mesmerized all the same as he stepped to the wall, "what should we do?"

  Emeros was quiet for a moment, taking in the sound of rushing water that poured on either side of the strange wall, the raised platform containing a stone coffin. "Proceed, but we should be careful," he cautioned. 

  None of them could place the sound that radiated from it. Wyndrelis called it drumming, Athenath called it chanting, Emeros calling it a hum. But the sound thundered through them nonetheless, burning at the backs of their skulls, bristling the hair on the backs of their necks. It pushed through them from their feet, up their stomachs and chests, and into their heads like a vibration from somewhere deep within Nirn, from somewhere far unknown and forgotten. They didn't know what to call it, what to say, how to say it, but a sound like a roar gleamed in their minds eyes, a sight and sound and feeling all wrapped into one undeniably present sensation.

  On the wall, one carving glowed bright blue the closer that they drew to it. The light swirled, as though made of streams of magicka, pulling around them, into them, the chanting a gnaw, the drumming a fever pitch, ferocious until it conjured such a headache it made the trio shut their eyes, cover their ears, but it couldn't block out the sound. It was coming from inside them now, from their cores, a sensation like an earthquake, like thunder, like a force that pushed and pulled. 

  Finally, it subsided, leaving behind only dull headaches. 

  They didn't have much time to relax. The stone coffin's lid popped off the vessel, flying high into the air and landing in the dirt, clouds of ancient dust rising as the draugr slung his legs over the edge. The bony creation groaned, pushing itself up as though it had been sleeping far too long, with only one goal, to decimate the defilers of this sacred place.

  The Altmer let out a shrill noise, a yelp that almost became a shriek, but grasped the hilt of their sword as the draugr charged the three. They swung and hacked and slashed, but all this did was anger the draugr as the thing exhaled something, livid at the presence of the living, the force of the exhale- no, the force of the shout, knocking Athenath to their knees. Still, he didn't give up, and as blow after blow landed on the bard's armor, they continued their furious attack, fear the only thing driving every movement of their muscles. Wyndrelis used the other's onslaught to pull Destruction magicka into his palms, lightning cracking the air like a whip and shredding itself through the draugr, still not stopping it, but slowing significantly. Emeros used the slowed motion to push his own blade deep into its chest cavity, careful to let go of his blade the moment it made contact with the thing so that the spell wouldn't have a chance to accidentally shoot to him, too. He knew some mages had enough control over their spells that this would never happen, but he didn't know if Wyndrelis was one of those skilled bunch, and he wasn't willing to find out. 

  The Mer hoped against hope that it was truly dead as it collapsed to the ground, stinking of ozone and iron. Wyndrelis kicked it with the toe of his boot, and when it didn't move, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He looked to his two companions, who were stepping over to the strange wall, sitting with their backs against it. He joined them, offering to heal any wounds, and as he worked shimmering, golden magic through the veins of his companions, he glanced to the giant chest that rested near the stone coffin. 

  "It's too bad we don't have a key," he muttered, more to himself than anyone. Athenath shrugged, shambling to his feet, making his way over. They tugged their knapsack from his shoulders, digging through until he found a small pouch tucked inside, and plucked out a handful of lockpicks, setting to work. 

  "Where did you learn to pick locks?" Emeros questioned, knitting his brow. Athenath didn't reply, prompting Emeros to consider repeating the question until he heard the distinct clicking of the chest opening. The Altmer plunged a hand into the chest, plucking out a large, strangely shaped stone. They rotated it in their palms, the gleaming lines on it the only thing he thought might be of value. Maybe as a decoration or something, but it didn't interest them at all. Still, again, possibly valuable. They tossed it into their knapsack without much thought, Emeros plucking the arrows from the chest and Wyndrelis examining the enchanted greatsword, turning it over carefully in his hands.

  "If we sell this," he looked to his two companions, "we'll have plenty of gold for supplies."

  "We?" Emeros repeated.

  "We." Wyndrelis confirmed without a second thought. "Let's go, I think I'm sick of tombs." 

  The trio set in the direction that a cold breeze flowed in from, and within moments, were back to the land of the living, with the moons high above and the summer breeze chilled from the altitude, warming significantly as they made their way down from the barrow. 

Chapter 6: The Claw

  The lonesome figure of a ramshackle cabin pricked its fingers up from the grasses along the hillside, night shrouding its full shape. Wolves howled in the near-distance, and the trio picked up the pace as they headed for the little cabin. The holes in the roof and cracks in the walls bit away every hope of a person who could host them for a night or give them directions, but the grasses and soft ground outside ignited plans for a small camp. The well-tended garden caught Wyndrelis' eye, with cabbages and leeks growing happily in the dirt, but he didn't mention it to his companions, whose shoulders slumped and drooped with the weariness that soon clogged all their other thoughts. 

  "We should build a fire," Emeros instructed as he set off to find proper kindling, "if we're going to camp out here, we should keep warm. I highly doubt this shack is going to keep out the cold."

  Wyndrelis watched the Bosmer nervously for a moment, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. Still, he ignored it. He turned his attentions to Athenath, leaned against one of the walls, their knapsack sagging with the stone he'd brought out of the barrow. "Why don't we just get back to Riverwood?" The bard asked, barely concealed fatigue at the edge of his voice.

  "Because it's a long walk, and I don't know about you, but I'm at my limit with travel today," The tinge of resignation Emeros' voice caught against his teeth, a snapped edge to his words that left no room for argument. Athenath rolled their eyes, pushed himself from the cabin wall, and started his own search for things to build the campfire. Wyndrelis stood there in the doorway to the cabin, spying an empty chair near the door, the prickling on the back of his neck stronger. Something wasn't right, and someone most definitely lived here. But who would? It looked perfectly abandoned. Still, there was a bed right there, and fresh herbs, were the other two ignoring this intentionally, or were they both so tired they couldn't be bothered to care? Yes, he wanted to sleep. He wanted nothing more than a warm meal and soft bed, and to put this sword away that he'd dragged from the depths of that place. But the price he'd pay in Riverwood was some gold. The price for staying in this shack, he worried, would be much worse than just a few septims. 

  He settled on the idea that, even if he told the other two about the nagging in his neck, they probably wouldn't listen. Who would in this state? Covered in bruises and with magic-mended injuries still fresh in their minds and half-soaked to the bone around their legs, who could bear to give a shit? 

  "Hey, help me out?"

  Athenath's voice rattled him from his thoughts. "Hm?" He slid his knapsack off his back, the enchanted greatsword going with it, leaning them against the chair outside the doorway. The Altmer lined up a few rocks to contain the little campfire, a few feet from the cabin. Far enough that they wouldn't block the doorway or set it on fire, close enough that if rain hit, they had somewhere to run. They'd gathered a decent pile of stones in the time Wyndrelis spent standing still, captivated by his own doubts. The mage silently lowered himself into the grass, the bard nudging a handful of rocks his way. A few feet from the pair, Emeros gathered kindling, taking pains to be sure everything was just-so. 

  "You think the road to Whiterun's gonna be so easy?" Athenath joked with a wink. Wyndrelis shrugged in response. The bard picked another stone and lined it up tight with the others. "Well, y'know. It'll be fine, I think."

  "You... Do?" He tried to shield the confusion that filtered through his voice. 

  "Yeah, why not? It can't be that far if Hadvar told us to just follow the shadow of a building, must mean it's close enough we can see it from the road. So, not a long journey. Then we can go do whatever we came here for. I'll go to Solitude, you'll head to Winterhold, and he," they jerked a thumb Emeros' direction, "will head to Windhelm." 

  The idea of splitting up bashed against his head like a pot. Right. Of course. They all had their own destinations. 

  Emeros briskly returned to the group, his long-fingered hands clutched around the kindling. It made for a sturdy campfire, the Bosmer rapidly twisting a stick between his hands until the first sparks ignited, blowing against the embers, flames growing until it could properly warm the group. He unlaced and tugged off his boots and socks and placed them neatly near the fire to dry.

  "You could have asked," Wyndrelis joked in a murmur, grin creeping up his features, Emeros rubbed at the back of his neck and cocked a brow at the Dunmer.

  "What are you talking about?" 

  Wyndrelis gestured to himself.

  "Ah. Magic." 

  "Yes." He clicked his tongue against his teeth. Athenath burst out a laugh, circles under his round eyes much more obvious now as he sat, hands fumbling for wrapped provisions. The other two rushed to get their own provisions from their bags. The way back to Riverwood was probably much shorter than they expected, but how could they know? They couldn't see the town through the trees or from the shack, so preserving most of their supplies would be the best idea, each Mer settling on a small meal that barely dug into what they'd purchased from Lucan.

  The meal lifted their spirits significantly, the dread that launched itself to the forefront of Wyndrelis' psyche now content to rest down in the basement of it, if only for now. Emeros cracked a couple of jokes, managed in his dry manner. They drank from their waterskins and tried to keep the air light, but the curved wall from the barrow permeated their thoughts. It clung to Wyndrelis like claws. The drumming he couldn't shut out. The chants that danced through his mind, as if it had always been there. The wall itself disturbed him greatly. What was with the glowing? 

  He shuffled his attention to the sword he'd dragged out from the ruins. The Dunmer knew plenty of enchantments, so there was no use destroying this greatsword to study it. Instead, the item itself and its construction is what intrigued him. He'd strapped it to his back with no hesitation. This may not have been the smartest move to make, looking back. What if it were cursed? He shrugged the thought away. If it were, he'd know by now. 

  Still, the presence of the artifact gnawed at him. The Nords resented magic. In ancient times, he'd read that they'd been apt at it, but over the centuries - and due to their long wars with the Snow Elves - they'd gradually stigmatized it among their own, shirked it off, and decided it was a danger that brought only misfortune. The recent war only increased this sentiment. Wyndrelis would have found it comical to turn one's nose up at such a gift, if he'd not seen how magic can go awry, and remembering his family back in Cyrodiil, decided not to laugh. 

  Torchbugs swayed in the air a few feet from the camp. The night swelled with the song of the insects and distant animals and the callings of nightbirds. Emeros looked into the cabin, then to Wyndrelis. The nervous kneading at the back of the mage's nerves intensified. Trying to explain exactly why this place set him on edge would be a fruitless effort, and he didn't expect anyone to listen to him, anyways. The place was entirely abandoned by the looks of it, with a caved-in roof and holes in the walls. It was probably a good thing the trio had decided to camp outside of it, rather than crossing the threshold. What if the roof fell in on them while they slept? He shivered at the thought, or maybe the wind coming off of the river caught him at the right angle. Whichever caused it, the mage tugged open his pack, and placed the new soul gems carefully inside. 

  "Now, should one of us take watch?" Emeros half-joked wearily. Wyndrelis snorted and looked around, staring up into the night sky. Athenath worked to tug off his own boots before he lined them up at the fire, Wyndrelis repeating the motion. In the morning, they'd have dry shoes to make the trek back to Riverwood with.

  "I will. You two get some sleep." 

  "Are you certain of that? You look half ready to fall asleep, yourself," the alchemist retorted, brow arched, elbow resting over a raised knee. Wyndrelis shook his head and laid back into the grass, the moons reflected in the circular lenses of his glasses.

  "I'll be fine." 

  Athenath pulled their cloak from their knapsack, Emeros retrieving his cowl. It may not cover much of him, but at least he could slide it over his shoulders and upper arms for a bit of warmth. The bard fluttered the cloak a few times before he let it settle down on top of them, turning his back to the fire. 

  "Wake me in an hour," Emeros instructed, before laying down in the grasses and closing his eyes. Wyndrelis gave a nod the Bosmer didn't see, and turned his attention back to the sky. 

  He could faintly make out some of the constellations above his head, silvery stars blinking down at him. The moons mosied in a slow path across the night sky. When he was younger, his older siblings had told him about the moons. How important they were, these ancestor spirits of Mundus. Even if he wasn't sure he cared much for the idea of spirits looking down at him in the dead of night, a fondness still buried itself under his floorboards for the old legends he'd grown up on. The faintest glimpses of Morrowind, the place his family had fled generations before his birth. 

  He looked down at the silvery buckle of his belt, the ornate star. He looked back to the heavens, and once he was sure his friends were asleep, he moved his attention to the beckoning threshold a few feet from the campsite. The minutes ambled slowly, slower even, the more the pull of curiosity dragged him near. Sparing one last look at his companions, Wyndrelis rose from the grass, dusting himself off as he peered into the dark shack. The light split itself inside against the jagged holes in the wooden building. He picked up his mace and toed his way inside, grey hand finding the worn, wooden doorframe.

  The fresh herbs had been laid about carefully. The books that lined the shelves, despite their age, seemed fairly well-cared for. Wyndrelis knit his brow, bright eyes darting around the room. He slipped into the shack quickly, examining the walls. There had to be something more to this place. Something was wrong, he could feel it, and he didn't want to drag his companions into any more trouble today. Sure, it wasn't his fault that Bleak Falls Barrow had been such a harrowing experience, but the idea of asking for the other two's help when they were clearly well worn out sounded like a terrible thing to do to them. 

  He looked along the bed, the sheets freshly washed by the lack of dust. Rickety-framed, but clearly slept in not too long ago. The mage knelt on the floor and squinted into the dark, spying a wooden indent. He fumbled a hand on the surface until his fingers traced cold metal, a handle. His eyes widening, he rose and pushed the bed upwards, grunting under his breath as he set it on its side. He'd rearrange the pillows and blankets when he got back. It'd be fine, right? 

  The ladder creaked and groaned under him as he lowered himself into the cellar. His hands clung to the sides, and he almost worried about the chance of splinters. Once his feet hit the ground, he spun on his heel, jolting at the sight. 

  Alchemy station, recently used based on the fresh ingredients laid about. Enchantment table stocked with plenty of soul gems. His eyes darted around, catching each detail and cataloguing it in his mind. The floors were recently swept, the stone surfaces clear of dust. The letter on one of the tables grabbed his attention further. Wyndrelis inched his way to it, as if worried that he was somehow alerting some invisible force to his presence just by breathing in the cool cellar air. He peered down at the writing, curled and sharp all at the same time, not daring to pick it up but bending his middle to get close enough to read it properly. 

  'Helgi, dear, why do you hesitate? You can feel the power coursing through your blood! You have only to reach out and grasp it! Renounce that boy of yours and come, come live with me in the forest. My sister will be here soon. Together, we can form a proper coven, and your training will truly begin.'

  Oh, gods.

  Wyndrelis gave quick, hard glances to the room. Of course. This was a witches cabin. He backed from the letter and to the ladder, climbing his way back out of the cellar as carefully as he could manage, his mace swinging along its place on his belt, knocking against the wooden rails. He carried himself from the dark and shut the trap door, moving the bed back into place. He took great pains to adjust the blankets and pillows back to where he remembered them laying. A little tug here, turn over a corner there, press down the center of the pillow just right...

  He sat down in the grass near the fire, stoking it with the end of the greatsword. He inhaled the night air and tried to avoid the smoke stinging his eyes, but it was futile. The winds of the hillside liked to send it right into his face. The Dunmer's attention searched for the other two sleeping near the fire, Athenath tucked under the red cloak that barely went down to their shins, Emeros curled into the fabric of his cowl, wrapped around his shoulders and arms like a shawl. They'd get much better sleep tonight than he would. 

---

  The bridge carried them back into town, morning light glimmering on its surface, skating the banks of the river as the daily duties of Riverwood's residents swung into motion. Hopefully, they still had a room at the Sleeping Giant. Athenath tugged their knapsack tighter, loose bits of grass tugged out by their fingers. Emeros held his head high as he walked. The night's rest did him plenty of good, lips even bearing a slight upward turn. 

  The cellar still propped itself up in Wyndrelis' mind, shaken like a fist. That cabin belonged to a witch. Fair enough, he figured. It explained the herbs and alchemical ingredients scattered about. But he didn't know if this witch was one he should be worried about, or someone who preferred to be left alone. He'd encountered plenty of witches in his time, even studied with a few when he was able, picking up on their techniques in absence of formal training from any more official routes. But some of them were more protective of their spaces than others, and much more secretive, and far less understanding.

  The door swung open to the room they re-rented from the Sleeping Giant, the trio grateful for the sight of it, untouched since they'd left. Athenath spun on their heel and plopped down on the bed dramatically, spreading out their arms. "Gods, I thought I was a goner there for a second." Despite the attempt to make it sound like a joke, worry edged at the tone of his voice, catching Wyndrelis off-guard.

  "Do you think we'd just let you die in there?" Emeros questioned as he seated himself at the small table along the wall. Athenath sat up, combing fingers through their long hair with a hefty shrug of the shoulders. 

  "We barely know one another. I mean, not to sound like the past two days haven't been pretty impactful, but come on, we're still practically strangers, so..." They trailed off, as though worried he was digging himself into a hole. Wyndrelis chuckled and shook his head as he took the chair across from Emeros, glad to have his knapsack and new sword off his back and a warm room in an inn, with a real bed.

  "He has a point," he stated, "we've only known each other a grand total of thirty-six hours, if I'm counting them correctly." 

  Emeros hesitated, then rubbed his temples in slow motions as he tried to soothe the memories of the barrow and of Helgen from creeping back into focus. It was a look Wyndrelis understood, and from the Altmer's slight slump of the shoulders, so did they. Emeros looked up again, breaking the silence. "And," he sputtered, "what was with that- that wall, anyways? I've never seen anything like it! Glowing, and chanting, and-"

  Wyndrelis interjected sharply, "I think it's best we keep something like that to ourselves, wouldn't you say, Emeros? The Nords are superstitious people, I don't know if it'd be wise to go around asking everyone we see about a glowing wall covered in unfamiliar scripts."

  "Agreed." Athenath reached into their knapsack and picked up the strange stone, examining it closer in the light. "And besides, what's with this thing?"

  The Dunmer grinned and seized the opportunity. "We should take it to Winterhold, have the mages at the College examine it." Emeros gave a light-hearted roll of his eyes at the comment, resting his jaw against a curled fist. The engravings depicted mountains inside the pentagonal shape of the stone, but none of the group could make heads or tails of what it meant. Lines glittered and shone in shapes that only appeared in the light, with many of them connecting at various points along it.

  "Are we shirking our promise to Alvor and Hadvar, then?" Emeros half-droned.

  The other two grimaced. Right, they had nearly forgotten that.

  The Bosmer spoke up again. "Besides, aren't you two forgetting something?" The other two knit their brows and exchanged looks. "The claw?"

  "Oh!" Athenath stuffed the stone into their knapsack, tugging the golden claw from the garnet bag's depths. They turned it in his hands, examining the gleam of the item in the light. Wyndrelis watched the shifting, minute expressions across the Altmer's face, tapping his shoulder with one slim, grey finger.

  "Come on, let's go." 

---

  "Lucan!" The Altmer called, the Imperial readjusting some potions on a higher shelf, pushing tundra cotton bundles back into place. At the sight of the gleaming object, his dark eyes widened, face illuminated by his sprawling smile.

  "The claw! You found it!" He exclaimed. Athenath handed it over, Lucan cupping the heavy object as though it were light as a child's doll. "There it is! Strange... It seems smaller than I remembered, funny thing, huh?" He held it in his palms before he looked to the counter, barely taking his eyes off it for a moment, weariness melted off his face like a wax mask. "I'm going to put this back where it belongs, I'll- I'll never forget this, you've done a great thing for me and my sister," he spoke, underlining his words as he waved his pointer finger. He set it down on the wooden surface, his eyes shining in the daylight and the flickering hearth.

  "It was our pleasure." Emeros paused, watching Lucan as he adjusted its position, then cleared his throat, "not to sound ungrateful, as the return of the item is certainly the reward itself, but..."

  "Oh, right, your reward," Lucan turned back around, looking for something on a lower shelf behind the counter, humming idly as he did so. After a few moments, he rose and plopped a coinpurse down on the well-polished surface. "Here you go, your reward, as promised. I should really get back to cleaning the shop, but truly, thank you." He smiled broadly as Wyndrelis plucked up the coinpurse, clutching it in one tense palm.

  "We're glad to hear it." Wyndrelis adjusted his glasses, Athenath turning for the door, eager to head back to the inn and spend the day recuperating for the journey to Whiterun. 

---

  "Four hundred gold?!" The Altmer exclaimed once the three had finished counting. Wyndrelis and Emeros, in unison, placed a finger over their own lips, making a shushing noise. "Sorry," Athenath whispered, "four hundred gold?" They asked in the same whisper. Emeros nodded curtly, double checking his own pile of coins he'd been sorting.

  "Correct," Wyndrelis affirmed, "which would amount to around one-hundred-thirty-three septims, per person."

  Emeros snapped his gaze up to Wyndrelis, incredulous. "How do you know that?"

  "It's a simple calculation," the Dunmer began to scoop the coins back into the coinpurse, "however, I don't foresee us splitting up in Whiterun, at least not yet, so there's plenty of time for us to split more gold later."

  "Sounds good to me." Athenath scooped up the pile he'd been sorting, pouring the coins into the purse. 

  Emeros finally joined in the process of refilling the purse, and soon, it was tucked safely in Wyndrelis' bag, "if he's this good with calculations, I vote we let him handle our earnings. All in favor?"

  Athenath's hand shot up as they laughed, "I'm fucking horrible with math."

  "Maths," Emeros corrected.

  "Shit, there's more?" They jabbed sarcastically, a wide smirk on his lips. Emeros rolled his eyes, placing the last of the coins together into the purse and tugging it tightly shut. Wyndrelis made room for it in his knapsack, careful that it would be somewhere he could access easily. 

  Wyndrelis looked to the Bosmer, the man's pragmatic appearance not escaping his mental notes on the other two. Brown trousers of a sturdy material tucked into leather boots. A Colovian style, hickory brown belt wrapped around his midsection, fastened with leather and glimmering gold metal over his pale tunic and dark green, vest-like garment. He wore his cowl more often than not as a scarf at the moment, the weather not demanding him to pull it up, the fabric fastened to his form with a hollow, circular golden pin. Emeros seemed the type to be prepared for anything, his only finery the golden earrings that hung from his high-arched ears, slightly higher than average for a Bosmer, his stature certainly taller than the average, as well. He stood always with a steadiness to him, and even when resting as he did right now in the chair across from Wyndrelis, he carried a level of alertness the other two didn't possess, drinking in his surroundings with a focus.

  Emeros sat, leaned back in his chair, quietly mulling something over before a breathy chuckle left his lips with a shake of his head.

  "I'm just glad we're not traveling during the Great War. Horrible time to be on the road, that was."

  "Really?" Wyndrelis arched a brow as he shut his bag and set it under his seat. "I wasn't traveling then."

  "You weren't?" The Dunmer shook his head again as Emeros leaned back in his chair, an arm slung over the back. "What were you doing during that time?" 

  "I was still at home, working on my studies." Wyndrelis waved the admission away with an absent hand. 

  "Gods, it was a mess. Every opportunistic bandit in all of Tamriel set upon some of those truly isolated roads. Not to mention, having to skirt battlefields and navigate around all of that... Well, I'm just glad that whole affair is done with." After a long pause, all eyes landed on Athenath, who shrunk back. "What were you doing during the Great War? Gallavanting about with your tambourine?" He teased, light-hearted in his tone. 

  Athenath sat there, quiet. "Well, no, not exactly." 

  The Altmer sat on the bed, the shaggy cut of their hair more apparent now that it was no longer neatly combed, curls running past their shoulders. His dark eyes were round and curious, but now, they tried not to look directly in the faces of either of his companions, flitting between the other two's hands or torsos, chin tucking to their neck. Emeros narrowed his gaze, his intrigue clearly piqued by the awkwardly mumbled statement. 

  "What do you mean, 'no, not exactly'?" The alchemist questioned slowly.

  Athenath dragged their palms down their face, as though he'd been dreading this. Wyndrelis carefully observed as the bard heaved a loud, dramatic sigh, fiddling with a corner of their vest. He mumbled something the other two couldn't hear. "What?" Wyndrelis asked. Athenath looked up, frown creasing the edge of his lips. 

  "I'm twenty-four. I was born a few years after the Great War." They uttered the admission with a level of embarrassment, and Wyndrelis understood why. An elven childhood lasted about the same length as any humans, the shortest period of their lifespans and often marked with celebrations, then their lives slowed, all things eased to a stroll as they grew older. This placed Athenath squarely in adulthood, but among other Mer, a young adult was treated as naive and lacking in the knowledge of their peers. Among humans or Khajiit or Argonians, this was grown out of quickly as responsibilities and families cropped up in those years, but among Mer, this was a particularly scathing presumption, treated less like capable adults and more like overgrown children, weeds among oaks. 

  "What?" Emeros' eyes widened, laughter brimming in his voice as he cupped his hands over his mouth. "My gods, I figured you looked a little young, but-" 

  "Oh, shut up," Athenath plucked a coin from his own pocket and tossed it feebly at Emeros' shoulder, watching the glittering septim bounce off his form, the Bosmer laughing. Wyndrelis considered stepping in, but there was a humorous grin at the edge of the bard's mouth. Emeros picked the coin up off the floor, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. 

  "Aw, is the infant feeling fussy?" He cooed in a mocking-sweet tone as he linked his fingers together, Wyndrelis stifling his own laughter. Athenath heaved a monumentally dramatic sigh, throwing their head against the mattress of the shared bed. Emeros chided, "none of that, now, you don't want to injure your soft spot." After the Altmer gave a strangled groan of frustration, Wyndrelis couldn't fight his urge to follow in the teasing.

  "Do you need a nap?" The Dunmer managed through his own tittering. Athenath's eyes locked on him and he plucked another coin in a slow, menacing manner. Wyndrelis held up his arms in defense, prepared for the gold to be tossed his way. Athenath plopped the coin back into his pocket with a sigh.

  "Come on, you don't even look much older than me. Weren't you a kid during the Great War, Wyndrelis?" 

  Wyndrelis ticked his tongue. "I was in my twenties." 

  Athenath pressed his face into their hands. The look he gave Wyndrelis through his fingers was a pouting plea for the other to help him out here, a little. 

  "And I was already in my thirties when it ended," Emeros tutted, "so you can do the maths on that." Punctuating with a wink, he leaned back in his chair comfortably, the bard's grin sprawling wider. 

  Linking their fingers together under his chin, he batted his lashes and put on a saccharine smile, coated in barely-concealed mischief. "Aw, then how was the Oblivion Crisis, pa?" 

  Emeros sputtered and coughed, head jerked wildly at the question. "I'm not that o-"

  "Terrible, Mannimarco was a nightmare for Mages' Guild recruitments," the mage replied dryly, pushing his glasses up his straight nose. The sound of Sven tuning his lute rummaged under the door, Orgnar making a droning comment somewhere in the middle of it all. Wyndrelis stood and stretched, the sound of the Altmer's laughter having died out moments ago. "Let's have a look around town, then we can plan for tomorrow."

  "Sounds good," Athenath straightened their vest as Emeros rose to his feet, "I feel like if I laid down now, I'd sleep for a week." 

  "Well, you have been up past your bedtime," Wyndrelis tacked on with a shit-eating grin. Athenath huffed, then pushed open the door and strode out into the inn, up to the counter, and asked Orgnar about the town itself while subtly trying to pick out the last remnants of grass from the ends of their hair. 

Chapter 7: Official Business Only

  The Sleeping Giant rarely got any sort of messages by courier, but occasionally, the Jarl would send a letter asking for help with a particular matter in an isolated corner of the hold. This letter wasn't from him. Handwriting spiraled and jagged all at once swirled along the crinkled parchment, and when he handed it over to the trio, Wyndrelis inhaled sharply. 

  This was the handwriting from the cellar, he thought, glancing rapidly between his two companions. 

  "Here, some old woman came by and dropped this off a few days ago," Orgnar grunted, "since you helped Camilla and Lucan Valerius, figured you might be interested." He tapped the letter for emphasis, Athenath picking it up and scanning the letter carefully. In short, it was a request for help with a specific pest problem; a wolf that had been stalking a remote corner of wilderness just outside of Riverwood, a beast that had a habit of intimidating travelers, specifically targetting a relative of the letter's author, who implored whomever got this request be careful and take every extra precaution.

  Emeros sucked his inner cheek between his teeth as he thought it over. Really, the trio should be well on their way to Whiterun by now. Who knew how long that dragon was going to hold off on attacking the town of Riverwood? Would this make any difference? Wolves did as they pleased, but the plea in this letter detailed a lone wolf, something uncommon that set his nerves on edge. He took the paper into his hands and inquired, "did the woman who dropped this off say anything about the wolf itself? Any distinctive markings, any signs of illness?" 

  Orgnar rubbed his chin thoughtfully, staring off into the hearth. "Now that you mention it, she said to be on the look out for a wolf with one grey ear." 

  "One grey ear?" Emeros repeated. Orgnar nodded.

  "Yeah, that's what she said." 

  "Oddly specific," Emeros noted as he pocketed the letter. He looked between the other Mer as he turned on his heel and took an easy stride back to the trio's room and gathering his arrows and donning the armor they'd pulled off a bandit corpse. The leather was fairly thick, and the gauntlets had served him well. Plus, the fur lining kept him warm, though that was a tad unnecessary at the moment.

  "So you're going after it?" Athenath asked, leaning in the doorway as Emeros examined his arrows. 

  "We," he corrected, "I think we should all see this thing up close." 

  "Why?" The confusion sprawled over the Altmers features as Wyndrelis inched by Athenath and into the room, tugging his own armor on over his clothes. Emeros looked between the Altmer, then the Dunmer, then the windows high above them, lining part of the upper wall. 

  "One grey ear is a very odd marking, and if it's a lone wolf, it could be injured or sick. It's best to take it down now, instead of risking it spreading something to the other wildlife. Don't worry," he nudged a small smile up his mouth, "as long as we keep our distance, we'll be alright." 

  Athenath shrugged, snatching their own armor up and buckling it on atop their clothes. He wasn't keen to encounter sick animals in the backwoods of Whiterun Hold, but he couldn't deny the burning embers of curiosity. An old woman dropping off a note about a strange animal sounded ideal for one more distraction from the gravity of Alvor's request. In a day or two they'd be standing before a Jarl, explaining what exactly happened in Helgen, hammering home just how much danger his people were in.

  When they told Orgnar they were heading out after the old woman's wolf, he trudged to the porch and aimed a finger towards the mountains that supported the barrow, explaining that the woman - he'd not caught her name, didn't think to at the time - had told him she lived out that way, and the wolf stalked the river that direction, to follow its twists and curves carefully.

  "Isn't that where we camped last night?" Athenath asked. He nodded. 

  "I believe so." The Bosmer's boots made dull thuds on the stairs as he lead the trio to the road, his posture steady, upright, chin high, gold jewelry catching the sun. He carried a few healing potions he'd bought off of Lucan, despite his desperate hopes he wouldn't need to use them or to cure ataxia or bone-break fever this journey. Awful conditions, he'd seen plenty of cases of them in his travels, and couldn't guarantee he'd have the ingredients on hand to brew up his own cures for them. This was Skyrim, this was unfamiliar territory, and who knew if he'd be able to pull potions together in a pinch while the trio were away from the town. 

---

  The road subsided into dirt pathways. This time, they followed against the current of the river's rushing waters, the mountainous terrain bearing the weight of ancient trees, sunlight burning through the limbs and leaves. Wyndrelis tried to shake off his worries. He did not know what it meant to be a witch in the Skyrim wilderness. Could the cabin they'd discovered truly be occupied? Recalling the fresh alchemical ingredients, the empty and half-empty jars, the charged soul gems... Well, it wasn't abandoned, that was for sure. The only dilemma that wrestled his nerves was whether or not to tell his companions, but they weren't heading to the cabin directly, right? The trio would walk along the river, kill a wolf, and likely not see the cabin or its occupant. So what did it matter? 

  Wyndrelis bit his tongue. He would do his best to keep it bitten. They would likely not believe it, anyways. 

  Athenath followed dutifully behind the other two, Wyndrelis glancing back at them, the Altmer's hand lightly wrapped around the hilt of their sword. If anything approached from the front, they'd have plenty of time to ready himself for a fight. If anything came from the back, the Altmer would hear it well enough. 

  They strained their ears in the thickening forest, but only heard the birds and the insects scuttling about. 

  The trio's footsteps quieted as Emeros made a fleeting motion with his palm, hand lowered in the air as he crouched behind a trunk, readying his bow. "I see him." He murmured quickly. Athenath unsheathed their sword, Wyndrelis clasping his mace in one hand, casting oakflesh with the other. Emeros nocked an arrow and knelt, steadying his posture and his lungs both, the noise of the world filtered out until all he heard was his own beating heart.

  The arrow whizzed by the grey-eared wolf, whose steps halted in the dirt. Eyes locked on Emeros, the beast hunched down and growled. A warning. Don't come any closer.  

  Another arrow whizzed by, this time missing his leg. The wolf snarled, Wyndrelis' magicka shrill in his palms as he cast Sparks, the lightning and wolf's jaws both snapping in the air as the beast hurled itself their way, charging the trio with incredible speed. Emeros fired another arrow, this time watching the head push deep into the muscles of the wolf's hind leg as it wove in and out of the trees, both as though it were fleeing and attacking all at the same time in a wild frenzied rage.

  The wolf charged for the trio from behind one of the thick conifers. Athenath swung their sword, catching his hind legs as Wyndrelis used his mace, the metal smashing into its shoulder blades as it tried to flee. As the beast retreated, Emeros fired one last arrow into its head, watching it crumple down into the earth.  

  The trio caught their breaths, palpable anxiety in the air around them. "Did it bite you? Scratch you?" Emeros urgently interrogated.

  "Didn't get close enough," Athenath answered. 

  "Didn't get to me, either," Wyndrelis put his mace away. Emeros breathed a long, relieved sigh.

  "Good. I think we'll stocking up on disease cures in Whiterun, should we decide to hunt wolves again." He was only half-joking. The concern in his voice still traipsed the air as he approached the corpse, one grey ear flopped over its head. It was a magnificent specimen, with strong legs and a long, straight snout, and perfectly white teeth. Kneeling down, he ran a hand along its fur, the lack of a heartbeat a strange comfort. He examined its body, taking a special interest in the fur and the skin, finding ticks and fleas here and there, but nothing out of the ordinary. All together, the pelt looked in good condition, and it would be a shame to waste it in the late summer heat...

  He set his knapsack aside, dug out his hunting knife, and set to work. Tugging off his gauntlets, he instead retrieved a pair of leather gloves that pulled up to his elbow. Tucking his sleeves into them, he rolled the wolf onto its back, and pressed the blade down into the soft flesh where the hind leg met the body.

  "Shit!" Athenath blurted out, lurching back as the first beads of blood ran down the fur. They covered their mouth with their hands, before removing them and nervously uttering, "Emeros, I think it's already dead."

  "Of course, I'd never skin a live one." 

  "I mean- yeah, of course- that's not- it's not-"

  Emeros halted his work, blinking a few times before turning his attentions fully to Athenath with an arched brow. "You've never skinned an animal, I take it?"

  Their palms were coated in a thin sheet of cold sweat. "Um-" 

  "Ah," Emeros tutted quietly, waving a hand, "if you're going to be sick, please do so elsewhere. I plan to sell this pelt."

  "Okay," Athenath squeaked, abandoning his desperate attempt at composure. Wyndrelis looked between the pair, the bard already heading in the direction the trio came from, getting as far as they could from the situation. The raven-haired Mer looked to his friend, whose expert carving meant the task would take considerably less time than most skinners.

  "Gods," Wyndrelis snorted, shaking his head, "perhaps a warning before you begin that, next time?"

  Emeros thought this over, looking up into the distance, then shrugged his shoulders and set back to work, "Perhaps," he continued about his task as he added, "but the spoilage clock starts ticking the moment it's heart stops, and in this heat, I'd rather not handle that stench. Yourself?" He shifted his eyes to the Dunmer, who shook his head rapidly at the thought of the heat-struck stench of rotten meat. "Good, then it's settled. Though, perhaps you should check on Athenath." 

  Wyndrelis pressed a palm into the grass as he sat down beside the Altmer, the river giving plenty to focus on instead of the current process several feet away. Athenath sat facing the water, enough distance away from Emeros that they could no longer hear what was happening behind them. Wyndrelis rested an elbow on his knee, the thick material of his trousers keeping him too warm to be comfortable in the encroaching afternoon heat. "Doing well?"

  "Gods," Athenath groaned, words muddled with a laugh. "That was embarrassing." 

  "No," Wyndrelis shook his head as he picked up a smooth stone, "it happens." After a long, unsteady pause, he spoke up again. "Do you know how to skip stones?"

  The Altmer's face lit up slowly at first, then slid a grin up their mouth. "No, but I've always wanted to learn," he said as they pushed himself up. The Dunmer followed, minds both now turned on the search for the perfect stones to use. It would be a good distraction from everything the past few days had been, and he hadn't skipped stones in years. A gut-deep ache hit him as he remembered the last time he had. He shoved it aside and helped the Altmer look for the right kinds of rocks, explaining what was needed to make them bounce. He explained that, because this was not still water, all the rocks would do was slip away along the currents and into the abyss of rolling waves, but it would at least be practice for when they came upon a lake sometime, maybe even soon. Athenath still thought it was a good idea, and the two stood on the bank, watching the rocks wash away into the depths, waiting for their friend to finish up his work so they could all prepare for the journey to Whiterun. 

  Emeros left meat for the gathering carrion birds, black wings blotched along the branches and sky above him. Some circled. Some sat still. He tugged the fresh animal skin into a bundle using some twine, and while it wasn't the best hold, he could wrap it up so that it didn't bleed onto his other belongings until they got back to Riverwood. 

---

The road back to Riverwood had become easier to navigate. The bridge crept into view, and before the sun had fully crested the nearby mountains, they were back in town. Emeros brought the fresh pelt to Alvor, the two agreeing to split whatever money came from the leather strips that it would produce. The Bosmer offered to help him clean it and ready it for tanning, so they set to work while the other two returned to the inn. 

  Comfortably sipping from tankards and watching Sven make his worst attempts at conversation with Camilla, Athenath and Wyndrelis waited for their friend to return as Orgnar cooked over the hearth, giving a low rumble of a comment to the Nord bard, who went back to his lute in a hurried motion. Camilla muttered something to Delphine a few minutes later with a small smile before slipping out of the inn, a few more residents of the town finding their way through the door after a long day. Emeros found himself among them, excusing himself as he awkwardly toed between a couple of the mill workers, seating himself with the other two Mer. 

  "You think Whiterun's really the largest city in Skyrim?" Athenath asked. Emeros knit his brow.

  "I don't recall if that's what Hadvar said. Did he describe it that way?" 

  "I can't remember," Wyndrelis shook his head, "but I do know from reading about it at some point that it is the agricultural center of Skyrim." 

  Emeros scoffed, "good thing this hold is neutral, then. If either side controlled Whiterun, the consequences could be..." he trailed off, then gave a disapproving shake of his head. The other two caught the meaning. The idea of Whiterun being under either side's control could be dire. What would happen to the exports of the hold? Would people on one side starve? Hungry soldiers meant tired soldiers meant less reliable forces. Defections, too, could come about. People's families starving under the thumb of one stubborn leader or another would spell disaster. 

  This war was none of their business, but the consequences could be. Either way, the trio would travel tomorrow to Whiterun proper, and carry the promise made to Alvor with them. 

---

  Through the cool, afternoon breeze drifting over the leaves and branches along the path, singing could be heard.

  The forested road carried them far from Riverwood, trees stretching upward in shimmering greens, the plants - once plentiful and sprawling - sparse in number as the trio drifted further and further from the logging community. The occasional deer, in a hurry to get to or away from something, made hurried darts across the road. The clouds rolled in light, soft shapes, white wisps cascading along the mountains that housed Bleak Falls Barrow, cupping the jagged shapes with care. Athenath thumped and shook his tambourine, familiarity of a song they'd learned long ago and rehearsed now for their application to the Bard's College. 'But Melvin of Skingrad, he hid in some crates...'

  Athenath stopped in his tracks, tambourine that they'd been thumping and shaking half-forgotten as he grasped it in tight fingers, staring at the gigantic silhouette before the three. The arches and angles of the city on a high hill, situated in the middle of an expanse filled to the brim with plains, farms, and a few other scattered businesses, made itself known in its splendor. Whiterun proper was a grand, high-walled city, with its crowning jewel of Dragonsreach making the most intense impression from the distant road. Painted windmills lazily rotated in the breeze, colors muted from years in the sun. A small stream split the land, and the pathway wound further downwards towards the plains like it was laid along the back of a giant snake. The coppery grasses spiked up from the ground, tundra cotton plentiful along the road.

  Athenath breathed a noise that sounded like it came from a place of awe, eyes wide open as if he were trying to drink in every single detail, imprint it in their mind. Emeros looked to his two companions, Wyndrelis' own face unreadable, but his eyes fixed on the structure that practically dwarfed what must be the entire city from this distance. The Bosmer stared out to it, the way the mountains rimmed the whole valley, lining it like uneven lip of a sculptors first clay bowl, sun golden, plains bronze. 

  As the sun lowered in the sky, the group headed past the bridge, past a meadery and its low, wooden fence, and into the surrounding farms of Whiterun. Windmills churned in the oncoming late noon, farmers tending to their crops, livestock wandering their respective farms. The path to the city inched ever closer to the walls lined with braziers puffing heavy, black smoke, the guards on patrol not taking their eyes off the strangers who found their way to the main gate.

  The trio didn't have time to speak, as a guard sturdily marched to the three, speaking in a rough voice. "Halt! City's closed with dragons about, official business only." The other guard gave a grave nod, gripping the hilt of his blade tighter. Helmets obscured their faces, their armor glinting in the afternoon light.

  Emeros stepped forward. "We bring news of Helgen about the dragon attacks, certainly the Jarl would want to know," he persuaded, watching cautiously as the guards gave one another skeptical looks, assessing the trio and their intents. The first guard sighed. This was well above his paygrade. 

  "Fine," he relented after a moment, "but we'll be keeping an eye on you three." 

  The guards pulled open the gargantuan, wooden gate, which creaked and groaned as the way to Whiterun parted, the path extending past the plains now and into the city flecked with noon light, shadows long, skies wide. The trio stepped through, the gate swinging shut behind them. 

  The streams of thick, orange clouds barreled over the city skies, blending into the blues and greens of a horizon that encircled the landscape for miles on end. As the gates closed and they left the miles of plains behind, the high grasses were replaced by cobblestone streets and winding waterways that lined the city walls, throughout and all around, providing an ever-present background radiation that seemed to clear the air of all uncomfortable silences. Patrols passed by, some carrying torches, prepared for the encroachment of night. Whiterun was bustling, for all the city could be at this hour. It wasn't a sprawling metropolis like any of the trio had been expecting, but it was still wide and spread over the hills, dozens of homes and businesses dotting the roads up the hills which must have lead to the castle they'd been eyeing from the distance as they walked.

  "We'll pay whatever it takes," came the voice of a formidable man, part of his blond hair tied back from his sturdy face, "but we must have more swords for the Imperial soldiers."

  The woman he spoke to leaned her shoulder against the post of what appeared to be the local blacksmith shop, her face ruddied from heat, smudges of soot here and there at her cheeks. "I just can't fill an order that size on my own. Why don't you swallow that stubborn pride of yours and ask Eorlund Gray-Mane for help?"

  "Ha!" The man chortled, "I'd sooner bend my knee to Ulfric Stormcloak. Besides, Gray-Mane would never make steel for the Legion."

  "Have it your way. I'll take the job, but don't expect a miracle." She watched the man in Imperial armor turn and walk off towards a cluttering of stalls in what appeared to be the market square, before turning her eyes on the group with a scoff and a roll of her eyes. "Battle-Borns." 

  "What was that all about?" Emeros asked as he eyed the slowly-disappearing Nord in Imperial garb. The blacksmith exhaled, rubbing at her temples. 

  "Oh, just a member of one of Whiterun's 'oldest and greatest clans'. What, does he think I'm able to stop time and make all his swords? Am I supposed to be up all night with these orders? I..." she trailed off, resting her forehead in the crux of her thumb. Dragging her hand down her face, she returned to the forge, the travellers never quite leaving her line of sight. "I shouldn't bother you three with the details."

  "I take it you're the local blacksmith," Emeros said, gaze flitting from her, to the forge, to her anvil and various tools, the woman snorting. 

  "Well, one of them. I work the forge all day, that's for sure. I've got to, if I hope to be as good as Eorlund Gray-Mane some day." 

  "Who's Eorlund?" Athenath asked quickly, Wyndrelis keeping a distance between himself and the heat of the forge before the trio. 

  "Head of the Gray-Mane family, Whiterun's other oldest and respected clan. Take my advice and keep out of both their ways. The Gray-Manes and Battle-Borns, ever since this new war broke out, are both trouble."

  "Do they give you any trouble?" Athenath questioned further, the tint of a frown curling at his lip. The blacksmith shook her head, looking up at the strange elves with a rumple of her brow. 

  "Aside from placing impossibly-large orders? No. But interacting with either of them will earn the distrust of the other, so it's best to just leave 'em be." Pausing, she wiped her hands off on her apron and extended a firm, calloused hand. "Where are my manners? Gods. My name's Adrianne, you three are...?" The trio took turns introducing themselves, Wyndrelis doing so as quickly as possible, as though the friendly gesture scorched him. She didn't seem to mind. "Well, it's getting dark. You three might want to head to the Bannered Mare, talk to Hulda and Saadia. They'll give you a room for the night." 

  With that, she tidied up her forge for the evening, and the trio marched the long, cobbled street up to the inn, ready for a night's rest and new, overheard conversations from this towns residents. 

Notes:

song athenath is singing is "melvin of skingrad" from the beyond skyrim: bruma soundtrack! thank you for reading/re-reading this far, hope you all will stay tuned for the future updates of this fic. <3

Chapter 8: Gray-Mane or Battle-Born?

  With the late sun vanishing and the moons set higher above the plains, the Bannered Mare's usual patrons made their way along the winding grids of the city and through the front door, the main hall boasting of full seats and plenty of mead in mugs, ale in bottles, and fresh meals cooked over the hearth. The trio budged their way into the small inn, surprised at its warmth and the laughter rattling the walls. Emeros heard the innkeeper's voice and took quick, light steps up to the counter, exchanging a couple words and a few coins before he disappeared into the kitchens, already examining the ingredients available and his own provisions and what he could hope to make from them. 

  Athenath slipped into a chair at the counter, Wyndrelis following suit apprehensively, the innkeeper busy in conversation. They caught her name, Hulda, and the name of the other woman now busied with a tray full of ale, Saadia. The Altmer rested his chin in the heel of his palm, asking Hulda various questions about the city and the Bannered Mare itself. The older woman gave a few quick answers as she brushed a few loose, greying strands from her forehead. 

  "So, I'm assuming with a town this size, there's some interesting rumors around." The Altmer's sharp grin and elbows dug into the counter's surface reflected in the bottles of ale set out, Hulda arching a brow at the Mer as she replied to someone across the room, the tiniest flicker of grief set in her eyes.

  "I assume you saw the Gildergreen?" The other two shook their heads. "Big tree, all burnt up, in the middle of the Wind District. It's part of the Temple of Kynareth. People want Danica to do something about it, but I don't know what they expect." Hulda shook her head as though she, too, thought that the tree could be fixed with an easy handwave and a spell or two, but had tossed these hopes out with the dishwater long ago. 

  "So, speaking of temples, where's the Temple of Mara in Skyrim?" Athenath crossed an ankle over their knee, foot bouncing restlessly like a dog wagging its tail. 

  "That would be Riften," Hulda replied, "though, I'd be cautious about heading that way. Riften is... it's not what it used to be. The way I've heard it from folks coming this way, the Thieves Guild runs the place, now."

  Athenath's arm laid on the counter, posture leaning towards the innkeeper, curiosity piqued. "Skyrim has a Thieves Guild?" The sound of their voice set Wyndrelis in an uncomfortable mental pause, his eyes following the Altmer from the corner of his vision, not entirely facing, not entirely away. His hands clasped over his wool-clad knee, he could feel the sharpness of the bard's intrigue, and the disapproval in Hulda's own speech. 

  "Yeah, though I don't know much about them," Hulda scoffed through her laugh, but the suspicion in her eyes cut the Mer back from the lightness of the comment, "way I hear it, they've become more like hired thugs for Maven Black-Briar. I'd keep my nose out of it if I were you." 

  It wasn't so much a threat as a tiny worm of a warning, the kind that wriggled around in one's brain and buried itself deep in the soil of thought. Athenath leaned back and gave a mild-mannered shrug of their shoulders. "Yeah, of course. I just figured that was a Cyrodiilic thing." 

  The evening crowd dampened all chance of getting any more information out of either Saadia or Hulda, both busy with mead and meals and a million little tasks that never seemed to end. Athenath wondered how two people could run an inn by themselves, but every time he mulled it over, he'd watch them seamlessly tackle every corner of the establishment and handle every little, minute detail like Dwemer clockwork machines. They had it down to a fine art, even if Hulda made comments here and there about selling the inn to someone else in town. The laughter grew and the songs from the local bard carressed the warm room in a practically saccharine atmosphere, as if he were playing for the pleasure of hearing his own voice and found the audience to be secondary. Still, his voice was fine, and his skill with the lute finer. Occasional tensions made a crawl up the ceiling and walls, the palpable kind whose hands dipped into the very atmosphere and pulled at the roots of calm, not enough to tug it out but enough to reveal the scuttling insects clinging to it. Some folks skirted around one another. Some bumped into one another as if the other were invisible, and glared, and walked away. Hulda would shoot a look, and the tension would melt away, if only for now.

  Athenath and Wyndrelis quietly spoke to one another, Emeros still in the kitchens, his ears twitching with the little fragments of conversations overheard, his gaze here-and-there observing his friends. Out of the corner of his eye, Wyndrelis spied the blond in Imperial armor from earlier, who marched up to the strange Mer at the counter. The mage tapped a grey finger nervously on Athenath's shoulder. The Altmer shed a nervy glance to the man who now stood behind them, beard neatly trimmed, face strong, arms hard and sturdy from years of labor and soldiering.

  "Gray-Mane or Battle-Born?" His voice came out icier than a snowstorm in Bruma, the question hefty on his tongue. The two Mer shared a look, uncomfortable in the other's presence. 

  "What?" Wyndrelis choked out. The Nord rested two large fists on his hips. 

  "Got stones in your ears?" He growled, "I asked what side you're on. Gray-Mane or Battle-Born?" The question came out more urgent than the one before, and Athenath inched their seat closer to the mage. From across the room, the eyes of the Bosmer bored holes into the armor-clad blond's shoulders. Sharp and ever-present, he'd chat with a few patrons who passed him by, but his focus never split too long from the figures of his friends, or from the stranger. 

  Several patrons took notice of the Nord. Another similarly built Nord watched, lip curled and breath taut. Wyndrelis thought back on earlier, with the blacksmith, what she'd said and how she'd said it. How could he tell Athenath what to answer if he couldn't verbalize it without the man hearing? Athenath gave an anxious glance to the mage, as if asking the same question. Taking a gamble could be risky. Would this result in a fight if their answer disatisfied him? 

  "Um- Battle-Born, uh-" Athenath stammered out, Wyndrelis nodding emphatically. Visibly relaxing, the Nord gave a warm grin. 

  "Then I say well met, friends. I could tell you were sharp ones the moment I laid eyes on you." He craned his neck, searching for something. "And your other friend?"

  "Oh, Battle-Born, no doubt." With a light hand, Athenath waved the tension quickly away and gave the brightest grin he could muster, the Nord's nod and smile enough to give the pair some peace. With a 'long live the Empire' and a wave, he left them alone, the room again relaxing, the world back into its rightful place, even if Athenath's spine crept with the look given to them by a few other patrons. 

  All thought of the family feuds of the city left their minds as Emeros carefully made his way over, bringing with him a platter laden with small bowls of stew and grilled vegetables. Some of it had been there when the trio arrived, some of it he'd cooked himself, a ruddy hue at his cheeks from the heat of the cooking pot. 

  "What the devil is his problem?" He grumbled under his breath as he sat beside the pair. 

  "As Adrianne said, let's keep out of their way," Wyndrelis spoke in a low voice between the three as Hulda made her walk back to the counter for something. She gave one cautious look to the Mer as if to ask if the Nord had been bothering them, and with the unanimous shake of their heads and return to their meal, they chose to answer no. 

---

  The decently-sized room bore and equally well-sized bed, with the bonus of being large enough for the three without worrying about squishing against one another uncomfortably. The green blankets crooned the sweet song of sleep, and the trio agreed on the arrangement they'd held in Riverwood, with Emeros on one side, Wyndrelis on the other, and Athenath between. Might as well, as it was familiar, and none of them had enough room in their brains for the debating on sides of the bed.

  Laughter drifted up the stairs and ghosted along the balcony attached to their room, music accompanying like an unconventional lullaby. "I hear this inn has a bath," Emeros pulled the blankets high to his shoulders, facing the other two, "we should wake early, bathe, and do laundry. Gods know I'm not going to see the Jarl in this state," he added with a sleepy chuckle, Wyndrelis propped up on his elbow to face the Bosmer, Athenath already closing his eyes. 

  "Good idea. I just hope this is the end of our dragon business," the Altmer murmured, raking their fingers through their hair. 

  Wyndrelis set his glasses on the nightstand before nestling under the blankets, a grin at his lips. "Gods help us, if I never see one of those things again, it will be too soon." 

Notes:

bit of a shorter one, but i hope you like it nonetheless. ♥

Chapter 9: Promises to Keep

  Thick, impenetrable night slid through the cracks of the inns walls, cool air and occasional passes of torch flame from outside bringing slivers of light into the otherwise dim hall. In the rented upstairs room, the flickers from the hall found their way in, bathing it in a bronze hue. Sleep, the elusive beast, sometimes captured and sometimes wild and far away, had wrestled itself from Athenath's grasp minutes ago. So now, he lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the heavy wooden beams, the aged surfaces revealing previously unseen shapes as his mind tried making sense of the dark. 

  There were promises to keep, come tomorrow. Whispers from under the balcony flew up through the wooden floors, the conversations of some patrons up well into the night. The constant hiss of syllables against teeth, the sharp, whistle sounds of them, made the Altmer want to grab the pillow and shove it over their ears and clutch it until his hands forced themselves loose from aching. But he couldn't do that, and he definitely didn't want to wake his friends, so they lay there, chest tight at the agitation. 

  The shuffle of blankets rose up to end the quiet. Just Emeros, turning over in his sleep. They glanced at him and then returned their stare to the ceiling, brow knit, the sound of whispers softly fading. Finally. A sigh of relief had nearly left their mouth, but they stifled it, his focus again on the two Mer beside them. He didn't want to wake them. They'd both earned the rest. Athenath could hear the faint sounds of Wyndrelis breathing, but aside from the rise and fall of his side when he did, he resembled more a corpse, entirely still and curled into himself. Emeros, meanwhile, had his forearm tucked under the pillow, his other arm around himself, blankets tight to himself. 

  The bronze light dimmed. A torch blown out. The night must be deep into itself, somewhere in the latest hours before morning would come and wake everyone up with its crowing. Athenath had blamed his sleeplessness on the whispering below the bed, but it was as though that had simply been the catalyst, and now he was truly awake and alone, and unable to creep out of the bed if he even wanted to. At this rate, they'd look like a draugr in the morning, shambling up to Dragonsreach and barely forming the words to tell the Jarl of what happened to Helgen, what happened to them. 

  He shut his eyes tight. Gods, they didn't want to think about that day. But it still found a way to invade their thoughts, even when they were making all the effort in the world to go back to sleep. Their mind ignored every attempt to shove the fires aside, Athenath's arms wrapping tight around their middle as he stubbornly tried to push his mind to something else. What about the nights in Anvil, walking the salt-scented paths through town? And the dares to go up and knock on the old haunted mansion? What about the laughter of their old friends, and the house they grew up in? What about the shopkeep with the strange necklace, and the strangers in town in their black coats, and...

  Athenath's eyes shot open. The dark was still the dark. The same thing he'd closed off. But now, it seemed to wrap around them, tighter than they could bear. They fixed their gaze on the ceiling and thought of poems he'd memorized on the road with troubadours from High Rock, or the songs that they'd thought about writing down and quickly forgot, or the bards who sent them on this damn journey in the first place, but none of it replaced the sinking feeling in his stomach, like he was desperately clinging to a broken raft far out to sea. 

  "What are you doing up?" Emeros whispered. He didn't need to open his eyes. He knew from jokes shared at the campfire that Athenath never slept on their back, and here they were, and he could feel the way the blankets laid over them and how different it was from when they were truly well asleep. Athenath shot their gaze to him, brow knit. 

  "Just can't fall back asleep," they whispered back. Emeros cracked an eye open, face half-buried in his pillow, hair tousled along his neck. He pushed a hand through the front strands, a couple small noises leaving his throat as though he were being pulled into the waking world by force. 

  "Tomorrow, I fear, is going to be dreadfully long. Don't keep yourself awake, or you'll regret it." 

  "It's not-" Athenath sucked in a breath, stubbornly held it, then exhaled. "I'm not. I know." 

  "Then what's the problem?" 

  "I woke up, couldn't fall back asleep, and now I'm just... Up. When I wish I wasn't." 

  A long pause. Emeros sucked his inner cheek between his teeth on one side, then repeated to the other. "Did you have a nightmare?" 

  "No." Athenath blinked at the Bosmer, curious. "Did you?" 

  The alchemist rolled slowly over onto his back, palm draping over his eyes, other hand still firmly beneath the pillow. He inhaled, moved his hand down his face, before his arm came to rest over his middle. "I suppose one could say that fire has never been my favorite thing." The bard didn't reply, laying there, watching him as well as they could. He sucked in his cheek, then exhaled, peering at Athenath out the corner of his eye and the smallest turn of his head. "It'll be morning before you know it. Try not to keep yourself awake." The smallest fringe of concern at the edge of his words caught the Altmer off-guard, who only continued to watch him quietly. Emeros' gaze shifted. "You too, Wyndrelis. I know you're listening in." 

  Wyndrelis snorted. "How did you guess?" 

  At this, Emeros merely grinned, rolled over, and said, "I saw you move." 

---

  The baths were attached to the inn, and washing soaps were cheap. The three took turns bathing and bundled their dirty laundry into woven wicker baskets, dressing themselves in light, cotton undertunics and trousers. If they were going to see the Jarl, then a bath and clean clothes was mandatory. Besides, they had earned it. 

  Athenath mournfully pulled themself away from the hot water and wrung their hair out, carefully running the strands through with their ivory comb before dressing, Emeros busy with his own basin. "You got the right soaps?" The Altmer asked, tying their hair high up with a scarlet ribbon. The other nodded, one hand clutching the handle of a jug filled with recently-boiled water.

  "I checked twice," he affirmed, "so I do believe we've got the right kind." 

  "Never hurts to be sure," they laughed, "one time I used the wrong soaps, and my vest didn't feel right for a whole week. It was awful."

  Washing soaps came in two varieties: laundry soap, and bathing soaps. The key difference was the inclusion of lye, solely used in laundry soap due to some mishaps in the development of both back in the Second Era. Otherwise, it worked well, and the most common kind in Skyrim was made with goats milk, soapwort, and plant oils, though more luxurious varieties could be found in Cyrodiil containing dyes, more extravagant scents, and even portions of rare and strange plants, provided one could pay the egregious amount of septims for such a thing. Rumor was, in Shimmerene, they used soaps made with gold and tiny chips of gemstones. 

  Athenath had picked out some rosemary soap. The scent wafted off their figure as he knelt, his hair carrying it heaviest of all. The plan had been for the three to go in order of age, eldest to youngest, but Wyndrelis had waffled on about taking a long time in the baths, and insisted on being the last in. This meant Athenath had plenty of time to ask the other what he thought of their fellow traveler.

  "So do you think he's like, a powerful mage?" They asked, shooting a glance at the empty basin that would house Wyndrelis' own washing in a while. Emeros didn't reply for a moment, working the scentless bar of soap he'd picked against the grater and watching slivers dissolve. 

  "I'm not certain, really, but if he's seeking out Winterhold instead of the Synod or the College of Whispers, that shows he's well dedicated to his pursuit. We should take that quite seriously, I believe." The pause held tight between them as Athenath murmured to himself about a stubborn spot on their vest, hands clasping the material tight. "Forgive my curiosity, but where in Cyrodiil are you from?" 

  "Leyawiin," he stopped his furious scrubbing, let out a silent plea to their patron as he stared up at the ceiling, then returned to dunking the material deep into the soapy water, "well, okay, I was born in Leyawiin. Grew up in Anvil, though, so that's home to me." 

  "Really?" Emeros moved his soapy clothing to the kettle the three had set aside for rinsing, water giving off a healthy amount of steam. A long, wooden stick leaned against the lip of the vessel, the kettle itself well-used and well-beaten from the ages, the bottom reflective from years over fires. 

  "Yeah, though I wasn't really allowed to play on the beach. Parents thought it was too dangerous, y'know." Athenath took their bar of laundry soap and pressed it directly to the spot they'd been working, scrubbing the hard item into the smooth fabric, nose scrunched in the effort. After a moment, he heaved a sigh, figuring it'd come out later. "You?" 

  "I grew up on the outskirts of Greenheart," he answered. Then, as though recalling an old and fond joke, he gave a breathy chuckle, "though, I wouldn't say I felt at home there. Granted, I dearly miss it, and it was magnificent in a way that I have not seen since I left. But with my family not following the Green Pact..." 

  Athenath gave up on the spot that had tormented him so, moving their laundry to the rinsing kettle before pouring the dirty water down the drain in the center of the floor. He'd heard of the Green Pact plenty of times, his father regaling them with tales of his visits to Valenwood to see his semi-distant family, how he often felt like every animal and tree and bird and bug was watching him, suspicious of a Mer who'd taken up logging as his career choice. That, or their father was paranoid. 

  They watched the soap-whitened water as it descended a foot or so through the grate. Turning his attention again to the alchemist, Emeros heaved the kettle with some exertion to the large, sturdy spit over a low fire. He gave it a good few stirs before he left it alone, keeping a close eye on it. Athenath leaned his back to the humid stone wall, head turned to face the kettle. They silently prayed Emeros wouldn't boil all their clothes half to death. 

  The moment Wyndrelis emerged, all eyes landed on him as he carried his clothes in a bundle in his arms. He set them inside his own basin, smelling strongly of some sort of herbal tea, bergamot at the surface of it all, a clean and vibrant scent. He poured boiling water into the basin and grated his laundry soap quickly, hands working the water carefully into his clothes as Athenath's eyes lit up.

  "Oh! Wyndrelis," they chirped, "we were just talking about you! Well, not really- not for a moment, at least- oh! No, not in a bad way, just..." they groaned, pinched their nose, and started over, "okay, we were talking about places we're from-"

  "And?" Wyndrelis' glasses had fogged over, the Dunmer already giving up on wiping them off for the moment. At least through said foggy lenses, he couldn't see Emeros shaking his face in his palms.

  "I'm from Leyawiin, kind of, mostly Anvil. And Emeros is from Greenheart, so where did you grow up?" 

  Wyndrelis' attention made quick turns from Emeros, to Athenath, and back and forth. "Oh," the small noise escaped his throat, like he'd wondered how any of this was worth Athenath stumbling over their words. "If you must know, I grew up in a town called Oststern. It's more of an outpost, towards the Morrowind border." Brow low, eyes narrowed, he pursed his mouth in one direction, then the other, giving a thoughtful rub at his jaw. "I think it was south of Cheydinhal, in the mountains, there," he uttered before moving his clothes to the rinsing kettle, blue hues joining the greens, creams, and garnet. He took them out much sooner than the others and strode out the door to dry his clothes on the line, his pace quick and easy as he carried the wet bundle in his wicker basket. Athenath and Emeros separated their garments and followed suit, the early morning sun an oppressive, undiluted light on the plains of Whiterun.

---

  The pathway up to Dragonsreach lead them through the market square, around the barren Gildergreen, past the priest of Talos whose shrieks and caws filled the air, and up the long, winding stairs to the wooden bridge. Clothes dry and noon sun high above them, it was time to fulfill their promise to Alvor. Surely, rumor had done the work for them, but at the very least, they could tell the blacksmith that they'd fulfilled the promise they made to him.

  The imposing doors parted with heavy groans and lead them through to the main hall of the great castle, where a hearth puffed smoke up to the vaulted ceilings. The windows above them illuminated the plumes, servants and guards handling their daily duties with nonchalance, only giving one or two curious looks the way of the trio. Across the room, seated on a throne, sat the Jarl, currently engaged in conversation with two figures on either side of him. 

  "I only council caution. We cannot afford to act rashly in times like these," came the worried voice of an Imperial at the Jarl's right, features weathered by the years. 

  "What would you have me do, then? Nothing?" 

  "My lord, please. This is no time for rash action. I just think we need more information before we act. I just..." 

  As he trailed off, the Jarl's eyes met the figures of the trio cautiously approaching, their boots making small thuds along the ancient castle floors. He knit his brow, his hand stroking at his thick, blond beard. The three Mer inched closer, emboldened by his gaze, though still shouldering the uneasiness of a child caught sneaking out of a long and exceedingly dull family dinner. He raised a large hand, acknowledgement of their presence now turning more attention their way. 

  "Who's this, then?" 

  The uneasy stillness came to an abrupt end when the Jarl's housecarl marched briskly to the three, her hand wrapped around the hilt of a dagger, ruby eyes scanning the figures that dared invade the conversation with their mere existence. "What's the meaning of this, then? Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving any visitors," her voice was as sharp as her blade and just as to the point, her imposing figure held high and narrow gaze locked on the three, the hall coming to a stand-still with her approach.

  "Um- Alvor sent us, Riverwood's in danger," Athenath managed out as he toed closer.

  "It is my duty to deal with all dangers that threaten the Jarl or his people. So, you have my attention. Now, explain yourselves." Her grasp on the dagger lightened as she swatted her gaze between the three, a focus in particular on the other Dunmer who stood half a step behind his friends, jaw set, discomfort in every breath he drew.

  "Look, we were told just to give the message directly to the Jarl, so I..." 

  "Whatever you have to say to the Jarl, you can say to me," her keen focus locked on the Altmer who'd had the nerve to speak up. "You know, I'm starting to think-"

  "It's alright, Irileth," came Jarl Balgruuf's voice, all too late for the liking of the three travelers. He held up a hand again and added, "I want to hear whatever they have to say." 

  Irileth sheathed her dagger, returning to Balgruuf's side with a level of trepidation, her steps even, measured, but uneasy. She clearly did not like the trio invading the calm of the castle. Perhaps her mistrust was for a reason, but Athenath wasn't going to ask about it any time soon. 

  Jarl Balgruuf took in the sight of them as they stood before his throne. His words did not come quickly, observing the travelers, their postures, their faces. "What's this about Riverwood in danger?" He finally asked, attention hitched on that one statement, his posture straightening from his usual easy recline. Athenath took in the sight of him, from his traditional finery to the way he wore his slowly-greying hair. He must be in his mid-fifties or thereabouts, his eyes cornered with lines, his hand scarred and weathered from incidents many years ago, the faintest lines lit up by the flickering hearth. 

  Clearing his throat, Emeros righted his own posture as he began his best explanation of events. "I'm certain you've heard by now of the dragon that destroyed Helgen. Alvor of Riverwood is afraid that his town is next, sir." The Jarl raised a brow, ice-blue eyes glinting in the light. He leaned forward, hands clutching at the edge of the throne's arm rests. 

  "The smith? Reliable fellow, not prone to flights of fancy..." his advisor's feet shuffled awkwardly, the Imperial clearly realizing something the Mer did not as Balgruuf's eyes landed hard on him. He then turned his gaze back to the trio, once again intrigued by the travelers and their message. "So, how do you know of the dragon?" 

  "We were at Helgen, sir. We saw it." Emeros let the words etch against the still air, reading the shock that found its unique ways into the features of the three before them. The advisor's eyes widened. Irileth, through all her scrutinous calm, looked as though she were suppressing some sort of grin. 

  "You saw the dragon? With your own eyes?" The Jarl interrogated, breathless at the admission from the Bosmer.

  Wyndrelis nodded as a bony, grey finger pushed his glasses up his nose. "The dragon destroyed the town. Last we were aware, it was heading this way." 

  Balgruuf's knuckles whitened. He leaned back, subduing the horror that nearly spilt into his features. His gaze found the Imperial's shape once again, a determination in the Nord's eyes as though he were thinking about taking on the dragon himself. "Irileth was right. What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls against a dragon?" His nostrils flared as he spoke, Irileth facing him now, her hand back on her dagger. 

  "My lord, we should send troops to Riverwood at once. Alvor is right, it's in the most immediate danger. If that dragon is lurking in the mountains-"

  Proventus gestured wildly as he finally spoke up. "The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation! He'll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him! We should not-"

  "Enough!" 

  Jarl Balgruuf's voice cut through the hall with such a ferocity that it cut down any conversations in the nearby rooms, all straining to hear what was happening. Guards, servants, and other residents went motionless, the Jarl rising to his feet to get the word out before he fell back into his throne, his temper threatening to show on his face, something he appeared to be reigning in. He rubbed his brow with the crook of his thumb and gathered his thoughts before he spoke again. "I will not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people. Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once." 

  "Yes, my Jarl." The command gave Irileth something to do, a restlessness like a guard dog finally finding purpose, and by the smug glint in her eye, it seemed she'd been planning to do this very thing the moment she had a chance, and already had specific guards in mind to send out that way. Proventus, visibly on edge, drew his mouth in a tight line as he drew in a breath.

  "If you'll excuse me, I'll return to my duties." 

  "That would be best," Jarl Balgruuf dismissed curtly before he turned his attention back onto the trio. "Well done. You three sought me out on your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it." Stroking his beard thoughtfully, the Jarl's intent found an open doorway to his left, his mind igniting now with a possibility. Athenath shared uneasy glances with the other two Mer, who were also trying to discern the meaning of the Jarl's expression. 

  "There is another thing you can do for me. Suitable for a group of your particular talents, perhaps," he slowly rose, waving the three to join him. "Come, let's go find Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons, and rumors of dragons." 

Chapter 10: Dragon Rising

  "Farengar, I think I've found some people who can help you with your dragon project."

   Farengar Secret-Fire's office was, on the surface, a horrendous mess of mythic proportion. Papers and books littered half the surfaces in the room, one desk carrying ingredients and half-scribbled notes, another bearing a couple of small containers with soul gems haphazardly shoved into them, and unenchanted staves resting against the wall. But deeper, beneath this chaos, there was order. Everything was in its own place, and Farengar knew exactly where he put everything in the office he occupied and could pluck out every particular item on his mind. The sign of a true wizard, Wyndrelis thought to himself as he stepped into the rectangular room. It was spacious enough for what it was, and for the wizard, it must have been the perfect station. He had plenty of room to spread out his experiments without being crammed into a closet to work, and never had to worry about other wizards and mages coming in and messing with his very intricate system. Next to one of his many tables and high along a board was a large, worn map of the province of Skyrim with quill marks here and there, crossing out pieces of the landscape. 

  As of right now, the wizard himself was at his arcane enchanter, palms clenched against the sides of the black, well-smoothed surface. Sensing the presences - or simply hearing their footsteps - he looked up, the hood of his robes betraying nothing until he turned around, where the group saw his wild and sleepless eyes, circles engraved above his cheekbones in brilliant hues. 

  Jarl Balgruuf gestured to the wizard. "Go ahead and fill him in with all the details."

  Farengar scrutinized the trio, Wyndrelis taking the initiative and inching closer into the room, the hopes to discuss their shared interest clear in his pale eyes. Farengar didn't appear receptive to the idea at the moment. Instead, he moved from the arcane enchanter to one of the many desks of his workspace, his back straightening with a couple of tiny cracking noises. "So the Jarl thinks you three can be of use to me?" His eyes caught the edges of some papers he'd laid about on the table recently, familiarity of the words scrawled in harsh scratches bringing the purpose of the words back to his mind. "Oh, yes, he must be referring to my research into the dragons. Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me." He gesticulated with a hand as he made the request, then scrunched his face, twisting his mouth to one side before seeming to relax. "Well, when I say fetch, I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there," he clarified, tone still as easygoing as before, catching the suspicion on Emeros' features, mild excitement on Athenath's, and confusion on Wyndrelis'. 

  "What does this have to do with dragons?" Enunciated Emeros, resting fingertips lightly over the surface of the workspace before him, caution in the lowering of his brow.

  "Ah, no mere brute mercenary, but a thinker - perhaps even a scholar?" Farengar paused, smiling vaguely, then relaxed his features again as he moved to the map he'd nailed to a board. "You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasies, rumors. Impossibilities. One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible. But I began to search for information about dragons; where had they gone all those years ago? And where were they coming from?"

  "So, what do you need us to do?" Athenath piped up. 

  "I, ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow, a 'Dragonstone,' said to contain a map of dragon burial sites. Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet - no doubt in the main chamber - and bring it to me. Simplicity itself." He finished his explanation with his back turned to the group, checking something at the enchanter. The trio traded uncomfortable looks. Wyndrelis turned his attention back to Farengar.

  "What would this 'Dragonstone' look like?" He questioned. Farengar shrugged.

  "I believe that, based on the descriptions I've been reading of it, the stone would be of a sort of... Pentagonal shape. And very old, and flat. It should contain a map of dragon burial sites, but I'm not yet sure how that would look-"

  Athenath dropped his knapsack down on the table, the thud causing Farengar to wince. The Altmer dug through their belongings, determination burning in their dark eyes as he hoisted an object he'd nearly forgotten about - if not for the uncomfortable weight of it on their spine every time they wore their pack. Before Farengar could chastise them for almost destroying the minute organization system he'd had in that corner of the table, they hoisted the Dragonstone from their bag, handing it over. The sound of a soul gem rolling on the table's surface didn't reach Farengar's ears as he spotted the engravings, the shape, the weathering of the item.

  With a sense of gentle reverence, running square fingers over the stone, Farengar scanned the object fervently. He looked up from it and to the Mer, a smile gathering strength on his lips. "Ah! The Dragonstone, you've already found it! You three are cut from a different cloth than the usual brutes the Jarl foists on me."

  "What can you tell us about the barrow?" Wyndrelis queried, his memories of the strange ruins and their terrible inhabitants brewing in the back of his mind. He still dreamt of the draugr, and longed to know if this was one strange fluke of existence, or a pattern among the ruins that likely dotted the Skyrim landscape. 

  "An old tomb, built by the ancient Nords, perhaps dating back to the Dragon War itself." He waved his hand dismissively as he examined the stone, the day providing ample light by which to get a close look at the carvings and marks that had been made thousands of years ago. 

  "Dragon War?" Emeros repeated. Farengar looked from the stone to the Bosmer, whose earrings caught the gold light of the sconces adorning the walls. 

  "I'm not surprised you've never heard of it. Even I used to think it was just a myth. But not anymore," he moved from the table to a series of bubbling phials, removing one from a small flame he then extinguished, setting the glass aside as he continued his explanation, "the Dragon War was a real event, although only the barest glimmer of the actual events has come down to us. Far back in the Mythic Era, the dragons were worshipped as gods in Skyrim. Many of the monumental ruins that still dot the landscape were, in fact, built as temples to the dragons. The details are lost, but at some point the Nords rebelled. After a long and terrible war, the Nords overthrew their dragon overlords."

  "Were all dragons killed, then?" Wyndrelis asked as Farengar continued to examine various things in his office, some small experiments here and there, organizing scrolls, maintaining conversation as he worked.

  "Oh, no," he snorted, "Many were killed, of course. But many survived into historical times. Why, this very palace was built by one of Balgruuf's ancestors to hold a captive dragon. Hence its name: Dragonsreach."

  Each member of the trio was on the verge of pushing him for more information when the sound of heavy, hurried footsteps made a fast approach, Irileth coming into view. Her eyes rapidly searched for the wizard as she called, "Farengar!" She stopped in the doorway, the wizard's face tightly bound as though he'd been interrupted in the middle of a particularly important observation. "Farengar, you need to come at once. A dragon's been sighted nearby," her attention shifted to the trio, her usual composed demeanor wearing the tiniest, hairline fracture, "you three should come, too." 

  "A dragon! How exciting! Where was it seen? What was it doing?" He interrogated with a tooth-bearing smile. Irileth sneered. It was clear she had little time nor patience for his questions.

  "I'd take this a bit more seriously if I were you. If a dragon decides to attack Whiterun I don't know if we can stop it." She motioned urgently with a strong, gauntlet-clad hand. "Let's go." 

  Wyndrelis wiped his glasses on his tunic, looking to Emeros, then to Athenath. "We're really doing this?" He whispered to them. Athenath picked at their nails with a tight brow, while Emeros made a brisk turn on his heel towards the doorway. 

  "I don't believe we've much of a choice," the Bosmer whispered back bleakly, "if I were in their position, I believe I would also call upon the only people I know who have seen one of these things with their own eyes." 

  That was the end of it. Within moments, the trio had emerged into the upper room where they met Irileth, Farengar, Jarl Balgruuf, and a guard who, despite being covered head-to-toe in armor, gave off a level of dishevelment that only came from running the way to the city in pure terror and determination. 

  "So, Irileth tells me you came from the western watchtower," came the Jarl's voice. When he wasn't seated in his throne, it was clear he carried an imposing figure, with his arms folded over his chest making them appear larger, stronger, his chin level, feet the perfect shoulder-width apart. 

  The guard, clearly uncomfortable being the center of so much attention, nodded rapidly. "Yes, my lord."

  "Tell him what you told me. About the dragon," Irileth insisted, urgency in her throat.

  "Uh- that's right. We saw it coming from the south. It was fast... faster than anything I've ever seen." He panted, his voice tight, his exhaustion radiating off every word.

  "What did it do? Is it attacking the watchtower?" The Jarl's composure never broke, but his concerns calcified in his eyes as he pressed for more information.

  "No, my lord. It was just circling overhead when I left. I never ran so fast in my life... I thought it would come after me, for sure." The stink of sweat poured heavily from him, his words giving everything his facial expressions could not behind his helmet.

  Jarl Balgruuf landed a hard hand on the guards shoulder. "Good work, son. We'll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for some food and rest. You've earned it." He turned to his Housecarl, "Irileth, you'd better gather some guardsmen and get down there."

  "I've already ordered my men to muster near the main gate."

  "Good. Don't fail me." Jarl Balgruuf then turned his attention to the trio, at last acknowledging the presences of the three Mer who'd spent the ordeal lingering near the stairs, his resolve firm as he addressed them. "There's no time to stand on ceremony, my friends. I need your help, my people need your help. I want you to go with Irileth and help her fight this dragon." Before the group could raise concerns, stammering and sputtering with mouths agape, he held a hand up to silence them as he went on, "you three miraculously survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here. But do not think I'm sending you out unprepared. Irileth, take them to the barracks and get them armored and ready, I will have weapons for you when you return." 

  "At once, my Jarl," Irileth turned to the stairwell. She didn't look back as she descended, already aware that the Mer would follow. 

---

  Irileth had done her damned best at preparing them, her dedication to the hold and her duties showing with every firm tug and adjustment of the armor she made. It was not the best, but it would do, and it would be good enough to keep them from getting killed by the dragon. And it was a hell of a lot better than the ill-fitting, hurriedly donned pieces from Helgen. Still, wearing armor meant for guards of Whiterun set the Mer on edge. Athenath had only picked up a blade a few times in their life, mostly because someone in their life thought he should know how to fight with one. This wasn't anywhere remotely near their territory. Wyndrelis, too, wore his discomfort in every stretch he made to get used to the armor. He was no warrior. He'd never been. And Emeros, despite the grace of his motions, had never fancied himself a fighter in any regard. Self-defense on the roads was one thing, but going out intentionally to fight? Let alone to do battle with a dragon. It was all absurd beyond measure.

  Time was of the essence, and every second that wasted away on preparing for the fight ahead, the uneasier everyone became. Athenath bit their lip, Wyndrelis fidgeted with his fingers in the shining metal gauntlets, and Emeros tapped his foot impatiently. Irileth gave them one more look-over, and when her approval made its way into words, she marched them back to the Jarl. 

  "Take these," he passed an enchanted sword into each of the Mer's hands, the hilt chilly even in the air, the blade even more so. Frost enchantments. "As a token of my esteem, of course."

  "I should come along. I would very much like to see this dragon," Farengar insisted, bringing with him several scrolls and a quill, inkpot likely stuffed into one of the pockets of his robes. 

  "No. I can't afford to risk both of you. I need you here working on ways to defend the city against these dragons," Jarl Balgruuf instructed. Farengar reluctantly agreed, but the descent down the stairs told everyone that he wasn't exactly happy about the arrangement. Jarl Balgruuf then looked to Irileth, the Dunmer caught off-guard by his intensity. "One last thing, Irileth. This isn't a death or glory mission. I need to know what we're dealing with," he explained gravely.

  "Don't worry, my lord. I'm the very soul of caution." 

  Athenath had the distinct feeling that she was not, but he knew that placing their trust in her was all he could do.

---

  "But it's more than our honor at stake here. Think of it: the first dragon seen in Skyrim since the last age. The glory of killing it is ours, if you're with me! Now what do you say? Shall we go kill us a dragon?" 

  The rousing speech did little to assuage the nerves of the trio. Everyone around them cheered, and how could they not? Taking on a dragon, a mythical beast that threatened their very existences, the idea had practically been tailored to the Nord sense of honor and glory, to do battle and even die for the honor. To meet Tsun at the whalebone bridge. 
Athenath offered prayers to Mara under their breath, shoulders high up their neck. The sun drained the land of color. The sky blotted out the fear of the soldiers, what was there to fear if you couldn't see it? A dragon wasn't that much of a big deal if they couldn't see it circling overhead. 

  But they had not been in the fires. They had not watched the destruction at the tiny outpost near Riverwood. 

  Emeros adjusted his helmet, other hand firm on the hilt of his blade. When the other Mer turned to Wyndrelis, it was as though he'd entirely shut down, like the reality meant nothing and he was standing here to stand here among the crowd, an observer.

  The gates to Whiterun parted, and like a gleaming, silvery parade, they marched with the soldiers, eyes on the sky. 

---

  First, it was the black plumes of smoke. Then the slow-dying fire. The rubble. The pathway cracked by it. Then, there it was in full glory. 

  What remained of the Western Watchtower revealed itself in the stench of burnt corpses and fresh death. It perfumed the air like mildew in a closet, sour and sobering. Irileth sprung into action, clouds apathetically rolling above their heads.

  "No signs of any dragon right now, but it sure looks like he's been here," Irileth murmured to herself, tightening her brow as she turned to the guards. "I know it looks bad, but we've got to figure out what happened, and if that dragon is still skulking around somewhere. Spread out and look for survivors. We need to know what we're dealing with."
Emeros inched back, closer to the other two. "We're staying close together," he stated in a hush, solely so the other Mer would hear. Wyndrelis pooled magicka into his palms, forming a purple-hued mist. 

  "Agreed," he whispered back, his spell brightening. A figure began to glow the same lavender hue in his vision. "I see someone in the rubble, they're still alive." 

  "Still alive?" Athenath repeated, disbelief painting their features as they looked from Wyndrelis to the rubble. The mage nodded rapidly, Emeros starting in Irileth's direction. Before he could get far, the figure rushed out of the tower, sprinting down the rubble in uneven steps, arms frantically waved above his head. 

  "No! Get back! It's still here somewhere, Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it-" 

  Irileth's firm grip on his shoulders stopped the man in his tracks. "Guardsman! What happened here? Where's this dragon? Quickly now!" Irileth urged, the guard struggling for proper breaths, eyes darting around the horizon. His body shook like he were freezing, his wide eyes wildly darting in every direction, his lungs doing all they could to cough up the smoke he'd inhaled while waiting for someone, anyone to come and save him from this nightmare.

  "I don't know!"

  A massive shadow cut through the sky. Wherever it went, darkness followed and eclipsed the world beneath its wings, thunderous flight throwing the wind in every direction it swept. From one mountain edge to another, bloodied claws still glistening wet, the dragon dove and rose and consumed the sky with its shape. 

  "Kynareth save us, here he comes again!" The guard cried. Irileth never took her eyes off the beast, slapping a firm hand on the guards shoulder and sending him back into the tower. She readied herself, giving the guard a few more shoves until he made the mad sprint back into cover.

  "Here he comes, find cover and make every arrow count!"

  The dragon slowed. Time itself came to a crawl as though Akatosh were stretching it like dough, further and further out in the mind of the observers. The beast landed, its clawed feet hitting the ground with enough force to knock several of the guards back, all clamoring for stability as they froze in the gaze of the dragon, scales iridescent in the light of the mid-day sun. The wings stirred up the earth around it, dust in plumes as it took in the sight of the mortal beings before itself. Guards' weapons forgotten. Focus solely on the beast which eyed them like prey, head swinging in slow, side-to-side motions. A king observing its feast.

  Before its maw could open, Emeros' fists knotted around the gauntlet-clad wrists of his companions. He didn't look back, dragging the other two until their feet could catch up with his own pace, the flurry of three pairs of boots in a mad dash to the watchtower as the world erupted into flames. Wyndrelis flung a ward up over the group as they ran, Athenath's head tucked down as they squeezed their eyes shut, attention only on escape. The fire spread faster than anything they could have prepared for, and with a hard shove, Wyndrelis forced the other two into the stone tower, ward blocking the onslaught of flames, the dragon swerving high above them and into the blue realms of Kynareth. The Dunmer backed into the tower before he let the ward drop, the other two with their backs to the stone walls, away from any windows. 

  Wyndrelis uncorked a magicka potion and downed half the bottle before returning it to his bag, crouching against the wall with his companions, sweat down their foreheads and breaths ragged. Athenaths hands over their ears, he curled in himself like a ball. The steely look in the Bosmer's eyes, determination on his face, Emeros checked his arrows and readied his bow. There was no way he wouldn't go down fighting, at the very least. His mind raced with plans to keep the situation from going from bad to totally fucked. 

  Another torrent of fire rained outside, scorching the ground and turning the sky above them a sickening shade of orange. Every time the dragon made its rounds around the tower, the trio could hear commands and shouts and screams. The stench of burning flesh and hair corraled them into the half-crumbled tower, and it was only a matter of time before their only cover became a tomb. 

  "We have to do something," Emeros said as he examined the stairwell up to the top of the tower, "we can't just- we can't do nothing in here."

  "Are you fucking insane?" Athenath shrieked. "It'll tear us apart! What the fuck can we even do?" 

  Wyndrelis unsheathed his sword, his other palm emitting a staticky, shrill noise. "I can distract it if you can get some arrows in."

  "What?!" Athenath shouted, pushing himself up off the floor. "No, absolutely not, you'll die out there-"

  "He has a much better chance than we do," Emeros cut in sharply, "I say we let him distract it so the guards have a bloody chance at taking it down." 

  Athenath's brow lowered, the Altmer swallowing hard as they assessed the situation. He was right. If Wyndrelis could get the dragon's attention, he had the best chance at keeping it busy long enough for the guards to get some more arrows through it. And if the other two did the same, then maybe they could force the thing to land and attack from the ground. He didn't want to get anywhere near it, but options limited and growing slimmer, there was nothing he could do but give a firm nod. 

  The trio looked between one another. Wyndrelis looked back at his friends, then pushed himself into a sprint as Emeros handed Athenath the bow and some arrows. "I need you to get to the top of the tower-"

  "The what?!" Athenath examined the bow as Emeros held it against the other until Athenath finally wrapped their fingers around the wood. "You're fucking joking-"

  "Please," Emeros urged, "please trust me. I need you to do that, now go!" 

  Athenath wasted no time. Despite the fear in every limb, they flew up the stairs, boots thudding against the stone. He looked to Wyndrelis, just outside the tower, the magicka in his palm expanding into a tiny flurry of lightning. The Dunmer aimed the spell at the dragon as it slid overhead, the spell making contact with its scales, scorching the beasts stomach. The dragon roared, swinging higher above where the mage couldn't make contact, Wyndrelis cursing loudly to himself.

  "I think if I paralyze it, we can force it to land-"

  "I don't care what you do, just make sure we can kill it!" Emeros shouted back, peering out the tower. Courage hard to gather against the odds, he glanced from Wyndrelis to the ceiling above himself to the field outside, and rushed out the tower as fast as his legs could take him.

  The scene outside was of utter carnage. Bodies strewn about, some in parts and some whole, some scorched beyond recognition and some left the barest dignity of a face, he resisted covering his nose with his palm as he ran through the field, meteoric flurries of fire all around him as he dodged and dashed, changing direction frequently. He never left too far from the tower, Wyndrelis aiming his spells carefully, sweat pouring down the back of his neck as his magicka drained. Athenath watched from the top of the tower, peering into the sun as the wings crested over him, pulling back the string weakly and firing off arrows left and right. They'd never learned archery and were glad they had the strength to even get an arrow out, and with every prayer to Mara under their breath, they fired off another and another until an arrowhead made contact with the chest of the beast. It roared and swam through the air, flinging itself in a downward arc, claws extending as it slid over the roof of the tower.

  Athenath scrambled down the stairs, Wyndrelis shooting a paralysis spell into the injured dragon, slowing its flight further with a furious roar. Before it could descend on the Dunmer, Emeros shouted for the beast to come get him instead, and spying an easy target, the dragon obliged.

  Every time the dragon would get close enough to one of the Mer to snatch them, another would intervene, arrows and spells and taunts, the world made of dry and burning grass and scorched earth and oxygen-deprived skies, choking the guards and the trio alike. The dragon howling in frustration, it swept and swarmed the skies until its focused on the city in the distance, and with the world underneath again brushed with the fierce winds of its wings, it sped through the skies off towards Dragonsreach.

  "It's heading for Whiterun!" Irileth shouted, her arrows doing no good as the injured dragon started its arc towards the city. The guards, in vain attempts to stop it, aimed more arrows and fired and shrieked orders, but the dragon already had its sights set, distance between itself and the city closing every moment. 

  "Fus!"

  No one could determine where the sound came from first, but it came out instinctual, a last-resort that burned through the trio, hammering into the skies above, the combined shout of three Mer erupting into the air and pausing the dragon's arc in the sky. The word echoed through the clouds as the dragon swung back. This was no longer about conquest. This was about the ancient challenge. 

  It landed with its full, earth-rattling force. The guards and Mer swarmed it, but each bat of its leathery wings slashed through the Nords. No, this was not about them. This was between the dragon and the ones who shouted. The trio charged, Wyndrelis beating with his mace into the flesh of the dragon as it attempted to push them aside and shout in its own tongue at them, Emeros firing his arrows through its neck, Athenath using the enchanted sword and hacking at the tail. The Altmer swung their body onto the dragons back, crawling up its spine as it desperately tried now to shake him off, the other two clinging to its body, Emeros with his hands around a horn, Wyndrelis climbing up the wings, fighting against the might of the much stronger beast. The trio unsheathed their blades, and in one strong motion, stabbed through into the body of the weakening beast. 

  Driving each blade in, the trio dug all of their resolve and fury into the motions. There was no escape from whatever fate fell before them, but if they had to die here, they'd take this damned thing with them. 

  The beast howled and roared in wrathful pain, every inch of resolve in its form drained through the icy blades, a word crying out from its mouth as the final of its breaths left. 

  When it collapsed to the ground, fully limp, the Mer hesitantly climbed down from the dragon. The guards gathered around, Irileth at the helm, apprehension in every step made. The three stood before it, panting, hearts racing, pulses rattling their frames, bloodstains against their armored forms, soot and ash clinging to them as it had done only days prior. 

  "Let's make sure that overgrown lizard is really dead. Damned good shooting, boys!" Irileth congratulated her ranks, the guards letting out a cheer that fell deathly silent as they watched the scene before them. The Mer turned slowly as the world behind them ignited. The corpse began to peel apart like parchment in a flame, scales and flesh setting themselves alight. The sight was blinding, the trio shielding their eyes but unable to look away from the horror of it all as bones undressed themselves from flesh. As muscle and sinew faded off the bones of the beast, a terrible wind flowed, dividing like a river into three streams, the power of the rush nearly sending the Mer backwards. 

  When the world cleared, the trio stood, checking themselves over, exhaustion and injuries wiped away as if there had never been a fight at the Western Watchtower at all. 

  One of the guards cautiously removed his helmet, reverence worn on his heat-flushed face. "I can't believe it! You're... Dragonborn..." He gaped.

  "Dragonborn? What...?" Athenath tried to get words to come out of their mouth, but all fell flat on his lips as he looked back at the bleach-white bones behind them. 

  "In the very oldest tales, back from when there were still dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steal their power. That's what you did, isn't it? Absorbed that dragon's power?" The guard's wide-eyed wonder at the three seemed to calm the others in his rank, reigniting memories of stories told around hearths by relatives long-gone.

  "I- we-" Wyndrelis tried, but all he could do was fumble as nothing seemed to come together in his mind.

  "We have no idea what just happened to us," Emeros answered, his brow knit tight.

  "According to the old legends, only the Dragonborn can Shout without training, the way the dragons do. That's what you did, that was Shouting!" 

  Another guard stepped forward, "Dragonborn? What are you talking about?"

  A third guard chimed in. "That's right! My grandfather used to tell stories about the Dragonborn. Those born with the Dragon Blood in 'em. Like old Tiber Septim himself."

  A fourth guard, smugly, "I've never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons."

  The first guard rolled his eyes, turning to face the third guard. "There weren't any dragons then, idiot. They're just coming back now for the first time in... forever."

  The fourth guard gave a childish, mocking expression to the first guard, before turning to the trio, "But the old tales tell of the Dragonborn who could kill dragons and steal their power. You must be Dragonborn, then!"

  The second guard, as though coming back to reality, turned to his superior. "What do you say, Irileth? You've being awfully quiet."

  The third guard chimed in again, "Come on, Irileth, tell us, do you believe in this Dragonborn business?"

  Irileth stood there, her observations kept to herself as she took in the carnage before them. The Western Watchtower would need extensive work if they ever hoped to use it as a tower again. The ground cracked beneath the grass with heat. The air still stunk of rotten, burnt flesh, and the wind did little to keep the smell from reaching the group. 
"Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping your gums on matters you don't know anything about," she scoffed, gesturing to the now-skeletal remains, "here's a dead dragon, and that's something I definitely understand. Now we know we can kill them. But I don't need some mythical Dragonborn," she looked to the trio and, with the faintest hint of respect, said, "someone who can put down a dragon is more than enough for me."

  The fourth guard rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't understand, Housecarl. You ain't a Nord."

  "I've been all across Tamriel," she objected indignantly, "I've seen plenty of things just as outlandish as this. I'd advise you all to trust in the strength of your sword over tales and legends." She began to examine the bones of the dragon, dry as though they'd been in the sun for years, the guards returning their attentions to the group of Mer. The trio's discomfort melted from internal into their features, now turning to follow Irileth as she scrutinized the ruins of the Watchtower. Her expression, unreadable, still held the minute signs of discontent. They'd lost some good men in this fight. Finally acknowledging the other Mer, she looked to them and folded her arms over her chest. "That was the hairiest fight I've ever been in, and I've been in more than a few. I don't know about this Dragonborn business, but I'm sure glad you're all with us. You three better get back to Whiterun right away. Jarl Balgruuf will want to know what happened here."

Chapter 11: A Sign in the Sky

  The sky threaded itself into colors of the coming evening, blues traded for the dyes of orange and pink. The trio made the trek back to Whiterun in silence, the thick discomfort only growing. What had they done out there? Was that really what Shouting was?

  As much as they wanted this to be the end of it, they still had to speak to Jarl Balgruuf. The stone road lead them carefully up to the city gates, and as the guards prepared to open it to them, the sky rumbled. Thunder cracked and shook the heavens, five voices echoing across the plains, birds fleeing nests and animals scurrying across the land in a flurry of fear.

Dovahkiin.

  The trio stumbled, Emeros lurching to face his friends as though afraid they wouldn't be there when the sound ended. Athenath put their hands over their head with a yelp, Wyndrelis stock-still as the sound echoed through them. As soon as they realized there was no iminent danger, the Mer looked between one another, fear stinging their throats. 

  "Gods, what was that?" Emeros stared into the sky, hoping it would be something identifiable, but all he found were the puffy white clouds that were slowly shifting hue towards the day's end. 

  Wyndrelis shook his hands as though trying to exorcise himself of any nervous energy. "I don't know, but I don't like it." 

  "Me neither." Athenath shook their head, raking fingers through his dark curls, the gates parting to allow the group into the city. "It... sounded like someone calling some name, I don't know, but..."

  All eyes on Emeros, who narrowed his brow.

  "I don't know what I heard, but I know that we should get to Dragonsreach and speak to Jarl Balgruuf." 

---

  Proventus was first to acknowledge their arrival, face more anxious than usual, the look in his eye tinged with a worry that radiated off of him like the gleam of a soul gem. "Good," he breathed, as though the anticipated tidal wave of relief had washed over him, "you're finally here. The Jarl's been waiting for you." He composed his voice and gestured to the throne, Jarl Balgruuf staring into nothing, his hand slowly stroking at his beard. 

  "You heard the summons. What else could it mean? The Greybeards..." He trailed off, a man near the Jarl that the trio hadn't seen before, his formidable figure seated like the post to an ancient, weather-worn cabin. He turned to the three, surprise on his face as though not expecting them. He calmed his features and spoke, a grin inching up the corners of his mouth.

  "We were just talking about you three. My brother needs a word with you."

  At the sound of his brother's voice, Jarl Balgruuf turned his attentions to the trio and motioned them closer, focus solely on the figures that made their uncomfortable steps over to him.

  "So what happened at the Watchtower? Was the dragon there?" He interrogated, his posture leaning forward so he could catch every single word. 

  Athenath swallowed hard, the events still too fresh in their mind, stomach hard with fear. While his voice made its way from his throat, he didn't feel it the way he normally would, as though they were far from themself when they spoke. "It turns out we- all three of us, we may be something called uh... Dragonborn." He tried to keep his voice level, but tiny, nervous laughs slid out of his lips here and there as they fidgeted with their hands.

  "Dragonborn?" The Jarl repeated. "What do you know about the Dragonborn?" 

  "That's just what the men called us, sir," Emeros replied, resting his wrist casually against the hilt of his sword. He gave a quick look to the other two. While his own face betrayed no fear, he could still feel his pulse in his fingers. He wanted nothing more than to bathe all the soot and ash off himself and sleep. 

  "See, when the dragon died," Athenath again chimed in, "we absorbed something from it." 

  The Jarl leaned back, rubbing his chin with the crux of his thumb, his beard scratching against the skin of his palm. "So it's true. The Greybeards really were summoning you."

  "The what?" Wyndrelis quirked a brow, his own exhaustion concealed behind his permanently-tired eyes, his hands at his sides still wracked with tremors. 

  "Masters of the Way of the Voice. They live in seclusion high on the slopes of the Throat of the World."

  "Alright," Emeros breathed, engaged in a struggle to stifle his agitation at the Jarl's vagueness, "what do these Greybeards want with us?" 

  Jarl Balgruuf rose, and for a moment, Athenath held his breath, but the Nord simply approached and stood before the trio, calm. He explained, "The Dragonborn is said to be uniquely gifted in the Voice - the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu'um, or Shout. If you three really are Dragonborn, they can teach you how to use your gift."

  Jarl Balgruuf's brother added incredulously, "didn't you hear the thundering sound as you returned to Whiterun? That was the voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar! This hasn't happened in... centuries, at least. Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora!"

  As his voice rose in volume and enthusiasm, Proventus gave a massive roll of his eyes. "Hrongar, calm yourself. What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with our friends here? Capable as they may be, I don't see any signs of them being these, what, 'Dragonborn.'" 

  "Nord nonsense?" Hrongar repeated, defensive as he rose quickly from his chair. "Why you puffed-up ignorant... these are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the First Empire!" His nostrils flared as he balled his fists at his side. It was clear that this was not the first time, nor would it be the last, that Proventus had said something along these lines to Hrongar. Jarl Balgruuf held his hands up at chest-level, stern as he looked between his brother and his steward.

  "Hrongar, don't be so hard on Avenicci." He watched as Hrongar sunk back into his chair, adjusting it as he'd almost tipped it back when he stood. Proventus gave a nervy smile.

  "I meant no disrespect, of course. It's just that... what do these Greybeards want with them?" He gestured with one flat palm to the trio, who were shuffling uncomfortably before the exchange.

  "That's the Greybeards' business, not ours." The Jarl turned to the trio, stepping closer, staring into each of their eyes back and forth as he commended them. "Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. If they think you're Dragonborn, who are we to argue?" He observed them closely before he spun on his heel, seating himself in his throne, a serene smile lacing his features that caught the Mer off guard. "You'd better get up to High Hrothgar immediately. There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It's a tremendous honor. I envy you three, you know. To climb the Seven-Thousand Steps again..." the comment had such an air of nostalgia, soft and warm, that it almost made the trio long to understand what he was feeling as he spoke about the Greybeards. "I made the pilgrimage once, did you know that? High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place. Very... disconnected from the troubles of this world. I wonder if the Greybeards even notice what's going on down here. They haven't seemed to care before." After he'd finished reminiscing of his youth, the Jarl waved his hand, "no matter. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn what the Greybeards can teach you."

  Before the three could leave, he held up a finger, a silent asking for them to wait. "Before you go," he stroked his beard thoughtfully, speaking again, "you've done a great service to me and my city, Dragonborn... Dragonborns?" He waved a hand, continuing, "by my right as Jarl, I name you all Thanes of Whiterun. It's the greatest honor that's within my power to grant." 

  "With all due respect," Emeros interjected, "don't misconstrue me, we appreciate your offer-"

  "We do?" Whispered Athenath.

  "We do," Emeros replied in a hush before turning back to the Jarl, "but are we truly worthy of that title? We've-"

  "You fought and killed a dragon for this city," Hrongar interjected, "you defended Whiterun with the help of our soldiers, and without you three, many more would have likely lost their lives there. It is an honor I'm sure my brother is proud to present."

  Emeros' face flushed, embarrassment making the crawl up the tips of his ears. The Jarl cleared his throat, continuing. He awarded them an axe, a sign of their office. Ornately carved and enchanted, the weapon weighed down the Bosmer's arms as he offered to carry it, and when all honors were doled out and the trio were given the title in full, they took their leave, and made their way back into the city of Whiterun. 

---

  "Tomorrow," Emeros began, breathless, voice doused in frustration, "we're coming back up here and finding out just what in Oblivion it means to be a Dragonborn." 

  Athenath nodded, eyes pinned to the axe that the Bosmer was doing his very best to haul with the rest of his equipment. "I'm just confused as to how we achieved Thanehood. He hardly knows us!" they threw their arms up, hair a mess of curls that stuck to the back of their neck and forehead, wind all the colder against their damp skin. 

  "Hrongar made a good point, we did get rid of a dragon," Wyndrelis answered, the three finding their way back to The Bannered Mare with ease. "I think we should try to buy some supplies for the road. If we're going to be traveling any time soon, it would be the wisest way to spend our time."

  Emeros cleared his throat, and made a sweeping motion with his flat palm to the horizon. The sun had set, the last vestiges of daylight fading from the skies, hues of indigo and tufts of slate-colored clouds filling the heavens. The plains appeared all that much wider, sprawling out in all directions so far that one could think that they were on an island of nothingness. 

  "Right." Wyndrelis grunted. 

---

  Armor discarded in a corner of their room, the trio sought out the baths for the second time that day. Hot water stung against their bruises, but whatever other injuries they'd sustained had been healed with the absorption of... Power? Was that it? The soapy water soaked into sore muscles as the trio took turns, all tossing their dayclothes into a large kettle to soak out the stains of the day's battle. The pain subsided into a dull ache that would disappear with a few day's rest, if they were even allowed to rest at this point. 

  High Hrothgar, the Throat of the World, the Seven-Thousand Steps. The Greybeards. If these monks atop some high mountain had the ability to shout one word until the skies rattled and ground shook, what else could they do? Was that the full power of the Voice? Could the gods take pity on them and take this power away, if only so the Mer never had to understand this ability they somehow possessed? 

  Athenath sat on the bed, still a bit wet from the baths, bedclothes tossed lazily on as they picked through their hair with their ivory comb. Wyndrelis seated himself at the table in their room, his fingers drumming on the wooden surface. The doors pushed open, Emeros stepping inside, his own bedshirt a pale yellow that must have once been a vibrant saffron, dulled from the years of wear and care. His linen trousers were dusty brown, his face betraying his own exhaustion. 

  "Our clothes should be fully dried in a few hours," he announced, "I've pinned them up, but since it's night..."

  "That's fine," Wyndrelis waved a hand, "I'm sure Hulda and Saadia have seen worse." 

  Emeros laughed, peering in the direction of the balcony. "Why don't we have dinner there," he proposed, "at the very least, we're not holed up in here." As he spoke, Athenath pulled out their garnet cape, draping it over himself, hair drying into its normal, shaggy curls. They shrugged into the fabric, a content sigh on their lips.

  "Sounds good, I might go play my tambourine for a bit, though." 

  "Do as you wish," Wyndrelis dismissed with a smirk, "perhaps you'll even catch that bard's attention."

  Athenath cackled, throwing themself back onto the bed. "Gods, we'll see." 

---

  Dinner laid out on a platter at the small table, Wyndrelis and Emeros sat, watching their friend tap, thump, and shake their tambourine to the directions of the Nord bard. The pair played through some local songs, but Mikael's eyes always fell elsewhere in the room, as if the Altmer couldn't keep his attention long enough to bother teaching him all the things they needed to know of the songs they played. The weariness set further into the Altmer's body, they said goodbye and made their way to their friends, sliding into the chair pulled out for them and resting his tambourine nearby. 

  "I'd say tonight was a success," they picked at their dinner with a weary grin. 

  "He proposed?" Emeros teased. Athenath rolled their eyes.

  "No, but he does love my tambourine playing, says I may do well at the College!" After a moment, they swallowed down half their drink and sighed. "Well, and he's got his eyes on someone else, so that road's closed." 

  Wyndrelis scoffed. "I don't see why that's such a big deal. Romance, I mean. Focusing on it seems like a waste of time." 

  Athenath reached into the neckline of their shirt, pulled out their amulet of Mara, and jingled it in the torchlight. "I'm a devotee to the goddess of marriage, it's kind of important. And, well, I just... Love love, you know? It's something I just really, really love. I just wanna find someone, I guess."

  "What makes you so certain someone's not going to find you, instead?" Emeros joked, before looking over to the Dunmer and saying, "I suppose you've no interest in our dear friend here?"

  Wyndrelis choked back a guffaw, "No, none at all." He paused, watching as Athenath's expression changed, mouth open in a silent, shocked laugh. He winced and tried to explain, "it's nothing about you, Athenath, I swear, but I'm- gods," He rushed, before pushing his hands to cover his face. "I don't... Feel like that about anyone. Never have. Never will."

  "Never?" Athenath repeated, relaxing. 

  "Never."

  Emeros shrugged, taking a bite of his stew, the warm, comforting flavor the exact thing he'd needed to melt off the day's events. "Better off without it, I say. Relationships can be complicated, and for now I quite enjoy the unmarried life." 

  "Well, do you like men, women...?" The Altmer asked, trailing off. The Bosmer waggled his brow, a mischievous smirk tugging at his mouth. 

  "Why, do you happen to fancy me?" He taunted. Athenath made a gagging noise, comedic revulsion in the scrunch of their nose and the downward draw of their mouth. The exaggerated expression made Wyndrelis laugh, running his hand through his dark hair.

  "Fuck off, I'm just curious." 

  Emeros sipped his mead, thinking over a response to the question, looking down at the hall of the inn below them. "I've no preference. Gender isn't something I factor in when seeking a partner. Yourself?" 

  "Men, pretty much. I've only ever gravitated to them." 

  The trio spoke for a while, their dinner cooling as they carried on the conversation in quiet tones, music floating through the air, colors of the notes in warm hues, drinking songs echoing through the hall from the late-evening patrons. The hall burst with life in these moments, the hearth plenty warm and the benches full, Mikael leading in traditional Nord melodies. Wyndrelis rubbed at a spot on the back of his left shoulder, his back never facing the hearth as he sat, watching from the balcony. 

  "Something the matter?" Emeros asked. Wyndrelis shook his head, moving his hand to his hair, combing through it with his long, grey fingers. 

  "No, thinking." 

  "Well, stop thinking," Athenath grinned. Wyndrelis rolled his eyes, smirk playing on his lips.

  "If it were that simple, I would have done so years ago." 

  Emeros looked to Saadia and Hulda, watching them as they conversed, before returning his attention to his friends. "Tomorrow, let's try to get some information. Then, we need to purchase more supplies and prepare for the road, if we're traveling soon." 

  The others agreed, taking their empty dishes down and washing them out with care, the songs going long into the night. Apparently, word of the dragonslaying had reached the city, guards coming in to tell the story over and over, the words bouncing off the walls, the way the dragon had turned to the city and very nearly attacked the world they called home if not for the three strangers, the gazes of the inn's patrons fleeing up the stairs to the room the trio occupied. The word of a group of Mer who could Shout would spread through the entire Hold by morning, if they could judge anything off the way the story took on mythic proportions through the voices of the guards. Some of them sounded familiar, like the ones they'd fought alongside, and some were second-hand tellings of it. Mikael tuned his lute as he listened to every word, and the trio only could hope this wouldn't destroy the little bit of peace they had in this inn. 

  Athenath dropped their cloak on the end of the bed, pulling it up over the blankets. It was the perfect length to act as a second blanket, and when the other two crawled into the bed, they slid down and pulled it tight around himself. 

  "Let's take inventory in the morning," Emeros murmured, "and we'll see what we need."

  "I think there's a shop right across the street," Wyndrelis noted as he closed his eyes. Athenath gave a small hum, nodding. The three Mer lay there, sleep slowly creeping into them as the Nord bard sang of heroes long into the night. 

Chapter 12: Belethor

  It took all the strength in their bodies for the three to rise from bed the next morning, to muster the courage to shoulder the world beyond warm blankets, thick furs, and the cape Athenath had draped out. Still, routines waited for no one, and yesterday had left them with more questions than answers which burned brightly at the edges of each of the Mers minds.

  Wyndrelis retrieved a platter and laid it with different items from the kitchens, with fruits here, a bowl of porridge there, and warm slices of bread and slivers of recently-churned butter in a small dish. He rested the platter in the crook of his arm, against his torso for extra balance as he trudged up the stairs. Behind him, Emeros grasped the handles of three tankards, watered-down coffee still steaming hot from the vessels. Athenath handled supplies, taking some inventory before the other two returned, noting everything down on a scrap piece of parchment from their knapsack. They had enough cheese and bread, but cured or dried meats would travel well if they could get their hands on it, and the trio desperately needed to pick up bedrolls if they were going to be spending any significant time on the road.

  "I have a suggestion," Emeros began, allowing a beat to pass so the other two could focus their attentions on him. He pulled a piece of warm bread over to his plate, digging out a small bit of butter and placing some fruit on top, each motion of his hands fluid and easy, despite yesterdays remains of a tremor when loud noises sounded from below the room. "But, I don't think these Greybeards are going to like it."

  "Perfect, what is it?" Wyndrelis sipped at some leftover stew from last night's dinner, the warm meal bringing him back to his senses, watching the Bosmer as he pushed back his thick, chestnut hair in an absent motion of his free hand, the other prodding at the food on his plate. 

  "I think we should lay low for a while. I mean, what do we really know about these Greybeards?" He waited for an answer, and when none came, he continued, "exactly. I don't know about either of you, but the idea of being sent up a mountain to seek out an unknown, well, it isn't exactly thrilling. I believe we should ask for more information about this Dragonborn business. And," he took a quick sip from his tankard before finishing his sentence, "this land is in the middle of a Civil War, I don't think it will do us any favors to go around as three elves claiming to be part of some highly-held Nord legend." He darted a glance back towards the balcony as though to ensure none had overheard the hushed conversation, before he looked to his companions, awaiting an answer.

  Athenath hummed, setting their comb back into their knapsack. He rubbed at his eyes, pulling a bowl from the platter and idly stirring their spoon in it for a moment, focusing on the mixture of porridge, berries, and chopped hazelnuts. He thought over a response, turning their gaze to Emeros. "Sounds good to me. I mean, you're right, y'know, what do we know about the Dragonborn? Or the Greybeards? Why're we gonna risk our asses climbing up a mountain for them if we don't know the first thing about them? So maybe we should..." 

  "Ignore it?" Wyndrelis finished, and Athenath nodded rapidly.

  "Ignore it. I mean, just for now, maybe. I don't wanna go charging up seven-thousand steps to just be told, 'oh, you three are Dragonborns, for sure', just to be sent all the way back down." 

  The pair landed their eyes on Wyndrelis, already in the process of removing his map from his knapsack. He spread the parchment out along the unmade bed, tracing a finger from Whiterun to High Hrothgar, then checking and double-checking the marked road routes. He raked his hand through his hair, and pursed his mouth, thinking. After a while, he looked to his companions, startled for a second to see them standing next to him. 

  "It's a long journey," he finally said, "I'm not making it without reason. I believe, if we're in no rush, we should leave it to time. Travel elsewhere, wind up there when we're ready." 

  "So it's settled, then?" Emeros quirked a brow, and when the other two made small sounds of agreement, he sat back into his chair and sipped comfortably at his coffee. "We should still speak with the Jarl, find out more of what he knows." 

  "While we're at it," Wyndrelis folded the map back up, returning it to its rightful place in his belongings, "we should still pick up supplies. We have no idea how long we'll be away from towns."

  "Good idea. And then...?" 

  "Just split up and do our own thing for a while?" Athenath suggested, the other two's surprise plain on their faces as the Altmer added, "let's get to know the city, see the sights, that kinda thing."

  The idea was fair enough, despite the slight shock that it presented. The concept of separating from one another for a full day spun strangeness like thread into the air, as if someone were asking that they part with their ghost. And how silly it seemed to be so dramatic over such a thing. But as the three ate their breakfast and planned their day ahead, there was no denying that it would be nice to have a while to themselves. The grasses ruffled in the perpetual winds of Whiterun Hold, with the breeze blowing at the clothes on the line they'd set out last night, dry now and smelling deeply of the soaps they'd chosen their first full day in the city.

---

  "So," Emeros began, clearing his throat after a brief greeting to the Jarl, "we realized this morning that we had left Dragonsreach without much direction." 

  He stood at the front of the group in the grand, sprawling throneroom of Dragonsreach, the morning sun catching dust in its ethereal light. The stone floor spilled sun along the expanse of the hall, gilding the faces of all its residents as they passed from room to room. The people of Dragonsreach went about their morning as usual, with Proventus and the Jarl in conversation over something none of the trio had been able to overhear, Proventus fidgeting and wringing his hands as though the stresses of his duties were biting at his heels like a skeever. The long tables on either side of the hearth sprawled with fresh-cooked meals, Farengar ducking into the hall, gathering a meager breakfast, and skittering back into the refuge of his office.

  "Ah, Proventus can show you on your map where Ivarstead is," Jarl Balgruuf offered, and when Proventus stepped forward, Emeros shook his head.

  "That's not what I meant, but we appreciate it." He glanced at Athenath, who shuffled nervously on their feet, then to Wyndrelis, who was picking at a stray thread at the end of his tunic. "I was wondering if you could tell us more about what it means to be Dragonborn?" 

  The Jarl gave the question some thought, contemplating how to explain it to the three Mer as he leaned back into his throne. "Well," he started, the pause ample for him to gather his thoughts, watching a stray piece of dust float idly along a beam of light somewhere above the trio, "in the old tales, the Dragonborn heroes would use the power of their Voice to defeat the enemies of Skyrim. Wulfharth was Dragonborn. Talos, too - the founder of the Empire, back in the good old days," he spared each word carefully, but the slight turn of his gaze to the bard once he'd mentioned Talos didn't slip past any of them, "In the very oldest tales, back from when there were still dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steal their power."

  "So in that case," Athenath tugged the strap of their bag, pulling it tighter to their form, "how could you protect Whiterun from the dragon attacks?" 

  The Jarl, stern in his brow, still managed a warm look to the trio as he rested the side of a fist against the arm of his throne. "With good planning and constant vigilance," he gestured a flat palm now off in the direction of Farengar's office, where the wizard had been at work for several hours now, and would be working long into the night, "even now, Farengar continues his research into ways we might drive back these terrors." He then rested loose hands against the throne's arm rests, but leaned forward, a spark in his eye, "We must also have ample reserves of water to combat the fires that will surely spread after an attack." Each word held more importance than the last, his eyes bright as a wildfire as he glanced around the room, at the trio, at the looming doors of the castle. "But our greatest weapon? Courage. For if we cannot kill the beast, we must at least have the tenacity to drive it back."

  Wyndrelis met the Jarl's eye, but looked away once he caught that intensity that burned behind them, as though he didn't want to be seen by the passion that filled the Jarl's voice. "Who are these, um, Greybeards we're supposed to go meet?" 

  Jarl Balgruuf reclined comfortably in his throne. Evidently, there was much on his mind already as to how the city should handle the attacks, and each question dragged him further from the planning on how to keep the city intact. "They're the Masters of the Way of the Voice - of Shouting. They live up on top of the Throat of the World. If you're all really Dragonborn, they'll want to talk to you. In the old stories, they always summon the Dragonborn for training."

---

  The gold-painted sign of a General Goods Store was enough to draw the curious eyes of the three Mer. It glinted in the light as they approached, already planning what to use their reward money from Lucan on, Wyndrelis having passed the calculated shares of coin between his two companions. 

  The sun's biting heat on their backs was soon replaced by the cool, shaded shop, light filtering in from the windows that seemed to strategically illuminate the shelves and merchandise. Behind the counter, a hirsute, barrel-chested man stood, watching the strangers with a gleam in his eye. He grinned widely as he called to them.

  "Everything's for sale, my friends! Everything! If I had a sister, I'd sell her in a second." He laughed heartily, then rolled his eyes at the strange looks he received in return, "just a little joke." Clearing his throat, he drummed his fingers on the counter. Making an immediate turn for several shelves of books, Wyndrelis began to tug at their spines gingerly with a hooked finger, pulling each cover into his view, checking it over, then shaking his head and moving on to the next. Athenath went for the trinkets, assorted dolls and toy swords, a hand lightly brushing over some of the more intriguing items. A carved vase here, a clay pot there, some decorated, embossed silverware, items that shimmered in the early light of day. This wasn't a time for frivolity, but gods, he liked to look at anything that caught his eye. Necklaces far out of his price range caught the sun and gloriously shone in their placement on the shelves, rings embedded with amethyst, ruby, garnet, the carvings on the band braided and thick.

  Emeros stepped to the counter, examining some of the potions lined along the surface, liquids inside shimmering, the alchemist shifting his attention to the shopkeeper.

  "So," he began, "do excuse my curiosity, but what brings a Breton to Skyrim?"

  Athenath looked up from the lower shelf they'd been examining, attention latching on the slight point of the man's ears. They weren't as pointed as Mer ears, but the skin still brought together in an arrow shape near the tips, the glimmer of small, silver earrings looping under his lobes. The Breton grinned and swept a grand gesture to the shop around the group with a large hand. 

  "Isn't it obvious? Why, the wonderful weather and hospitable people, of course!" He snarked. "Not to mention my great fondness for dragons and petty political power struggles." He rested one hand on the counter, and as he carried on with his comments, he wagged and waved a finger in gesticulation as he went on, "ah, but without a doubt, the most compelling feature of this frozen wasteland is the volley of inane questions leveled at me on a regular basis."

  At this, he bent his posture closer to the Bosmer, the smug grin never once leaving his face. He rose back to his full height, shifting his weight from his left to his right leg and back again, Emeros taking note of the other's more sardonic sensibilities. Emeros didn't sense any malice in his speech. In fact, this seemed to be his way of showing his hand, a litmus test of the strangers that came to his shop, something the Bosmer had encountered plenty in his time on the road. 

  Many people had their own ways of testing new faces. Some with saccharine kindness that helped to shade their misdeeds, some with a gruff, short-worded way that turned into comforting encouragements once their trust was gained. The Breton, he surmised, appreciated someone who could withstand his sense of humor. 

  "Belethor, is it?" Emeros asked.

  "Wow, you can read a sign," Belethor breathed in a mock-surprise, Athenath stifling a guffaw from behind a shelf. "Yes, I'm Belethor, as in the Belethor, of Belethor's General Goods Store." 

  "Fascinating," Emeros breathed, matching the other's attitudes as Wyndrelis awkwardly tugged another book from the shelf, turning it over in his palms. "I'd like to inquire about any potions you may have in stock. I'm an alchemist, it'd be of great use to me-"

  "Oh, if it's potions you want, I've got'em a'plenty," Belethor reached into a lower shelf of his counter, retrieving some bottles and phials that clinked against one another in his strong hands, "it'll cost you, but I've got'em."

  "Ah, yes, I do believe that's how shops work," Emeros tutted, and the Breton snickered in return, the styling and cut of his facial hair giving him a wolfish appearance.

  As the two bartered, Wyndrelis went back to scanning the shelves, shoulders slumping with disappointment. He rubbed the back of his neck, Athenath stepping over to look with him. Quietly, he tugged another book from a secluded corner of the shelf, black leather cover half-peeled in some places, Imperial insignia cracked with age, the metal shape of it hard against the Altmer's palm. 

  "What's this?" Wyndrelis asked quietly, peering over Athenath's shoulder. The Altmer shrugged.

  "I haven't checked yet," they whispered back, pulling the cover gingerly open. Emeros turned, facing the elves with an arch of his brow.

  "Oh, that?" Belethor called, spotting the pair as they huddled to examine the tome. The Mer looked up at him, his grin never failing. "That's a rare edition of Book of the Dragonborn, very hard to come by. Got it on a shipment of old tomes a few weeks ago. It'd cost you a nice septim anywhere else, I assure you." 

  Athenath ghosted a finger along the ancient ink inside, the words printed on the inner cover, ears perking up at the title. "Dragonborn?" 

  "How much would it cost, exactly?" Emeros asked, whirling on his heel to face Belethor again. The man waved a hand, dismissing the idea entirely.

  "I'm afraid that one's already got a buyer, my friend. I'm supposed to send it with a courier to Markarth for him this week. War makes it hard for him to get on the road these days." He looked between the group, an idea forming in his mind. "Though, if you have more coin, or something of interest to offer me..." he hummed. Athenath set the book back on the shelf and shrugged away from it, examining some leather straps bundled together on another shelf. 

  Once the group had purchased their supplies for the road, Wyndrelis assured his friends he'd meet them back at the inn, watching as the other Mer departed. After a moment in the odd silence, the Dunmer turned to Belethor, approaching the counter.

  "You mentioned a shipment of old tomes?" Wyndrelis inquired. Belethor folded his arms over his chest, pausing as he recalled the event. Some library from the Imperial city getting rid of some of their stock, he'd been told. 

  "Yeah, not that long ago, actually," he noted thoughtfully, the image of the cart rolling up the slopes to Whiterun returning to his mind. "Sometimes I get items in like that, old junk no one else is interested in, the likes." 

  Wyndrelis, spine grateful to be free of the enchanted greatsword's heft at last, tapped at the silver, star-shaped buckle of his belt. It bore four tapering points, with four smaller, thicker ends sticking out in diagonal stretches. He looked to Belethor, brow knit behind his glasses as he asked, "would any of them happen to have this on the cover?"

  Belethor rubbed at the end of his ear, as though trying to force his mind to search for the image. The fabric of his well-worn, apple green tunic rumpled like a shed skin as he folded his arms again. "Come to think of it, no, but I'll keep an eye out. You lookin' for something special?" He grinned, Wyndrelis shying back.

  "No, but- er, thank you. Do let me know if you happen to find anything."

  With that, the Dunmer left, turning on his heel and focusing his attention on Dragonsreach. 

Chapter 13: Another Face in the Dark

  Maybe it's true that people will adjust to anything, no matter how strange the circumstances. Athenath thought of this as they entered Dragonsreach for the second time that day, the residents of the castle going about their daily duties, unbothered by the events of yesterday. They had been lucky that the dragon was distracted by the elves Shouting, or whatever they'd done. The Altmer still wasn't entirely sure of anything that happened the prior day, the battle at the tower a fresh wound that struggled to close and heal properly in the back of his mind. All they could do was hope that they'd never have to fight another dragon again, but given what he'd learned, that seemed an impossible wish to fulfill now. 

  Greeting the Jarl and Proventus quickly, Athenath hurried through the pleasantries of usual, polite conversation, all the while shifting his gaze to Irileth. He'd come here to speak to her, and if their line of thought disrupted, there was a chance they'd leave the castle without getting to the reason they even walked all this way.

  The Dunmer housecarl stood like a pillar of strength, her wrist resting comfortably on the hilt of her blade as Athenath had seen Emeros do once before. She looked the Altmer up and down, her ruby eyes betraying her curiosity beneath her stern brow. She waited for the bard to approach first, to see if he would even dare to, and when he did, she opened her mouth. "You are a welcome guest, but you must still respect the rules of the Jarl's household," she instructed, observing the Mer, their hair tied back hurriedly. 

  "I'd hope you could rest easy with a Thane around," they joked in a thin attempt at lightening the mood of recent events, but this only caused the edges of the Dunmer's lips to twitch sullenly downward.

  "We can never rest easy, for Balgruuf's enemies will not."

  "Oh," Athenath's gaze darted to the flooring beneath them, and after a moment, returned to Irileth, "I was wondering, how did you come to be a housecarl?" 

  Irileth cracked the smallest glimpse the Altmer had ever seen to a smile on her face. Something echoed in her eyes, memory ignited like kindling to a campfire. "Balgruuf and I share a battle bond," she brushed a stray strand of dark brown hair from her forehead, continuing easily, "we met as youths, and forged our friendship in the fires of war. When he became Jarl, I insisted on serving as his protector. He had no cause to argue." Proudly, she detailed the shared history between she and the Jarl, who was now speaking with his brother about some matter involving the Jarl's children, the two shaking their heads with amusement. "Gods, you are curious. Almost... dangerously so." Irileth again narrowed her eyes at the Altmer, but not sensing that they were much of a threat, she let whatever thought she'd been having go. For now.

  Athenath spent a moment absorbing the other's words, and when he gathered the confidence, he inhaled. "Is it- I mean-"

  "Speak confidently," Irileth commanded, "or you may not be heard."

  Athenath reconsidered, thoughts gathering in shaky lines in the back of their mind, then nodded. "Okay, I was wondering if... maybe you could teach me how to fight? I mean, I know the basics, I'm alright with a blade and such, but if I'm going to be going all the way to the Throat of the World or whatever it's called..." He trailed off, nervous lips catching on the words. He and Irileth had fought side-by-side yesterday, and what a sight Athenath must have been. Graceless, barely able to handle a bow, and their sword skills needed a shitton of work. Every notion ran through their mind haphazard and wild, the idea of anyone seeing their poor combat skills in such a situation causing the Altmer to stifle a grimace.

  The housecarl seemed taken aback by the statement, and steadied her footing as though tossing about some idea or other in her own mind. She made a small motion of her head in the direction of the long table behind Athenath. "Why don't you ask your housecarl? As you can imagine, I'm quite busy, but rest assured, Lydia is a reliable and well-trained warrior. I saw to that, myself." 

  Athenath turned, the Nord woman seated as she read through a book and sipped a chalice, swirling the liquid within as she rested it in her palm. He thanked Irileth before inching back away from the throne and to the Nord woman with awkward, uncertain steps. He'd forgotten about the housecarl, and the idea of having someone assigned to them like a bodyguard almost made him nervous. Some parts of his mind gladdened at the concept, someone to defend the trio, should they be incapacitated. But other parts found it uncomfortable, fumbled on the idea, stumbled past it with a shiver of discomfort, a sort of defeatism, as though the elves had been deemed too weak to defend themselves in Skyrim's harsh landscape. 

  Tapping Lydia lightly on the shoulder, the woman set her chalice down with a heavy sigh. "Farengar, I'm not running an errand for you when I've- oh," she stopped, half-turned, facing the Altmer. She cleared her throat. "Long life to you, Thane." 

  Athenath tittered, sitting down beside the woman. "Irileth said you might be able to teach me how to fight." 

  Lydia, puzzled, perched one brow high, her attention solely latched to the elf. "I heard you and the other Thanes did pretty well for yourselves with the dragon."

  "Yeah, but..." Athenath trailed off, "...I'll put it this way, I'm not going to be doing anyone any favors with my skills right now if we have to go up against another one of those things."

  "I would be honored. You know, my ma and da were members of the Companions. You've seen their hall, Jorrvaskr, right? It's right by the statue of... Well, you know where it is, I'm sure." The uneasiness in Lydia's shoulders, the way she didn't look away from the bard, Athenath could feel all of it as they sat there, the name of the ninth divine not leaving the housecarl's lips.

  "Oh! Talos, yeah, the one that priest is always standing around? I don't think I've noticed Jorrvaskr, actually." 

  The good humor in Athenath's voice left Lydia releasing a breath she hadn't noticed holding. "Yes, Heimskr. He's certainly a character. Anyways, they wouldn't let me join yet, said I needed more time for such a commitment, whatever that means, but... well, yeah, I'd be glad to train you." 

  "Really?" Athenath's eyes lit up, smile sprawling on his lips. Lydia laughed softly, resting her elbow on the table, armor glinting in the light, the engravings made all the more prominent, small shadows in the ridges curling in decorative patterns.

  "Just don't be surprised if I go harder on you than the usual recruit. I know you may not think it, but you and the others fought off a dragon, that shows some real courage and skill. All of Whiterun has been talking about it."

  Athenath tucked their chin to their neck at the idea of the town fluttering with the news of the fight. They didn't want people talking about the battle right now, especially if it increased chances of getting asked for a firsthand account about it. Normally, they'd be thrilled to tell bold tales, but when the memory hadn't even had a chance to scab over with the distance of time, the idea of having to tell everyone the story over and over again just made them tired. Still, Athenath looked to Lydia and straightened his posture, placing a smile on his mouth. "Thank you." After a moment, they looked around, brow furrowed. "When do we start?"

  Lydia gave it some thought, tapping her fingers along the wooden surface of the long table. "How about after supper, around seven? I've got some duties I need to attend to, and I'm sure you'll want to let Thane Emeros and Thane Wyndrelis know where you'll be." 

Perfect. Athenath thanked Lydia profusely, a bounce in his heel as they left the castle, determined to learn anything the warrior could teach them. If they were going to be on the notoriously dangerous roads of Skyrim, even if traveling with other people, it couldn't hurt to take this opportunity while they were here. 

---

  The moment he'd gotten back from speaking with Lydia, a plan had formed in their mind. 

  The bard checked over the armor from yesterday, examining it to be sure it didn't need too much cleaning. They spent a while outside the inn on a clear patch of grass, scrubbing at the iron with a brush and clearing all the soot and blood from it. The fabric portions of the armor would need more care, but they figured that, for now, it was good enough. If he could wear it, then it would work. Then, they told his friends that he was going to be in the castle, about the fighting lesson, Emeros commenting that it sounded like a good idea. He seemed eager to see if Lydia's training was going to benefit the youngest of the group, and Athenath had cracked a joke about his rough-housing with old friends back in Anvil, just wanting to be sure he could defend himself on the road, was all.

  Dinner went down easily, something small and quick. Athenath played tambourine at the hearth for a while, Mikael cracking a couple jokes about the stories the town had been flooded with, the pair playing a few songs together as the Altmer eyed the door. They thought about the training Lydia would give them, they thought about the cool night air and the patrons filtering into the inn, about the path they'd take, about the lockpicks in their bag. 

  When everyone's eyes were on other people, and the inn filled with evening patrons, Athenath took the chance. He donned his armor. He tied up their hair and silently toed to the door. Wyndrelis sat on one of the long benches beside Emeros, the pair listening to Mikael bicker with another man in the inn. Wyndrelis turned. 

  They locked eyes.

  Athenath grinned at the Dunmer, shrugged, and headed out into the night.

  Monitoring the guards carefully, their torches grasped in gauntlet-clad hands, he drew in a breath of the fresh, warm air that permeated the city. Belethor's keys jingled in his palms, the metallic catch of the noise alerting the Mer. They scurried to the shadows, ensuring the Breton didn't see them as they peered out at him. The Breton grumbled to himself about needing to mark which key was which, before locking the door to his shop, turning on his heel in the direction of the Bannered Mare. He called something to Saadia - it sounded like an in-joke, as Saadia's reply struck as rehearsed, routine, a thick laugh leaving Hulda's throat - and wrapped a large hand around the door handle, pulling it shut.

  The elf crept with practiced ease into the dark, pressing his spine against a wall as a guard strode by, torch burning holes into the night. Secunda and Masser were in opposites, wax and wane, the stars hurrying behind thin, wispy clouds. The light blotted itself out from the skies, silvery specks disappearing. When the timing came to them, they slipped to the back of the shop. 

  Wrapping their fingers around the handle, Athenath gave it one firm shake, despite knowing it was locked. Feeling the mechanisms stiff beneath their palm, they confirmed what they had seen moments earlier. It never hurt to check. Locks had never been a problem before, though. He plunged a hand into their pocket.

  Lockpicks. A true friend.

  They worked diligently, nimble digits turning the picks and pressing up until they heard a click, and with it, a smile snuck against his lips. They easily slid a palm around the handle, and he pushed the wooden shop's door until it was ready, slipping into the building and shutting it behind himself without a second thought.

  Ears strained in the silence, cautiously listening for any noise.

  A scent of dried herbs from displays in the shop ahead perfumed the air. Outside, guards chatting. People leaving the inn. Arcadia locking up for the night next door. The distant howl of a wolf and the barking of a dog. 

  Inside, nothing but the occasional creak and pop of settling architecture.

  He didn't dare rise to a full stand, keeping low and steady. They moved, gliding one foot in front of the other, the glint of torchlight on their armor already a threat. He didn't dare extinguish them, though. Too much attention. 

  He spied the book's tattered spine, leather worn down over the decades, and without a moment's hesitation, snagged it from the shelf. He'd been lucky to think to bring their knapsack, stuffing it into the leather material, and creeping out of the shop the same way he came in.

  He would head to Dragonsreach immediately after. No use rousing suspicion by returning to the inn for... What? They had no excuses to randomly reappear inside without heading to the castle, so they would not head back. They would make the walk to Dragonsreach, despite the slight hammering of his heart. The book would easily hide in his knapsack until he got back to the inn, even if the risk was still there, someone accidentally knocking over his bag or them needing to get into it and shuffle around the tome, but they knew how to roll with the punches. Blending into the shopkeepers and citizens on their walks home, Athenath became another face in the dark. They had played this game a thousand times before, and their winnings, thus far, vastly outweighed their losses.

Chapter 14: Pointing Blame

  By morning, every guard in Whiterun knew that Belethor was in a wretched mood.

  He'd gone to them after checking and double-checking and triple-checking about something missing from his shop - something valuable, he urged - and the guards assured him through tight-drawn lips that they'd get to the bottom of this. He sat at the bar in the Bannered Mare during breakfast, murmuring to himself over what to do, a dread gnawing at him that no one else could parse. A quill rested idly in one large hand, his head cradled in the other. 

  The trio listened from their rented room to the gossip that lilted up the stairs, filtering in from the balcony, doors cracked to catch every mention of the shopkeepers name when he left. Mikael cracked a joke that made someone guffaw and another patron sneer, his words not quite reaching the three elves as they tried to claw the remainders of sleep from their bodies. They'd snagged breakfast while straining for information, and now poked and prodded at it as the sun arched higher in the sky.

  "Can you believe it?" Emeros exclaimed in a tired hush after swallowing down a spoonful of porridge, piling a couple more blueberries into the bowl. "Belethor goes out for a drink, and suddenly something's missing, and no one knows what happened." The disapproval in his voice as he spoke was evident. Wyndrelis cut into a fried egg, sliding it onto some toast in a low and precise motion, his sight sweeping between the other two Mer, the black holes of the mage's pupils a stark contrast against his cloud-white irises, intensifying his gaze to anyone caught in it.

  He would prefer to sink into the background. He didn't want to cause a rift between the three during the infancy of their friendships, but the more he thought about it, and the more he chewed at his breakfast and turned his gaze from one to the other... well.

  He was pretty sure Athenath did it. 

  Wyndrelis lingered his gaze on the Altmer as they wrapped a finely woven cloth between the jingles of their tambourine, preparing it for the road. They hummed to themself, adjusting and readjusting their instrument until he was entirely satisfied with its condition. The Dunmer half-wondered if Emeros was simply giving the bard the benefit of a doubt. For what reason, he couldn't understand, but the connections were clear in the Dunmer's mind. Their skill with a lockpick, the grin on his mouth as he ducked out into the night, his attention to detail and their silent steps that occasionally startled the other two, the selection of the Thief stone, it added to the portrait he was mentally building of the younger Mer.

  "How was your training with Lydia?" The mage asked. Athenath looked up from their task for a moment, cradling the tambourine as he swung his legs back and forth against the bed, curls rolling down their shoulders in well-combed lengths. The voice of Hulda called below, the voice of Saadia responding. The smell of freshly baking bread filled their senses, Hulda cursing from the kitchens at the heat. Athenath sat there with their big eyes and a shrug of the shoulders, listening in for a while before replying.

  "It was fine." They pulled the instrument closer, ensuring they'd braided the long cloth tight enough with a few tugs, "I mean, nothing too monumental, but she did give me some good pointers. She told me my stance needed work, if I was any hope against anything stronger than a rabbit, but yeah, it went pretty well." 

  Athenath meticulously pushed the tambourine back into their knapsack, the garnet-dyed leather moving aside to accommodate the instrument, bottles of healing potions clinking together, knocking against other items that had always been there. If they'd stolen anything, they did a damn good job at hiding it, the Dunmer thought.

  He shifted his focus again to Emeros, who finished his breakfast in the silence. The Bosmer's dark eyes skimmed the wood of the table, his thoughts punctuated by the occasional slow blinking, as though counting each crack in the surface. 

  "Well," the eldest of the group slid his plate away and turned from the table, gathering his belongings and sliding his knapsack onto his back, "if it's alright with either of you, I'd enjoy one more day in this city." 

  "Why's that?" Athenath looked up, watching Emeros as he tightened the buckle of his pack, furrowing his brow slightly at a thought passing by before shrugging it off. 

  "It can't hurt. Besides, shouldn't we spend some time getting to know Whiterun a bit more? We are Thanes now, after all." 

---

  The stalls brimmed with life, gossip and wares sold in tandem, lively conversation trailing the trio as they left the inn. An elderly woman sold her husband's wares at the stall right outside the inn, giving a friendly smile at the Mer. Younger merchants would chat from their stalls with the woman, the town gossip of the day - thankfully absent of dragons - shared between them as people came up to check what they had. The elves were about to turn to the road leading in the direction of the main gate when the sound of Belethor and a pair of guards in heated conversation snared their attentions like a bear trap.

  "I'm just saying, they were the last ones I saw take an interest in it, and if you don't find this book-"

  "We've asked everyone in Whiterun, Belethor," sighed one helmet-faced guard, "but no one saw this supposed thief, not even Heimskr. Maybe you misplaced it?" The suggestion made a vein in Belethor's forehead throb, the Breton scratching at his pointed ear, nerves edging into his fidgety movements.

  "I'm telling you, I wouldn't misplace something like that, especially something I've already arranged to have taken by courier," he insisted. The other guard turned, facing the trio, and after a moment of registering their presences, nudged his compatriot with his elbow.

  "Thanes," greeted the helmet-faced guard, then in a tone drenched in sour sarcasms, asked, "you wouldn't happen to have seen a book lying around, would you?" 

  Belethor turned. He locked eyes on the elves, jaw set hard in place. His teeth grit as he scrutinized each of them, all his good humor drained the moment he'd woken up and checked over his shop.

  "I'm sorry, but we haven't. We heard about the break-in this morning, actually." Emeros' tone indicated concern for the shopkeeper, whose eyes narrowed as they landed on the Altmer. Suspicion in his visage, he arched a brow.

  "Mhm," Belethor grunted, "and where was your friend last night?"

  "What?" Emeros jolted. He and Wyndrelis whirled their eyes to Athenath, who folded their arms over his chest, a defensive shield from the Breton's accusations. 

  "Thane Athenath was training with Lydia," the helmet-faced guard explained, "I saw him there myself. Needs to work on their stance, but..." the guard wavered a gauntlet in the air, then turned his attention fully to Belethor, who massaged his temples, his frustration growing by the moment, tinged with something much deeper. This was more than a routine break-in, and the town could tell, giving the Breton a wide berth since the moment he'd left his home.

  "Yeah, but when did he start the training?" 

  The question left the whole group puzzled, Belethor tapping his foot anxiously on the pavement. "I saw the other two in the Bannered Mare, but didn't see that one." 

  Emeros drew in a slow breath as he moved, inching himself slowly to stand between the shopkeeper and the bard, giving Belethor a stern look through his brow. "I don't know what you're on about, or what your problem is-"

  "It's fine," Athenath sighed, tugging their knapsack from his shoulders and unfastening the strap, "if you need to look through my things to believe me, I don't care."

  The helmet-faced guard grimaced. Searching a Thane of Whiterun's belongings was the last thing he wanted to be doing right now, but he gingerly took the bag's straps into his grasp while his compatriot dug through it, Belethor practically breathing down their necks the entire time. 

  The clinking of a few potion bottles. A notebook. Some parchment, a quill, some ink. All of these were shoved aside carefully. Clothes, a cloak, and a coinpurse. The other guard muttered out the items to himself as though reading off a list, Belethor scratching his chin, nerves clearly having him more rattled than he let on. This book, whatever it was, had much more dire implications than he'd let the guards know.

  The helmet-faced guard passed the knapsack back into Athenath's hands. "Sorry about that, Thane Athenath," he grunted, "nothing out of the ordinary." 

  "Nothing?" Belethor repeated, brow raised. 

  "Nope," the other guard shrugged, rubbing at the back of his neck. Athenath pulled his knapsack back into place against his shoulders, and for a moment, Wyndrelis thought the Altmer winked at Belethor. The Breton didn't catch it.

  "We'll let you know if we find anything, okay?" The other guard tried to sound reassuring, but the attempt made him sound more exhausted than anything. As the armor-clad men trudged off to handle more urgent duties, Belethor strode over, eyes scanning the trio carefully.

  "I'm going back to my shop. If it magically turns up, tell me," he urged in a harsh, quiet tone, stress thumping his words. 

  "Why are you so concerned about this? Surely, you can order a replacement." Emeros etched concern into his voice, despite the growing annoyance with the man. Belethor glanced around, leaning close, and speaking in a hush.

  "It's a rare edition these days. Keep this between us, but with Whiterun's neutrality, my buyer can't exactly come marching up the city steps." 

  "Stormcloaks?" Wyndrelis murmured, stepping closer. Belethor shook his head.

  "I'll give you a hint, if you're so keen to know." He made a sweeping motion with his index finger along his ear, bringing it up high along the side of his head.  

  Emeros' blood ran cold.

  "Thalmor," he whispered. He'd recognize the Breton sign that indicated standard Thalmor earcuffs anywhere, the shape of an eagles wing that would arch out from the ear of whatever Justiciar wore them. 

  Belethor nodded gravely.

  "And if he doesn't get what he wants, well..."

  Belethor trailed off. Eventually, he turned on his heel, murmuring about writing a letter, something about a delay in the shipment, no problem, he'd miraculously get his hands on another edition, leaving the three to watch him as he shut the door to his shop.

  Athenath looked from Emeros to Wyndrelis, then back again. Wordlessly, the trio split to wander separate parts of the city, the conversation repeating in their minds like a stanza in a particularly cruel poem. 

Notes:

thank you for reading this far! things are about to start ramping up. can't wait to show you what i have in store, and if you'd like updates or snippets of future chapters, feel free to follow me on tumblr at throughtrialbyfire! all feedback is welcomed, thank you!! <3

Chapter 15: Like a Fist in the Throat

  Noon shone in excess, stretching its palms higher into the heavens, sinking its rays of sun into the earth like a pair of well-cleaned fangs. Emeros cracked jokes with Hulda and Saadia, asking after a while with a hint of concern if anyone had found Belethor's missing book. When they confirmed no one had, he frowned, shifting his gaze momentarily away. From the stairs, Athenath eyed him, curls tumbling down their collarbone in shaggy lengths. Emeros caught the sprawling of an impish grin on his carmine mouth, the arms over his chest, the heel of their boot against the wall. He knit his brow and pursed his lip, and when Athenath pushed themself from the surface and made a slow stride up the stairs, he thought of following. 

  A quick apology flitted off his lip as he turned back to Hulda - Saadia busy with keeping Mikael from reciting some of his more lackluster pieces, to say the least - observing as the innkeeper called something out to one of the Battle-Borns. Emeros turned back to the stairs and the empty space the Altmer had been occupying, before he decided to follow after them.

  "What is it?" He asked, watching as the Altmer swayed their steps in easy pace through the room, half-dancing, that smirk placed on their lips never fading.

  "Well, I figured we should get our things put away," he said as he stepped back over to the Bosmer, nudging him with a sharp elbow in a playful manner. "After all, if you're gonna be flirting all night, don't want your bag holding you back."

  Emeros rolled his eyes, tugging the straps off his shoulders with a huff. "For your information, I'm not flirting, I'm being friendly. There's a marked difference between the two."

  "Yeah," Athenath snorted, a mischievous glint in their eyes, waving an absent hand as though brushing through spiderwebs, "alright, sure, whatever you say." 

  The alchemist stretched, spine eager for an evening without the weight of the pine-green leather between his shoulder blades. It would be a good idea to set it aside. He quite liked talking to the patrons and the women that ran the inn. Hearing about the local tales and the bits of history and the updates on the town's situation with the war was no doubt beneficial, but all important news was slow-going, so he often settled for casual gossip and talking about surrounding communities like Riverwood. Wyndrelis had sat at the table for a while, tugging out the group's map and examining it in the warm light of their shared room. He looked up, about to start questioning his friends on where they should go once they left Whiterun, routes to take, the roads and possibilities, when he watched Athenath dive a hand into Emeros' bag. Before the Bosmer could protest, they retrieved a leather-bound tome, gleaming Imperial insignia catching the light. 

  "Besides," Athenath held it up, "we should probably leave this here for now."

  Emeros' stomach dropped. The sight of the tome, the flashing memory of Belethor's nerve-shackled features earlier that day, the sound of his voice still clear in his head. The sign with the tip of his finger. He inhaled through his nose. Once, twice. 

  A beat passed. Silence heavier than stone.

  "You didn't," he hissed, brow lowered at the Altmer who clamored onto the bed, propping the book up against their long legs, garnet material of their trousers still carrying the faint scent of rosemary. Wyndrelis watched, scrunching his nose like he'd smelled a particularly strong brandy, the rolling images in his mind of the prior night only serving to sour his tongue. The shrug out the door. The grin. Their eyes, so focused on the tome that it seemed the entire world fell away for that one moment when Belethor told them what it was. That it was valuable, that it was pertaining to the Dragonborn. 

  Suspicions confirmed.

  The bard thumbed through the book's worn pages in an idle motion, reclined against the pillows. "Look," he started, Emeros locking the doors to the balcony and shooting a dangerous glare back at the other Mer, "I think we need this more than some Thalmor Justiciar who's probably gonna burn it anyways."

  "But you-" Emeros fumbled against his mind for words that never seemed to merge, latching and unlatching against his thoughts. After several bouts of helpless sputterings, he let out an exasperated groan, forehead cradled in the crux of his thumb. "Fine," he spat, "but the moment we're done gleaning any relevant information from it, you are marching right to Belethor's shop and handing it over to him and apologizing. And you'll be lucky if he doesn't call the guards on you, and don't expect us to step in."

  "Why should I?" Athenath bolted upright, the book lurching against their lap, pages slapped around unceremoniously like fronds in a strong wind. "Like I said, that Thalmor agent's just gonna burn it the moment they get their hands on it-"

  "This war is hard on everyone," Emeros interrupted in a low, solid tone. Wyndrelis shrunk down in his seat at the table, wishing quietly to disappear into the wall, half contemplating a spell to do just that. "The Thalmor pay quite a lot of gold for items such as the one you've stolen. He could easily pay any local taxes, tariffs-"

  "And?" Athenath rolled their eyes in a wide arc, edge of their mouth pushing up against one side of their nose, sneering, "did we meet the same Belethor? The man said he'd sell his own sister if he had one!" 

  "That may be! Don't misconstrue my words as defending him, Athenath, I'm defending his livelihood. Do you know how hard it is to keep afloat amidst this turmoil?" The words coated his tongue, acidic, his voice breathy as he struggled to keep his tone level. "Gods, do you even know what the Thalmor may do to him if they don't get what they want?" 

  "Why should I give a single shit about a man who'd shake hands with a Justiciar?" 

  Emeros steepled his hands along the bridge of his nose. He drew in a long, apprehensive breath. His stomach tightened. How could he explain to them that Dominion gold was worth more than any honest septim? That they paid well, the kind of wages that could keep a whole family afloat, all for information. With this, Belethor would almost certainly have Thalmor hired mercenaries at his back should the book not reach it's destination. That the Thalmor spared no one, especially those who made false promises or anyone who'd long outlived their usefulness. How could he explain all of this to the bard, born after the Great War, whose eyes burned pinprick holes into him as he attempted to string a response together? Dominion gold could keep Belethors hearth warm all throughout the Civil War, however long that took. He didn't blame the man for taking it. Hard times made anyone desperate, shame took the back burner... 

  The back of Emeros' throat burned as he opened his mouth once more, hands joining together neatly before him.

  "Athenath," he sharpened the name on his tongue in a way that made the Altmer flinch. In a low voice, he leaned closer from his chair, his brow shadowing his dark eyes as he spoke. "Do you honestly, truly believe that I, being from Valenwood, don't have any understanding of your position?" He paused, letting the words soak into the Altmer's skin as he formed his next sentence. "And, with me being from Valenwood, do you think that perhaps I've an idea as to what position you've put this man in?" 

  Wyndrelis watched the exchange, fidgeting with his fingers, picking at his nails, anything to avoid being seen. He watched Athenath's cheeks flush, the distinct feeling of restraint in their expression, their teeth crushed so tight together in his jaw that the Dunmer almost worried he'd snap a tooth. He pushed his glasses up his nose and swallowed hard, unsure of how to cut away the tension. It thickened around them in phantom tendrils, an atmosphere that swept away the trio like swirling eddies in the sea. 

  Mikael distantly strummed at his lute, the rattles of laughter from beneath them filtering into the room. Saadia and Hulda spoke about the inn and its future. Idolaf told Mikael to learn some different songs. Mikael made some half-sarcastic reply, muffled to the ears of the three Mer. The room beneath them bellowed with amusement and jeering both. 

  Wyndrelis, moving slow as though attempting not to alert a half-starved mountain lion, retrieved parchment, a quill, and some ink from his bag. "If we're not keeping this book, we should transcribe it instead of leaving information up to memory." 

  "Good idea." Emeros didn't make eye contact, simply plucked the tome from Athenath's hands and placed it firmly on the table. The Altmer didn't pout, didn't move, didn't speak. A firm ball of guilt flexed like a fist in their throat. 

  They set the old tome on the table, Wyndrelis pushing the parchment under his palms so that it remained still. He readied his quill. 

  "Many people have heard the term 'Dragonborn' - we are of course ruled by the 'Dragonborn Emperors' - but the true meaning of the term is not commonly understood. For those of us in the Order of Talos, this is a subject near and dear to our hearts, and in this book I will attempt to illuminate the history and significance of those known as Dragonborn down through the ages." 

  Wyndrelis copied it down dutifully as Emeros read the passages aloud, resting the tome on his arm, turning the pages with a delicate hand befitting of an archivist. The mage jotted every word with ease, setting aside used papers to dry. Stretching his fingers once Emeros wrapped up his reading, he looked to the other Mer, whose dry, droning voice had filtered through the air around them, sweeping up as much of the tension as he was capable.

  Once the group had the entire book transcribed, the Dunmer leaned back against his chair. He pushed his fingers through his dark hair, turning his torso in time to watch Athenath buckle their armor and grab their sword, dragging it from where it had rested against the wall. Wyndrelis furrowing his brow, alarm blinding his vision for a moment, settling into curiosity as the Altmer trudged to the door.

  Emeros turned his stern gaze on Athenath, already violently unlocking the door and standing in its frame with tight shoulders. "Where are you-"

  For all the anger in their body, for all the frustrations at the situation that reverberated around in their skull like a voice in a hollow cavern, they did not reach a hand out and grab the handle and slam the door so hard it would rattle the establishment. Athenath steadied themself. They couldn't do that. So, he shut the door quietly behind himself, leaving the two in the silence of an answer unspoken, the gold sconce light passing under the frame as his shadow shifted away from it. 

  Anywhere Emeros and Wyndrelis were not, it seemed, is where Athenath would go.

Notes:

sorry this took a while! i've been deeply burnt out due to going back to college after a few years away. on the bright side, i got a 100 on my hardest midterm, and i'm writing again!! thank you all who read this far, i'm excited to hear what you think of this chapter in the comments!! take care!! <3

Chapter 16: A Proud Life

  Whatever that poor training dummy did to deserve this, the guard captain pitied it. 

  Athenath stormed into the castle dungeon that afternoon, shoulders tense against their neck, steps heavy against the stone. The training area Lydia had lead him to the prior evening held a couple of new recruits and a guard captain, who found an extra dummy, which the Altmer set to work terrorizing with their new sword. Their sword punctured the barrel-shaped belly and pushed deep into it, before the Altmer pulled it back with the help of their heel to its surface, and readied another swing. Hay spat from the figure, landing in defeat on the stone floors, defiance eaten up by the elf's blade.

  The guard captain stood near a wall, arms folded over his chest, watching the Altmer and the new recruits carefully. Athenath had taken Lydia's pointers to heart, widening his stance and steadying themself before striking, their feet planted firmly on the floor. They lunged again, this time, an impulsive strike.

  "Easy, easy," the guard captain cautioned, motioning one gauntlet-covered hand and catching Athenath's attention, "you're going to send yourself flying if you strike like that. And on these stone floors? That'll hurt." 

  Athenath fixed a hard gaze on him for a second, then gave one slow, solemn nod. He turned his attention back to the dummy, taking a moment to assess the moment and widen his stance, before striking once more. The blade cut true, loose needles of straw flying through the air, growing the piles on the floor.

  While Athenath's motions eased, their thoughts raced. Thundering through their head was every move they'd made since the trio had arrived in Whiterun- no, since Riverwood- no, since Helgen. Since Athenath had been in Bruma. Something further back prodded interrogatory fingers through their memory and he shut it down by slashing a chunk of hay like an artisan in the Imperial City carved ice sculptures for the emperor. A voice in his head, a repetition of words long-spoken, of someone whose image brewed sour disgust into Athenath's tightened throat, these half-memories left the Altmer thrusting with all their might into every swing.

  They'd been trying to help.

  Slash.

  They'd done the best possible thing.

  Swipe.

  If getting answers was so important, why did it fucking matter he had to steal to get them?

  Thwack, thwack, slice.

  Emeros should have expected this, if anything he was at fault, Athenath chose the Thief stone unapologetically and they stuck to it, so how could he not have known? How could he not have anticipated that they were what they were, or made no attempt to understand that they did this for all of them?!

  THWACK!

  Athenath stood back for a moment, the head of the straw mannequin reeling loudly against the post it clung to. Ragged breaths clamored for space in their lungs, wiping their sweat on the long gauntlet he wore, fingers feeling tighter by the minute from the ill-fitting garment. The door creaked open with a cacophonous noise.

  "Captain," a guard called, her voice carrying through the high walls and over the cobblestone floors, "have you seen- oh, there you are, Thane." 

  He swallowed tightly as the guard stepped further into the room, Emeros trailing behind her like a shadow. At the sight of the Bosmer and his calm face, Athenath rolled their eyes, shoulders slumping momentarily before they returned to hacking at the dummy with no mercy.

  Emeros winced. 

  "It's late noon," he pointed out over the sounds of the Mer's exertion, "we should be gathering back at the Inn."

  They hacked off a few more tufts of hay before sheathing their blade. He gathered himself, stretching, and taking a minute to remove their armor. The light material of their tunic wrinkled ferociously at every joint and previously-buckled section, Athenath piling the equipment into his arms and carrying it out the door, Emeros falling in step behind him. 

---

  "What's wrong?" Emeros gathered the courage to ask after a long bout of icy silence between the pair. Late noon sun curled along the horizon, the moons more visible, pinkish hues grasping at the edges of the clouds that lazily rode overhead. Athenath had marched through the inn, set their armor aside, and marched right back to the streets of Whiterun, ignoring every person inside. They had no patience right now, it seemed, for any kind of conversation. They wouldn't look into anyone's eyes. Emeros kept his own focus on them, careful, observing his friend and the way they carried their frustrations at the day's events. Athenath remained silent, pulling a few strands of hair between their fingers, winding and unwinding them around a digit. They'd open their mouth to speak, close, re-open, but the words tore themselves away before they even had enough time to process or form, for the Altmer to allocate them into a sentence, make the sounds, and so Athenath remained quiet and closed their mouth, shaking their head.

  They wanted to say something. Everything, even. Tell Emeros what he'd been thinking about the entire time he'd been slashing at the dummy, but drained of all that same fire now, Athenath stood here with nothing but a cork in their throat pushing down every word, even if it stifled them, even if it hurt.

  "Athenath," Emeros softened his voice, slowing his stride. The pair found themselves beneath the Gildergreen, the shape of it gnarled and contorted above the city. He motioned with a sweeping hand, sitting beneath its deadened branches on one of the low-backed benches, waiting until Athenath sat beside him to speak again. "If we're traveling together, it's important we level with one another when conflicts arise. So, tell me, I want to know what set you off." 

  Athenath pulled their arms over their middle. They crossed one leg over the other. Hiding without hiding. Their thoughts sloshed around like bad wine, souring his tongue. They didn't understand why this was having so much of an impact. It didn't matter when other people got mad at them, when fights broke out on the road or in taverns or in town shops, he never stayed anywhere long enough to care about those people, anyways. They could shut out the sounds of curse-worn voices with ease. Sleep, and all would be gone by dawn's first paintings of color along the mountain ridges.

  This was different, in some intangible way. They swallowed down a derisive familiarity, even as it threatened to bubble over into some sickly, childish, altar-bound desire to be forgiven. They didn't want his forgiveness. They didn't need it. 

  But then, what did he need? 

  Did he need to be understood? Comforted? Did he even want that? Worse, did he desire this comfort from Emeros, partially a stranger, of all people? Every moment snuck up on them here, breezes normally as light as a bird's feather crashed into him with the force of a carriage, and they swore Emeros was staring.

  "I don't know," they admitted at last, shaking their head, "I just don't..."

  Emeros sighed. "Are you always this-"

  "Charming?" Athenath interrupted in a tone that jittered in their throat. They hooked a dead smile at the corners of their mouth and batted their lashes. Their pulse burned against their chest.

  "Impulsive."

  He narrowed his gaze down at them. Athenath shrunk back. Looked away. Every word that fled from the Bosmer's lips burned their ears. His voice, low, sturdy as an oak, varnished by years of what must have been an adventurous life, to have such a charisma to his words, to himself, no matter who he spoke to or where he went- 

  It made Athenath realize just how small their own life was in comparison.

  A beat passed, maybe two. People milled about in the market square, and Heimskr cawed on with his sermon, a bird hopping around a bear trap and daring it to snap shut on him.

  "Maybe." 

  Emeros hesitated, leaning back against the bench, the sun-warmed wood meeting his spine through his clothes. "I suppose that's a fair answer. Perhaps I'm just surprised, is all." 

  "You shouldn't be," Athenath snorted, the tinge of a sneer against their mouth, "one of the first things we did after that dragon bullshit is go up to those stones. I chose Thief, remember?" 

  "Is that what you are, then? A thief?"

  If they said yes, then what would he think? And if they said no, then would it be worse to lie? Would it be easier to swallow the concept of a one-off impulse, or to see him and what he was? To lay bare the fact of their less honorable profession, Bravil's dirt-caked streets a bittersweet memory that gave them these quick hands, this sharp tongue? Athenath didn't look to the other Mer, instead drawing their focus somewhere on the horizon as they said, "yeah. Sort of."

  Emeros pulled his ankle over his knee and drummed his fingers along the side of his boot. He sat a moment, eyes avoiding the other now, as well, his breaths slow. Steady. Controlled. "Well." 

  "Well." Athenath repeated.

  "I'm going to presume that this isn't a recent development?" 

  "Nope."

  "Then why," he leaned forward, worry etched into the lines of his mouth, dimpling at his cheeks, "why did you hide this? If we had known, we could... We could have-"

  "What, stopped me?" Athenath scrunched up their face. "It's not like this was some random urge. I did this 'cause I wanted to, y'know." 

  The further admissions of guilt alarmed both of them, in a way. Emeros tugged his cowl from his head, letting it drape loosely over his strong shoulders. He set his jaw, as though he were struggling with a potion he'd only been taught once many years ago by a mentor he'd rather ignore than heed, the evident confusion melting into his features, the lowering of his brow and the tension in his jaw and the burden of concern in his eyes. He shifted his torso to face the bard further. 

  "While not an impulse, it was still dreadfully impulsive, Athenath. And hiding it among my belongings, I assure you, will not earn you any favor with me. Quite the opposite, in fact." 

  Athenath grit their own jaw and rolled their eyes in a wide arc. Emeros caught every inch of the expressions they made. The Altmer was on a ledge in their mind, balling their fists. The smallest fragments of places, people, actions long-taken, long-gone, all of it bled into him now, here, worn and tired from the tension. The bard bounced his leg, boot making tiny tapping noises against the stone as he avoided Emeros' gaze. Wouldn't even look him in the face.

  "He sold it to a Justiciar. If I can keep even one thing out of the Dominion's hands, I'll do it." 

  "You didn't know who the customer was when you stole it, though."

  "And? Now that I know-"

  "Athenath." 

  "Emeros."

  They shot each other's names out like darts. They sat, staring into one another's faces, both searching for an answer that wasn't there. 

  Athenath stared to the pavement. To Emeros' boots. Anywhere but the Mer's face. Their frustrations bled like an open wound into their voice, despite every attempt they made to stop it, to bandage it over as well as they were capable. "We don't know what it means to be Dragonborn, and excuse me if I'm a little skeptical of some monks on a mountain. I'll get the information we need regardless, whatever it takes, even if it's not exactly ideal." They focused their gaze at the Bosmer's hands, his long, bony fingers capped with nails he kept meticulously clean. Emeros knit his fingers together, and their eyes shifted to the ends of his sleeves. Deliberate avoidance of his stern gaze continuing.

  Emeros digested the statement with a level of contemplation for the company he kept. If Athenath didn't care what they had to do for information, what was the end they drew? And was there one? There had to be. All people had limits, some sort of line in the sand that told them how far they'd go and no step further, but did Athenath - the imagined figure of them creeping in the dark, through Belethor's shop, and somehow sneaking the book into the alchemists' belongings without a second thought - have the same restraints?

  He observed them like an alembic on a burner, so close to being scorched by the flame beneath it without careful monitoring. What did he really know of the Altmer? A bard, they claimed, and now, a thief. Perhaps something aberrant writhed beneath their cackling exterior, beneath the joviality and the extended hand, something he would want to be aware of from now on.

  "You know," Athenath pressed his chin into the heel of their palm, elbows digging into their knees, "you put a lot of faith in people you met on a prison cart. For all you know, I could've earned it."

  Emeros leaned back. What display was this? Some sort of urge to push him away, to keep him further than arm's length just when the trio had begun calling one another friends? He swallowed down the bitterness of it. He had been foolish, a wretched understanding that reached him here, a naivety he hadn't known since his early youth. The belief that Helgen's arrangement was a mistake was all he'd been holding onto, but in this moment, he unwound his fingers from the fraying rope of such fantasy. 

  Years of his travels passed through him, the memories, the better and worse. The faces he thought he could trust, the ones he was right not to trust from the start. The figments of his history that danced far into his nightmares, into every dream, and into every action he took today. The mentors he'd adored, the ones he'd hated. The years on the road during the Great War, when anyone could be your enemy or your friend with the flip of a septim. And through all of it, his own actions, ringing like a bell. The ones he'd taken, and the ones he did not, and which of those he regretted most. 

  "I have not lived a proud life," Emeros sighed, raking fingers through his dark hair, pushing the fringe from his face, "but I don't make a habit of keeping company that will cause me trouble. Do you understand?" 

  Athenath closed their eyes. The alchemists voice was a low hum in the breeze, carried along the first cold breath of encroaching night. When he found them and they had locked eyes in the light of the castle barracks, Athenath froze, watched him only for a brief moment, only long enough to get back to swinging their blade recklessly, because in that brief moment Emeros stood with a resemblance to someone they blotted out from their history with the thickest of paints, a creaking in their mind's floorboards, the open-shut of a poltergeist infestation, doors they slammed yet never quite could lock.

  Maybe that's why they couldn't bear to look him in the eye. Maybe they were afraid of him, the impending dread this resemblance caused, the ache of longing it could bring.

  "Yeah."

  Heimskr's sermon buzzed, a fly in one's ear that they had fought off too many times to bother with anymore. Emeros watched as the younger Mer slumped against the bench, fists balling at their knees. With apprehension in every movement, he inched his palm along theirs, and wrapped his fingers around it. Athenath waited, unclenching their taut hands. Slowly, they turned their wrist over, and gave his hand a small squeeze.

  They sat for a while, drenched in the uncertainty. The tension melted in increments from Athenath's shoulders, eyes finally finding the strength to meet his. Emeros could see the circles under them. Helgen had torn asunder something in all three of them, a wound still red and raw and inflamed beneath their minds, and he knew that this was not the Athenath he would have met weeks prior to the fire, but someone emerging from a rotting, charred husk of a self. He, too, was in the process of puncturing his own chrysalis, to shuck it off, to be himself again in the face of the first dragons red-eyed gaze.

  "I'm sorry I've been such a prick today," Athenath forced a tiny, nervous laugh, "I'm... I swear, I'm not..." he struggled for words for a moment, before giving up and groaning in frustration, dragging a palm down their face. With a tired rushing undercurrent to their words, he said, "I'm not normally such a prick, this week sucks, I'm tired. I think that about sums it up."  

  "You need not explain," he shook his head with a laugh, squeezing their hand once more, Athenath returning the small gesture, edges of his mouth clumsily rising to a smile of their own. "We've been through more than I think any of us were prepared for, all of us. It's understandable we're more tense than usual." 

  His own grievances with today were justified, but he would bite his tongue on the matter. 

  He looked around, then turned his gaze back to Athenath. "Come, it's nearly nightfall, and gods know what mischief Wyndrelis might have gotten himself into." 

Notes:

thank you for being patient with my update speed! i've been grappling with some unanticipated fatigue due to life situations, so writing is not always a steady-going process, but i'm thrilled to be able to work on this fic and share it with everyone. thanks for reading, and take care. <3

Chapter 17: Five Footsteps in Length

  An alembic filled with some sort of garish, green fluid bubbled over a flame, bottles of alchemical experiments in progress set off to the side. The court wizard was engrossed in his work, his hands busied as he ground up various herbs he'd tossed together, mortar and pestle in iron tight grasp. 

  The dragonstone sat nearby on the table, always near him, always glancing to it in a moment of absent action. 

Whatever he planned to do with it, or whomever wanted the information on the dragon burial sites, Wyndrelis only hoped it would bring an end to the sky-scowling creatures. The mage had decided to spend his noon with Farengar. He was either going to get answers or not, but at the very least, he'd be enjoying the company of someone who held the respect of the court, a fellow scholar who worked with intense dedication to all he did. 

  He stood in the doorway for a few moments, before clearing his throat and catching the other's attention. "Ah, Wyndrelis, come in," he motioned for the other to approach, "I was just thinking, I have some spell tomes that you may be interested in. Why, a man of your talents should take any opportunity to learn what he can, right?" He offered with a small wink, the hood of his robe sliding half the way off his scalp, revealing sprigs of his shockingly red hair. 

  Perhaps thats where his name came from, Wyndrelis thought. 

  Farengar spoke up again, sweeping away Wyndrelis' thoughts with the cadence of his voice, skepticism lacing his tongue. "Or, have you come to Dragonsreach to discuss the ongoing hostilities, like the rest of the 'great warriors'?"

  "No, I was actually hoping to discuss something of arcane matters." Wyndrelis stepped closer, looking around the room with the same, level-headed boredom he always bore on his face. His fur-lined boots barely made thuds on the wooden flooring, his freshly washed tunic stiff on his shoulders. The smell of bergamot and tea lifted off the fabric only faintly now, and his dark cape draped over his shoulders kept him warm when the evening temperature set in. Still, it was a bit warm for the late Last Seed heat in Whiterun Hold, but he shrugged it all off. Wyndrelis' attention latched again to the court wizard, who looked over to a set of soul gems he'd been organizing before he made a brisk return to his work, tugging his hood back up until the shadows caressed his brow bone.

  "What do you need?" 

  The Dunmer surveyed the room, drinking in every detail of the space, from the slight cracks in the flooring from centuries of wear and weathering the shifting of the earth, to the walls high with diagrams, charts, notes scrawled here and there and nailed in place. He returned his eyes to Farengar.

  "There's a certain tome I'm looking for," Wyndrelis tapped the shape of his belt buckle, the silver star that stretched in its sharp points, "I lost it during the attack on Helgen. I was wondering if you would know where something like that could end up?" 

  Farengar scratched his bearded cheek, thinking as he shifted from foot to foot, rethinking the way he'd organized his soul gems. Grand, greater, petty. He made a disgruntled, startled sound in his throat as he rushed to his alembic, turning down the flame below it and cursing to himself quietly, scrutinizing the potion brewing within as though expecting an error to make itself apparent. He set his attention on the Dunmer with a shake of his head. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I've seen anything like that around here," he finally answered, watching from the corner of his eye as Wyndrelis' shoulders lowered in defeat, "but if it turns up, I'll be sure to let you know. What is this book, some sort of family heirloom?" 

  Wyndrelis thought over how to answer the question. Family was a charred taste on his tongue. "It was a gift." 

  "Well," Farengar rested his hands on his hips, stretching backwards, his spine cracking in a way that made Wyndrelis wince but left Farengar completely unfazed, "something like that might be worth a lot of coin to the right buyer, so I would keep an eye out for any shops that buy from the Thieves Guild. Maybe you should head to Riften, check with someone there?" He offered the suggestion plainly, and as Wyndrelis mulled it over, he offered another. "Or, maybe it would have wound up at the Arcaneum, in the College of Winterhold?" 

  At this, Wyndrelis froze, the gears of his mind churning at the thought. "Yes," he mumbled slowly to himself, "yes, that sounds like it's possible," he looked to the other wizard, his usually blank face bearing the faintest etching of a smile. "Thank you, Farengar."

  The pair spoke for a while longer, Wyndrelis finally getting the chance to ask about the other wizard's various experiments. Farengar explained quickly that he mostly did work for the Jarl, but since the Jarl had no use of his talent at the immediate moment, he was allowed to do as he pleased in his laboratory. The dragons were still a bitter taste deep in his throat, but with no current news of any immediate danger, he merely spent his time on theorizing about them or experimenting with new ways to combat spreading fires. So far, he'd turned up little, but he had potions in the works which should help, using them on braziers and torches and watching the mixture spread into the ground or vessel or wall around the flame, climbing up any heat it could find. He worked most days on various salves and tinctures, sometimes going into town to purchase any arcane artifacts or items that came in from shipments to Belethor, the pair chatting and haggling, a fact that made Wyndrelis raise a wary brow. 

  "So tell me, is Belethor always...?"

  "Ah, you've met him." Farengar grinned. "Yes, but I wouldn't take anything he says to heart. He's a bit... Sleazy would be putting it lightly, but he's a damn good shopkeeper, and can be asked to keep a secret when needed."

  Wyndrelis gave a small, slow nod, drinking the information in with a curious glint in his eyes. "Is that so?" 

  "He's got a bit of an interesting history, but that's not my story to tell. Besides, wouldn't want to rob you of the chance to hear him tell it himself. When he gets drunk, he gets talkative. Anyways," he waved a hand, motioning for the Dunmer to follow him to the far end of the room, various magical items laid about, books stacked as tall as a Cathay-Raht, with their covers and spines engraved in their emblems. "Since you and I share a scholarly interest, would you mind helping me with something? I need at least two people for this, and no one in this castle will... contribute to my research."

  Initially, his ears perked up, but caution bid them back. "Is that so? Why would that be?"

  Farengar rolled his eyes. "They seem to think my work is too dangerous. Nords are very suspicious of magic. Though, that never stopped me from becoming a wizard, nor did it stop Jarl Balgruuf from taking me into his court, either." 

  He hummed thoughtfully, before asking, "Why do you need two people for this?" 

  "Runes, they can be tricky things. I'm going to try and disable one from an artifact I acquired, and I'll need you to hold it while I work." 

  The Dunmer stepped over, trepidation following the motions of his feet. Farengar reached into a drawer and retrieved an old, weathered brass staff. The staff itself was unimpressive; shorter height than the average, no obvious engravings - magical, decorative, or otherwise - and a soul gem neatly cradled by a cage of thin metal bands. It glowed with the smallest hums of magicka, recently charged by the wizard, but it seemed like any other old staff. Upon closer inspection, the line of well-carved, well-worn runes that circled it's length gave him pause. He traced a grey finger along them, unable to read the script, his hand working it's way up the brass from it's midsection to the gem.

  "It looks... Daedric." He finally surmised, giving Farengar a careful glance as the other wizard handed him the artifact. Wyndrelis wrapped his hands around the cold metal, ensuring several times with tight glances that it was not directly in front of his body as the other began the process. His palms dampened. He swallowed hard and ignored it. 

  "There's one particular rune that's my problem," the Nord scratched at his chin, "the one nearest the soul gem. It looks newer, like it was carved into the staff recently. I tried sending an etching to Urzha gra-Batob up in Winterhold, but she hasn't gotten to me. Couriers take longer, these days." He explained with a scowl as he drew closer, running his palm over the carving.

  "Right, so what do we...?"

  "The staff won't work with this here, is what I'm guessing. I've tried to make it do just about anything, but... Well, again, this rune- I think it's blocking the enchantments, if that's even possible." 

  Wyndrelis listened as the wizard worked, Farengars fingers tracing the image of the rune in small circles, magicka focused into the tip of his finger. It swirled into soft veins of cerulean, filling the crevices, attempting to disarm or deactivate them, Wyndrelis figured. He'd seen similar processes done by other mages in the early days of his studies whenever an artifact proved too troublesome, or when a student had performed the wrong enchantments. Instead of destroying the item altogether, a new soul gem was placed into the staff, and the enchantment was forced into it with the use of another mage's magicka. He wondered if Farengar had learned from his same mentors, with the swirling motions and careful concentration all too familiar. With a start, the artifact warmed in the Dunmers palm, thrumming between his fingertips. Farengar's grin inched higher and higher, as though the experiment were going as planned, eyes sparkling.

  "I think that's-"

  The metal staff clattered to the ground, Wyndrelis hissing loudly in pain. He grasped his palm with his other hand, Restoration magic pouring as fast as he could force it to soothe and mend the blistering skin. The staff rolled with clattering noises, the floor brightening. Orange filled his periphery. His head pounded with an ache long-buried. He swallowed hard and tried to push it all back, breath fuming against his lungs, heart battering against his ribs as though making a desperate escape. 

  "Quick, before it-" Farengar ignored the other's injury and made a feeble attempt to force the words out, but stopped himself short. The soul gem within the staff crackled, fissures forming along its surface. Farengar pulled magicka into a ward, the light storming in the court wizards veins, but the Dunmer could only stare into a horizon long-gone. Night skies. Darkness surrounded the pair as the flames rose higher, Farengar working with his other hand to stifle the inferno with frost magic. A staff he'd enchanted, held in other hands. Wyndrelis' body moved on it's own as he set wards around the artifact. A clocktower that would never chime the same. He wrapped his palms in frost and grasped the brass, ignoring the pain battling against his nerves. An empty bed in his family home. 

  When he returned to the room, he found himself seated, shaking form opposite Farengar. He could feel his palms trembling. Cold sweat soaked his tunic. The room was somewhere else. The place was here, here in Dragonsreach, and as he drunk in his surroundings and the details and the scrawled notes of the wizard and the charring along the floor, surprise flooded him, brows flitting up against his forehead as he realized the damage was much less than expected. In fact, in a few hours, it would likely be scrubbed off the floors and the staff would be contained somewhere safer, and no one would be the wiser. The Restoration spell had reversed the effects of the burn, but a subtle, stinging ache remained, something he knew would, too, disappear in an hour or so. The alembic that once held the bubbling mixture contained only a few drops left of the potion, Farengar having tossed the contents onto the fire, the mixture igniting in a harsh chill that stifled the flames as well as any Frost magic and clung to the inferno, stuffocating it.

  "Gods," Farengar exhaled roughly, "we're lucky, or that could have been much worse." 

   Wyndrelis swallowed nervously, "I think I... I think I need to get going." 

  Farengar gave him a curious look, watching the trembling figure of the Dunmer. He gave a solemn nod. As Wyndrelis turned to leave, the other called out, "Good luck to you, the road out there is brutal in this petty conflict."

---

  The work day drew to a close, with farmers somewhere out in their fields heading inside for dinner with their families, patrons filing into the Bannered Mare. Wyndrelis had come back from Dragonsreach with shaking hands, tight-lipped and distant. Neither of his companions asked, but handed him a tankard of ale. The Dunmer drank from it for a while, saying nothing, gaze a thousand horizons away. 

  Athenath, seating himself next to Wyndrelis, chatted with Hulda and Saadia with his usual, bright voice, Mikael tuning his lute in preparation for a long night of playing and joking and singing of the glory of Whiterun Hold and ancient heroes long-deceased. Emeros spoke with a gaggle of travelers who'd arrived in town a few hours prior, his sarcasm dripping off his mouth at several questions he was asked by some bright-eyed, nosy figure, the kind of sarcasm that left Athenath stifling a laugh as they eavesdropped here and there. Wyndrelis sipped his drink again. He rubbed his temples. Athenath finally turned to him, concern fixing itself to his brow.

  "Rough day?"

  "Mhm," Wyndrelis, in a haggard voice, exhaled. He removed his glasses and set the tankard aside. He skirted the hearth most of the night, back to the walls or far from the warmth. It had taken him years to get used to being near flames again, and as though one thread could have the power to unravel an entire tapestry, Helgen had plucked the loose embroidery, and today had pulled. He palmed absently at a spot on his shoulder, and hoped the drink would knock back the fear in him. 

Notes:

recently relistened to some AJJ songs and took the title from this song by them!
also, i wanna give a big ol' shoutout and thank you to everyone who's been reading this fic and leaving comments/kudos/bookmarks/etc on here and feedback on tumblr. without you guys, i dont think i'd have written as far as i have, and i mean it when i say it means the world. i love you, take care of yourselves, and i can't wait for you all to see more of what happens in this fic. <3

Chapter 18: Moon in the Trees, My Guide

  A night walk always did him some good. Taking it now seemed, to Emeros, a wise idea. 

  The stars filled the sky with their lustrous sheen outside the window of their room in the Bannered Mare. Wyndrelis slept, unmoving, curled with his back to the wall, stiff-postured in a way that worried Emeros at times. The rise and fall of his chest indicated the subtle thrum of life if the Bosmer watched him long enough to assuage his fears, but after all the trio had been through, could one blame him for his worries? His absent thought that urged him to shake the other Mer's shoulder, a concern he did not listen to and did not act out but still considered nonetheless? 

  Meanwhile, Athenath, who moved quite a lot, slept at this moment with an arm slung around a pillow and their cheek pressed into its thick material. His talent for stealing, it seemed, spread also to the blankets, as the Altmer had pulled half the sheets from Emeros' side and tucked them under his arm. His dark curls rolled along the pillow's sides and down the back of their neck, mussed already from the Mers tossing and turning. 

  He took stock of the pair, their forms facing one another, the moons casting keen light along the lenses of Wyndrelis' spectacles resting neatly on the bedside table. The twitch of Athenath's brow. The stillness of Wyndrelis' shoulders. Emeros sat at the edge of the bed, examining his companions in the dim, wolfcubs under the eldest's watchful eye. 

  The Bosmer crept out of bed, climbing into his day clothes, and toed down the stairs of the inn. Hulda and Saadia had long since gone to bed, and Mikael was nowhere to be found. A couple of lone figures sat near the hearth, shadows stretching long beyond them, drinking into the night, patrons who - he supposed - had paid for the rooms downstairs. Emeros slipped past them with some measured ease and exited the inn. 

  The moment he pushed open the door and shut it carefully behind himself, he breathed in the cool, night air, and allowed his shoulders to release all tension they'd been clasping onto since that afternoon. 

  Wind raked its strong fingers through the plains. He tugged his cowl over his head to escape the sudden chill of it against his ears. The scent of wood-smoke from chimneys perfumed the air, stirring up against the indigo skies. Houses lined one district of Whiterun, businesses in another. A world of grids and winding streets atop rolling hills, with Dragonsreach perched high above it all, the ground it crested like the great claw of one of those heinous beasts they were, apparently, destined to fight. All of it stuck to him, the images of the houses and trees, the stones and the wood posts, the sound of night birds and insects in their natural chorus. At one time, he'd been adrift in the world. At one time, he'd known nothing but long roads and surface-level observations of towns. Briefly, here, he became keenly reminded of that life. Always observing, but never a part of it, always the admirer, never the artist nor the brush nor the paint. 

  Briefly, he allowed the hazy memories of these forgotten towns to play out before his eyes as he walked through the Whiterun streets. He'd made a good living in his travels since that fateful year he left Valenwood, studying alchemy under anyone who'd take a shine to him, selling wares, healing the sick, even tending to ailing animals when called upon to do so. While he'd never called himself a healer, a physick, some did. He could admit he'd managed to save a few lives in the process, so perhaps the title had been earned.

  As he gazed out on the city, passing through narrow streets, his expectations of Skyrim unwound from his tight hand. Did he truly anticipate Nurelion would drop everything and take him on as an apprentice? He scoffed at it now. The idea, at one instance in time so tangible, now ludicrous to the Bosmer. Still, it was worth a shot. He did not intend to give up. Quite the opposite, in fact, yet he knew it would be more time than he was comfortable giving until he reached The White Phial's snow-smocked doorstep. A mountain awaited. There was purpose to this mission that he and his newfound companions were to undertake. 

  Purpose. Lives needed no purpose to exist. He'd shake his head and deny it all he wanted, but in the back of the alchemists' mind, the longing for it remained. To be known, to have his name scrawled across tome after tome, his work to be replicated and rejoiced in both the university and the simple healer's hut and mage's altar, an alchemist who did things none else could do, who created potions none else could make, who had lived and worked with purpose.

  He didn't think his purpose would ever involve dragons, but c'est la vie.

  Guards patrolled long into the night, bearing small torches whose flames starved for more oil. One passed him as he approached the temple of Kynareth, turning his metal face to Emeros. He only stopped momentarily to take a look at the Mer, then muttered an apology upon realizing this was one of the Thanes, and marched off into the dark. Emeros wondered what had passed through his mind. He figured he didn't want to know. 

  With trepidation carrying his steps, he approached the Gildergreen. 

  The tree startled him in its stark contrast to the land; where the city was warm, bustling, an ever-buzzing organism, this tree was cold, a husk, a discarded shell. He scanned the upper branches, peering into the dark, the torches of passing guards giving him just enough illumination to glimpse the wooden carcass before him, the warping in the branches, the angles and jutting shards of the once-living center of Whiterun. While it was nothing in comparison with the oaks that flourished in his home province, this had once been central to this city, sturdy as a patriarch among its family, and now, like the people of Whiterun themselves at this hour, it slept. 

  He found himself on a bench, allowing the night air to take hold of him. He tugged at his cowl like a shield against the withering breeze, a reflection of the week's past events crawling up from the streams of his consciousness. A week, that's all it had been? Disbelief rattled against him, but he shouldered it anyways.

  During his time in Cyrodiil, he'd heard whispers of the Civil War. He had only heeded them as rumors, little more, and surely something that would not affect him. If he made it to Windhelm, to The White Phial, he would be so engrossed in his apprenticeship with Nurelion that the war wouldn't brandish a single thought to his ear. He'd been crossing the border right before dawn, the thick of night's last breath still coating layers of pink against the horizon. The mountains burnished blue against the faint sky, and in the haze of morning's light and a strange twist in the path, he'd found himself falling in step with people he did not bother looking up from his map long enough to see. In fact, he found their presences bothersome, an intrusion on his quiet morning as they moved in their periphery ways. 

  It all took an abrupt turn, world spinning out from under him as shouts rang above his head. He could remember a struggle, words exchanged, something murky in his memory, people in blue and silver mixed frantically with red and brown armor. Then, he'd woken up in a cart with two other elves, a handful of Nords, and his wrists in leather bindings. 

  The shock of the restraints set his nerves alight and he struggled against the tight-wound leather, but Wyndrelis - apathy coating his features, possibly defeat, even - explained that it was no use, that he had already tried. Together, an idea formed, and they attempted to pry the bindings off one another. An Imperial soldier leading another cart observed them with what could almost be read as a smirk, and they realized with dread pitting their stomachs that this was no use. 

  Then, Athenath awoke. Last to be tossed on the carts. Last to struggle. His fearful gaze grasped each face for a sign of help, from himself to Wyndrelis to Ralof to Lokir. All of these men were certain that they were going to die. Emeros swallowed the fear. He would go to the axe with dignity, at the very least. Perhaps it was a sense of Altmeri pride, stemming from his fathers blood, reinforced by his aunt and uncle over their many years as his guardians. Still, dignity did not care for his blood, just that he held it tight in between his teeth.

  Of course, they wouldn't make it that far. Emeros rested his chin in his hands, watching the dim puff of torchlight and smoke, golden gleam drifting over the houses, Nord architecture steadfast and hardy, stubborn and proud, much like the people inhabiting each home. 

  He thought back on his companions, from the cart to Riverwood to here and now, resting back in the Bannered Mare long into the night. Wyndrelis, a mage with strange eyes and a calm demeanor. Athenath, a bard with a bright, silvery laugh and a bitter temper.

  And of himself? There wasn't much to tell. 

  He rubbed at his temples, eyes drawn to his arms. He still bore scars here and there, faded with the passage of time, Valenwood and Hammerfell and High Rock and Cyrodiil proving to carry their own hazards. He spent so much time traveling these places, he'd almost forgotten what a home could be. 

  His sharp-tongued conscience would remind him, in such moments, of Wayrest. The alchemy shop with its high walls and drying herbs hanging by the windows and the time he spent bent over a mortar and pestle, grinding new ingredients from far away places into such fine powders to - hopefully - create new potions and draughts for those needing them, the time passing so fervently he barely noticed, a hand between his shoulder blades, the scent of lilac. The dinners around a laughing hearth, the people, the faces relegated now solely to memory. The fires, the corsairs, his legs carrying him and solely him. That starless night. The many that stretched on afterwards. 

  A miserable ache swam against his jaw. He unclenched it. Now, here he was, in the middle of another conflict. Brilliant, he thought, sarcasm in every syllable. Just bloody brilliant.

  "You're up."

  He darted his gaze to Wyndrelis, standing by the bench. How did he get there without Emeros noticing? The Bosmer watched him in the moon's scattered light, the sheen of silvery pink, the grim draw of the sky above them. He rubbed his palms over his face, inhaling audibly, slow, then exhaling all the same. 

  "I'm awake, yes."

  "Well." Wyndrelis let the word fall from his lips, leading nowhere, meaning nothing. Emeros chuckled.

  "Would you like to join me?" He offered. Wyndrelis shook his head. He preferred to stand, it seemed, grey arms folded over his chest, his white irises locked somewhere on the distant horizon, a place Emeros could not reach.  

  "Did something happen at Dragonsreach?" Emeros stared up at the Dunmer. When Wyndrelis' shoulders stiffened, he added in a softer tone, "I don't think I've ever seen you drink."

  "Yes, if you need to know." Wyndrelis halted, faltered, then continued, "I didn't mean it like that." 

  "It's fine," Emeros dismissed with another low laugh, "I understand. Is there anything we can...?"

  Wyndrelis thought it over for a moment, shivering as he rubbed at his elbow. "I would like to be on the road." 

  The distant sound of wolves prowling the plains, a howl here and there, too far to mean anything to anyone asleep in this city, all of it absorbed the silence between them, soaking it up into its clutches. Emeros turned to face the other, resting an elbow against the back of the bench. He couldn't read the expression on Wyndrelis' face, something he'd adjusted to by now. His expression, nearly always neutral, gave the Bosmer a sense of security. It was as though the Dunmer leveled out his own anxiety and Athenaths over-enthusiasm. 

  Wyndrelis watched the moons above them, fidgeting idly with the end of his tunic. 

  "Whatever happens from now on is not going to be easy," he cautioned, catching Emeros by surprise, "it's important that we recognize that."

  The Bosmer knit his brow, peering at him in the dark. "I'm aware. If we're off chasing dragons..." Wyndrelis shook his head. Emeros slowed, his words drifting in the air before falling silent.

  "What I mean, things are going to be more difficult from here on out, and traveling together means we're going to be handling each other's burdens. I will tell you what happened today, if you tell me what set you and Athenath off at one another." 

  It occurred to Emeros then that Wyndrelis, despite being present for the entire ordeal, had been left entirely in the dark as to the aftermath, and the pairs conversation by the Gildergreen. The mage had witnessed their bitter exchange in the small room in the inn, but outside of that, nothing had been explained. 

  Clasping his hands behind his head for a moment, he gave a long, slow exhale. "That sounds like a fair deal. Explain."

  Wyndrelis did, staring off into the horizon. The staff and the runes and the mistake. The way the flames reminded him of Helgen. He was brief, every word taking more energy to breathe out than the last, but he did his best. When he finished, Emeros nodded sagely, and offered his own story in return.

  "When Athenath stole that book and hid it in my things, I suppose it made me feel a tad betrayed. After all, did I not defend them from Belethor's accusations? And with this war and knowing who Belethor sold that book to, I just... And, of course, using my bag as a hiding space, it wasn't... Right, none of it was right." 

  "Oh." It was as though Wyndrelis hadn't thought of it before, the action so flippant in its nature. The Altmer sticking something into Emeros' bag that he'd stolen, the bundling of anger at the action, the clasping for an answer as to why. Wyndrelis appeared to be mulling it over in a stony silence, before asking, "well, are you two...?"

  "We're fine now," Emeros chuckled, rubbing the crux of his thumb over the bridge of his nose, "as long as he doesn't pull that stunt again, I think we'll be fine." 

  "Good." 

Notes:

this chapter's title is from "Possum By Night" by The Mountain Goats

Chapter 19: Sigh of the Plains

  They had set their sights on Solitude. 

  Delight plastered like a ray of sun on his face, Athenath hurriedly shoved their belongings into their knapsack. A sprawling, giddy grin split their features as he rambled longingly about the Bard's College, its reputation, its beauty. Did his companions know of the instruments on display? The plaques of the history they bore? The great bards who carried them? Did they know about the tapestries woven as signals for far-off armies, songs used as a tool of conquest? Songs of rebellion? Of victory? 

  The plan thus far was to make a grand sweep through Skyrim; first, through Haafingar, then to Winterhold, before making a solid landing in Eastmarch. This plan, the trio had agreed over a hurried breakfast, allowed for flexibility. It gave grace for Athenath to remain in Solitude, for Wyndrelis to remain in Winterhold, and for Emeros - the most experienced traveler of the three, who could handle the roads on his own - to head on to Windhelm. None of them would say it out loud, but apprehension stung the air when the talk of one of them separating off from the other two came up, and such comments ended quickly with a joke or a change in subject.

  Emeros eyed the Altmer, in the process of wrapping fabric between the jingles of their tambourine. If Athenath had plans to return the Book of the Dragonborn, he didn't know them. Peace had finally fumbled itself into the alchemists talon grasp, and he was desperate to maintain it for one day. So, he watched, the subtle knit of his brow, the slight frown, all of it fading into the background of the Bosmer's features as Wyndrelis pulled the map from his bag and began to trace over it. The Dunmer quietly nudged him with his elbow, and he turned his attention to the names of towns and the delicately detailed roads. He examined the markings with the mage before speaking, his keen eyes trailing the paths drawn up in faded ink.

  "We could either go by carriage," he started, the taking a sip from his tankard, watered down coffee bitter and warm on his tongue, "or we could go on foot. Personally, I'm in favor of walking, it'll give us more time to familiarize ourselves with the landscape, and we'll have all the time in the world to plan out our activities once we reach Solitude." 

  "Well, I know what I'm doing," Athenath smirked, sing-song trailing of his words lurking in the air as he listened to Emeros, "but you guys can do whatever you want."

  Wyndrelis tittered, leaning back in his chair. He mulled it over, staring down at the map before him as he glanced over the roads and winding pathways, teeth pressed lightly at the nail of his thumb. Finally, he settled on something to say, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Let's take the route to Dragon Bridge. It looks the most direct."

  Emeros brought the map closer to himself. Tugging a quill and ink from his knapsack, he ghosted a finger along a road, and finding what he was looking for, dipped the quill and marked with certain strokes a small section of the map, tapping above it. "Here, this looks like a place we can rest tonight." 

  The location he'd marked was further out of Whiterun than expected, but from the sparse detailing and the half-drawn lines, it appeared to be a settlement. If they went at an easy walking speed, and took the road marked, and if they left at this time... Wyndrelis worked it out in his mind, and hoped that the group would make it to an inn before nightfall. Sleeping in the wilderness was something he dearly hoped to avoid, especially with the unfamiliar wildlife of Skyrim. Not to mention the Civil War.

  "The trip will take two days, at least," Emeros muttered, more to himself than anyone else, "that's not accounting for breaks, camping, and any obstacles on the way."

  "Not too bad, then," Athenath ensured that their tambourine was safely wrapped and ready for the road, before plopping down on the bed. "With our luck, it'll be an easy walk." The other men gave him concerned glances, as though the Altmer had guaranteed a miracle. 

  "That may be the case, but we still aren't certain of the quality of the roads, the terrain, and not to mention the bandits. Ruthless bastards, and desperate here, too, I'd presume." Emeros rose, scrutinizing the room before him for anything the group may have set aside and forgotten, or anything they may need to tidy before they left. Perhaps he was merely pacing its length because he liked the place. He'd grown fond of the inn over the past few days. The constant conversations below their feet, the music of the local bard sliding through the door, the talk of the Civil War. He enjoyed Saadia and Hulda's conversations the most. He spent a good deal of time, whenever not perched near his new friends, discussing local rumors and stories with them. Saadia was newer to Whiterun, but she had plenty to tell, and Hulda had lived her entire life here. The small bits of histories he'd collected from the pair gave him plenty to think over, and think over he did, as the reason he'd suggested Solitude made itself evident again in his mind. 

  The three were still wanted men. 

  Tugging his cowl over his head, he cleared his throat audibly, speaking once more as he fiddled with the golden fasten that kept the fabric wrapped neatly at his shoulder. "I believe that taking the road is our best and safest bet. However, should it be necessary, I hope no one has any objections to going off of it for periods of time. Shortcuts or safety, that sort of thing." 

  Neither of the other Mer objected, and so they set out, saying goodbyes as they left.

---

 The wind sighed through the distant trees, high grasses shuddering, nudging the livestock and gracing the structures of small farms that carved out their existences outside the safety of the walls. The war had yet to touch this hold in all full terror, Whiteruns neutrality feigning innocence. The war only came here to stop a while, to rest, to reach the Temple of Kynareth. 

  Otherwise? Silence.

  As much as they wanted to stop, to sweep the beauty of the horizons into their hands, their eyes, their lungs, Athenath couldn't shake the tension that rose to their shoulders. Open fields, open sky, and not knowing what was ahead. Maybe it was the distance, far from the walls and the security they provided. Maybe it was the unknown that prodded against his mind, fingers laced around the keen edges of familiarity and wrenching it away. Whatever the case, they glanced upwards, and hoped for clear skies the whole way.

  The day twirled in the smattering of clouds, the roads becoming uneven and dull, the shadow of the Western Watchtower's remains behind them now. The bodies had long been removed from the surrounding grass, entombed in the Hall of the Dead within the city walls. As much as the trio tried to ignore the chill up their spines, it tackled them all at once, the dragon's bones still sprawling on the field and slowly being picked and carried into Dragonsreach by soldiers under Farengar's watchful instruction. Today, the field was empty, which gave them less comfort than they would have liked. Emeros stopped occasionally to pluck samples of various plants, and by mid-noon, the other two had joined in, volunteering their hands to the task. It was a good distraction. Rocks stuck up like jagged limbs through the grasses, punctuating the landscape with their points. Emeros looked up into the sky, and furrowed his brow at the great, black wings of a buzzard that began to circle low. 

  In a slow gesture, he motioned for the other two to follow him, tucking his recent plant samples away into his bag. The elves, mystified, allowed the Bosmer to lead them up the road to where the buzzard was joined by several more, a group flocking to whatever new meat splayed out for them. It was likely just an animal carcass and nothing more, but Emeros' stomach churned, an instinct telling him that this was not the case. 

  "Oh, gods, not like this."

  The Bosmer darted his gaze around, searching for the source of the voice, which seemed to come from the half-ruined structure of an abandoned fort up on a steep hill. Athenath clasped his fingers into the back of the Bosmer's vest, stopping the Mer from rushing through the stone entry.

  "Hold on, what are you doing? We don't know what or who's out there, we could-" 

  "Gods," came that same, pain-hard squeak from somewhere near the stone ruins. Emeros gingerly pulled away from the younger Mers grasp.

  "You don't have to follow me, but I'm going to see what's happened," He replied, rushing to the fort. He pressed a hand to the side of his mouth, calling, "are you injured?"

  "Oh no, just- gah- being a little dramatic, 'tis all!" Called back the voice, nervous chittering behind every syllable as though he were trying through every strained breath to keep his good humor. Carrion birds slowed their even strides in the skies above, lumps of fabric and armor forming the figures of corpses along the ground. Athenath tried not to focus too hard on their surroundings as the three Mer climbed the high hill, stepping around the makeshift wooden spikes meant to deter anyone who might want to enter. Wyndrelis clasped his fingers, magicka pooling into swirls of purple smoke, thinning out into lines as he scanned the ruins. 

  Behind a bale of hay, a glowing outline formed. He gestured. "There." 

  The trio stepped closer, Emeros producing a potion from his knapsack as they neared the battered and bleeding form. Into their sights prodded the scrawny visage of a young Altmer, ears arching high away from his shaggy, light blond hair, lengths of which stuck out from his head like the feathers of a canary. When he locked eyes with the group, he jolted, his hand making a small motion at his side, a twitch of his wrist against the hay, a quick and nearly imperceptible motion. Wyndrelis recognized it as the tiniest fragment of magicka from someone running on their last reserves, but heard no chimes, no sounds. Perhaps whatever the Altmer cast had fizzled out.

  "By Syrabane-" the boy cut himself off, swallowing hard, adams apple bobbing in his throat as he spoke. The shadows of the three standing Mer towered over him, his pulse shivering in his veins violently as he craned his neck to finally gaze upon them. "I'm- I'm fine! I'll be fine, certainly, I know my way around-" 

  "You're absolutely not fine, and I won't have you insist a bold-faced lie like that," Emeros handed over a glass bottle as he spoke, the red potion inside swirling with the motion, kneeling down beside the young Mer. "Drink some of this, and tell me what happened." 

  The younger Mer graciously swallowed down a large swig of the healing potion, a warmth settling in him that made him shudder. It cleared through his abdomen, mitigating most of the worst damage, still not tackling the outer injuries. That would come later, potions working from the inside out. For now, the flesh of his injured muscles and deeper gashes were knitting back together, and whatever deathly pallor had been in his features before melded away into hues of gold. He swallowed another long drink of the potion before Emeros gingerly took the bottle back, setting it aside.

  "You know," the young Mer heaved an anxious laugh, the sound skipping the air, stone tossed along water's rippling surface, "from the sound of your voice, I thought you were..." he trailed off, swallowed, and looked down, "...I mean-"

  Emeros raked his fingers through his chestnut hair with a heavy sigh. "Tell us what happened, if you don't mind." 

  "There were these-" the young man grimaced, inhaling sharply. He darted his gaze around the courtyard of the ruined fort, formulating something in his muted green eyes, "these warriors. We tried to rob them, I know it was-" he turned to face Wyndrelis, the Dunmer lightly removing the Mer's arm from where it clutched his abdomen, applying Restoration magic skillfully as the other continued on his story, "I knew it was stupid, but these men, they weren't like ordinary men, they carried these-" he sucked in another sharp breath as the sound of a rib snapping back into place whipped the air, dizziness sliding his eyes up momentarily, "they carried these curved swords, and fought like sabre cats. Not even our leader could- that's him over there," he pointed to a corpse laying face-down on the stones, "brilliant soldiers, the both of them, but petrifying, and I mean- I knew it was a bad idea, horrible idea, gods, it was..."

  He trailed off, breaths haggard, thick, his dark clothing soaked darker by the blood. His spectacles hung around his neck from a chain, lenses cracked and stained, his pock-marked face wearing a nervy grin as he tried to keep his wits together. His scraggly appearance and awkward posture barely lent itself to the idea he could be a bandit or have fallen in with some, but this was not the time for questions, despite how many formed in the other elves' minds. Emeros, grave-faced, knelt there in the silence. He leaned back on his knee, tapping the pads of his fingers together. 

  "And did these warriors happen to say where they were heading?" 

  The blond Altmer shook his head. "No, sir." Turning to Wyndrelis, his eyes lightened. "Are you a healer?" He asked.

  "No."

  The blond tapped his tongue to the roof of his mouth. "Oh, a shame, your... Your work is good, I hardly feel like I've been injured at all now!" 

  "Good for you." Wyndrelis spoke plainly through grit teeth. He'd need to sip a magicka potion before too long in order to regain what he'd lost here, his eyes darting to the bodies surrounding the courtyard. "I think you'll survive if I stop. Shall I?"

  "Um-" the blond swallowed hard, scrunching his brow, eyes wide, "well, I mean, if you insist! I mean, you probably know more- I'm more of a, uh, Illusion mage, myself-"

  "Oh, you're a mage?" Wyndrelis pulled his palms away, staggering to his feet, brow coated in a thin layer of sweat. An uneasiness settled on his shoulders, but he pushed it out of mind.

  "Um, well, kind of. Not really. I mean, I'm not much good at it." 

  Athenath tugged some loose parchment and charcoal from their knapsack. Pressing it to Emeros' back - amidst sputtering protest from the Bosmer - they scribbled something down, before folding the note and handing it over into the bony hands of the blond, who furrowed his brow at the other. He seemed to be searching their face for something, his pale eyes scanning the lines of their mouth, the curve of their ears. Athenath ignored the other's stare. They'd not had the bad luck to see someone in such a state before this past month, even with their limited knowledge of injuries, they could tell that the other's condition would need more tending than the trio could give at the moment. 

  "You need to get to a healer. I don't know how much we can do right now, but there's a temple of Kynareth in Whiterun." 

  "You- oh, oh, um-" the blond unfolded the paper with delicate, shaky motions, skimming it, "thank you. That's very kind, I'm supposed to be heading to Solitude, actually, but..."

  "Oh, that's where we're going," Athenath brightened as he lifted a fragmenting grin along his lips, "but I think you should talk to Danica Pure-Spring first. I mean, Wyndrelis is a good mage, but it's probably not a great idea to just act like you weren't fighting for your life."

  The blond nodded hurriedly, returning the smile. "I'll do that. Thank you. Um- good luck on your journey, alright? Roads are..."

  Athenath dismissed with a hand wave, stretching. They turned to the road, Emeros and Wyndrelis watching them cautiously. "Come on, I'm sure he'll make it on his own," the bard said. Emeros eyed the blond for a moment longer, before glancing around at the silent ruins. Carrion birds were already lowering, and soon this place would be spilling with sinew and meat, and he didn't intend to fend off any wild animals who caught the stench. He and Wyndrelis gave one another quiet glances, but after hurried reassurances from the injured elf, they shrugged their shoulders and decided to follow the road once more. If the scraggly Mer wanted to head to Whiterun on his own, that was his decision.

  The paths welcomed them with grand, sweeping arms, the injured Mer seating himself with his back to the hay bale again, catching his breath. He watched them depart, keeping his keen eyes trained on them even when the figures turned to strained blurs in his vision. He glanced around, muttering to himself as he slid his glasses back on his nose. He knew they'd need to be repaired when he reached his destination. That was no expense to him, his uncle had plenty of coin. His stomach tightened. The thought of asking the older elf for anything sent a surge of anxiety through his chest, but he did his best to shrug it off. Breathe slow. Breathe deep. 

  Once the figures of the trio faded into the distance, shadows growing further away, relief took his shoulders down from his neck. He slid a hand between needles of hay, clasping his fingers around the fabric he'd hidden there. He cursed the bale for prickling his skin, pulling at the strap of a messenger bag, the dark material rising from its depths. Swiping his hand over his belongings, he gave another, long look to the littered bodies and sighed.

  Plainclothes should have saved them, he thought, waving his palm. The Illusion spell he'd maintained through the last reserves of his magicka drooped and wavered in the air, before dissipating all together. He'd heard the strangers coming, his strangled calls for help a pathetic crowing noise among the jaws of the Skyrim wilderness. If he hadn't been careful, if he hadn't been swift enough, the gleaming, gilded, eagle-wing earcuffs worn by one of his bodyguards would have told the strangers all they needed to know. And whether they would have helped or killed him was a chance he would not take.

  If only, he thought, the soldier now being pecked by crows had not been so haughty as to believe neutral territory were safe enough for such things. Then maybe all of them would be alive, not just the sole survivor who shakily stumbled to his feet. 

  Gods, what a terrible sight.

  He double-checked the papers inside his messenger bag, slinging the strap along his shoulder. He'd take an alternate route to Haafingar, and hope to the gods he would not run into any more trouble. How could he have known the Alik'r warriors were in Skyrim? And how could he have predicted the arrogance of his assigned bodyguards? This was more a disaster than he'd ever signed up for. His uncle claimed this would build character, but all it did was likely give him a couple of nasty scars once he'd gotten a chance for the healers to get him back to full strength. No matter, he'd go through Whiterun like the other Mer told him to, and head up to Haafingar when he was ready. Still, what a mess.

Chapter 20: In My Time of Need

Notes:

hi there! sorry this took a long time. school has been eating up my energy. in other news, i rewrote the entire first 10 chapters of the fic, with some rewriting/editing on chapter 11, and very minor edits up to chapter 19! it's not a requirement to reread, but scenes will play out and reference back to those first 10 chapters in the future, so it may help give context to future events. that said, i hope you enjoy this new chapter! <3

  Try as he might, Emeros struggled to shake off the unease that overtook him the moment he laid eyes on the stranger. Bloodied and half-alive, leaning against a bale of hay with his canary hair mussed in all directions, he found it hard to believe the Altmer were a bandit, let alone a bandit who survived against warriors like the Alik'r. And try as he might, he could not shake the slight current of lightning that stung under their feet as they'd approached the Altmer, the kind he'd encountered only a handful of times in his life, a hallmark of a well-trained Illusion mage. He looked between Athenath and Wyndrelis, his eyes trailing the backs of their heads, preferring to stay a few inches behind them since the encounter, attention darting to the landscape here and there. Glancing down at the map in his hands, he examined the ink he'd laid down that morning, the little crossing of a settlement that bore no name. Would there be an inn? Would the trio have to sleep outside, make a camp? 

  He found himself thankful they'd picked up bedrolls in Belethor's shop. The roads twists and snaking paths encouraged the idea further that they'd be camping a night or two on this road, and with the sun lower along the mountain edges, the possibility morphed into reality, if night set in.

---

  "But I don't want to be safe!" 

  The door to the inn creaked open, evening air bringing with it a chill over the hearth in the center of the building. By the time they had reached the tiny settlement - Rorikstead, he'd learn its name was - night settled thick around them, the horizon pulling a darkness over the landscape. The other two Mer had insisted that they should keep walking, that the settlement couldn't be that far, and Emeros complied with the odds stacked against him. Better to let it be and see if they made it to the town than to try to change two minds at once. Masser bled a deep, red light on the plains, the silver gleam of Secunda shifting the hue, the snow on the mountain peaks blush-pink in the combination. 

  The voice caught Emeros' ears as the three slipped inside, the innkeeper rubbing at his temples as he carried on with the same bickering that must happen here every night, based on the looks on both the men's faces. The trio stood at the door with the level of discomfort that arose when walking in on a conversation none of them were supposed to overhear, the younger man leaned against the bar with his hands splayed on the wooden surface, his protests continuing. 

  "I'm not afraid of the dangers out there. The only thing I'm afraid of is wasting my life here, in the middle of nowhere."

  "Yes, that's your mother's side of the family talking." The innkeeper let out a slow exhale, a memory as bittersweet as Nibenese wine playing in his voice, "just stay on for one more season, that's all I ask."

  At this, his son pressed his firm palms against the bar, momentum pushing his posture up as he stepped away, plopping indignantly atop a bench at one of the long tables in the ancient inn, polishing the buckle of a belt he'd laid on the wooden surface. All the while, his incoherent grumbles kept his lips moving. 

  The Bosmer stepped forward, his stride brisk, catching the attention of the innkeeper. He was an aging man, probably in his fifties or near sixties, his moustache and beard neatly trimmed, with thick wrinkles lining his forehead from years of worrying over the man who sat on a bench nearby. A few scars lined his hands and arms, once-deep wounds now only stripes on his tanned skin from years of hard labor, his figure formidable, even in the later years of his life. 

  "Excuse me," Emeros gave a polite smile, his posture straightening, "would it be possible for us to rent a room for the night?"

  The Nord looked him up and down, as though surprised he were here at all. Apparently, Emeros surmised, they don't get a lot of business, especially from Mer who found themselves in the middle of nowhere on a chilly night. "Certainly. If you need a meal or a room, I've got both." He seemed half-distracted, flitting his attention between the strangers and his son.

  "Excellent," he hummed as he gestured for his companions to join him. Wyndrelis immediately made the walk over, Athenath giving curious glances to the innkeeper's son, who locked eyes with him from his seat.

  "If I can ask, are you three adventurers?" He leaned his elbow onto the table, setting the belt he'd been polishing aside. Emeros turned his attention to the younger Nord, tugging his cowl down from the top of his head, the green fabric slumping along his shoulders. 

  "I would hardly say adventurers, but... Yes, we're travelers," Emeros answered, exhaustion beginning to drag his words down. Between the past week, the stranger on the road, and the long day spent walking to the town, the thought of a warm bed and a warm meal was enough to leave him practically wilting with want.

  "Great! My name's Erik. My father, Mralki-"

  "Erik," Mralki warned, "come now, these strangers look like they've had a long day." The older man turned to the three, pressing his weathered palms to the surface of the counter. "I'm sorry about him. He's always had such an... Adventurous spirit." 

  Athenath shrugged. They didn't say anything, but there was a look dawning on his face that told Emeros that the Altmer was just as drawn to talk to the Nord as Erik was to him. Maybe once, long ago, Athenath had been in the same position, Emeros theorized as he spoke with Mralki. The bard turned, looking around the empty inn, the crackling of the hearth and Erik's furious polishing the only noise to interrupt the dim. "I take it you don't get much business around here."

  "Not in a while, no," Mralki replied, his voice plain, "not since Ulfric Stormcloak and his rebellion started a new war. This is a peaceful town," he explained, leaning forward, elbow resting on the bar as he gestured to the room around them, "we're simple farmers, you see, but since Ulfric used the power of the voice to kill the High King, we've seen nothing but trouble. But, at least I have my son, stubborn as he is," he jabbed with a grin, Erik looking up for a moment from his task, huffing, and returning to his work. "Come, let me show you three to your room. You must be weary." 

  "Extremely," Wyndrelis muttered. Emeros turned his attention to the Dunmer, the revelation dawning on him that he'd not said a word since they'd found that so-called bandit among the carnage, simply communicated in nods and gestures of agreement when Athenath insisted the trio keep walking. He wondered if the mage, like himself, held suspicions as to the true nature of the events that transpired at the ruined fort.

---

  The bed had welcomed the three with open arms. They'd talked about getting dinner, or at least something to bite on, but the moment they had kicked off their boots and settled their belongings in the chest at the foot of the bed, they found the blankets all too irresistible, the pillows too well-carved to their heads, the mattress perfectly soft from wear over the years, and the droning of insects outside and crackling of the hearth like a lullaby. The road had taken more time than anticipated, and more energy than any of them had known it would. 

  They slept well into the morning, and by the time Emeros stirred, it was to the crack of thunder and the drumming fingertips of rain against the roof.

  "Gods," he murmured, rolling over on his back. He turned his head to see the still closed-eyed forms of his friends, watching them carefully in the dim, cloud-covered light. He didn't want to wake them, but if they were planning to stumble out of their room before noon, he'd have to. "I don't think today's our day to travel," he said in a louder tone, loud enough to rouse Wyndrelis, who shoved Athenath's shoulder after a moment. The Altmer simply clutched the blankets tighter around himself. 

  "Why's that?" The bard asked, voice barely audible, sleep still dragging at the edges of his consciousness. 

  "Listen."

  The pattering of rain against the walls and windows caught the younger elf off-guard. They popped one dark eye open, listening closer now. 

  "Storms," Wyndrelis stated plainly as he stretched, bags under his eyes not fading even after the long, welcome sleep. The three laid there a while, listening to the roll of thunder or the occasional wind picking up the rain and slamming it firmly into the side of the inn, the draft that dampened the building and carried its humidity over their tired forms. It was a lucky thing they'd gotten on the road the day before, then, else they'd be stuck in Whiterun for gods know how much longer. Emeros silently wondered how long this storm would last, and if it would mean being stranded in Rorikstead for more than one day. The trip to Solitude was already a long one, but to stretch it out would be less than ideal.

  Athenath huffed loudly, sitting up and tossing the blankets off himself as he scooted to the end of the bed. He'd slept against the wall last night, curled up facing it, habit of blanket-thievery continuing. Emeros had managed to cling hard enough to his side to keep himself warm, something he figured he would learn to do without a single thought if they all continued their travels together after Solitude. He watched the other as they pulled their boots from the floor, curls mussed, straightening out their tunic. "I'm gonna get something to eat, you two can sleep in if you want." 

  "I believe we're all awake," Emeros replied as he sat upright, and at the mention of breakfast, his own desire to leave the thick blankets rose. It sounded like a very good idea. The alchemist pulled the blankets down from himself and shuddered at chill that rose to meet him. He wondered if Athenath so much as sensed the cold, the Mer showing no reaction when they'd left the warmth, instead getting ready and rushing out the door with easy steps the moment he had his boots on. He drew in a breath, the humidity of the outside storm drawing into the building, a permeation of thunder through the walls, crackling of lightning far beyond Rorikstead. 

  Wyndrelis raked his fingers through his ink-black hair, still looking as though he'd not slept nearly enough. Perhaps he'd used too much magicka yesterday healing that stranger, the vision still haunting Emeros after a long night's rest. With a clearer head and ample time to think about it, the doubts settled in and made a nest in the pit of his gut. Who was that Mer? He didn't catch a name, none of them did. If they had, maybe it would be easier. A name told much about a person, especially, judging by his accent, coming from Alinor. 

  The Bosmer's thoughts clouded with the memory of the prior day as he stood, cowl resting on the nightstand next to Wyndrelis' glasses and Athenath's amulet. He stared at the assortment of items for a moment, his interest locked onto one belonging in particular. Gingerly, he took the amulet into his hand, examining its carved surface, the interlocking, woven patterns of Mara's sign. The gem in the middle was a bright, turquiose stone, its once perfectly spherical shape rubbed slightly flat with the years. He turned the amulet around, spotting the inscription that had caught his eye before.

  Too bad he couldn't read it. From his best guess, it was in Ta'agra, which raised more questions than answers. He furrowed his brow, bringing it closer to his face. He could read several languages, but now he cursed himself for not seeking out the chance to learn Ta'agra when he'd been on the road for so long and spent so much time among the Khajiit caravans, since they'd taken the same routes, and traveling in numbers had been the best safety precaution through many of those years.

  "What is it?" Wyndrelis asked, startling the alchemist. He spun on his heel as he caught sight of the Dunmer, whose circle-rimmed eyes and half-asleep expression made him look more agitated than usual. That was simply how his face sat, apathetic and cold, even in many of the moments he seemed to be enjoying himself. Emeros held out the amulet.

  "Athenath's amulet. There's something written on the back, but I'm afraid I can't read it." 

  Wyndrelis pursed his lips. "Let me see."

  Emeros handed it over, watching the leather cord chain droop into the Dunmer's cupped palms. Wyndrelis held it up to the light, and skimming the writing several times, he shrugged and set it back on the nightstand. A beat passed, then he began to push at the chain with his index finger, shifting it into a position where it looked as though it hadn't been disturbed since the moment the bard had taken it off. He rubbed the lens of his glasses against the smooth fabric of his tunic and stretched, turning his eyes back to the Bosmer. 

  "I have no idea what it says," he said, "but we could ask them, if you want."

  "Absolutely not, he doesn't need to know we were-"

  "Hey," Athenath called from the doorway, leaning against its frame, "what did that bandit say? About uh, curved swords?"

  "Curved swords?" Emeros repeated, ensuring he heard the other right. Athenath nodded.

  "Yep. Curved swords." 

  He paused, watching as Athenath's brow narrowed and Wyndrelis stood still, his own eyes moving from one of his companions to the other. The canary-haired Mer had described them as warriors, and Emeros had met plenty of warriors who carried curved swords. He toed closer to the doorway and peered out into the hall, his intrigue entirely taking up his thoughts.

  Two men sat in the further corner of the inn, drinking something and talking quietly to one another. Their clothing, their postures, everything about them reeled with the familiarity of his time in Hammerfell. The only question was why, why were Alik'r warriors in Skyrim? He'd had a few unpleasant run-ins with Thalmor hired warriors during the aftermath of the Great War, lucky not to be their target. He would mind his business and pretend not to see them if he could help it, if he knew that they were hired by the Dominion. Thalmor gold was a motivator for many things. And if the Thalmor couldn't enter Whiterun Hold due to Jarl Balgruuf's neutrality, then it made sense to hire Alik'r warriors, but...

  He thought back to Belethor. His stomach churned. He glanced to the chest holding Athenath's knapsack. 

  He caught the nervous shuffling of his friends' feet, realizing the silence had stretched on far too long, and looked to the pair. "You two go get breakfast," he waved his hand. "I need a moment more to wake up, I'm afraid." 

  Athenath left, returning moments later with a platter of the slim breakfast options in this town. No coffee here, just water, milk, or ale. This town was far too out of the way for any merchants from Whiterun to show up with imported goods, so whatever was grown or butchered or foraged locally was all that made itself available, especially with the Civil War disrupting the entirety of the province. Athenath removed the tankards from the platter and set them out, sighing dramatically as he flung himself into a chair.

  "Gods, I just wanna get to Solitude," they groaned, picking up a wooden spoon, a bowl of warm porridge before them. 

  "I know," Emeros rolled his eyes, grinning as he spoke, "but even if the storm were to let up soon, we'd be traveling in mud." 

  "We can withstand some mud." Wyndrelis took a seat at the table. He had a point, but it didn't seem that any of them exactly wanted to brave the soggy terrain right now. Emeros joined his two friends, and through breakfast, they sat and planned out their next moves. Once the rain stopped, they'd wait a few more hours and then leave, so that the ground had a chance to swallow up the downpour. The road to Solitude wasn't too much longer now, but it was no use risking it being a miserable experience. Emeros didn't want to chance any of them growing ill out here. He only had a few healing potions, and it wasn't worth getting sick and using them all up. 

---

  It wasn't hard for Erik to grab Athenath's attention. His curiosity had been thoroughly piqued from the moment the trio had made their way into the inn, striding over to talk with him. Wyndrelis, needing the calm and quiet of it, had decided to remain in their room. 

  This left Emeros to speak with the Alik'r warriors. 

  He'd known many, spending several years in Hammerfell both during and after the Great War, even becoming friends with a handful of the traveling mercenaries. But the more he thought about Belethor and the Thalmor and the book Athenath had stolen and what the Thalmor would do to get any mention of Talos or anything associated with him, his heart would pick up speed, his sternum would batter at itself like rushed knocking at a door. There was an ache at his chest that he could not subdue. He would try, but it rose up against him as turbulent as the seas anyways.

  He told himself, you don't know for sure. So, he would speak with them, and ask if they were here for business or leisure. Honestly, if the dragons hadn't returned and he'd not been at Helgen and there were not a raging Civil War, Skyrim would be good place to get away for a while, provided one could withstand it.

  One was shorter, with a shaven head and short beard. The man sipped from a warm tankard, his hands wrapped around it to keep them warm. The taller of the pair had a square jaw and a heavy brow, eyes consistently turning to the door, as if he were hoping the weather would ease any moment now, and the pair could be on their way. Emeros did his best to stop his pulse from rattling in his chest as he approached, making a conscious effort to unclench his jaw.

  "Gentlemen," he began, the pair looking up from their chairs at him, "are you waiting out the rain as well?" 

  "Indeed," the shorter one replied, setting his tankard aside. "We're waiting for these storms to pass. Wish we'd known they were coming in in the first place, but it beats getting caught in them."

  "Certainly," he chuckled, relaxing. The shorter man gestured for him to sit at the table near their chairs, and he did, resting his elbow on the wooden surface. "My friends and I are heading to Solitude, in search of the Bard's College. Particularly," he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, indicating Athenath, whose laugh bounced through the air like bells, "he's the one seeking it out. Myself and our other companion," he then gestured to the doorway of the shared room, "are simply accompanying for the time being." 

  "Ah, the Bard's College," sighed the shorter one dreamily, "you know, I've thought of going that way myself to browse the instrument displays, there. Or, around this time of year... tell me, are you familiar with the Burning of King Olaf?" Emeros shook his head. The man leaned forward, his companion giving him a smirk as he splayed his hands out. "It's a great celebration held by the College every year. They put on plays for it, and the whole city is decorated for the affair. I'd love to go there, but," he sat back with a sigh, "well, we're here on business, you see."

  Emeros' heart dropped. He concealed his nerves. "Truly? What sort of business?" 

  "We're looking for someone. Redguard, like us," the smaller man gestured between himself and his companion, "she's supposed to be somewhere in Whiterun Hold. Unfortunately, due to a... Misunderstanding with the guards of Whiterun city, we're not allowed within the walls at the moment." 

  The immense relief washed over him in one sturdy wave, the knowledge that Belethor's missing tome was not the reason they were here. Still, at the mention of an incident in the city, his intrigue bled into an arc of the brow and a slant of his posture forward. 

  "Can't do anything with this rain," the taller warrior made a small gesture to the door, leaning back against his chair with a sigh. He couldn't be much older than the other man, who rubbed at his jaw contemplatively for a moment before he leaned forward in his seat, glancing to the other Mer, busy in conversation with Erik. He glanced back to Emeros.

  "Maybe you could help us, actually," the bearded man said, a gleam in his eye from the hearth's flames, "she's likely not using her real name, but again, we can't exactly check, ourselves. If you happen to be going through Whiterun in the near future, we'll pay you for any information you may have of our query." 

  He thought it over. He had no idea what he was getting into, should this come back to bite him. Yes, they were not after Belethor, but what woman could they be trying to track down, and why? The alchemist rolled the memory of the fort over in his mind like a bundle of dried herbs between his fingers, the sight of the canary-haired Altmer blooming again to the surface in this dim hall. He leaned back onto his elbow, head cocked. 

  "That sounds like quite an offer. My companions and I would be happy to assist you. I have to say, after finding the bandits you two took on, I'd worry if I were one of your targets. Especially if that's how you can fight when outnumbered." The pair's faces grew grave. Emeros said it like a joke, with a grin on his mouth and a small, breathy chuckle leaving his lips, but the moment he caught their expressions, his face fell.

  Both of the men looked to one another uneasily. "Bandits?" The taller one asked, voice lowering. Emeros knit his brow. His chest tightened again. 

  "Yes, I'm... my friends and I, we passed a fort coming out of Whiterun. We came across quite a sight, the only survivor said he was a bandit, that he and his compatriots tried to rob you," Emeros explained. The pair hung on tight to every word, as though each detail contained the smallest bit of information that might save or end a life, balancing precariously on the Bosmer's tongue. 

  "Did you see where this survivor went?" The taller one asked. The shorter of the warriors leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together as he listened to Emeros, who shook his head. This was true - he did not see where the Altmer went, the trio had gone on their way before he'd made a decision on which path to take, and they certainly didn't see him here and now, in Rorikstead. At this, they both exchanged looks, something akin to concern riddling their features. No, not concern, Emeros realized, but a solemn note of confusion, tinged with something heavier.

  "Those were no bandits," the shorter warrior spoke quietly, "I'm afraid those were Thalmor. Gods know how they got into Whiterun Hold. We were attacked, one of them threatened us, and we fought back. I thought we..."

  The room spun. The floor cracked open. The roar of the hearth rumbled louder than the thunder outside in Emeros' ears. The burning in his chest was replaced by hammering, anxious, the shaking of his palms. Thalmor. How could they get into Whiterun Hold? But he remembered how they were dressed, and didn't the young man say he knew Illusion magic? 

  "You look tense, friend," the shorter warrior noted, his tone sturdy and low. Emeros hadn't realized his nails digging into the knees of his trousers, the fabric tight under his palms. He unclenched his hands. Breathed out. 

  "Apologies. I suppose that finding out any Thalmor have gotten this far into Skyrim startled me, is all," he explained. He glanced to Athenath, talking with Erik and listening to the younger Nord tell stories of his life in Rorikstead. The Altmer looked intrigued, a grin on his mouth as they stood there while Erik polished dishes and trays for his father. Emeros turned his eyes to the trio's room, Wyndrelis likely reading or examining the map or listening to the rain, he couldn't see the Dunmer to be sure. He knew the mage was exhausted from yesterday, he saw the circles under his eyes earlier and he knew that he'd used more magicka than necessary to heal the canary-haired Altmer - the Thalmor agent, Emeros thought bitterly - but how? Had there been something he'd missed so thoroughly that he helped a Thalmor agent and didn't notice? Had Wyndrelis, too, sensed something, and it kept him up all night? He wasn't sure, but Emeros settled on one thing.

  He was not going to tell them. He would keep this to himself. 

  He turned back to the warriors, the taller of the pair tugging a cloak from his knapsack that he'd set beside his chair, draping it over his lap. The chill of the rain dragged in from under the door, and Emeros wished to himself he'd brought his own cloak to use as a quick blanket. He folded his arms over his middle, fingers clasping together neatly, all the information he'd gleaned within the past hour congealing together into a delicate portrait of the day before. A Thalmor agent had attacked the Alik'r warriors, they fought back, and accidentally left one survivor. Gods, and the trio had sent him to Whiterun. His blood ran cold as he thought of Heimskr. He may not like the man, certainly, but...

  "May I ask about your target? If I'm to help you find her," he made a small gesture with his hand, "I'd like some information as to why you're seeking her out." 

  "We're hired to make sure she is returned to face trial for her crimes. She sold out a city to the Dominion," the taller warrior replied. "Though, maybe we should hesitate to trust you." His voice, still level, still calm, gave only hints of the well-trained venom beneath. The fact that the trio had aided the scraggly Thalmor agent dissolved much of the good-natured air between the three. Even though it was a mistake, that he didn't know who this person was and that he lied to them, it still found a way to bite into what had been a burgeoning friendly acquaintanceship. 

  "I was raised by my Altmeri family, but I assure you, I've no allegiance nor fondness for the Dominion. None of us do, truth be told." 

  Both of the Alik'r warriors glanced between one another. "How can we be sure?" The taller of the pair asked. Emeros tapped his fingers together and gave it some thought, allowing the crackling of the hearth and the distant conversations of his friends to filter through the swirling tension that surrounded the three men.

  "The Dominion has taken much from me. I suspect the same can be said of you. In fact," he tugged at the chance for snaring information of his own, leaning closer, speaking in a low voice, "if I do help you, then perhaps there's something you can assist me with, as well."  

 

Chapter 21: Amulet

  The storms slid their veil-grey hands along the ridges of the distant mountains, paths drenched in rain. Slick stones gave no mercy to merchants or horses hooves, or to the absent footfall of someone not looking where they leapt. What had once been dry plains now drowned under the downpour, and most of Roriksteads residents had enough sense to stay inside. 

  The hearth burned evenly in the middle of the inn, crackling comfortably as it ate up the logs thrown into its pit. Mralki and Erik went on about something, or perhaps nothing, usual banter between father and son in this small town filling up silences. Athenath would chime in here and there, joking with Erik, sometimes even mentioning vaguely their travels through Cyrodiil as a bard on the road. Emeros sat with the Alik'r Warriors, his own voice hushed as he spoke with them, a conversation only they could hear. In their shared room, Wyndrelis sprawled out on the bed, his head aching, thoughts racing, the prior day unable to leave his mind for a second.

  It bothered him, how much space this occupied. Not the image of someone bloodied and in need of help, that much he could handle. No, it was the nagging suspicion of something wrong. Someone pulling a trick, sleight of hand like a jester in the streets of the Imperial City, deceiving himself and his companions. That moment the scraggly Altmer had made the tiniest flick of a weakened wrist - the smallest thing that Wyndrelis seemed to be the only one to notice - the sour taste of metal latched to his tongue. Magic cast when someone was desperate. A spell from a mage without much left to give. And when he'd held a hand near the other, his own magicka had been met with a repelling force like the Dwemeri magnets he'd studied once with an old colleague. The ends opposing. A force meeting force, an uncomfortable sensation that pushed back against his hand. And what had he said about Illusion magic? 

  The thick, dark clouds lowered into their slow graves in the hills, ground marshy and squelching under the boots of the farmers who checked now on their animals and their crops, returned to duties put off for the weather. Wyndrelis preferred to stay in the trio's room for the day, the sight of the hearth so near to him making his palms shake. He laid there in the dim, a book left behind by a former patron of the inn propped against a bent knee, reading silently as he struggled to distract from his unease. The sun sloped into the inn's high windows, or the half-alive vestiges of it, the light weak against the forces of the torches and hearthlight. Footsteps interrupted his thoughts, but he kept his eyes locked on the book, turning a page quietly.  

  "You okay?" Athenath asked, leaning casually against the doorframe. Their arms folded over their chest and dark eyes locked on him, the Altmer gave the mage a quizzical look as he faced them momentarily before his gaze once more landed on the pages before him.

  "Yes." 

  Athenath looked to be suppressing the momentary twitch of a frown. "You sure?" 

  The Dunmer waited a moment before pushing himself up out of his recline, shoving his fingers through his dark hair until it was tousled and feathery. Explaining to the younger elf the situation seemed like an effort not worth taking. He doubted they would understand why he was concerned. The sights of the bodies, the putrid stench of death, all of it had jostled their nerves enough, no use telling them anything else, let alone that they may have sent something awful Whiteruns way with a handwritten note and a wave.

  He combed the strands into place with his hands. He couldn't find anything to occupy his attention other than the questions that burned holes in his ears no matter how hard he struggled. Could he even begin to explain the thoughts worming through his mind, burrowing deep into the subconscious parts, eating their fill on his suspicions? He couldn't. He rubbed at his shoulder. He shut his eyes and breathed in the warm air. His mind stagnated on the idea, how to explain, what to say. He wondered if Emeros held the same discomfort in his chest about the blond elf.

  "It's a long story." He settled on his reply, words dripping out from his lips on the trail of a long exhale, Athenath traipsing easily over and plopping down into one of the creaking chairs in their room. Slinging their arms on the rests, he craned his posture lightly forward, intrigue in the knit of his brow.

  "Wanna get into it?"

  The offer could have been genuine, but the Dunmer had no faith in it. Mostly, he had no faith that they would even listen, or be interested. Wyndrelis shook his head. "No, no thank you." 

  Athenath shrugged, tugging his amulet from under his tunic, examining it, light from the hearth spilling golden hues to the ridges, the embossing, the tiny details. He turned it over, humming idly, chin against the heel of their palm as they swung their foot in small motions. Their cream-gold thumb traced the indents in the back, eyes locked to something Wyndrelis couldn't see. 

  "I may have taken a look at your amulet this morning," the Dunmer confessed through tight teeth and stumbled speech, eyes avoiding the sight of the other now. Athenath looked up, blinking a few times as their expression shifted through several forms of amusement, before rolling his eyes with a mischievous grin. 

  "Yeah? What, you wanna marry me?" He teased, leaning on folded arms over the table. Wyndrelis cackled, clutching his hands over his mouth.

  "Gods, no, maybe try your luck with Emeros," he taunted back, giving a small arch of his brow. Athenath craned their neck downward, peering at Wyndrelis through his brow with a mock-frown.

  "Aw, am I not good enough for you?" He batted his lashes dramatically, knitting their fingers together under their chin. 

  "No, you're not," he tutted in reply, watching Athenath throw his hands up like he were grasping at an invisible support. Their arms dropped again to their lap, a large grin on his face.

  "You're rude," Athenath prodded in a fake huff.

  "Only sometimes." Wyndrelis leaned back against the pillows with a satisfied, impish smirk, folding his palms neatly over his middle and locking his fingers together. The sound of the door to the inn creaked through the small building, footsteps following close behind. 

  "Apologies, those warriors forgot something when they left," Emeros explained, peaking his head into the shared room, "I wanted to be sure it returned to them. I suppose I got carried away in conversation." 

  As though not hearing him, the Altmer swung around in their chair, facing the door with a gleam in his eye. "Hey, Emeros?" Athenath held up the amulet of Mara, "Wyndrelis said I should try my luck with you, so what'd'you say?"  

  Emeros' jaw fell open, brow pushing upward high enough it created hard lines in his forehead. A moment later, he turned on his heel and eased out of the room, his pair of friends left cackling wolf-loud into the evening light. He returned a few moments later, dragging his cupped hand down his face, other palm resting against his hip.

  With a wag of his finger, he sternly stated, "absolutely not."

  "It's a joke," Wyndrelis tittered, waving a grey hand absently. "Don't worry, we're not serious." 

  Emeros exhaled dramatically, making slow, cautious steps into the room, ignoring the creeping warmth against the tips of his ears. He watched the amulet carefully as Athenath rested it back against their chest, running fingers through his dark hair. The Bosmer thought back to this morning, and with a tinge of caution, spoke up. 

  "What's that, then?" 

  "What's what?" Athenath turned, facing the Bosmer who leaned himself against the dresser. 

  "The back, something's written on it, I was just..." he trailed off as Athenath tugged the amulet from his neck, curls ruffling at the quick motion. They smoothed their thumb over the inscription, a pang of nostalgia running through him. 

  "It's from a friend," he explained, "back when we were kids, before I started traveling on my own." 

  "Are you quite certain that wasn't a marriage proposal?" Emeros quirked a brow, arms folded over his chest. Wyndrelis watched the Altmer as they continued to rub the inscription lightly, the edges smoothed by the years. 

  "Yeah, we talked about it. He just wanted me to have something to... I guess to remind me of home, and y'know, our friends. And, I mean, I've been a devotee of Mara for a long time, he thought it was weird I didn't wear her amulet, something like that." 

  Emeros hummed lightly, giving a small nod. Curiosity propped itself up on his features, the unusually tall Bosmer rubbing at his jaw with the crook of his thumb. "The inscription's in Ta'agra. Was your friend-"

  "A Khajiit, yeah. All of my good friends back then were. He wanted to make sure I'd never forget them when I was on the road." 

  The tone Athenath's voice dimmed, all his taunts and teasings taking leave from their tongue as he inhaled deeply, the bards life before all of this hovering over their face. Before Helgen, before his travels and whatever came before even that, whatever tiniest fragments the other two had gleaned of their life. Emeros cleared his throat, snapping Athenath's gaze to the alchemist.

  "What does it say?" He asked, intrigue pinning the words in place. Athenath looked down at the metal surface, the glinting in the light.

  "It's just a little note. It's uh, 'from your loves, to your love'." 

  While Wyndrelis returned to his reading, Athenath explained the nuances of Ta'agra, how the first instance of love carried the weight of a familial meaning, the second to be romantic, as though the amulet was to be given to whomever Athenath saw fit to wear it. The comfort of it all brought light back into his dark eyes, and when the other two seemed satisfied with the explanation, he tucked the amulet back under the neck of his tunic. 

  "Well, anyways. We should probably get something to eat, and then try to rest." They rose, stretching, arms high to the ceiling. Wyndrelis shrugged. 

  "I think I'm going to check on the soul gems I found in that barrow." He pulled his knapsack up onto the bed, tugging out the crystals, twisting them in the light of the fading day. 

  "And I'm going to check on my experiments." Emeros found his own bag, beginning to dig through it, bottles clinking against one another in the leather material. "If we make it to Solitude by tomorrow, they'll hopefully still be stable enough that I can find a courier and deliver them to Nurelion."

Notes:

thank you all for being patient, i'm finally getting my brain back together after finals and i have more time to work on this fic! so, i hope you enjoyed this lighter chapter, because it's very much a "calm before the storm" moment. <3

Chapter 22: Solitude

  Night. 

  Wyndrelis became acutely aware that it was night. 

  The flicker of torches passing by the windows of the inn marked long stretches of orange along the stone walls, pawing like a cat along a rug. He could feel the claws digging in, deeper, pinprick needles of the dark surrounding the three in the small room. What were they doing last? What had they done? 

  He closed his eyes.

  He wished he hadn't. 

  Roggvir. That's right. The execution. He jolted, making desperate attempts to keep the image of the man's corpse from his mind. He could still see the spray of blood, the spinal column severed by the axe, the way his skull lulled off the stage-

  Oh, gods. Wyndrelis' stomach churned. He cupped a palm over his lips and leaned forward, off the bed - bed, he was sitting on a bed - and hoped only that he would-

  Easy motions, a palm circling between his shoulder blades. All his thoughts ceased. He would, under normal circumstances, be pushing whoever was touching him away with all his might, but right now he couldn't muster the energy. He shuddered and winced and silently wished the world would stop, squeezing his eyes shut as the nausea passed, as something was presented to him, a scent he couldn't place wafting under his nose. Then, a cold rag on his forehead, pressed and held there until he fumbled a shaking hand to take the other's place. He swallowed down hard. As though through water, a voice said, "you'll be fine, you need to lie on your side and breathe slowly." 

  Emeros.

  He nodded and crawled up into the bed, lying down as instructed, allowing the waves of nausea to pass him by, to sweep over him like the hand of a lethargic breeze. The room came back to his senses, piece by piece. Washed ashore in his mind. The bed, the inn. He turned his gaze to the end of the mattress and saw Athenath, staring straight ahead, unmoving. Athenath was never not moving. The Altmer always rocked in their seat or bounced his leg or did a hundred other little things, and now, unmoving, staring to the wall. Arms folded over their middle. 

  Soon, Emeros was guiding them to the middle of the bed with whispers similar to the ones given to Wyndrelis. His hand brushed the Altmer's forehead, stray curls tickling their nose, making the Mer grimace. A sign that they were still aware of the world, at least. Then, he blew out the candles, and climbed into the blankets, his eyes finding a wall and laying there. Wyndrelis could feel the pressure of other bodies next to him, the one closest to him that of the bard, who said nothing and moved not at all. The young Mer laid there, stare against the ceiling, watching torchlight pass through the window as a mere tangerine-hued shine from the street below. Emeros on one side, Wyndrelis on the other, the Dunmer's head pounding. 

  How long had he laid there? He tried to count the flicker of torchlight, but it did nothing to give a sense of time. He sat, body hesitant to move in the silence, fingers still tremoring as he unbuttoned his cape and draped it aside. The metal of his belt buckle gave even louder disturbances, the jingling of it as loud as a bell in his ears as he unbuckled it and set it on the floor gingerly. Every action, every twitch of his fingers or tug of his hand, performed in mechanical motion like a clockwork machine. 

  He leaned slightly off the bed, giving a harsh tug down on the fur-lined lip of his boots, the articles colliding with the floor with a loud thud. The sound alarmed Athenath, a tiny gasp leaving their mouth, Emeros pushing himself up on his arm to assess the situation, to scout out danger. "Sorry," Wyndrelis whispered into the dark, the Dunmer's white irises landing on the other two. Emeros lowered himself slowly back into the bed, Athenath staring at the mage for a moment with wide, dark eyes, before shifting again to watch the shadows congeal against the ceiling.

  The trio found themselves in the bed, warm, but not comfortable. Safe, but feeling far from it. Every noise downstairs was an intrusion poking through them like needles stitching up an autopsied corpse. Every sound outside battered their senses.

  Wyndrelis tried to close his eyes and sleep, and when he did eventually drift off, he dreamt twice of fires. 

---

  None of them wanted to eat. But the gnawing in their stomachs compelled them, so they grabbed bowls of leftover soup from the previous night, thick slices of fresh bread, and fruits reaching that tedious peak where ripeness dipped into softening, which would eventually slide into decay.

  Wyndrelis looked to Athenath, who moved their spoon absently through the thick soup, jaw cradled in the heel of his palm, brown curls uncombed. He traced his gaze over the cracks in the tables surface and the worn rings where mugs of ale had left their permanent marks to Emeros, the Bosmer eating slowly and keeping his mind on the meal at hand, from the looks of it. He rested his chin inside a curled, talon-like hand, elbow on the wooden table, every action idle as he attempted to pull himself to the reality of the situation. 

  Wyndrelis sipped coffee. Ate little. Did his best to recall yesterday.

  They had wandered into Solitude on a bright noon, sun glistening off the Sea of Ghosts. Every green tree and every bounce of the light off the stones and the grass, every palm of the wind along their backs and sound of Athenath's tambourine, all of it swirled into the vibrant hues of a painter's brush. The birds dove and felt the breath of Kyne along their wings. It had been morbidly picturesque, a moving landscape of a perfect journey. To get into Solitude, to get their official Imperial pardons. To join the Bard's College, and maybe spend a few months learning from them before heading back on the road. The kinds of things that made sense, that formed coherent images in Wyndrelis' mind.

  The gates opened. Then, the shouting. Then, the crowd and the Nord up on the block, instantaneous, nothing they could do, crowd cheering and dispersing and the world pouring out the damnable reminders of war. There was no peace. Skyrim was a leviathan, spines rising from the seas of calm as a reminder that this land was fed in blood. 

  Athenath cupped their fingers over their mouth. Emeros stood, still, balling his fists. Wyndrelis didn't remember anything much further. He slid down the city wall. He felt grass beneath his palms. Sweat on his brow. Tremors. 

  Helgen.

  He smelled it still. Burnt flesh and homes destroyed. Ash stained his clothes if he thought on it too long, creeping back just when he'd been able to push it from his mind, even when he'd scrubbed all the remaining evidence of Helgen off his person and his belongings, he swore it still clung to him.

  Emeros had made an absent motion. The other two followed him closely, Athenath fidgeting with his hands, Wyndrelis' gaze focused on the ground. The Bosmer paid for a room at the inn. The laughter at the tables and the songs of a student bard gave the Dunmer a headache. 

  Had they eaten? Had they anything to drink since they'd stepped foot into the inn - the Winking Skeever - up until now? The bitter gnawing of his stomach and the sandy weight of his tongue when he'd awoken told him no, they hadn't. He sipped water slowly. Athenath had made a small dent into their soup, the bread serving this effort well. Every bite took more strength than the last. Wyndrelis held his gaze on his own meal. Half-consumed. Barely tasted. The linger of salt on his tongue. 

  "I don't think we're doing much of anything for a few days," Emeros commented, attempting a light tone, "so if neither of you have any immediate plans, we should..." trailing off, he caught sight of Wyndrelis, the furrow of his dark brow, then the look on Athenath's face, neutral aside from the circles under their eyes, and he sighed, "...gods. Let's... Take a few days. To collect ourselves, I suppose. We're no good to anyone, not even ourselves, if we're in this state." 

  Athenath rubbed their eyes furiously on the back of his sleeve. "No," he breathed, "I want that Imperial pardon, and I'm going to look into classes at the College, and I'm..." 

  "You're going to behave as though we didn't just watch-"

  "I know what we saw," Athenath interrupted, Emeros' words dying mid-air, "but I don't... Fuck, I just don't wanna wallow in bed over some stranger's execution. I'm gonna get ready to head out."

  With that, they downed the rest of the now-cold soup and took a large bite of bread, chewing it uncomfortably in their mouth. Athenath rose, strode up the stairs, and disappeared from view.

  Wyndrelis turned to Emeros. 

  "Are you alright?" He asked slowly. Emeros nodded, scoffing. Wyndrelis frowned. Emeros didn't catch the expression.

  "As well as I can be." The Bosmer turned his amber eyes to Wyndrelis, knitting his brow. "And of yourself? You were drenched in a cold sweat, I worried for a moment that you'd come down with a fever." 

  Wyndrelis gave a bitter chuckle. "I'm well enough." 

  How could he be well? There was only so much he could say about the state of things that wouldn't already be known by the other two. It was not as though he had not seen his fair share of violence, of pain. The days would turn onwards like a waterwheel. This would be nothing to him one day, one foot in front of the other, but right now, all it did was make him sick to think on too long. 

  Glancing around, Wyndrelis rose, stretching. "Athenath is right. Let's go try to get our pardon."

Notes:

i've been writing this fic for a full year now!!!!!!!! thank you all for the support over the past 365 days of this fics existence, and i hope you enjoy the many more days of work ahead!! happy ficiversary to this work!! <333333

Chapter 23: Quid Pro Quo

  If Emeros ever got General Tullius and Ulfric Stormcloak together in a room, he'd kill them both. 

  A languid haze shone off the waters of the Sea of Ghosts. He watched it from the window of the Winking Skeever with what could only be described as mild contempt. Contempt for the silence. For the goings-on of the people down the hall, at the hearth, in the town square. The sundry moods of them in all their garish hues, impish laughter coating one, stress coating another, cloaked all in these colors of the day ahead.

  But in none of them, did Emeros sense grief.

  Roggvir's head had lolled off the stage, landing squarely with a wet and stone-hard plop at the foot of an Imperial soldier. This had aroused no response. Another head. Another axe. What difference, then, was made in this one?

  None. None at all, he concluded with a quiet scoff. So, it had meant what, nothing? A life cut with a deft swinging of a blade at orders given, same as a tree fallen to a woodsman?

  Sawmill machinery, this war.

  The warmth of a hand on his arm startled him from thought. In the reflection of the glass, he saw the face of Athenath, Wyndrelis' figure hovering close behind. The night's rest had done them all some good; Athenath's rosy hue returned to the height of his cheeks, and Wyndrelis’ hands no longer trembled with the faintest shake of his pulse.

  "Doing alright?"

  The question arrested him, a quiet surprise settling in the Bosmers features. He'd merely come up to get his belongings, the other two long ready to head in the direction of Castle Dour. The sound of the other's voice dug under his line of thought, mind racing in all directions. What good would it do to answer honestly? What would be the point? They had all seen the same thing, the same, horrific thing. They shared, too, in the suffering for it, the knowledge of their own terrible near-miss with the executioners, bodies stood in line as the morning sun beat down on them that day. How ironic, then, the dragons, those dreadful bastards of Akatosh, had been the ones to save them. 

  The bashful shuffling of Wyndrelis' fur-lined boots against the stone floors drew Emeros back from his silent reflections, meeting Athenath's gaze.

  "Yes, I'm fine," he replied, shaking his head, "I'm more worried about you two."

  The sprawl of Athenath's thumb along the side of his shoulder forced Emeros to find some way to redirect. To keep the other two grounded. He cleared his throat, turning slow on his heel to face both of his friends in full, amber eyes darting from one to the other, small smile catching on at the edges of his lips.

  "Truly, I do hope you're both feeling at least a little better." 

  The other Mer glanced to one another.

  Emeros turned back to the window only to catch sight of a hawk, sweeping the sun away in a single motion, the shadow gracing the pane, and in the second of dark, his own grave face stared back at him, his smile a grim touch. 

  He dropped it. 

  "Come on," Athenath moved slowly to Wyndrelis' side, the Dunmer leaning in the doorway, mock-casual, "I want that Imperial pardon, now more than ever." 

---

  The interior of Castle Dour was just as grand as its exterior, the slanted pillars of light from high windows giving the room an eerie glow. Wearily, General Tullius set his gaze upon the Nord beside him, her palms sprawled out over a map. The same debate, day in and day out. What should they do, where should they go, where to send the men? 

  Emeros' eyes bore holes into the back of the General's head. His stride calm, he lead the others through the thin antechamber, its high, vaulted ceilings and fluttering Imperial banners not escaping their notice. Guards tried to step over, to speak with them, but Emeros waved them away with easy words, genial smiles, the kind of voice that made the General's ear twitch. Emeros knew it, too. The slight kick of his chin up from the map. The guards dispersed when Emeros assured them that he and his friends meant no trouble, one word, Helgen. 

  The thick thuds of their footsteps halted outside of the war room, the General bowing his head momentarily, noticeable in the stark ray of white, scorching sun. He prepared himself for something, but for what, Emeros did not know. When whatever he'd anticipated did not come, he lifted his grey-capped skull once more, and turned to face the strangers.

  "Are my men now giving free reign to anyone who wanders into the castle?" The General's voice growled out of tired lips as he folded his massive arms across his chest, annoyance flashing in his dark eyes as he shifted from foot to foot. "Do you have some reason to be here, citizens?" 

  Athenath stepped from behind the Bosmer, Wyndrelis following. The three stood, shoulder-to-shoulder, Wyndrelis silently shuffling a spell between his fingertips. Nothing distinct, solely leveled to smooth waves of magicka that burgeoned on a warning. The General set his jaw. "You had better stop that, I don't take kindly to threats."

  Wyndrelis let the spell die on his fingertips. 

  Athenath cleared their throat, but before he could form the words, Emeros held a hand out to his side, stone-faced as he spoke. "We were at Helgen, sir." 

  A silence, tight and uncomfortable, held the room, General Tullius scratching at his scruffy chin, a day or two past need of a shave. "Helgen... Yes, you were prisoners, if I recall correctly." His gaze, steel-hard and wary, refused to leave the tall Bosmer, Emeros' own eyes locked on Tullius as the Imperial added, "is there something I can do for you? Perhaps direct you to the nearest prison?" 

  He stifled a scoff, the urge to roll his amber eyes suppressed, but barely. Athenath did not. Instead, the bard made a step forward, the Bosmer eyeing him with a quirked brow. 

  "We got Hadvar out of there, and he said he'd help us out if we needed it," Athenath explained, incredulity tossing his words off his tongue. Instead of stop the Altmer, Emeros merely gave a quick nod. 

  "Precisely." He confirmed in an even tone. "In fact, he said that should we wish to acquire an Imperial pardon, to come directly to you, General Tullius." He lowered his brow. The General waited, shifting from foot to foot as he considered this, before he waved an enormous hand, resting it again on the table, facing the map sprawled before him. Wooden pegs in the shape of flags painted in red and blues littered various points, stuck in deep with metal ends. The light of the high windows landed along the gleam of his armor, golden color running rotten in the days glare.

  "You know, not many survived that place. If you could give us a hand, Legate Rikke-" he motioned to the woman beside him, her stray flax-blonde hairs catching the light, "-could have some use for you. Besides, I'm sure your being imprisoned was all a big misunderstanding."

  Wyndrelis cleared his throat and looked up at the Bosmer, who was already making a slow, calculated stride to the General, his teeth grit together. With a deep inhale, he spoke, ignoring the light twitch of his undereye, the pittering in his chest.

  "General, I do not wish to waste your time, nor do I believe mine is of any less value," he began, "however, my compatriots and I have come a long way to be here. Not to mention, the scene we witnessed in the town square-"

  "Roggvir, the traitor," Tullius scoffed, shaking his head, disbelief worn down into exhaustion at the name, "he opened the gate for Ulfric Stormcloak after he murdered High King Torygg-"

  "And started this bloody Civil War proper, yes, I'm well aware of the stories, sir." Emeros interrupted in a stodgy drone, his wrist making idle motions. General Tullius craned his neck to peer back at the alchemist, one wrinkled brow raised. His face had the character of a man well beyond the usual glory days of a soldier, a war and weather-battered countenance, with the scarred and sun-roughened arms to match. He was no man to be trifled with in the slightest, and yet - despite the atrocious nerves burdening his every action, the weight of every word catching on the glint of the General's blade - the Mer bothered not with patience nor obedience here. Instead, he lifted his chin, his hands folded together behind his back, his spine taut, his eyes skimming the face of the Imperial like a bird to a field mouse among the brush. 

  "We are here for our pardon. Nothing more."

  General Tullius turned again to face the Bosmer. "And we're low on men. Our ranks are thin enough as is. If you want your pardon, you'll have to earn it." He made no motion, no step, nothing to indicate intimidation, but the bead of sweat down the back of his neck brandished his current disposition, the stress he was under already. In the shadows, Emeros observed the bruise-dark circles forming under the man's eyes over the past few weeks of sleepless nights, the kind he'd seen on many an Imperial soldier returning to Cyrodiil from the front lines in the Great War. He'd been younger then, not understanding the bloodshed, the point of it, reasoning that no one went to war over nothing, that none would fight and die for scraps of Tamriel's geography. But here? He saw the thirty years aftermath and the absurdity of the Civil War plain and simple. 

  "Then I believe we are at an impasse." Emeros, in a simple, brisk motion, turned on his heel and began the walk down the antechamber, guards unsure whether to apprehend the Bosmer or allow him to step away. General Tullius watched in disbelief, and as the doors parted, gave a great sigh. 

  "Wait, now." 

  Emeros stood on the precipice, light filtering in, casting his shadow long behind him. He turned. "Yes, sir?" 

  "I understand the urgency of your request, elf-"

  "Emeros Nightlock." 

  General Tullius sighed again, massaging his temples, forehead in the crux of his thumb. "I understand the urgency of your request, mister Nightlock, but I can't grant something like that on a whim. I need to know you're not here to cause trouble. I know your winding up on the Helgen prison cart was probably just a misunderstanding, as well as these..." he gestured vaguely to Athenath and Wyndrelis, who were halfway through the antechamber and to their friends side when he'd turned back at the General's request, "...fine young people. But until I can verify that you've no intentions to make me regret that decision..."

  "Ah," Emeros ticked, "a deed for a deed." He shut the doors, their thunderous noise brushing through Castle Dour as he made a solid march back to the war room. "Really, General, I would prefer if you had said so in the first place." 

  General Tullius inhaled deeply through his nose, leveling out whatever turmoil brewed behind his cold exterior. He made a motion to the Nord, Legate Rikke, who had been watching the trio with mixtures of bewilderment passing her face. Some disgruntled, some amused, but most of it the deep tinges of confusion, with the curl of her lip and the narrowing of her brow. "You will speak to the Legate here, and do what she asks. Only then, can I grant your pardon." 

  "Thank you for your time, General Tullius." Emeros wound his steps to give the General a wide berth as he approached the Legate with a polite smile, the kind that barely graced his eyes, and spoke again. "What can we do for you, Legate Rikke?" 

  The Legate, keenly examining the three before her, barely tamped down the burgeoning smirk on her lips. "You three survived Helgen?" She shifted her light-hued gaze between their faces. Wyndrelis' nervous fidgeting, Athenath's fingers combing through his dark curls, and Emeros' cold expression, his posture high and solid as the fortress they occupied. "Not many made it out alive, you know. I've got a good feeling about you three, and I don't often get good feelings about anything. A warrior knows to trust her gut." 

  "Legate Rikke, I appreciate the sentiment deeply, but I would like to know what it is you're expecting us to... Do, exactly." Emeros watched the Legate as she lifted her brow and internally mulled something over before she spoke up again. This time, there was less warmth in her voice. 

  "You know, bravado gets soldiers killed."

  "Fascinating. I will note that down for any soldiers I may meet." 

  "Emeros," Athenath hissed quietly, tugging his arm. The Bosmer seemed to come back to the room around him, as though he had been operating in some sort of pre-determined mode, a Dwemer automata wound up and gaining sentience. For a moment, his eyes flashed cold-sweat panic to the Altmer, then narrowed sternly, as though to tell them that he knew what he was doing. He returned his full attention to the Legate.

  "Well," Legate Rikke breathed, sliding a palm over the map before her, "I'm sending you to clear out Fort Hraggstad. If you survive, you'll pass. If you die, then I'll have no further use for your corpses."

  An icy fear grasped the trio, but Emeros merely cleared his throat and spoke again. "What is the purpose of this assignment?" 

  "The ancients built many of the fortresses that dot the landscape of Skyrim. Sadly, most have fallen into disrepair. And nearly all have been overrun with bandits or other vagabonds. Fort Hraggstad is one of the few that remains mostly intact. We're going to install a garrison there, but first, you three are going to clean out the bandits that have moved in."

  "Mark it on our map, and we'll be off by morning." Emeros made a gesture behind himself, the curl of all the fingers on one hand, Wyndrelis fumbling with the map he tugged from his pocket, passing it to the taller of the three. He watched carefully as Legate Rikke made scratches along the surface with a quill, glossy ink congealed at the lid of the inkpot, stiff hands creating easy lines to show the best path up to the fort, her face stern as she passed it back over to him. 

  "Good luck." 

---

  Did she see the subtle shaking of his palms? The tremor that slid against his nerves like a blade? Did she see the twitch of fear in his eyes when she explained the assignment, the fort that she was sending three elves to clear out on their own? 

  The Winking Skeever's door budged open gladly, the scent of Cyrodiilic herbs and spices heavy in the afternoon's cooking, elk meat roasting over the hearth. The flames would spit and crackle at the drips of fat, conversations and bard song covering the noise, or perhaps blending into the cacophany. Emeros found himself moving up the stairs, the other two behind him, words that flit here and there from the lips of his companions sounding something like praise. Maybe it was. And maybe he'd earned it. 

  Maybe he hadn't. A skittish sensation crept up his spine, prickled the hair on the back of his neck, tugged his thoughts out onto the balcony of his tongue to reach the doorway of his mouth. 

  "Good Daedric lords," he uttered in a low breath as he rubbed a hand down his nose, then across his mouth, "I fear I may have gotten us into more trouble than it was worth." 

  The entry to their shared room parted. The other two clearly hadn't heard him - had he even said the words aloud, he half wondered, the taste of them still acidic on his tongue - as they moved into the room and began to examine their belongings. He inched his way to the bed on unsteady feet, finding it beneath him, the floor under his boots, the blankets against his hands as they pressed into the material. His head spun and swam and slid against his thoughts, the conversations with General Tullius and Legate Rikke playing over and over behind his eyes, beneath his ears, that subtle strange place where the sounds of memory came from. 

  Tomorrow, they would all set out for Fort Hraggstad. Was a pardon worth the task? Would it matter if they were wanted men if they didn't come back alive? His gaze set to Wyndrelis, the mage at work checking over soul gems and the enchanted sword Balgruuf had gifted him. Then, to Athenath, busy chirping on to Wyndrelis about the idea of playing tambourine downstairs, maybe it would give them a foot in the door to the Bard's College, maybe it would be simple fun... 

  "What do you think, Emeros?" Their voice cut through the veil between himself and the world around him, a violent reminder he was here, in this room, and not pacing his own head. He groaned and scrubbed his face with his palms. 

  "I believe I've gotten us into more trouble than this is worth," he repeated himself grimly. Wyndrelis tutted his tongue in one quick noise, a long, grey finger pushing his spectacles back up his nose. 

  "If it gets us a pardon, then I believe it's well worth it," the mage concluded. Emeros' brow lowered. 

  "But how do we know it is?" The anxious tug of his words caught the other two off-guard. "A pardon is perfectly well and good, but..." Trailing off, he threw his arms up and flopped back onto the bed, hands wrenching a pillow and pressing it over his face as he groaned again. "Gods. I fear I've given us more burdens than we went into this carrying, not to mention giving the General enough reason to make our lives harder." 

  "Sounds like you're overthinking this," Athenath's smirk met their features firmly, eyes glinting with the ideas that formulated behind them. "I say we rest for a bit, get supplies, and enjoy ourselves. I don't think it's gonna be as bad as you're imagining." 

  Emeros pulled the pillow off his face, hand still clasped into its soft surface as he set it aside. "We're not soldiers, Athenath. This is not a job for us." 

  Wyndrelis looked up from the map he studied intently, brow knit. "Yet we're somehow dragon slayers?" 

  The room fell silent. The Dunmer shrugged. "What I mean by this is, we took down one dragon and survived another, yet a few bandits scare you?" 

  He had a point, as much as Emeros wished he did not. The Bosmer sat up, slow and careful, his head pounding. "Perhaps you're right." He admitted. Then, he looked to the ceiling, last vestiges of his nerves settled against his teeth. "Grand, now we're on another hike to the middle of nowhere, for someone who would throw us in jail at the first opportunity, to take on who-knows-how-many bandits, and gods know how we'll do with that." Wyndrelis waved a hand to dismiss the apprehensive thoughts of the other. 

  "Plenty of time between now and then to think about it," he said plainly. "For now, we should plan, and prepare for the journey." 

Notes:

are you excited for fort hraggstad? i'm excited for fort hraggstad. ;3 thank you to all the commenters, kudos-ers, and silent readers. i can't wait to show you what i have in store for the next chapter <33

Chapter 24: Fort Hraggstad

  Fort Hraggstad, once an outpost meant to fortify the roads against bandits and their throngs, had been reduced to an outcropping of stone clinging to the cliffsides of Haafingar Hold with bone-frail fingers. The roads, congealed with mud and snow to create a slush that pervaded the pathways towards the fortress, sucked at the bottom of the trios boots like the tendrils of Hermorah beneath the seas maddening waves. 

  Wyndrelis drew in a breath and crept silently behind his companions. The mountain air, familiar and thin, eased itself into his lungs. His home town had been deep into the mountains of Cheydinhal county, where the lush green gave way to thick stone and craggy cliffs, northern flowers of Skyrim familiar in their shapes. He sent a quick glance to Athenath, who seemed to be struggling against the trudge up the paths from their huffed murmurs and subtle puckering of their chin, the smallest indicator of a pout, much to the stifled amusement of the Dunmer. Then, he made the slow shift of his eyes to Emeros, the grave intensity of his amber gaze outmatched by the slow, cautious pace he took in his stride. The Bosmer knew the sort of work they were getting into, whose hands they were dirtying theirs for. And by his posture and his subdued scowl, his aim was to get this over with and pretend the work was not for Tullius, but for his companions, and solely them.

  The sun rose like a draugr from a coffin, the waves of the sea anxious paces along the cliffs and marshy shorelines. Quick meals had in the inn and supplies packed, the three elves barely shed a word as they got ready. The journey would take roughly half the day, at least. Wyndrelis observed the grave looks on his friends faces and wondered how they would fare when they approached the fort. None of them thought themselves ready to do this, truth be told. He certainly didn't. But choice wasn't a luxury they could afford. And when Emeros outlined the quickest route to and from the fort, Wyndrelis merely peered down at the paper and gave approving nods, while Athenath tucked their tambourine inside the chest at the end of the bed, along with any other items the elves may want to leave behind for now.

  They'd begun the hike up the ancient pathways early that morning, when uneasy clouds ghosted the growing blue of the skies. The waters tossed up the carcasses of albatross birds shot down by practicing Imperial archers, and the mudcrabs fed off the rotted remains. The stretch of road the group had elected to take wound them along slick and well-worn stone paths, each flinching at the sound of wildlife out of sight, keenly aware of the attention of any living creatures in this part of Haafingar. They were far and away from any help, no guards to save them should they be cornered by a pack of wolves on the mountainside. The forests thickened with pines, swaying on their rakish centers in ways that made Wyndrelis uneasy. The mage pushed his glasses up his nose, his breath creating clouds of fog that warmed his face as he walked through them, white irises skimming the landscape. Emeros clutched the map, nails digging into its papery surface.

  The Dunmer fanned his fingers between lengths of his raven-dark hair, pushing the feathery strands against the winds that tousled it around the back of his neck, tickling the skin. He cursed quietly, but knew it was no use. Here, the wind was a perpetual thing, only cut by the rail-thin trees pushing up through the snow like needles through an incision. 

  He grimaced. Scrunched his nose.

  The thought evaporated the moment he processed it, the sound of Emeros' harsh whisper, a command for the group to get down, hunching against the back of a larger tree. Athenath followed quickly in suit, clutching the sword Jarl Balgruuf had given him, identical to the ones they all carried.

  "Bandits," Emeros murmured, his hawk-keen eyes glancing between the pair, and in the noons sun, Wyndrelis could see his pupils widen, dilating to draw in the sight of the enemies marching the parapets and the stone-walled courtyard, a hunter on the prowl. "We'll have to either draw them out or take the fight to them, but take them by surprise, at the very least." 

  "How many?" Athenath questioned in a whisper, their own dark eyes darting between his friends, tying his hair rapidly back into a red ribbon and hissing something under his breath. Emeros listened intently, ears perking up, but after a moment, he scowled and shook his head.

  "I can't tell."

  "There's somewhere between four and nine."

  The other two shot their gazed to Wyndrelis, surprise lingering at the edges of their features. The Dunmer, plain-faced, stood there, examining the walls and how many times a certain set of armor walked past, versus how much hammering he heard at a forge, voices, distinct, taking in the information as quickly as he could.

  "How in the bloody hell did you know that?" Emeros whispered, brow raising. Wyndrelis shrugged. How could he explain what could not be put into words? How could he show them what he saw, how he took in information at a voracious pace, his mind trained to remember every small detail, every piece fitting together like wood blocks of a puzzle? He shook his head.

  "It doesn't matter."

  Emeros hesitated, glancing back at the cloud-grey fort. "I don't like those odds."

  "Well, we're fucked, then, 'cause we need that pardon." Athenath snarled in a hush, rolling their eyes. Emeros' chuckle came out as a half-amused puff of hair from his nose and a shake of his head, his grave face marred by the curious arch of his brow.

  "You have a one-path mind, don't you?" 

  "We can discuss this later." Wyndrelis cut through the conversation, folding magicka into his palms with ease, the purple tinges of light quickly forming a mace. He inhaled and allowed himself to funnel his energy into it, the phantom-like weapon seething for something to hit against. Conjuration had always been his best school of magic, and it served him well.

  Wyndrelis was, by all accounts, not a violent person. He avoided conflict, he kept to himself, he shuffled along walls and hid in the shadows and counted his breaths to avoid saying anything he may regret that may inflame someone's temper like a festering wound. He only stood up when the sight of his head in a crowd would blend together with more, he only spoke up when he knew there were no other options, and rarely accusatory. Seldom he would save his own skin, and even less so, the skin of others. But Athenath was right. They needed that pardon.

  "Emeros, take down the one at the gate. And the one above it. Athenath," he turned to the Altmer, who crouched in the snow with their back to the tree, his hands clasped around the hilt of his sword, "don't hold it like that. You'll hurt yourself and then you won't be able to defend against anything." 

  Athenath, slowly, shifted their wrists and tightened his grip. The slight tremor of his hands caught Wyndrelis off-guard, but he shook the image from his mind and focused again on the fort.

  "Are we ready?" 

  Emeros nocked an arrow, freshly wet with poison. The gauntlets Athenath had tossed his way during their excursion into Bleak Falls Barrow warmed his hands. "Ready." 

---

  The first to fall. The first to bleed.

  Wyndrelis watched the arrow make its mark squarely in the jugular of the nearest bandit. Clean. Quick. A hunter's trained kill. He watched another fall, this time an arrow to the chest. This time, not so quick, and another did them in. Emeros slid forward in the snow and up the incline, finding the path and his footing along it. Wyndrelis followed, Athenath rushing behind, swinging their blade at the first bandit to get near enough to him to try an attack. 

  One. Two. Three, now. Wyndrelis kept count. The sick crack of a skull against his summoned mace added four to the tally. Another cadaver. He slipped along the mud, then Athenath wrenched a fist into the back of his armor, the same armor they'd snagged off the bandits above Riverwood, in those icy depths. They'd left the armor Jarl Balgruuf gifted them back in the Winking Skeever. They were no guards, after all, and they were a long way from Whiterun.

  As soon as he was on his feet properly again, the brunt of a shield crashed into him, knocking him to the ground. Wyndrelis barely had enough time to get his wits about him when he flopped over onto his back, the bandit above about to slam one enormous boot into his chest when Emeros drew his dagger, the ivory handle stark white against the dull grey forts stone, driving it hard into the neck of their foe. Dark, warm blood sunk down the neck of the bandit, face colorless as he fell. The Bosmer clasped Wyndrelis' hand and pulled him from the mud before he continued his own onslaught, firing arrows into the bandits scrambling along the high walls of the fort.

  Five.

  He hissed in pain and ran a Restoration spell through his shoulder, the muscles loosening, the tension melting away, magicka running down his veins like High Rock chocolate under a hot sun, the kind he'd shared long ago with someone whose name lay in ash. He shut the memory off as quickly as he could, looking up, watching Athenath toe backwards along the walkway of Fort Hraggstad as a bandit inched closer, closer, every step like victory preclaimed.

  "Come on, little elf," called the bandit, "you're good as dead, now." 

  Athenath inched back, stray curls forcing themselves into his vision. He did not reply, breaths coming out in shaky, harrowing gasps from the clouds Wyndrelis saw leave their mouth. The Altmer clutched their blade with trembling hands, eyes wide.

  Wyndrelis' chest tightened. Something had gone wrong in the battle, and the Altmer found themself on the losing end.

  Emeros noticed before he did, as the moment the Dunmer spun to find the stairs, he'd flown halfway across the courtyard and up the walkway, curling his fist into the bandit's cheekbone. Athenath shoved himself forward and drove his sword deep into the armored stomach of the human, freed from whatever fear had rooted him in place. He looked away until the thrashing ended. Then, eyes still closed, the Altmer rested a food on the hipbone of the corpse and pulled their sword out, blood and frost enchantments slithering along its surface.

  "Gods," Athenath spat, Emeros looking down at the Dunmer, brow knit in concern.

  Six. 

  Wyndrelis waited.

  He listened to the hiss and whistle of the winds, the waving of the pines in the breeze, the snow tufting off the surface of the stone and powdering his figure in the muddy courtyard. He dismissed his spectral mace, looking at his friends on the stone walkway above him. The winds blew harsh through the swaying pines, and he swore he heard one begin to crack.

  Holding up his hand, he cast Detect Life.

  Emeros and Athenath glowed. He looked around, scrutinizing every corner of the courtyard and hoping for no signs, and when none came, he let out a shaking sigh of relief.

  "Come down, let me treat your wounds before we go further." 

  "What further?" Athenath shot back, half-stumble of their words caught against their teeth, "I thought we were done."

  Wyndrelis shook his head, jabbing his thumb to the doorway that no doubt led further into the fort. "This way. Now, come down." 

---

  Wounds treated, all that was left was to clear the fort itself. The trio gave a long, solemn look to the door. 

  If they didn't go in, then the job was incomplete. If the job was incomplete, and soldiers came to the fort and were attacked, then they could be arrested for lying to Tullius and wind up on that block in Solitude themselves. If they told him that they thought it was cleared, he would not be inclined to believe them. After all, they were on the prison cart to Helgen. He had his rights to suspicion.  

  Wyndrelis clasped a hand around his corporeal mace, made of steel and taken from that pyre of an outpost. It wasn't ideal, he couldn't funnel his energy into it to make it stronger like he could a conjured weapon, but it was better than using up his magicka in the event that the trio were surrounded by any bandits they encountered.

  Which, of course, he was sure that they would at least find one or two.

  "Ready?" Athenath whispered. Wyndrelis looked to Emeros, who nocked another arrow.

  "Open the door slowly and as quietly as you can." Emeros watched as the Altmer shuffled to the side, kneeling down to press their hand to the door, each tiny inch of it cracking open like adrenaline in the three elves' veins.

  Wyndrelis stood to the side of the stone building, heart hammering in his chest. He'd never been a fighter. He was a mage, a scholar. This was in complete opposition to how he liked to handle his problems. But if he hoped to traverse Skyrim safely, then he couldn't drop his guard for a single moment.

  Emeros spotted the figure of another bandit, and his arrow found purchase in the man's skull. He motioned for the others to follow him, the trio creeping low and careful to the ground in the stone dark.

  Another fell, up the stairs. And the moment a third bandit became alerted to the commotion, Emeros took them down, Wyndrelis clutching his mace. The dark encroached on them, summoning all the death-pallor dread in the mage's body, nothing capable of shielding him from the terror that boiled in his heart. He kept his form steady, his breath even, but the chill from the outside could not be eliminated by the burning hearth on the lower level. 

  All it took for his fears to be validated was the door swinging open on the level beneath them, and someone spotting the bodies. The call for everyone to search the fort, for someone to find whoever had done this, and the sound of a pair of footsteps rushing in the trios direction.

  Chaos erupted, the three elves hopping from the lower level and sprinting out the door, rabbits in flight from the jaws of a sabre cat, the cold shattering against them as they flung themselves down the stairs of the other door, a prison of sorts, and through its winding depths. 

  The twisting, the turning, the thunder of feet against stairs, the shouts of people calling for their intruders to meet the end here, to fall to their weapons, to give up the fight here in this wretched place- Wyndrelis sprinted behind his friends, Emeros looking back- for what? Keep running, Wyndrelis mentally hissed as he followed. The churning the rolling the dark shadows meant to cloak them doing nothing, nothing, gods damn it all, they had been cornered. Gods damn it all, he wanted to do something, anything, petrified, the stench of rot coming to him through the prison's iron bars, his back now to one cell containing the half-rotten remains of some poor soul he was soon to join. 

  Dead end. Dead end. It was a gods damned dead end.

  His spine met cold metal through his armor. Athenath to one side. Emeros to another. Outnumbered, how could they take down this many and expect to survive? Their soon-to-be-murderers scurried faster to them, and even as the trio tightened their grips on their weapons, the reality of their situation clarified in the sounds of stone meeting leather boots. They had come here so that they could live in peace, not to die by another's blade.

  Wyndrelis inhaled deeply.

  He exhaled.

  His heart thundered in his chest and his eyes cast frenzied, fervent glances around the room. He met Athenath's round, panick-stricken eyes. Emeros' own narrow, stone-cold gaze, dread in his stomach as he tried to figure out just how much time they had until the group was either eliminated or would face one of their hardest battles yet. The courtyard had offered open space. Better odds.

  This offered nothing but a grave.

  The mage drew in a breath.

  A grave.

  Wyndrelis tightened a fist so hard his nails dug into his palm. If only he had that book, if only it hadn't been taken from him the moment he became a prisoner, but he didn't and he wasn't able to get it back yet, he didn't even know where it was, if he did he might be able to get them out of this mess, but no. 

  No, he knew there were other options. Always other options.

  He gave Athenath one last look. Emeros, too. He drew in another breath, slower as the footsteps came closer by the minute, then let it slide out from his mouth. His heart rate, despite his bodies protests, began to ease. Focus. He would have to focus.

  He pushed magicka into his palm. The fist glowered a violet hue, the scowl of a work that he'd too-long left dormant. The College of Whispers had given him much. His fondness for the group and their cynosures did not outweigh his experiences, but it had given him something that no one, not the law, not the gods, and not his terror could take from him.

  Just as the first blade swung high to bring down upon his skull, the bandit wielding it collapsed back with a groan.

  The war axe clattered to the ground.

  Wyndrelis curled his fist tighter. The purple, flowing magicka burned brighter against him as the thrall moved against the attacks of the living. He watched as another thrall, made now from the new corpse, perfect for reanimation as it was fresh and strong, swung again, this time at their former compatriots. Whether they were friends or merely together through bonds of their shared profession didn't matter to him as the thralls attacked, taking down everyone that would bring them harm. He fumbled to clasp a hand on Emeros' shoulder, then to Athenath, tugging at their armor.

  "We can get out now if we hurry."  

---

  The lowering sun rimmed the clouds with gold, the pines swaying above them. Wyndrelis' thralls grew in number down there, until he had a procession of the shambling dead following his shadow from Fort Hraggstad's prison. At the stairs, before any of them could follow to the top, he extended his arm before him and gathered magicka in his palm, dropping the spell and blighting out whatever life had been left inside the corpses. They fell like puppets unstrung before the trio, some in such positions that they slid down the stairs. He scrutinized them for a while, before dismissing the magic and turning to his friends, Athenath's hands over their mouth in surprise. 

  "Now, I think we should investigate the chests in there. If the General thinks he is getting us to work for free... Well, we can find other ways to supplement our coinpurses," Wyndrelis chuckled. As he was about to make his way to the chests in the upper level of the fort, Emeros caught his attention, his voice a dangerous rumble. 

  "How long did you intend to hide your... Work?" He gestured to the bodies, brow lowered.

  Did he mean to hide it?

  In a way, yes. Many were prejudiced against this practice, and in some cases, for good reason. But if there was one thing he retained from his time with the College of Whispers, it was that necromancy - like any other school of magic - had as much potential for harm as it did for good, despite the stigma which gave it the reputation it carried. He gave Emeros a curious look. The Bosmer scowled, his disgust plain in his eyes. Wyndrelis gave him a curious look, arching his brow. Athenath, clearly, gave the idea of loot in the various chests of the fortress much more thought than the display of strange works before him, and made a joke in the violent quiet that they shouldn't be expected to work for free.

---

  A chest, pushed up against the wall, refused to budge for all of Athenath's good attempts.

  Wyndrelis stood to one side of the Altmer, back to the wall, leaning as he watched the other's tries at picking the locks. For everything he knew of lockpicking, they were skilled at it, taking their time until frustration inevitably kicked into place. After that point, it was cursing, groaning, and kicking the chest until he calmed down enough to get back to work. Emeros stood opposite of Wyndrelis, offering advice that the Altmer ignored. His eyes never quite left the mage. His shoulders would tighten. His posture would stiffen and he would freeze, before narrowing a glare. Then, he'd look back to the bard and ask if they had gotten it open yet. 

  "Come on, damn you," Athenath hissed quietly as another lockpick broke inside the lock, falling to the floor. They groaned loudly and threw his hands up, before continuing again. "Damn you, who in their right mind invented a chest with this much-"

  With a click, it popped open. 

  Athenath cheered, words a blur before leaning over the edge. The other two elves moved closer, peering into the wooden container, curiosity entirely overtaking them after watching their friend struggle with the lock for the past few minutes. 

  Where they had expected to find gold, gems, perhaps even ore or ingots they could sell, sat a white, carved stone. It bore many sides, and shone with an inward light that set Wyndrelis on edge, as if every flicker of its energy was cursing his name. Athenath didn't seem to notice or care about the oddity of the object, pouting at the item before pulling it out. The Altmer cradled it in their arms, already beginning to discuss getting it appraised or finding someone who may know what it even is when the stone's light grew, a voice coming from its center.

  "A new hand touches the beacon."

Notes:

happy pride month to these three specifically <3

so, how're you all feeling after this one. :3 i've been sitting on this chapter's rough drafts since around october-november of 2023, so i'm thrilled to finally get to unleash it upon you. thanks for reading!! <33

Chapter 25: Chasm

  The last vestiges of sunlight wound through the snow like golden threads. Their boots made prints atop the firn. Sometimes, fresh flakes would fall from the branches of the high pines, Wyndrelis scrunching his nose as the scant, icy particles brushed his face, and wondered how snow could still be falling this far into the season. The day had been too long, his pack too heavy for his aching limbs, and all he sought in his future was a warm bed and a fresh meal and a bath, preferably a long one, perhaps even with herbs and oils from the local herbalist. He was not one to often seek out the finer things, but he had earned himself a spot of comfort. His spine nagged at him under the weight of the bedroll and supplies, warnings that he would rather ignore as long as he could. One day he could see himself getting used to it, the long hikes through mountains and nights in unfamiliar woods. That did not mean it would be any less unpleasant. 

  The voice from the stone now cradled in Athenaths arms had shaken Fort Hraggstads foundation, the small tremor that left the trio afraid of the thing they had found. A presence, suffocating and sun-hot, drenched the room and made the hair on the back of Wyndrelis' neck bristle, every torch blown out, the dim light replaced by the stones own illumination. The unnatural object had fallen from Athenaths hands as he gave a weak yelp as if burnt, despite no visible signs of injury and whispers of reassurance from the bard that he was fine. Emeros had drawn his hunting knife, and Wyndrelis' magicka gathered into his hand much to the evident chagrin of the alchemist. 

  When the presence drew back, and the comfort of the cold, dark room came over them once more, the trio split looks between one another, unease written along their features as if by fine quill, detailed in open mouths and knit brows and attempts at questions over what had happened, but a new goal manifested itself. They had commands, now, to go to Mount Kilkreath, though none of them knew the way, nor the reason why. A foul presence waits there, they had been told. Emeros produced the map, and once the three found a decent route, he rolled it up and sheathed his blade. "We should head on, then," he growled, the curl of his lip in the dim a vicious sneer, "wouldn't want your puppets to turn on us."

  Through the ever-growing dark, mud caking the soles of their boots, the three elves trudged down from the fort, Wyndrelis taking the rear position. He kept his hands on the straps of his knapsack, a keen anxiety having made itself a home in him, knuckles threatening to split open from the dry, frigid air. The skies above went pale and grey with the sun's descent, the gold ring of light adorning them like the taunt of day that would soon disappear behind the spruces and pines. Wyndrelis ambled carefully a few feet behind his friends, watching Emeros as the other marched forward. The Bosmer gave the occasional glance back at the mage as if to say that he knew what he was, and saw what he had kept hidden.

  And every look told him of his ever-growing disdain.

  The College of Whispers took the Dunmer in when no one else would or wanted to, and with already limited options since the dissolution of the Mages Guild at the end of the Third Era, who was he to go to when his studies were all he had left? The Synod turned their noses up at him outright. His accident, they'd jotted down in quill strokes so harsh that he'd wondered time and time again if this was the fourth or fifth paper they'd used up trying to write his rejection, had been the fault of Conjuration. 'And Conjuration,' they'd written, faux-polite, 'is the gateway of a necromancer, and the dangerous line that can and is often crossed by the Conjurer is one we do not risk entertaining.'

  As he thought back on this day's events, perhaps they had been right to deny him entry. The College of Whispers gave him a chance in those cynosures so absurdly silent that it served to prove their name and little else. Their secrecy, the research they would guard with their lives, guided his nervous hand. He would funnel his magicka through his veins, pool it into his palms, out through his fingertips, until the very essence of it bloomed as blood under a shirt, light staining the cadavers he'd practiced on so diligently. He wore masks with aromatic herbs under his nose to keep out the stench, his study of the bodies provided to the college par for the course for any mage who wished to have a thorough grasp of Restoration. 

  And then he'd gone a step further. Wyndrelis had never been religious. Yet, during those dark nights when the moons waxed and waned above him and he forgot when he had last eaten, slept, or taken a break, exhaustion gave way to near-religiosity, the closest thing to the Aedra or Daedra he had ever known. Again, and again, he taxed himself until he saw motion under the sallow flesh, the small twitch of muscle. The blink of closed eyes. The mouth, trying to open. 

  Perhaps this was his curse. His talent for the forbidden art.

  Here, it split a chasm. Here, he could feel it, the fracture of himself away from the other two like the spirit of a rabbit that drained into a twinkling soul gem. Could he cross this divide with a conjured bridge? Could he trivialize the issue with a joke and move on? Humor was never his strong suit. He'd always been told he had such a dour face, but he could try, couldn't he? 

  Athenath smoothed a palm over the beacon, tossing it high, catching it in their arms over and over, dents in the snow made by their tight-laced boots. Emeros walked behind them, shoulders round with tension. He'd glance back here and there, amber eyes lingering a moment too long. His brow would tighten, his gaze would narrow, and Wyndrelis would shrink further into himself. Perhaps a joke was out of the question. This was no mood he could ease.

  The first stars winked in and out of the dark, the horizon deep blue and pricked with black trees like iron rails of a gate. The sullen silence swept through them, Emeros tersely admonishing Athenath against nearly dropping the beacon, stumbling to catch it, and the Altmer rolled their eyes. The pair exchanged words, the half-hearted remnants of what could have been a small and barely lukewarm argument if not for the exhaustion stealing their will to fight. Emeros wrapped up what he'd been saying, jaded and day-worn voice low in his throat. A long pause. Then, Athenath threw the beacon up into the air, caught it, and continued on. 

  "We should set up camp." The voice gave the other two a start, pair whipping around to meet the Dunmers gaze as Wyndrelis stopped his pace. Emeros halted with a thick crunch in the snow beneath his boot, looking back at the other with a harsh glare. Wyndrelis drew in a breath, and added on in his often-monotonous voice, "we're not making it to Mount Kilkreath tonight. And if we hope to do any good there, we need to rest." 

  "Really?" Emeros rumbled, throat-low objection caught against his teeth. His words came out sardonic and scornful, a harsh contrast to the elf Wyndrelis had come to know. "I think we'll be just fine. If anything happens, gods know you can just march us along the road like one of your thralls." 

  "Emeros," Athenath snapped in a hush, quick and sharp like the breaking of a twig beneath heavy stride.

  Wyndrelis shifted in observing the pair, one then the other, the friends he had fought a dragon with and healed after battle, the ones he slept on the same bed with every night in perpetually warm inns, the ones whom he'd been under the impression had made him a part of their lives, despite the very short time of knowing one another. 

  He swallowed a dry lump in his throat. 

  "I will not use my other talents on you. That's not something that I would do." He stated plainly. 

  "Oh, really? How can we trust you? Surely you understand why necromancy was outlawed in the first place." 

  "You think that I don't?" Wyndrelis snorted. "I am not ignorant to the reasons people may despise it."

  "And yet, you lied to us." Emeros' nostrils flared, his posture tight, body stiff and statuesque. "You hid this from us." 

  "I never lied," Wyndrelis knit his brow, arms folding over his chest. "The topic never came up, there was no opportunity to even deny what work I do. I never once lied."

  "You still hid this from us," Emeros enunciated as he balled his fists at his sides, nails dug into his palms, angry red crescents in his hands, "what the devil did you think there was to gain in hiding something so gods damned appalling?"

  As the Bosmer's voice rose, Athenath shrunk back. He would flick his focus to Wyndrelis, then to Emeros, something tight in their jaw as though he were swallowing down objections, but the shiver on their shoulders and arms wrapping tight around the beacon gave away the anxieties that prevented him from opening his mouth. Wyndrelis looked to them, then to Emeros, drawing in a long breath. Exasperated, he put all the calm he could muster into his words. There was no point in arguing against the other's notions, especially not now, when all of them were tired and worn and hungry after such a long day.

  "We need to set up camp. You do not have to be anywhere near me, make a separate camp if you must. But we need sleep." Wyndrelis asserted. He could see the idea of a decent sleep settle into his friends' minds, as when he set his pack down and began to gather wood and tinder, Emeros joined in, grumbling to himself. Athenath stood for a while, then set the beacon in the snow, and followed suit.

---

  In the end, there was one camp, with two bedrolls placed far away from one another, and the last in the center, an uncomfortable semicircle of distant islands around a fire. They had eaten in silence, and stoked the flames, and gone to bed without a word between the three. Wyndrelis shifted under the fur lining, glasses laid beside himself, the noise of the sea in the distance a perpetual lullaby. A fox called somewhere and ran off. The birds above them settled into their nests. He laid in the vibrant, alive world, while his mind dug up the things he wish were dead.

  The taste of Colovian wine washed along his tongue, first, with the image of a long table set for several. The dinners with other Apprentices and Adepts, the ones who stood out to his former mentor, the ones who made something of themselves. All of them shared one talent in common, one day doomed to excel in it. The older Dunmers voice, so smooth and sweet that it dripped with Khajiiti moonsugar, something he was even rumored to indulge in from time to time. Wyndrelis had once hung on every saccharine word, and this, too, had been his curse. 

  He rolled over, spotting the dark eyes of the younger elf, Athenath still awake and watching him closely. The two made eye contact. Wyndrelis furrowed his brow. Athenath frowned and scrunched up his nose. They glanced to Emeros, who sat up to keep watch, and then back to Wyndrelis, and gave a long, worn breath. 

  "I think we're all tired," the Altmer murmured, "let's try to sleep. We'll... I don't know. Figure this out. I think." 

  Wyndrelis thought back on the day, with the Altmer in silence on the road as Emeros poked and prodded with his presumptions. Athenath had not shown him the same vitriol. But had their inaction been worse? He could not tell what they thought, or how they saw him anymore, their wordless mouth open and shut, and their exhaustion plain in the way his shoulders drooped and their eyes barely kept open now, in the dim fire light.

  He didn't reply. He gave a small nod, and buried himself deeper under the warmth of his bedroll. 

---

  Morning crept over the mountains like a thief, and as the sun snatched the blanket of darkness from the trio, Wyndrelis sat up, rubbing his eyes. He pulled his glasses on, and spent a while by the fire, stoking it with the end of his sword. By the time the other two awoke and all had a meager breakfast of dried fruits, bread, and preserved cheeses, they were eager to return to the road. A proper rest had taken some of Emeros' heated agitation, but in the night it had become an unemotional gelidity. A grunt here or there as response, a roll of his eyes. A curl of his lip, a lower of his brow. These were all Wyndrelis could get from the other as the trio set out for Mount Kilkreath, and while it was quieter than the way he snapped at the mage last night, it ached more. To be entirely shut out, to the point of barely gaining a reaction to the other's presence, he almost wished back the temper as the trio found the road, worn stones and dispersing snow under their feet, soon to be taken over by mud and grass. 

  There was nothing Wyndrelis could do to remove the actions he'd taken, but he'd done it to save their lives, and if Emeros could not understand that, then he would not explain it to him. Still, he mulled over the way Athenath had looked at him in the dark and spoken softly, the crackle of the fire carrying the three to bed. The words from his mouth had been the wish for things to return to normal, even if that part went unspoken.

  Wyndrelis only hoped the same.

Chapter 26: At the Break of Dawn

  Athenath expected to be at the Bard's College by now. 

  The road wound beneath them like the arched back of a sea serpent, the path which lead to Castle Dour slanting from the mountains and down towards the port city. The smooth stones under their boots shone like scales and carried the trio back to the grand city of Solitude, the idea of return sour in the back of his throat. He'd gone through the border crossing at Bruma one frigid morning not very long ago, their fingers around a map which they lost in the scuffle down the way from Pale Pass. The giddiness in every tremor of their body before the ambush, the sense of adventure like a wildfire burning in their mind, snuffed out with whatever had knocked them unconscious. The knowledge that he was closer and closer with each step to a carriage that would take him to those hallowed halls, all of it had bitten through them and tore out any reservations he'd normally have about such a journey, reservations that they should have heeded in hindsight. He'd dreamt of the instruments on display - or the stories of these instruments - with their gilded plaques detailing the noble works of the bards and their histories. The tales of the immortal brazier, the courtyard where performances echoed over the sea, the theatre, a semicircle of stone with rows of carved seats, and the festival that took place every year, all of it had perfumed every ounce of sleep the night before entering Skyrim, and soaked into the reality of what such a trip could entail.

  Solitude had been nothing like he'd anticipated so far.

  It was wrong, he could chastise himself, but Athenath wished to put Roggvir's execution and the Civil War out of mind. He didn't want the bloodshed. He didn't need to think on it, this was not his war and not their place, and held nothing but terror if they let it linger too long. After they'd gotten their wits about himself the morning after the execution, he'd stretched longing looks to the roads that lead past the market stalls and shops, down a slope, and rounded to his destination. The maps they'd studied and the one the group had in their possession whispered to them the exact turns, where he'd need to go if he could just go there, but he couldn't. Pangs of want rattled them when he thought of how close he was to the place he'd chased dreams of for the past several years, the knowledge that they were mere minutes from its door eating away at their resolve to do anything else. 

  The path to Mount Kilkreath faced him with scrutinous, scoffing stones. This was where he would go for now. 

  The beacon in their arms radiated a warmth, like the ever-present body heat of a small animal. Unsettling as it was, he found the voice that accompanied it far more disturbing. They looked down at the stone and furrowed their brow, curling their lip to the side as he studied it. He couldn't see any obvious ways for it to contain warmth; no glass door like a lantern, no gleam like a soul gem, no flames nor fire salts. Despite this, the heat shuffled against their chest until it brushed soft hands over their heart, urgency imbued in their pulse, that Mount Kilkreath be the only thing that they think about and to chase all other thoughts from his mind and keep the path. 

  He thought of tossing it to Wyndrelis or Emeros. The idea would come and strangle itself every time he remembered the bitterness between them. Whether one-sided or not, there was a clear rift, and he was in no mood to chance making it worse. Was it even worth it, to get in the middle of this guttural silence? For all the Altmer's big grins and sweeping gestures when in the middle of a good joke or a lively song, he was more than aware of what suspicion looked like, and how the dagger of a liar's betrayal could plunge deep. 

  Betrayal, he almost scoffed out loud. Wyndrelis hadn't ever told them he wasn't a necromancer, right? So what was there to say when it came to betrayal? Still, Emeros had made his position clear by not speaking at all. That was more than enough for Athenath to keep the objections that swirled around in his mind from dripping down to his tongue. 

  The sour expression on the taller Mer's face coated his features like syrupy medicine. The edges of the Bosmer's eyes were lined with a skepticism towards Wyndrelis and every move he made, his bone-deep leeriness running up like a hand between his shoulder blades, hitching them higher in every shared glance between himself and the mage. 

  This wasn't a problem Athenath had the means to fix. 

  The beacon went high above him as he tossed it up, and caught it again in their arms. For such a large stone, it was relatively light, and caught the suns light with glee as its white surface refracted every color across its surface. He tossed it, caught it again, and pulled it to himself. The winds wound through his curls, mussed from the half-assed attempt at combing it this morning. They'd raked their fingers through it and coaxed apart stubborn tangles and left the rest alone. It made sense, to them, since all their hard work would be undone if he found anything skulking in the shadows of the temple.

  He knew, in basics, what necromancy was, and that it was dangerous, but he'd never been close enough with any mages to question further. He snorted quietly as the thoughts rummaged through their mind like a hand in the dark. He'd stolen from more mages than he'd befriended, gods knew. Sometimes, in taverns across Cyrodiil, they would overhear the ardent conversations of those scholars and wizards in debate over the smallest things - properties of ingredients, ways to properly cast certain spells, the sort of things that, frankly, bored Athenath. It was easy, in these moments, to slip by unnoticed or to pretend to trip, feigning drunkenness and giggling at a stupid joke or a snide derision made by one of them, before making their escape with whatever he'd pilfered off the often robe-clad figures. Gems, rings, amulets, items small enough to slip into their pockets were all too common, things that would likely be missed. It didn't matter. They'd learnt how to distinguish the two mage groups in Cyrodiil by their clothing and their possessions: Synod mages had more money, College of Whispers mages had more valuable items. Especially those who bragged about their time in Ayleid ruins, doing Mara knows what. Athenath would take whatever he could get, and sell it off to a guild fence, and live off the gold for as far as it took them.  

  The more they thought about this, the more it came to mind, what business did they have giving a shit about what kind of magic someone used? Mara was compassion, did that not extend to the strangest among them? 

  "Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red..." Athenath sang in sprightly tones, Emeros' eyes drawn far from either of his companions, his figure at the back of their odd procession. The Altmer could feel the other's personal twistings of mental acrobatics, but exactly on what, he was unable to discern, the melody they were only recently familiar with on their lips as he observed the other two. Something, a fleeting thought, a flighty moment of a grimace as though coming to terms with an idea would fling itself across the Bosmer's face, only to be snuffed out with a shake of his head and a glance towards the woods, the way the trees swayed in the winds and the birds swerving between them.

  They gave a quick look to Wyndrelis, who forced the tiniest grin, like a dog submitting to whatever fate lay before him. Athenath heard of the dangers of necromancy well enough from the stories people liked to pass around the fires in encampments and caravans and inns. Liches in Ayleid ruins were something he got stern lectures about from an older relative, the kind that fed his nightmares for years. This was, of course, not the intended effect, but it kept him from letting curiosity overwhelm their common sense. Later, he would make a joke about it, and a man would bellow with laughter at the idea of a lich being anywhere close enough to the doors of a ruin for him to risk running into it. "Aye, that's a good one," he could hear the older man's voice in his ears, "Kyne's skies, you're more likely to run into traps and bandits than any lich." 

  Still, the whispers in seedy taverns slipped forward, their listening ear caught on the strangers who came in bearing the stench of dirt, and who kept to themselves. The warnings and worries and the hurried, shushed conversations. 

  If a necromancer would raise the dead as a weapon, it was wrong, but what if that weapon was used to save other's lives? What if it was the greatest tool of compassion for the dead, to give them purpose, or to preserve the life of another in a desperate situation? Briefly, they considered suggesting the idea aloud and their mouth was parted to do so, but found himself stopping and closing their lips again. More discontent and more conflict could spell trouble for all three of the elves at the moment. Emeros' anger still ran raw and red, and he wasn't going to douse more oil of malcontent into his fires. 

  All Athenath could say he knew for certain was that the sun shone against the sea somewhere not far from view, glittering like beetle's wings off the gown of a Bosmeri aristocrat, complete in its shades of iridescent blues and greens. The heat of the sun on his back through their tunic and vest, under their hair and down their neck, formed beads of sweat as they kept to the path. Combined with the beacon in their arms, all he could find himself thinking about was tossing his day clothes aside and diving head-first into the waters, deeper and deeper towards the sand, plucking shells off the floor and sorting them on the beach. He'd turn them over for signs of life, for molluscs and hermit crabs, while the spadetails swam in the cool waters. These were the kinds of games he'd get to play on his rare visits to the beach outside of Anvil, finding rocks and shells in the water and sorting them by size, type, color, while his old friends splashed around and the scent of salty, wet fur became a comfort, a haze of nostalgia that would turn even the smallest things to the fondest. They could practically hear their old friends calling his name down the mountain, humming and hawing and beckoning the bard down the shoreline, old nickname thick on their tongues. 

  This line of comfort plunged into muddy depths far from view as Wyndrelis spoke up. "We'll be at Mount Kilkreath shortly," he uttered as he skimmed the map, the route Emeros had outlined guiding their steps. 

  "Grand," the alchemist droned, "then perhaps we can finally go our separate ways." 

  Athenath's stomach clenched. 

  The tension in the Bosmer's voice wasn't lost on him, neither did it appear to pass the notice of Wyndrelis. Still, it clasped dread firmly in the Altmer's body like a tight fist, the kind that stole from him the desire to keep the peace. Once this was over, he resolved, they would have a firm talk with their friends. He looked back to the Dunmer, who returned the struggling look that carried with it a grave acceptance. If this was the way things would be from now on, the mage made it clear he would rather split up than carry the brunt of Emeros' disdain. 

 "Hey," Athenath slowed their pace until Wyndrelis was at their side, before extending the beacon out to him. "Touch this."

  Wyndrelis' brow drew into tight lines of confusion as he extended a hand towards the beacon. As it rested atop the stone, Athenath watched him carefully, the mage eventually dropping his hand to his side and shrugging. "What about it?"

  "Weird, right?" Athenath breathed. Wyndrelis cocked his head. 

  "What's weird?" 

  "You don't feel it?" 

  Wyndrelis' face grew more baffled by the moment, gaze narrowing behind his circular spectacles. "Feel what?"

  "We should keep moving," Emeros grunted as he passed the other two. "We're nearly there. Once this is over, I expect we'll be able to put all of this to rest." 

  Athenath observed him carefully, the chestnut-haired Bosmer marching forward, chin high, the single star that hung from his ear swinging along its thin chain. They furrowed their brow, concern sketching its way along the corners of their eyes. Their boots thudded lightly along the stones. He thought of passing the stone to him, but held it closer to their chest, instead, and watched as Wyndrelis avoided Emeros' gaze, the Bosmer doing the same. If things were going to be like this from now on, he did not know, nor want to know, what the future would look like. The three had become so comfortable with one another, had spent so many evenings in pleasant silence or light conversation, to think it could shatter apart from the usage of some apparently-taboo magic pitted holes into Athenath's nerves. 

  The Altmers arms wrapped tighter around the beacon, until the warmth became as close to him as their own skin.

---

  Mount Kilkreath. As the sight of the large statue, marble dais, and sloping pathways came into full view, the trio's weariness sloughed off their bones, replaced now with an eager desire that came from in and outside of them, an unnatural force to push them the last stretch of the walk. If they could return this stone and clear out whatever the voice from nowhere told them to, then it would all be over, and they could get back and get their pardon and not split up, and-

  "Get down," Emeros' sharp hiss cut through the Altmer's ears as the other curled a fist into the edge of his tunic, pulling them beside himself and Wyndrelis. Athenath half-landed, half-crouched, breath bent from their lungs. Wyndrelis straightened his clothes. Emeros had pulled him down, too.

  "What th-"

  "Shhhh!" The eldest pressed a finger to his lips. Narrowed gaze locked on the younger elf, he pointed a long, lithe finger in the direction of the dais. Athenath craned their neck to peer in the direction, spying a couple of figures in identical garb stood at the steps, speaking with one another. Weapons hugged their sides, and they appeared to be guarding something. He waited moments, then minutes, the three frozen in the bushes. Athenath flinched as the older elf spoke up, the silence shattered by his sturdy voice, still in a hush.

  "We don't know who they are, or what they want," Emeros noted, as if this weren't obvious to the other two, "we should proceed with caution." 

  Athenath turned back to the figures as Emeros rose slowly, his figure wolf-like in the care he took to make as little noise as possible, before pushing through the thicket he'd pulled his compatriots into. He did not wield a weapon as he approached, hands up as if surrendering. As he neared full height, he whispered back, "wait for my signal."

  Emeros put a smile on his lips and asked, "excuse me, you two wouldn't happen to know what this place is, would you?" His words dripped faux-friendliness, like a performer in a particularly suspenseful play, deceptive of the two figures whose hands now reached for their weapons in slow, measured motions.

  One of the figures, a Breton woman, scoffed. "Mount Kilkreath." 

  "Yes, but, what is all of..." he pointed to the statue of a winged woman at the end of the dais, "...that? I'm afraid I'm not a local, and I'm sort of lost, you see." 

  Another figure, a young Dunmer, rolled their ruby eyes. "This is the temple of Meridia, where Daedra worshippers come to make offerings. You're no Daedra worshiper, are you?"

  "Good gods, no," Emeros forced a humorous chuckle, "I was simply wondering." He paused a moment, as if to let the information sink in as he asked, "are you... Daedra worshipers, then?"

  "Mercy, no." The Dunmer snapped. "We are the Vigilants of Stendarr, and we're here to prevent any who defile this world with their works from being able to make it into this foul temple." 

  Emeros hummed a thoughtful note, clutching his chin in the crux of his thumb. From the bushes, Athenath could see his posture, his other hand coming to rest on his hip. "And what would you do if a Daedra Worshipper were here? I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with the concept of your order."

  The Breton, intrigued, spoke. "You truly aren't local, then. Yes, our order was created in the shadow of the Oblivion Crisis, to make sure that none who worship these scourge could cause similar events. As for what we do... We ask them questions."

  Wyndrelis sucked in a breath, sending fearful glances to Athenath, his eyes shifting from the beacon in their arms to their face. The Altmer gave a slow nod, and looked again to Emeros. This was going to be dangerous if the Vigilants saw him with this thing. What was Emeros even doing? The Bosmer stood there and shared words with the Vigilants, asking about their order, their situation, why they were here and so on. 

  It dawned on Athenath, as he clutched the beacon tighter to their chest, that he was disarming them, at least in mind, if not in body. If they were expecting Daedra worshippers, they got a curious elf who merely wanted a chat. He continued on, words and a couple of laughs, before stepping back to the bushes. He shifted his ankle against the foliage, Athenath watching as the Bosmer gave him sharp looks in his periphery, as if to say, go. 

  He leapt from the brush, his feet propelling them forward faster than they expected, flying past the two perplexed Vigilants and throwing the beacon to the statue. No time for the strangers to react to the Altmer, the stone flung into the sky, held aloft above the statues hands. It was the sensation of being swallowed up by the ground and sky as Athenath neared the winged figure, one foot in front of the other, the altar illuminated by the sun. As the Vigilants' eyes grew wide, and revelation dawned their wrath-twisted faces, the world hummed a silent note in the form of a ringing in their ears. Stones turned to mud, the skies fractals and fuzzy shapes of sunlight. Senses dulled, Athenath swam for consciousness, groping at the air for something to hold onto and finding nothing but the ground that turned to a distant sensation. 

  The Vigilants reeled back, shouting and cursing, the Dunmer's spell rising to her hand, shrieks of light in her palm as she attempted to shoot the beacon down. Her spell only gashed the air with electricity, the beacon unmoved, the statue unmarked. 

  The contents of their stomach threatened to spill out as he blinked away tears, eyes stinging, head pulsating with the shockwave of heat that burst from the beacon. The flurry of words and combat reverberated behind their head, vision blurred until shapes became lights became waves of motion and sound and the sky fell out, the ground with it, as if diving down and floating upwards all at once. 

  When he managed to blink away the stinging edges of their vision, he looked up. Was he standing? He swore he was on the ground, but here they stood, and before them, a tiny sun. It twisted and rolled into crystalline colors and light, every edge circled in rainbow refractions, gleaming and iridescent, center brighter than the hole Magnus made in the heavens to flee this world. The light before him spoke in a familiar voice, bitterness treading every word. 

  "It is time for my splendor to return to Skyrim." Her words, enunciated and cold, came as though from within the Altmer, in between his ears and all around them. 

  The rest of the world was silent. 

  "But the token of my truth lies buried in the ruins of my once great temple, now tainted by a profane darkness skittering within. The necromancer, Malkoran, defiles my shrine with vile corruptions, trapping lost souls left in the wake of this war to do his bidding. Worse still, he uses the power stored within my own token to fuel his foul deeds." 

  The sneer at every syllable, the disdain in every sound, it set Athenath on edge in ways he would never learn to describe, other than to articulate it as harrowing, as the kind of anger he would never in the rest of their life desire to incur. 

  They swallowed thickly, and denied themself the urge to look down. "Wh- um- where..." 

  As though not hearing him, or ignoring them outright, she continued. "I have brought you and your companions here, mortal, to be my champion. You will enter my temple, retrieve my artifact, and destroy the defiler. Guide my light through the temple to open the inner sanctum, and destroy the defiler." 

  He cleared his throat. "That's a- um, lot more- that's a lot more than I signed up for." 

  The words sputtered and stammered their terrible way from his mouth, well before they could stop it. Unfazed, the light before them gave a low exhale, as though rubbing her brow at the Altmer's comment. "A single candle can banish the darkness of the entire void. If not you, then someone else. My beacon is sure to attract a worthy soul. But if you are wise, you will heed my bidding." 

  "But- what do I even- who even are you?!" Their voice cracked at the edges, terror setting alight the feeling of weightlessness beneath him, fully aware now that there was no ground under his feet and the world had not, somehow, become much smaller below their form. 

  "You have your instructions, mortal." 

  The deafening silence that followed filled their senses with nausea. Then, the high, loud ringing. He looked down, but all he saw was trees, mountains, the sea, the sky, not a sign of life beneath. The world was no more than a rug in a noble's home, and this figure before him was the candle of a watchman. The gleaming, twisting fractals of light entranced him, the warmth spilling over their form, whatever form they took up here. He didn't even check to see if he was himself, deciding against looking down. They inhaled, filling their lungs with the crisp air, smelling nothing, feeling nothing.

  Athenath, with one nod of his head, agreed.

  A satisfied hum left the sun. "Malkoran has forced the doors shut. But this is my temple, and it responds to my decree. I will send down a ray of light. Guide this light through my temple and its doors will open."

---

  The world plunged into one, united light, enough to send shockwaves of pain through the Altmer's skull, splitting the dark that had once been there. He couldn't tell if he screamed, or if they made any noise at all, but all the warmth surrendered to cool, mountain air, and a heaviness in their body that broke the energy they'd had earlier in the morning like the spine of a hare. Nirn reformed under him, a new world, the same, what did it matter? It swayed under his buckled knees, the skies congealed, sticky and melting candy hues. The clouds brandished heavy lights into their weary eyes, the ground still swinging like he were a fish caught in a net, tossed aboard a ship. 

  Details came back one piece at a time, blinking hard against the pounding in the back of their head. A faint, high humming thrilled the air, nerves spiked. He stared at the backs of their hands on the ground, unsure if they were their hands until he moved his fingers. Their knees dug into the small rocks, all their sensations dull until they turned to the direction of the faint chiming. 

  Wyndrelis stood at their side, funneling a healing spell into them with one hand, a ward supported with the other, spells of the Vigilants bouncing off the magical shield. Sweat poured down his brow, and it was clear that he wouldn't be able to do both for long. He would have to drop one or the other. Athenath stumbled to their feet, the sky still spinning. He spotted Emeros near the dais, driving his sword towards one of the Vigilants, who met it ferociously with her shield. 

  "Are you alright?" He called the moment he saw the Altmer on their own feet. Athenath's bleary gaze followed his movements, momentum back under their feet. 

  "I'm fine!" They hollered back in return, managing the words to sound easy despite dry swallowings of air, steadying himself. He ignored the voices, the sounds of battle, eyes lurching to the statue. Emeros knocked the Vigilant before him down, Wyndrelis rushing to the fight, destruction spells readied as he aimed at the Breton. 

  Athenath locked eyes with the Bosmer, whose focus flitted from the other elf to the rocky descent at the side of the dais. An unspoken message.

  This was their chance.

  The bard hurried to the dais, up to the statue, and down from its footing. Wyndrelis' lightning spell ricocheted off a ward, slamming into the ground. The sounds of battle picked up as the Altmer dropped himself down the cliffside, hopping from stone to stone carefully, landing with thud and a roll at the door. The high-pitched whine caught their ears, as did the light which beamed into the temple. 

  He pressed a firm hand to the doors, and offered up a silent prayer to Mara for her guidance, and that she would look down upon this devotee not with revulsion for aiding a Daedric Prince, but with her warmth. With love. With knowing how being backed into a corner meant choices were a liberty he was not afforded. 

  The light of Meridia burned bright, the shadows split aside, and with the sounds of battle above them, he began his descent. 

Notes:

yay, double update!! wanted to do something special for you all, as the day i upload both this and chapter 25 is my birthday. i hope you enjoy, i'm excited to see what you all think. :3

Chapter 27: Descent

  A foul air pitched low through the corridors, thick and abrasive in the winding depths of the temple. Moss overpowered the stones, shrouded in a darkness so deep it was like stepping into pools of night. The stench of decay wafted through the Altmer's senses, earlier nausea returned in bubbling waves.

  Athenath crumpled the end of their sleeve into their palm and pressed it hard over their nose, forcing himself not to gag at the odor. Meaty and slithering, sweet like overripe fruit trampled under the foot of a count's horses. He inched forward, flinching as the noises of battle shredded thinly in the air above him, dust kicked from the ceiling. The clamor of weaponry and magic overhead sung back to him choruses of the early years they spent in Bravil, huddled in the cellar of a friends home, the riots in the streets raging like wildfire, the statue of the Lucky Old Lady suffering the most damage. His friends mother wound fingers through their hair and rested another hand atop the head of her youngest son - only youngest in matters of minutes - cooing to the five children that this would be over. Morning would come.

  He swallowed hard, a solid, sticky lump formed in his throat as the edges of their eyes watered. They drew in a long breath and swallowed again, forcing his trepidation to lie under a brave farce, stifle the tremor of their lip. What could they want with comfort in this place? Using their sword to break apart spiderwebs that threaded through the temple's corners and crevices, they kept moving, the hair on the back of their neck prickling. Their head still carried a dull pound from the brightness of the temple's patron, bumps raised on their arms as he followed the untrustworthy guidance of braziers. This was the decision they'd made and now they had to stick to it, even if it clung to him with webbed hands and slick, bony fingers. 

  Fear staggered in shallow breaths as they examined the edges of the narrow passageway. Segments of the discussion between Emeros and the Vigilants crossed through their mind like wraiths, the little laughs as the alchemists' distraction snapped into place, the shock on the faces of the strangers when the Altmer darted from the brush and gave the beacon into its rightful place. The Vigilants violently fought against this, and Athenath could only push blame onto them so far for the reaction. Though, it's not like he had a choice. The Vigilants hadn't seen what they'd seen, heard what he'd heard. They hadn't nearly been burnt by a stone whose warmth wrapped around their heart. They hadn't heard the voice in Fort Hraggstad or known the sky to tumble inside out. Athenath had.

  This did little to stop his hand from clutching the amulet of Mara beneath his clothes. 

  Peering through the bars of a strange gate, Athenath squinted in the dark, their vision barely able to make out the flickering candles and the chest at the other end. If Emeros and Wyndrelis were here with them, they'd be scrambling to find a way inside and dig around for a few spare coins. He was almost glad that they were above, then. It meant there was no one to reprimand him for the ideas of prying open an offering chest in a ruined temple. Surely, the Daedric Prince that this place belonged to wouldn't miss a few lonesome coins, would she? 

  Shame filled his face with red, shot through their chest with a bolt like lightning as they thought of the battle above them. They were up there, fighting off the Vigilants so that Athenath had a chance to do the will of Meridia and get this the fuck over with. Who knew how the battle above was going? Who could say if his friends were dead or alive?

  Athenath choked the idea down like bitter medicine. There was nothing saying that his friends weren't alive and waiting for them. They had to have hope. They inhaled through shaky lips, exhaled, and leaned against a wall covered with creeping vines from decades of abandonment and disrepair. They would keep moving. If not for his own sake, for the sake of the pair ensuring that the Vigilants didn't plunge in here and kill them for doing the will of a Daedric Prince. This would be merely an extension of Mara's will, that Athenath show compassion to a place gone to decay, to relieve it of whatever evil hung over its head like a dark star.

  If the gods had a problem with that, then they could shove it. 

---

  The halls gnawed dull teeth into the ridges of their mind. The open chambers swallowed them whole, thoughts ground into powder, tongue lashing at subconscious formations. The darkness corraled them into the corners where the shadows lie deepest, drawing their blade. Dread plummeted through their stomach, sweat cold along their brow. Movement above had long faded from their ears, and now they could only hear the movement of their body and the patter of their pulse. And, that of the things which made themselves all too at home in the ruin.

  How did they wind up here? Bruma came to mind, the night before Helgen, before it all went wrong. The light-hearted chatter, the drinks that seemed to warm through the wretched chill of the Jeralls, just a stone's throw from Pale Pass, where the war had ravaged the mountains clean like carrion birds plucking meat from the bone. Athenath had been playing their tambourine to a small group of travelers, laughing with them, cheeks red with the heat of the hearth. A couple of Imperial soldiers caught up with one another at one table, and at another, a family sat, words light, conversation with friends they hadn't seen in a while. 

  It was hard to believe, in times like those, that the Great War had ever affected County Bruma. Or anywhere, for that matter. 

  They had been born a fistful of years after the Great War. Its shadow stretched long enough for them to graze it, fingers reached to brush the phantom which haunted roads still deemed unsafe for carriages due to the marauders, small towns they spent solitary nights in, paths where the cobblestones tugged out of the ground and no one had bothered to fix it. The holes in some castles from cannons, the ongoing efforts to rebuild some settlements, the air thick with construction of new farms seeded with hope for a better life.

  Here, far from Bruma, the stench of hellish work dug into their senses like a dull knife. It reminded them of those stories. Scars of combat on the bodies of so many of the townsfolk in Anvil, missing limbs, missing eyes, backs which never recovered from being ran through, hearts which palpitated in rhythms of wrongness from Dominion battlemages. The hollow-eyed faces they'd passed throughout his entire life. 

  The Mer slipped through the damp, dark passages, under the burning chandelier to the high-whine of the beam Meridia sent down, a light seated in a worn pedastal. Would Wyndrelis, if he were here, have anything to say about it, how strange the light was, how it seemed to fight back the low-hanging mist of rot around him? He half-wondered if the mage had ever encountered something like this. Or Emeros, for that matter, with his scattered mentions of years spent traveling, and the scant stories he told on long nights of the places he'd been. 

  Reaching out a careful hand, they brushed the pads of their fingers along the top of the light, a smooth gem beneath their touch. It, too, was warm as the beacon had been. If it were a garnet or an opal, they'd be snatching a full fist over it and locating the nearest fence who would give them a fair bit of gold for the item, but the thought snapped on the stone of the dais above ground. This would damn all their efforts to see what this temple had in store. Instead, they rested their hand atop it with care. The chamber trembled beneath their feet, the Altmer stumbling as the gem rose and filtered light through its surface, the colors congealed into white with the faint gleams of rainbow scattering along the concentration. The beam glared against high, strange carvings above a door. Every movement of their feet sent their heart skittering at his chest. He was the only one alive down here, just he and the necromancer which worked in the temple's depths. No voices around him. No comments from his friends, no familiar presences.

  If anything happened to him, the idle thought trickled in, there was no guarantee anyone would come running to find their body. 

  They barely had time to despair over the idea. The chamber the beam had opened gave full view of two shades in tattered funeral shrouds, the sickly stench of rot hanging off of them like cuts of meat, revulsion lacerating the patter-rushes of their heart, dust which made their nose itch filtering through the room. He grimaced and tugged their sword from the sheath, movements staccato as adrenaline kicked its heels against him. 

  The first one rushed them. Athenath's blade wasn't drawn in time and only one thought saved them a nasty blow to the chest with an axe, to dodge out of the way, spinning on their heel and using the moment to ready his blade. He backed off, then lanced it through the figure once, dashed backwards, twice, and as the figure soon gave a wail of defeat and disintegrated, the next one shredded the distance with its own axe raised. Athenath sprinted out of the way of the attack, every instinct in their body demanding him to run. There was no choice but to fight, even if their wrists wobbled with the weight of the blade and their own trepidation. They slashed and pierced the figure, frost enchantments at least slowing it down. The shade soon joined the ashes on the ground, but the fight was far from over. In the distance, another. If Athenath were only an archer, this would be easier, some way of taking down the distant abominations without arousing attention, but here they were.

  There was nothing he could do now. Meridia's energy swept against their mind not unlike a hand dusting off the crumbs of a table, scooping dread into a palm and tossing it away. Meridia's words washed ashore in the back of their head. A reminder that there was no other option. That they were not to fail her, that they were not to fail. 

  Using momentum as their driving force, they swung the sword through the chest of the next shade, twisting their torso in a fast motion. The creature crumpled to the ground in a heap of cloth and putrid rot, while he recovered from the dizziness. The Altmer decided not to approach them, let them come to him instead, enough time in the distances to see what they were preparing to do. When two shades rushed them at once, his eyes widened and he turned to the passageway he'd emerged from, sprinting up its narrow neck until they could turn and take only one on at a time. The first shade groaned and shrieked, terror pounding through the Mer's veins as the world around them dimmed, the other shades sweeping in to back up their compatriot. He pulled his blade from the gut of the creature and swung it again, this time landing at the chest, this time, twisting with a stubborn grunt, watching as the shade fell to pieces.

  The chamber, silent ahead of them, beckoned them to return. The hammering of their heart in their chest and rush of blood in their ears deafened the world around them. They scanned the room for any threats, hands shaky and hard to control. 

  A blow to their shoulder shoved them to their knees. At first, it was a blunt strike of a heavy shield, knocking the wind out of them. Athenath yowled like an animal, armor doing little to protect them from the sheer force, their body burning with the sharpness of it, something in their muscles pushed in a wrong direction. With all their willpower, he clung to his blade as their shoulder blade bellowed with the ache. He allowed the floor to do some of the work for them, stone providing a base to prop themself up, to dive the blade into the lower abdomen of the shade above them, close enough they could smell its foul, sulfurous breath, its own blade raised to swing down. 

  The moment it fell, and its own weapon clattered noisily to the ground, it was over. They rolled onto their stomach for a moment to avoid putting pressure on the soon-to-be enormous bruise, catching their breath in ragged draws. The floor looked as though it could be right against their eyes, every crack in the stone clear in their vision. The rest of the room seemed a distant memory, and the pain wafted through their body in waves. Gods knew something had been knocked out of place, and he wasn't keen to dwell on it if they could help it.

  A blade went for a weak spot in the leather, and pushed through to the muscle beneath his skin, only stopped from diving further by the rest of the armor's sturdiness. A shade he'd not seen, one who had been clever enough to hide, finally made itself known. Its sword pulled out of the wound which rushed with blood, and rose above their head to strike down again. Athenath's right fist tightened against the hilt of their own blade. He rolled over again onto their back with tears stinging their face at the searing weakness of their other arm as the shade's own sword came down to lance the earth, and the Mer saw his chance, striking upward like a snake. 

  It struck through, and as this shade disintegrated to ash around them, he laid back on the floor, whimpers and stifled sobs bubbling up through their throat. The breaths left hitched and heavy. Uncomfortable sounds, lucky that the weak spot had been surrounded by stronger support. He wondered if this had been the spot one of Emeros' arrows had struck, and the hole had not been repaired.

  They could barely reach it with their fingers, but the heat of blood told them everything they needed to know. Their left arm refused to raise, fingers on that hand tingling as if the limb had fallen asleep. Through choked noises and the biting of their own lip, vision pulsating, he blinked hard to clear the blur and gingerly rolled the straps of their knapsack down their arms, pulling it open with shaky hands, face pale, palms clammy, his teeth grit so tight they feared breaking them. The stinging rammed so deep into their flesh that he worried, without Wyndrelis' help, they'd lose the ability to wield a weapon in that hand entirely.

  He dove with their good hand for the healing potions, lip of their bag tossed open carelessly as they bit the cork off a bottle swirling with scarlet liquid, and chugged it down without a second thought. They found a spot on the wall they could lean against and let the potion do the work, sniffling and wiping their nose on their arm. The process of a wound coming back together hurt like hell on its own. Muscles were nudged to do the work of repairing themselves, and the nerves did not numb for the task. They bit down on their sleeve, forcing slow, even breaths as it worked and squeezing their eyes tight, the concoction sliding through their veins, knitting every fragile ounce of flesh together. The injury would not scar, he'd gotten something down quick enough to keep that from happening, but it would leave a terrible pain in its wake which would not fully resolve for a handful of days. And if the damage had gone further, who knew whether or not a healing potion on its own could fix it.

  The process could have taken minutes, or hours, or days, for all they knew or cared. They sniffed hard and wiped their face on their left sleeve, frail movement returned to the limb, and flexed the muscles within. Strength came like the kind one earned in the morning, weak fist turned to nails able to dig into the palm. They stared for a while at the back of their left hand, as if it were made of wax, and its attachment to them made about as much sense as a guar in Alinor. They turned it over and over, even rubbing it with their right hand, blood caked to the ends of their fingers, trying to make sense of the sensations. 

  Stumbling to their feet, they tugged their knapsack on, clasped their amulet for a silent moment, and went further into the temple.

---

  How far did this damned place go? 

  How deep underground had they gone already? Into the mountainside, the ruin dug like a burrowing insect. Did it go deeper, under the foot of the world? The heights of the sky were lost to him down here, and every chamber they fought their way through proved how alone they had become in this place. The foul stench permeated his clothes. The elf was certain it was going to cling to them for days after. It drained their senses and their courage, and in some flickering way, he would swear up and down that it was stealing his hope. The malodorous fog leeched off their resolve for some purpose Athenath could not and would not even try to define, all he knew was that every step took them closer and closer to what could be their grave if they made even so much as one mistake, and there was no one here to back them up.  

 Mara had always been his faithful goddess. Here, they wondered if her compassion was guiding them through the depths. Were they clearing this temple because Meridia commanded it and he was too chickenshit to fight back, or because the compassion of his Aedra made them want to do it? Maybe her guidance echoed in their veins like the hum of something greater. A purpose to put down the defiler of a temple, to bring the place back to its rightful owner, to show compassion to the desecrated dead by setting their souls back to Aetherial sleep. 

  The further Athenath went, the more they clung to this idea. Sometimes they clutched the amulet hanging out of the collar of his shirt when they had a second to catch his breath, leaned against a wall and rubbing his thumb over the worn gem in the center. Maybe Mara had brought them to Skyrim for a reason. A land ravaged by war could benefit from the guidance and peace that the goddess brought. A bard who could learn from this land, and dedicate the songs to the mother whose chapel had become their comfort.

  Pain soared through their body from accumulating injuries, and reason dimmed when he drank the last of his healing potions, but they pushed onward into the temple. Meridia had asked it of them. Mara was commanding them. Like a mother who shoved them on to better things, who believed in them when their mother had not. The lady Athenath looked to when the world crumbled, when the sky blackened with the serpentine shadow and the land torched itself into ash. The lady who forgave him, gave them a new life, unwasted here. 

  This was an extension of Mara's compassion. It had to be. 

---

  The final depths unfurled before them like an ink-drenched scroll in the desk of a clumsy scribe. In the center of the chamber stood Malkoran, and all of Meridia's wrath with him. 

  A dozen shades surrounded the robed figure, a choir of shrouded death that he rose with his own hands from slumber. Where there should be light piercing the chamber, where cracks and holes in the ceiling gave way to blue skies, it was as though Meridia herself had placed a hand over the sun. If the stench at the entrance was something to cover one's nose at, here, it was positively overpowering. The malicious, cloying death that crammed itself into the Altmer's mind like rags into corners to stop water flooding in.

  Athenath swallowed hard. He had to resist the innate urge to gag loudly and cough and splutter. His stomach lifted to their sternum in the putrid air, the dry blood under their armor itching against his skin, dirt and dust of an untold number of abandoned years spat in their face. Every step had to be measured. Hard, when his fingers were refusing to clench tight on his blade, when their toes threatened to slip out beneath them from the adrenaline. Everything in their body went stiff as the sight and stench overpowered their reason. As if some part of them were ready to accept this fate, and fall down before Malkoran. Briefly, they thought of the thief who'd stolen the cowl of Nocturnal, the tale from the Imperial City's waterfront district clawing at their throat. He wished in this moment that he'd been this thief. If they were, they would run no risk of being spotted.

  Malkoran stood at an altar, back to them, and while they wanted to look away, they couldn't. He dragged a hand over the putrifying, bloated corpse of a soldier in Stormcloak armor, his methods centered on the fresh bodies he could scavenge. He worked feverishly, as though in a trance, his hands weaving the magicka through the carcass spread out before him. Horror knotted into Athenath's already aching chest, stubbing out what little confidence they had left.

  Yet, they still had to get closer.

  They gulped down air quietly, and kept moving against the tremble of their feet. They shifted through the dark. They had to get closer to Malkoran, take him by surprise. Maybe if they did this, then they would avoid becoming one of the shades at his disposal. The fear gnarled through their veins, tree-like in the twisting. Cold sweat made them flinch as it drained down the back of their neck. Their eyes stung at the display before them, moving his feet carefully. He dragged his sword from the sheath in as slow and quiet a motion as they could, clasping the hilt between trembling fingers as they made their sharp and jagged way to Malkoran. 

  They would have done well, but the potent concoction in their brain stole their ability to keep their fingers tight, and the sword clattered to the ground the moment it was fully out of the sheath. They threw himself to the ground, to avoid being seen, but it was too late as every red pinprick eye was on them.

  All they could think about as Malkoran shifted to face them slowly, as if he'd known all along that they were there, was that he wanted to be home. Home was a far-off land. He was going to die here. That was the only thought in their mind as the shades' eyes all met their own.  

 Was anyone out there at all? Would anyone take their body or would they wind up a thrall here? 

  Were their friends dead or alive? 

  "Meridia has sent yet another pawn to do her bidding," Malkoran sneered as he clicked his tongue, a smirk on his lips. The Breton watched as the elf staggered to their feet, but the more he struggled to stand, the more the mist clung to them, like it were tying him down to the ground. "You won't make it out of here alive, so there's no use in trying. But, worry not, your body will go on to serve the most powerful wizard in Skyrim." The shades inched ever closer like attack dogs, awaiting Malkoran's signal. Dark, wide brown eyes met the Breton's gaze, their palms pressed against the floor, and damn it all, their left shoulder was still giving them fits. "Do you think you're the first to make it this far?" 

  Athenath's gaze darted to the Stormcloak's body, then to other fresh specimens away from the altar, stacked up together for use later, mouth gaping as he spotted an amulet on one's neck, in the shape of a sun, cold sweat drenching his back. Malkoran tutted, shaking his head. He said nothing else, but the message was clear - that Athenath's chance of survival had gone down significantly.

  The wizard raised his hand, magicka shifting in shape, the shades closing in with an eagerness to serve their master and bring another to their ranks. He said something about worms, or a king, but Athenath couldn't hear through the pounding of blood in their ears or the way his breath was as loud as a horn blown right next to them, then the hands they shoved over their ears, not wanting to know what the sound of their own death would be.

  A strike of magicka flung out through the air. Athenath yelped and clutched their head tighter, curled up, forehead against the stone. Malkoran cursed wildly, the shades ignoring the Altmer as the necromancer howled commands. They lay there, in a ball, unwilling or perhaps unable to look up from the ground as the sounds of muffled voices carried on, something familiar in the way that they thundered against their senses. Their closed eyes gave only images in swirling black of home, back in Bravil, the chapel they'd spent so much time in. He wanted to sit before Mara's altar. To feel her presence like a mother. He wanted a mother, he wanted his mom, he was about to die and for some fucking reason all he wanted was his mom, a woman they hadn't seen in years, her hand patting his hair and their fists clinging to her skirts like they did when they were small. Instead, their body remained curled up against the cold ground of a ruined temple in the middle of fucking nowhere. 

  When Athenath's curiosity got the better of him, he popped open an eye, a hand thrust towards them.

  "Come on, you're no good on the floor like that."

  Emeros' voice bolted through their chest, knocking sense back into their muddled head. Athenath stared up at the Bosmer as he readied his own weapon. "Emero-"

  "Not now, we need to move," he instructed in a rush. The moment Athenath snagged his hand, their eyes found Wyndrelis, whose magicka formed wards around himself with one hand, the other throwing ice spikes at the shades, slamming into the chests of the wraithish creatures. Emeros pulled them from the ground, and the Altmer grabbed their blade. He managed a quick prayer to Mara before dashing to the fight. He looked to Wyndrelis as the mage countered Malkoran's spells, and behind him, Athenath could make out the figures of two dead thralls dressed in Vigilant robes, swiping and bashing shades with their own weapons.

  Going through this temple alone had been a nightmare he could not wake up from, the rotten mist curdling rancid despair into his stomach. They'd prepared, in that moment, to die.

  At least now, if they died, it wasn't alone. 

  Emeros gashed through a shade, Athenath's blade making contact with another. Wyndrelis fired a gout of lightning at Malkoran, the other wizard's ice spikes narrowly missing the mage as he ducked. One by one the wizard's puppets turned into heaps of dark cloth, then ash forming on the stone floors, kicked up by the fury of the ongoing battles. The Dunmer pushed forward, warding as well as he could for each spike in rapid motions, hauling lightning through his palms and breaking it on the Breton's form. As the shades collapsed and the dead thralls groaned, the other two joined the fight against Malkoran directly.

  The wizard's desperation grew. His face fell pale as his attacks became frantic and haggard, sweat collecting above his lip and in his hair. Blood loss would settle the score. For now, he was still able to slam spell after spell from his dwindling reserves and grasp the staff he held in one hand. Athenath thrust their blade forward and crumpled as the wizard dodged, Emeros trying with his own blade, parried with the staff's wooden body. Wyndrelis flung another bout of frost at him, but this only served to slow him down. Wyndrelis cursed loudly, his voice taut as his desperation illuminated in crinkling waves of heat from his palms, a thin layer between the magicka and his hand. 

  The price Malkoran had to pay for occupying this temple was a fireball square to the chest.

  The wizard's body gave out. The stench of burnt flesh and hair scored the air. His corpse, still on fire and clawing with wild animalistic sounds, became nothing but an ashen heap on the floor. The putrid odor overwhelmed the Altmer, who gagged and bent with hands on his weary knees. He swallowed and tried to steady the nausea, Emeros stepping back. Wyndrelis watched the pile, unwilling to take his eyes off of it. Athenath's own gaze followed. As the moments ticked by, a shadow, first a fragmentary thing, created itself above the remains.

  "Gods damn you," the mage cursed under his breath. The sweat clinging to his brow, the pallor of his face the harbinger of his limits. Wyndrelis grasped his mace, the newly-made thralls coming to his side. Emeros stared up at the shade in bewilderment, Athenath shakily leaning against the wall to catch their breath, hilt of his sword still clasped in one shaking hand.

  Malkoran wasn't going down so easily. 

  The trio lunged. Like cats upon a wild beast. It was no use, even as blades stuck through and maces made contact, all this did was embolden the shade to laughter as he swung a large arm to bat them off. Malkoran picked up his staff, and wielded it as a mace, swinging rapidly in every direction. Wyndrelis held up a ward, but it was no use as the end of the staff collided with his armor, Emeros' focus rushing to the Dunmer.

  Adrenaline was wearing off fast. Athenath could feel his own resolve begin to fracture as the shade carried out its onslaught, firing bouts of flame from the staff. He only had enough energy to dodge them, to get out of the way, but this couldn't last long. Emeros looked to them, focus darting from one to the other, the shade coming next for him. He fought it off, his sword making purchase in where the jugular vein would be, but to no avail, the shade's fury ripping through the air. Malkoran had been a powerful wizard, and he was even more dangerous dead.

  Emeros hacked again at what was once Malkoran, whose amusement grew from the shrill laughter, as though he were toying with the elves. Athenath clutched their stomach and made straggling attempts to stand, using his sword for support. Wyndrelis lay on the ground, breath shallow. He funneled the weakest flickers of restoration magic into himself. He wouldn't be able to fix all the damage that the shade had done, and Athenath could see from here that things were more dire than they looked. Emeros' eyes flicked from Athenath, to Wyndrelis, back and forth between the pair as Malkoran closed in on him.

  He made eye contact with the Altmer, turned on his heel, and ran.

Notes:

didn't mean for this to take so long to get out, but thank you all for reading. <3

Chapter 28: Malkoran

  A trail of slaughtered cobwebs lead the way through the temple. As much as Emeros thought his complaints, he dared not clench them between his teeth nor utter them in the damp of these once-great ruins. Instead, he tracked his way through the corridors and focused his attentions wholly on ensuring the pair were not ambushed. Wyndrelis kept several feet behind the other as he followed, thralls in mechanical march with the steps of their master. The Bosmer flicked glances to the braziers, the illumination casting wild shadows against the walls as the roots of the mountain tangled with stone. 

  And the stench, gods, the stench. 

  It had been a narrow victory on the dais. Wyndrelis had managed to knock out one of the Vigilants with the butt end of his mace, the unconscious Vigilant's knees buckling as they toppled over themself. Emeros caught the other Vigilant and ran them through with his poisoned blade, his movements swift as to not prolong the situation. He peered down at them for signs of life, their eyes rolling back and glassy. He'd made sure to strike where it would be a quick kill, but he still found himself kneeling down with his hunting knife in hand to slit vital arteries in their throat. It mattered not that they had struck first, he was not going to allow a wounded creature to suffer. 

  He looked up in time to see Wyndrelis smack the spiked end of his mace into the back of the other Vigilant's head with a sickening crack, blood splattering from the wound and drinking the metal of his mace.

  "Good Daedric lords, man!" Emeros exclaimed as he rose from the dais, wiping his knees. "They were unconscious! You could have-" 

  "She would have come into the temple after us," Wyndrelis said through a bewildered quirk of his brow and a tight-toothed ghost of a sneer. He looked to the body at Emeros' feet, then to the one at his own. He seemed to be weighing options, but by what metric, Emeros could not know nor attempt to understand. The mage moved his palm above the bludgeoned body before him, and summoned violet curls of light to swim over the still-warm remains. The light circled thickly as the figure lifted from their place on the ground, her feet finding purchase in the stone, shuffling in the way of a sleepwalker to Wyndrelis' side as the Dunmer did the same motion over the second corpse. 

  Emeros had said nothing, though he thought much of the action. He, instead, hardened his gaze. He then moved his attention from thrall to thrall to the one whose work raised them, inhaled through flared nostrils, and turned on his heel to find the entrance of the temple. 

  Now, a putrid odor followed at their heel like the nipping teeth of a pup, carried atop the floor in a thick, dark fog which stagnated at his mid-calf. Every step was as though one were wading through air, the mist waterlike and thick. Wyndrelis looked to Emeros, and Emeros to Wyndrelis, yet neither dared an attempt to speak. The silence was as prevalent in their lack of words as it was in their lack of actions. Emeros' trepidation made lines in his forehead as he continued his attempt at making sense of what these ruins had once been, and now what they'd been made into.

  He'd read plenty of books on the subject of necromancy, the practice which now stared him in the face on two fronts. Emeros had a familiarity Mirise Dres' writings. They'd served only to sicken his gut against the idea of the work altogether, the words of a woman who'd spent her childhood observing the faces of the dying a sour taste in his mouth. More than these, however, he understood the nature of Mannimarco's schemes in the various eras he'd made himself known, and of the Worm Cult and their goings-on. He'd heard the rumors of their revival in the aftermath of the Oblivion Crisis, pockets of cults popping up across Tamriel and extinguished, coming back like a stubborn weed throughout the past two-hundred years. There'd been a revival in High Rock at one time, swiftly cut down by battlemages who wished to preserve the lives of those in the province.

  Where his academic disdain had been planted, his personal hatred flowered. Everyone knew about the black market under Wayrest, rumors of a corpse trade persisting for centuries. In his minds eye, as he moved through the dark, he could picture the Dominion deserter who'd sit with him on long nights, his voice roughened silk in the dim of the long evenings as he explained the necromancy that, on official Dominion documents, had never happened. Yet he'd been taught in its ways well enough for battle, tales of turning corpses of guards onto the very towns which they had protected on his tired mouth. Emeros could hear every word that the flaxen-haired Altmer spoke over dim lights in a hush, his regret dragging every syllable down until he spoke no more, and merely left the stories to the dead of night to die. He would fold his arms over his lap and hum a note, and stare into the hearth for a long time after that. The mournful voice of his old friend soaked him to the bone. He would be, in lighter terms, disappointed at the sight of Emeros being trailed by one who worked in this form of magic willingly. 

  After the fall of their shared city, Emeros could only hope that he'd avoided the fate of the accursed trade. 

  "Tell me of the Green Pact." 

  The words came from behind him. He turned to face Wyndrelis, who massaged the bridge of his nose and raked his fingers through his crow-feather hair and shifted his posture, shuffling his weight from foot to foot. Emeros cocked his brow. 

  "I've not once followed it. Not in memory, anyways." 

  "Yes, but," Wyndrelis sucked in a breath, held it, and let it out long and weary, "you surely were surrounded by it."

  He scoffed. "Of course I was. One can't live in Valenwood without the Pact affecting every aspect of one's life."

  "So, tell me of it."

  Unsure of where the conversation was going, the Bosmer paused, folding his arms over his chest. "We're not to harm the forests of Valenwood, nor are we to eat anything made of plant life, nor take the shape of beasts. We're not to kill wastefully, nor are we to leave our enemies to rot once we've defeated them, and to eat only meat." 

  As he ticked off the points of the Pact which had shaped the upbringing of nearly all those around him in his early life, he watched the Dunmer's eyes grow in their intensity. "Not to kill wastefully," he repeated, "like the wolf in Riverwood?"

  The Bosmer, entirely unsure of where this was going, gave a slow nod. "Yes, precisely. That part, I suppose, I tend to follow. After all, letting a good hide go to waste would be a shame, and I'm certain Alvor could use the money from the leather."

  "So tell me, then," Wyndrelis began, "if one is not to kill wastefully-"

  He knew where this was going, now. He interjected with a sharp, "no, absolutely not this. The Green Pact makes no room for necromancy, it's simply about taking down an opponent or a hunt."

  "But how can you be certain?" The Dunmer countered. "If one can make use of a kill, then what does it matter the shape it took when alive?" 

  Emeros stormed away without another word, something still and cold coating his features. He was from Valenwood, of course he understood these sorts of things, the Green Pact was burnt into his mind despite not following it. But this, ensnaring a soul from its chance at restful sleep and trapping it within gems or in a rotting husk to be used however the summoner see fit, this was not what the Green Pact made room for. The question nagged at him, however, how could he be so sure? The Pact was so fiercely debated within Valenwood itself that it was hard to know exactly what the rules were, or how they could be toed around, or what parts were often followed and others had loopholes. Wooden furniture had been in both his parents' home and the home of his guardians, but since it had been imported, no public scorn was given. He would not entertain that necromancy was somehow allowed within the bounds of his home province's law. Making the most of a kill applied to fauna and their uses. Not to the corpses of foes, and certainly not to the purpose of leading them around like half-strung marionettes. 

  Neither spoke, finding easy pathway through the dark. Wyndrelis followed in close step behind. The battle had not been an easy one, and taken much longer than either had expected. They should have been in here sooner. Emeros squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples for a moment. The signs of cut down roots and webs, the steps in dust, all of it showed that they at least did not come here to find a corpse.

  The bodies strewn across battlefields of the Great War lurked at the corners of his vision. He'd been a traveler during those ages, an occasional merchant, and an adament student of his craft. He could recall the hushed stories in taverns of necromancers scavenging the remains, fending off animals. The natural way of the world disrupted. Tales spun of the graverobbing in the recent burials. Did it matter at all if he objected to the other's work? How could the other Mer tolerate his own soul's defilement? How did the Dunmer look himself in the mirror as he knew that with every thrall, he trapped the souls of the dead from any form of afterlife? 

  Emeros kept moving. 

---

  In the guttural silence, he had too much time to think, and thought far too fast. The idle words conjured themselves in the crevices of his mind, the questions, the demand for an answer as to what the past few weeks had been, and the knowing that there would be no explanation. He thought to himself in the unsettled quiet, what did he know of necromancers? 

  Sadists, the lot of them, the response came to mind. Especially with the shining example which lay at the end of this winding temple carved into the mountain. Interrupters of aetherial slumber. The bastardizers of the dead, or the thieves of life for whatever purpose they saw fit. They tackled the divide of life and death, and attempted to wield power over both. Many of them turned to illegal body trades, or plucked battlefields like carrion birds. Pursuit of lichdom required many sacrifices, after all. Mostly, it was to continue twisted experiments in the dark caves and ruins where they made their homes. They would carry out the inhumane works, and they would worship the death that they brought. 

  He shed a backwards glance.

  What did he know of Wyndrelis?

  He was a quiet mage, with an exceptional knowledge of his studies, and his mastery of his work could not be overstated by what Emeros had seen. He sought the College of Winterhold, and he was not only talented in the art of restoration, but in conjuration, destruction, and was a dependable ally in battle. Quick-witted. A tad solemn. He was reliable, as much as Emeros hated to admit it now. Wyndrelis had proven he was willing to do anything to keep the three of them alive. He'd made his friends laugh in quiet moments, and saved them from dragonfire in battle. When they'd defended the remains of the Western Watchtower, Wyndrelis had used up most of his magicka reserves to keep the trio as a whole from coming to harm. He'd agreed to dodge swinging axes for the other two in a Nord burial tomb at a point when he'd barely known either of them.

If not for the battle at Fort Hraggstad, Wyndrelis would never have likely revealed his talent for the forbidden art.

Emeros paused at the entrance to a chamber. Beams of light created a clear path to dive further into the ruins. He had long stopped caring about what lay ahead at the end of these passages. All he wanted was to find the Altmer alive, get back to Castle Dour and acquire their pardon, and board the next carriage to Windhelm. His experiments would not last much longer, and if he'd any lingering hope of getting them to the White Phial to be looked over, then he should head towards the ancient city as fast as his feet - or hooves of the carriage horses - could take him. If the younger Mer would choose to side with Wyndrelis' practice when presented the option, then he would simply part ways with the other two. An idea gleamed bright in his mind like a blade in the sun that if he did not leave to Windhelm as soon as possible, then he might wind up the thrall under the hand of two necromancers instead of one.

  Wyndrelis stood in the doorway to another chamber. "Tell me what you know about necromancy." 

  The question caught him off-guard. He froze, as if the words themselves had pinned him in place. He drew in a breath and folded his arms over his chest, as if this were his shield. "Every necromancer I've had the distinct displeasure of hearing about has been a sadist, or power-hungry, or both. Why do you ask?" He hadn't meant the words to come out so thick with aggravation, but they did, the curl of his lip a tight sneer. Wyndrelis' thralls stood by the Dunmer's side, statuesque.

  "So you believe these things... for what reason?" He knit his brow. "You won't make something disappear by ignoring it. Alchemy and magic go hand-in-hand." He turned his gaze to the Bosmer's knapsack, then to the throat-slashed thrall. "You poison your opponents. Don't you think that that, on it's own, is questionable?" 

  Emeros rolled his eyes as the Dunmer began to walk. "What you fail to realize is that the intrigues of a necromancer-"

  "Wait-" Wyndrelis stopped him sharply, stepping into another open space they'd come upon, pointing a hesitant finger towards the room. Emeros peered in, his heart thundering.

  A thin pool of blood lay in the center of the stone floor. More clung to a wall, where it appeared to have been pressed there by an injured body. He dragged his worries down beneath the waves of his mind, his hawk-sharp eyes taking in every detail of the room. A corpse being dragged across a floor would leave streaks. He could see no signs of this. Ash-heaps lay on the stones, weapons strewn about the ground. He pressed a palm to the entry, catching his breath and attempting to still the pounding in his chest. Wyndrelis scanned the room, as though he were drawing in every detail in some attempt to memorize it.

  "It doesn't look like they're in terrible shape," Wyndrelis exhaled through a tight throat, "if we catch up, perhaps..."

  Emeros swallowed against his nerves. The other pushed his spectacles up his nose and breathed long and slow. He looked to the thralls, who, for the most part, were quiet. "Come on, we need to catch up to him." 

---

  There had been arguments made, during the lifetime of the Mages Guild, that necromancy was as natural as any other magic. He could not subscribe to said belief, and it never once surprised him to find that the vast majority of the practitioners of necromancy were the ones to make the argument. Still, it had been made. When the Mages Guild disbanded at the end of the Oblivion Crisis, two organizations sprung up in its wake, and only one of them carried on with conjuration studies as a whole. Though it was done more in secret than outright, there was knowledge that necromancy happened within their ranks, a selective course of study offered only to the finest of conjurers. 

  He had to wonder if Wyndrelis was a student of these courses, once.

  "Where did you happen to learn necromancy in the first place?" he asked, the pair winding their way through deeper corridors, traps disarmed, the battles won by their friend who'd long navigated the same pathways. Wyndrelis looked up from examining the remains of a shade and sighed, as if the question had disappointed him in some way. He seemed to give it a great deal of thought, rubbing a hooked finger over his chin. 

  "I have trained for many years in my work, in all forms of magic. But I pursued this," he gestured to the thralls, "in addition to my other... Acceptable studies. Should I have remained among my former peers, I was made an offer. I refused, and then I left." 

  "What sort of offer?"

  The room chilled between them as Wyndrelis began to walk towards the exit. 

  "What sort of offer?" Emeros pressed, following in even step behind the Dunmer, who looked back at him with features lifeless and bedraggled, the Bosmer haulting in his tracks.

  "It related to my studies, but other than that? It's none of your concern. We have someone to find, don't we? So we should keep going." 

  "Wyndrelis," Emeros heaved a sigh, rubbing his forehead in the crux of his thumb, "you realize that your hiding certain details is the reason we're having this discussion in the first place." 

  "What would you have me do?" Wyndrelis protested, voice raising in a way that blindsided Emeros. He'd never heard the Dunmer toe the line between speaking and shouting, not in battle, not in quiet, not ever. "Would you truly think that it's a better idea for me to state outright everything I've done? Do you think that a stranger I'd met in Helgen was someone I could trust? Back in Riverwood, would it have been better for you to have me outright admit to my work? Because it certainly would not have been better for me." 

  Emeros froze as he watched the other's sharp, white irises lock to his own face, his pupils dilated, his jaw grit. He'd never once seen Wyndrelis in such a state, and while he'd not known the other for very long, it was clear to him that this was a rarity which he found himself privy to solely through his own pressing. He almost spoke, almost gave a snide comment, but it died on his tongue, and he drew the silence close as the other's posture began to lose tension. Then, he shouldered past Wyndrelis, and further into the dark.

  "We need to find Athenath." Wyndrelis' calm restored itself in fragments at the edges of his voice. 

  "Yes, we do," Emeros answered curtly. He continued onward through the dim temple, and soon heard the other and the thrall's footsteps follow after him.

---

  The noise of an unfamiliar voice cut through any resolve Emeros had left in him. He broke into a run, Wyndrelis readying magicka into his palm, static electricity building. As the passage opened into a chamber, he spotted a figure with hands raised to bring a spell down upon the curled up form on the ground, the shades crowding the armor-clad body.

  Athenath. 

  Emeros sprung forward. A strike of magicka whipped the air, crackles of electricity lunging to the wizard from the Dunmer's hands. The Breton clasped his fingers around a staff as Emeros closed the distance between he and the elf on the ground. As he made his way to his friend, he could see that the Altmer wasn't dead, and that was enough to cause him to extend a hand and shed a sigh of relief. When the other popped an eye open and spotted him, he spoke through suppressed nerves, "come on, you're no good on the floor like that."

  When the younger elf clasped his hand in theirs, the pair now set to work, and he silently wished that the battle would be a quick one as he took in the sight of his friend. Blood sprouted like poppy blooms on parts of their armor, and while the wounds had probably been healed with potions he'd given them before the journey out of Solitude, he knew that they wouldn't have enough for everything. The exhaustion ran in circles under their eyes, the sweat beaded on their brow and a pallor wore itself on their face, gods, this was bad. 

  There was nothing else he could do but to ensure that this battle ended swiftly.

  Wyndrelis had already taken down several of the shades, firing his spells towards the wizard who returned them in kind, Emeros and Athenath swift to join the battle with their blades. It was a frantic fight of quick, sharp instruction and turning bodies. Twisting, gnarled dances of weaponry and clashes of arms, the metal fury of the shades unbidden to mortal limitation. The undead under the necromancer's command challenged the three unlike anything they'd had the chance to fight before. Even draugr had some limitations, the muscle and bone still mortal in nature, but these malevolent things had only the will of their master and their own wrath.

  The thralls did help a bit, as much as Emeros would hate to admit it to anyone, even himself. Five people was better than three, and when one of the Vigilants went down, he took over the fight against the shade which it had been fighting, watching the ashes collect into the mist which pooled over the floor. Athenath joked quickly in a shaky voice about something before continuing on, Wyndrelis' magic stinging the air and taking the Breton even more by surprise. Apparently, the man had not been anticipating someone who could match him in both skill and endurance. His face still bore a look of snide mockery until Wyndrelis' frustration with the other reached its boiling point, and he sent a fireball colliding into the other necromancer.

  The chamber, engulfed in the stench of death, caused the Bosmer to cover his nose firmly with the end of his cowl. The heat of the fire dragged ruddy hues to his cheeks, warmth smacking into him, Athenath bent in the middle and choking on the putrid smell with their palms clutching their knees. Wyndrelis never took his eyes off the corpse. He wanted to ask why, or demand that they leave as soon as possible before the entire mountain came down on top of them, but when the fire faded into smoke and the ashes began to move, he understood. 

  The trio lunged, Emeros' blade making first contact, Wyndrelis' mace second, Athenath's sword third, but the shade mocked them with shrieks of laughter, shrill noises that shook his stomach into nausea and tore any security from him. The dark of the chamber dimmed further and the world split in colors of fear, his own exhaustion beginning to set in as the shade knocked the three back. 

  When it used the end of its staff as a mace against Wyndrelis' sternum, the gravity set in.  

  Emeros' world held in a fragile state as Athenath crumpled from their own bone-deep weariness, battle waging and weighing him down, the armor he wore torn in places and the thick, still-fresh blood clinging to the leather. As the Altmer used his sword to prop themself up, he spun his gaze to Wyndrelis, who lay on the ground, curled into himself, using a warbling restoration spell that barely illuminated in more than his fingertips. Emeros thought back to Bleak Falls Barrow, and the comment the mage had made, that restoration could not return life, and his own retort, that it could prolong it. 

  When Athenath met his gaze, he knew what he had to do. 

  He sprung back into action, leaping to Wyndrelis' side and pulling him up against the wall, handing him a magicka potion. He had no more healing potions, this would have to do. He examined the wounds and figured if the other could heal himself, and had the power to do so, he would survive. Athenath took on the shade momentarily, despite the waning energy and ragged breaths, giving their best attempt at shielding the other two from the wizard's onslaught. 

  Wyndrelis chugged the potion down, pushing a healing spell through himself as soon as he'd gotten a few mouthfuls of the concoction. The sounds of bone cracking back into place to mend themselves made Emeros wince. The hisses from between his tight jaw, the curses uttered in sharp breaths, it all stuck together as Emeros brought a cloth from his knapsack and put it between the Dunmer's teeth so he could bite down. Once it seemed that the bones had been fixed into their place, Emeros hauled him to his feet.

  "Are you able to fight?"

  "You'd better be, I'm not gonna last much longer!" Athenath called in desperation from nearby, the phantom backing them into a corner. In a moment of battle, the wraithish form's staff had clattered to the ground, opting for spells of its own making. This presented opportunity, and the Dunmer eyed it with a determination that Emeros briefly feared.

  Wyndrelis lunged for the staff and aimed it. The three had watched the wizard use it himself, and they knew what it was enchanted to do. The Dunmer swallowed visibly while beads of sweat pelted down his forehead and the back of his neck, and then he aimed, firing fireball after fireball into the spectre. As it burned like the body it had sprouted from, the cacophany of its shrill, haunting wails filled the air, Athenath ducking down to the floor and crawling from the inferno before it could reach them, covering their head with their hands. 

  The shade roared a painful sound that shattered the air. Emeros fired arrow after arrow at it, Wyndrelis funneling his magicka into the staff, and Athenath swinging with their blade any time the creature dared attempt to approach. The room swelled with electricity, a shuddering up each their spines, heat like the suns rays along their faces as they brought the phantom down, magic and steel working in tandem to seal the fate of the necromancer. 

  The last bash of Athenath's blade thrust deep into the draping shroud of the form, and at once, all the necromancer's rot filtered out like lancing a puss-filled wound. The mist thinned, the stench that had lingered so long beginning to clear, the darkness pilfered by a light which began to pour in from the ceiling.

  The trio surveyed the chamber.

  "Is that all?" Wyndrelis asked, catching his ragged breaths against a pillar. He rattled a few heavy coughs which came deep from in his chest, elbow firm over his mouth. 

  "I don't know, but I think we're safe," Emeros rested his hands on his knees, spluttering as the noxious odor finally released its grasp on his lungs. He rose slowly and returned his bow to its place on his back, looking at Wyndrelis with a cautious raise of his brow. "You'd better get rid of that thrall, else Meridia might have us strike you down," he joked meagerly, humor tinging the grin that fumbled to his face. Wyndrelis waved a hand.

  "Outside," he wheezed, "I think leaving more bodies in here would test my luck even more than bringing them." 

  When Emeros finally landed his eyes on the Altmer, curiosity stopped him from any speech. Athenath moved forward, their features transfixed by the blade at the end of the room. The beam of light which cut through the chamber placed itself along a pedastal, as though directing him to it. The metal of the sword began to glow, the hilt which had once appeared cloaked in dust now singed all signs of age off its shape in clouds. Athenath cupped a hand along the ancient pillar, fingertips ghosting it as the light of Meridia beamed against the back of his palm. A familiar voice came to the room, but did not shake it, and the other two Mer watched as the pads of their friends fingers gingerly ran along the hilt of the glowing sword.

  "It is done. The defiler is defeated. Take Dawnbreaker from its pedestal."

Chapter 29: Back on to Solid Ground

  Evening scattered itself dark against the glass with the faintest chill in the air, lit by guards and their torches which passed outside the windows of the inn. The Winking Skeever, with dry rushes across the floors and a touch of oils made from the purple mountain flower, had become a welcome reprieve from the world outside. Nights were times of peace. Of rest. No one demanded anything of them, no one sent them into ruins nor to forts nor to the winding, serpentine roads which trailed up and down the mountains. It was time for the stars to wink in and out, and the warm meals and drinks which settled in their bodies and blankets up to the shoulders, maybe books nestled between thighs in the dim flicker of a candle, one more page before bed.

  The trio had budged through the door earlier that evening while the buildings were painted in a hollow blue, and paid swiftly for baths. Corpulus had waved at the sight of them, and conversation mingled into the Mer's senses alongside the music of a bard who'd previously been a student at the college down the road. Athenath, knees weary and spine aching from the long trek back to Solitude, rushed up to the shared room and set their belongings down the moment that he could, armor rustling in leather-muffled noise. Desperation for the chance to scrub away the past few days grew with every passing second, and when his turn for the baths came, he snatched his bedclothes and marched off towards them, their shoulders slumped with a worn hunch and their steps haggard. Emeros passed by, wicker basket in hand to carry his travel clothes up to their room, and Athenath swore they saw a tinge of worry in his eyes as they disappeared down the stairs. 

  It didn't matter. What mattered was the warm water which he sunk down into, muscles breathing sighs of relief at the comfort of it. The soaps from Whiterun served their purpose well, with the scent of rosemary fluttering around them as Athenath scrubbed at the dirt and blood which decorated his skin, the warmth sucking the pain from the wounds. The dried blood that clung to where an open stab would normally be was quick to come off, but the stinging bruise underneath remained, the Altmer hissing between their teeth as they poked at the blotches of pink flesh. Prodding at it was a bad idea, but they couldn't stop the occasional shove of a finger over it, keenly aware of the matching bruise on their back.

  He ran water through his curls as he thought back on the day before, seeming almost like a separate reality from the one he now inhabited. Athenath had come to the biting conclusion on the walk back that he had absolutely overdone it on healing potions. His stomach burnt up acidically into their chest from the scarlet-filled bottles he'd downed in that rotting temple, and while the serious injuries were reduced to bruises, that didn't mean he was any less worn. It would all fade, given a few days, as long as they kept a large distance between himself and battle. Not that they needed any more reasons to stay far from fights, considering how the muscles in their back had begun to terrorize him under the weight of armor and shield-bashes. 

  They thought back to the Vigilant thralls. The corpse which Wyndrelis had released at the roadside. Even with its blotchy purple splotches on the skin, it looked all the same as a tossed-aside ragdoll. The scene left in their wake appeared like a robbery gone wrong, with the bash to the corpses' head and being so close to the way which lead to the city. The trio had looked between one another, and while the silence lingered in an uneasy stillness, they had turned to the direction of the city and departed.

  Emeros had taken it upon himself to carry the sword which Jarl Balgruuf had once gifted Athenath. The Altmer had let him, since it seemed like the Bosmer would not let up on insisting. Besides, they were dizzy, and carrying two swords at once would be a hassle. Especially since the one he'd acquired in the temple sat perfectly at his side. Words which felt more like breaths of cold wind told him that it was named Dawnbreaker, and a reward for what he'd done to clear the temple of Malkoran and his works. When Athenath would look to the side to drink in the new blade's appearance, golden and with leather-wrapped hilt and a gem like a small sun set in it. The weapon warmed under his touch, and veins of light swam and illuminated throughout its entire form.

  If only he could remember how they got it. 

  As Athenath rinsed his hair, he lingered mentally on the afternoon, and could not recall much of the sword's gifting. They combed through the wet lengths with deft fingers and pulled apart tangles as they scrunched their nose, going back and forth on possibilities. The last few moments in the temple lived as a buzzing in his ears. The world had gone bright, blooming with color as the hilt of the ancient blade began to burn away decades of dust, becoming the only thing clear in his mind. He'd rested a hand on the pedastal, body slack with the exhaustion from battle. Meridia's voice shook the mountainside, and then the world, for Athenath, had gone white.

  He stood and grabbed a towel, pulling it down their form littered with bruises fresh and healing both, the sound of wind and the feeling of his hair tickling the back of their neck still in their mind as they recalled the moment they'd awoken outside. He'd somehow wandered out of the temple in a trance, words vague and formless in the back of his mind. Stood before the statue, gaze upward to face the glowing beacon, and with Dawnbreaker already attached to his belt, they held up a hand to shield their eyes from the light. Emeros was nearby, as though he were stopping himself from approach by fear of some nameless force. He'd said nothing, but his grim face gave Athenath a chill up the spine. Wyndrelis shuffled his feet awkwardly next to the Bosmer, magicka pooling in his palms, as though this were just in case of something the younger Mer could not decipher. The Altmer blearily blinked their eyes, then asked if the other two were alright. No reply, and then a couple of muttered words had left Emeros' lips about getting back to Solitude, and to report to General Tullius in the morning.

  As they dressed and piled their travel clothes in a basket, he scrunched his hair in the towel before adding it to the pile, as well. Slowly, they trudged out of the baths and up the stairs, the only thing on his mind the idea of how good it would feel to climb into bed. He still hurt just about everywhere, and they wondered if they had strained something. Their head didn't ache as badly as it had when they'd woken up standing on the dais, but the dull pains radiating from where wounds should be were something a healing potion could not rid them of. While injuries could be mended with ease, and they may be in no real danger, the dark spots that would shine out from his limbs would leave them with a sense of wrongness in the days which followed. A discomfort at the sight, battles that had been lived through, yet made invisible. They would grow used to being battered if they did more tasks of this nature, if possibilities were handed down and forts had to be taken, but he hoped he wouldn't have to do any of that any time soon. 

---

  They had budged open the half-cracked door with their hip, sliding into the room with basket in hand full of his washed and still slightly damp clothes which he'd scrubbed as clean as he could manage. He was lucky to get the blood out, and even more so that the damage wasn't as extensive as they'd anticipated. They shut the door and plopped down and rummaged through their knapsack, tugging out a meager sewing kit of a needle and a tiny amount of thread. They hadn't ever expected to need to repair their clothes from battle, but this seemed to be par for the course if life continued this way. They worked thread through the needle's eye while Emeros sat across from them in one of the wooden chairs, finishing up repairs on his own clothes. 

  A while passed in silence between the two, until Athenath groaned, slamming his palms against the armor that they urgently needed to mend, the thread sliding from the needle's eye and down onto the leather beneath him. Just a few more stitches, and then he could repair his tunic, too. He wasn't in the mood to replace the clothes he'd worn for so long, and didn't think that they'd find some with the same texture, ones that didn't bug them as they tugged the collar or sleeves and set everything into place. Athenath looked up to see Emeros staring at him with cocked brow, a grin forming itself onto his lips. The Altmer rolled their eyes in a round, exaggerated arc before pulling the thread back up and slowly, but steadily, gliding it through the eye of the needle. 

  When it went in, they rejoiced inwardly, praising their goddess more and more each moment. Maybe it was childish, to cling to her skirts the way he did, but the images of the shades in the temple and the battle done in those accursed chambers still clamored to the surface of his mind. At least he had anything to cling to at all. 

  "How do you feel?" 

  Emeros' voice made the Altmer jump the slightest bit, as if so accustomed to silence that the sound of even a good friend could set them on edge. He spoke in his usual calm, oaken-warm tone, but there was a clear underpinning of worry to the way that the words left him. He looked up for one moment, a single flit of their eyes, before looking back down at their work. The linen sleepshirt they wore hung off their frame, bought too large intentionally and coming down to the middle of their thighs, sleeves pushed up so he could keep working on the repairs and not have to fidget with the ends and break concentration. 

  "Tired."

  Emeros chuckled. "Is that the case?"

  "Yeah."

  The Bosmer sat with spine against the back of his chair, his lips parted as though he were going to say something else, joining his fingers between one another over his middle. He watched the other with careful, inspecting eyes, Athenath looking up, brow furrowed. 

  "How come when Wyndrelis made thralls of bandits at the fort, you were pissed, but the Vigilant thralls didn't upset you?" 

  Emeros leaned forward in a slow motion, elbows atop his knees. He mulled the question over a while, and Athenath could see the level of thought he was giving it by a somewhat far-away look in his gaze, before the Bosmer rubbed his forehead with the crux of his thumb, dragging his hand down his face as he blew air from the corner of his mouth. "Perhaps I judged him too harshly." 

  "I'll say," Athenath snorted, "I think you owe him an apology." 

  Emeros gave a quiet laugh, running his fingers through his hair, cowl drying on the line outside. His own sleepshirt was a faded saffron color, one that had been well-worn over the years, enough that it had several small, barely-noticeable stitches in the elbows or shoulders. The brightness of the shade had faded until it was a pale, withering dandelion, but sparse hints of its former glory came through in the threads. "Perhaps you're correct." 

  "Perhaps?" Athenath repeated with a snarky grin. "Yeah, no, you definitely do." They looked down at their work, and groaned in frustration, dragging a hand down their face. "And I need to go to a blacksmith if I want this armor repaired. It's definitely got some problems I can't fix, and I'm going to blame most of it on the former owners." Or, rather, how the former owners died, the thought wandered through his mind. Pulling it from his lap, he set the leather and fur aside, tugging their tunic into their arms and examining the material closely. They'd dried it over a fire to ensure it was ready for repairs, preparing their needle and scrutinizing every fresh cut. 

  Emeros leaned forward again, gesturing with a beckoning curl of his fingers. "Let me see," he urged, "I've worked with leather my whole life." As Athenath gingerly handed the armor over to him, he tutted and tapped his tongue, shaking his head, peering at the needle still pinched between their forefinger and thumb. "Ah, no wonder. You're not going to get anywhere with that needle, it's not made for this sort of material." With that, he tugged over his pack and dug through the pockets, retrieving a length of fine, sinew thread around a thick spool, and carefully worked it through the eye of a flat needle, likely made of bone, if Athenath had to hazard a guess. "This will work better, it's longer and a bit larger, so piercing through leather isn't an issue." 

  Athenath watched through rumpled brow, the Bosmer's words curious to their ears. The older Mer examined the articles for any gashes and tears, his keen gaze finding the ones that had given Athenath so much trouble. They eyed him as he worked, as though he were just glad to have something to do in the late-hour quiet of the inn. 

  "So, where did you...?" They gestured vaguely, Emeros quirking a brow. "I don't know, learn to do all of that?"

  "Some relatives of my friends back in Valenwood, whilst I was growing up," he replied in an easy tone, his eyes focused on the task at hand. He sat there, bent slightly to accommodate the armor in his lap, earrings glittering in the light of the candles that bathed the room in their soft glow. "I was taught by other people, as my family never had much interest in teaching me themselves. Come to think of it, I can't name half my uncles, as we weren't very close." 

  "Oh."

  "It's alright," Emeros brushed off with a calm smile, relaxing as he stitched through the material, the needle pulling true and taut beneath his nimble fingers, "I spent much of my life with my paternal family, who, well, despite living in Valenwood, they had little interest in engaging with it. As for my mother's side, they had very little interest in my existence. Or so the story goes." He ended with an easy shrug of the shoulders, continuing to scrutinize every inch of his own handiwork.

  "Or so the story goes?" Athenath repeated, brow raising and voice trailing with a low hint of skepticism. "Is that right?" 

  Emeros paused, hands slowing to a halt as his smile dimmed for a moment. He narrowed his brow, but then, as quickly as it disappeared, his calm, grinning demeanor came back over him. His greyish sclera caught the light of the candles, bearing a forced relaxation that he wore so easily. "And of your family, Athenath? Are you closer with one side versus the other?" 

  It was now Athenath's turn to shrink away. How could he speak of the people who rejected their name the first time they wore it? How to talk about the strange, flinching looks, or the hand on the shoulder, palm patting at their curls by a mother who looked at them with equal parts scorn and love? How to open the floodgates a mere fraction so only a trickle of water dripped through, instead of the entire ocean? 

  "My mothers side," Athenath said in a soft voice into a shrug of their shoulders. When the answer hung limply in the air around them, he added, "I mean, my father and I were on good terms, I guess. But, y'know. His parents, he and them... They weren't. On good terms, I mean. That I know of. And when he met my mother, he fell out of touch with them entirely. And, well, my mother and my grandparents, we all lived close together until we left Anvil, y'know? So, I mean..." he trailed off, gaze now on the floor as they thought back on their grandfather seated by the hearth, his white hair, his curved ears, his striking, cyan eyes. Athenath had always envied his eyes, they were piercing in a way that he was certain that they'd never see in another person again. The image fully reignited, a memory which they liked to dwell on, the older Mer seated by the hearth sipping warm cider, at least one tankard in the winter, as he spun magic with an absent hand into streams of colored light to entertain them when they were little. He could remember the ribbons of magicka vividly, the way they floated in star-like formations, tricks that the elder had perfected in his youth, a way to keep his family entertained. As Athenath sat in their chair, the other across from him, they could practically taste the meals by the fire in that little house, the elder Mer's features living on in pale comparison in his grandchild. He had his grandmother's slim hands, mother's smile, father's hair and eyes...

  This was all a story of people they could not entertain the idea of ever seeing again. A tapestry sat inside him as though buried in a wooden chest in the underground of a ruined castle, and they could not unfurl it for anyone. He swallowed down the memories and their smokey hearth scent, the better days he would learn as he aged were only so fond because of the lens of childhood which coated them.

  When his mind returned to the cold flooring of the room and the warm candlelight, Emeros had set the armor aside, finished with the stitches. "That should suffice for now. However, I do advise we acquire some better armor down the line. I have a feeling we'll be needing it." 

  "Probably right," Athenath agreed, "isn't there a blacksmith in town? So, we'll just handle that here." 

  "We've that whole business at Castle Dour, first," Emeros reminded them with a smirk and a quick wink, leaving Athenath to groan and slide down in their chair until their head was against the back. Emeros chuckled, rolling his eyes. He folded his arms around his middle as he exclaimed, "Athenath, you're the one who wanted the Imperial pardon immediately, remember? You practically ushered Wyndrelis and I down the street!"

  "If I had known General Tullius was gonna make us hunt bandits for it, I'd've just stayed here in the inn." He pressed his palms against the wooden arms on either side of them, hoisting themself back up and leaning back against the chair. They glanced about the room, scanning it for any details which may catch their eyes, focus landing on the glow coming from the hilt of Dawnbreaker. He looked back to Emeros with a grin. "Well, at least I got a new sword." 

  Emeros rested his jaw into the palm of his hand, fingers curled against his cheek as he smiled, flashing a look to the blade which rested against the wall with all of their weapons. The Altmer could not read his expression, but it was warm, a comfort at the end of a long journey. A sense of calm. Normalcy.

 "I suppose, then, that you've concluded that bandit hunting was worth the reward?"

  "Gods," Athenath snorted, "I guess. Malkoran was a pain in the ass, but I guess yeah, you're right." 

  Soon, a comfortable silence blanketed the two. Athenath pulled their knapsack to his lap, hands digging around in its contents. He would not ask if Emeros and Wyndrelis had made amends. The discussion between them, whether amicable or not, must have died in the ruins of Mount Kilkreath with the rest of Malkoran's shades. If the pair had worked in tandem, then he had to conclude that they were on decent terms. Especially because, had they not talked things out, Athenath would likely be dead. 

  He swallowed the conclusion. Instead of dwelling, he flitted looks here and there to Emeros, who was watching the torches pass by outside, faint glows against the bottom of their window. Swirls of smoke bounced across the room from the candles. Laughter rumbled beneath their feet and up the stairwell, a lute strummed with skill. Someone wound up joining in with a flute, and the tavern soon broke out in old Nord drinking songs, Colovian wine and Honningbrew mead in their voices. The lyrics escaped his grasp at the moment, half-remembered from travels through Bruma and northern Cheydinhal county. It all blended together either way, and he didn't bother separating the tangled words from one another at the moment, too worn to think of such a thing. Tales of travels to lands the bards had likely never visited, nor would they ever, written by poets whose names were all but forgotten among most people, and strummed to the peaceful tune of the lute by hands which had probably never held a blade but sang of glorious battle. The songs gathered like a skirt in a noblewoman's hand, the sea sloshing drunkenly against the rocks outside, the cool of night air held at bay by ancient walls and hearth. 

  The Altmer sunk down into their chair again, closing their eyes as he tried to summon images of ancient hillocks and valleys, mountains where battles took place, islands which bore Atmorans in days long departed. The drumming beat told him this was a song of victory, celebrating the local heroes of this Hold's early days. Bittersweet were the songs in his mind as they thought back on their grandfather and his mournful, distant ways he would speak of Ysgramor, and curse his name and all the names of his companions. They dwelled on the manner in which the elderly elf would mutter of people whose names were nothing but dust and ash in the wind, stories only half-remembered. Athenath hoped that, one day, perhaps he could put these stories to song. 

  Broken through those glimmers of a life long before Skyrim, came the echo of the miniature sun, Meridia's request. Remembered now in place of the old hearth, the offer to become her champion. A herald of a new dawn for this world. The power of her voice which made the mountains tremble was like the warm sun of Elsweyr, or a rock taken from the sands and placed into their palms. Nebulous. Intangible. 

  Athenath opened their eyes as the music turned somber. Rhythmic, momentary thuds on a drum, the inn below singing of remembering those who'd been here before, drank in these very halls, and toasted to these very melodies. These were words which caught them from their thoughts, and he sat up straighter before rising, stretching, and stepping to the window. He could feel Emeros' eyes on him, but the other said nothing, just watched as Athenath peered down to the street below. Wyndrelis had left not long after the trio had returned, saying he would bathe and do his laundry as soon as he got back. Athenath searched the street below for the raven-haired mage, hand subconsciously reaching to wrap around their amulet of Mara. They rubbed their thumb over the gem in the center, the mournful melodies fading with a toast and applause. 

  The offer Meridia had posed was one that intrigued them, but as they reflected on the grooves of the amulet's pattern, they knew that they had their answer.

Notes:

title is taken from the song "tell me what's on your mind" by the decemberists. thank you for joining me 100k words into this fic!! <33 i've got 180k so far in the document, and i hope you'll continue to join me on this journey well past that.

Chapter 30: Accursed Talents

  His sister had been a weaver. She still was, Wyndrelis figured, the image of her deft hands tugging the strings together of varying colors clear in his mind. Why would she not be? It gave her plenty of spare coin. She had woven ornate rugs and tapestries and clothing, all to sell them to traveling merchants. If not to trade away for gold or other items, then she would fill their home with her crafts, her handiwork on the floor or on the wall or on their bodies. Wyndrelis would sit for many hours while the older girl told him about their family. Morrowind, too. A land none of them had seen. Muvayni sought feverishly for any information about the cities their ancestors were rumored to hail from, and then she taught him. She would soon teach their younger siblings when they arrived. But for a long time, he alone would watch her pull the threads together of vibrant saffron and deepest indigo and create intricate depictions of moons, stars, of patterns, even depictions of plants, of cities. She would talk endlessly of these things, and as he walked the streets of Solitude, he could only imagine how she would have thrived in the court of the Blue Palace, or even in the Bard's College. She had a skill. 

  Wyndrelis, too, had a skill.

  Built upon a natural arch over the sea, the palatial city carried on its back the center of power in Skyrim like spines of a great beast. The Blue Palace ruled the lands beyond its walls with iron hands all the way to Stormcloak territory - wherever that might be, as Wyndrelis did not know the specifics - and the many shops and older homes rose high towards the heavens to make up for not being able to expand out across the land. The arched windows framed within stone shone in the dark with stars like raindrops. The way that the sly moons caressed the edges of the sea beneath gave way to thoughts of the legends of this city, all of its histories unknown to him, and why the light seemed to settle a little different in its corners. 

  He recalled the mountain scene and the battle, the hammering into his magicka reserves with no mercy for the purpose of survival, eyes on the younger Mer of the group. Athenath dove into the temple like a cliff racer down a gorge. Wyndrelis countered the attacks of the Dunmer Vigilant, Emeros fighting the other with his blade, the Breton blocking skillfully with metal gauntlets concealed under their robes, making calculated but hasty slashes with a dagger. The pair of elves battled against Stendarr's zealots who saw them as under the same entanglement as all Daedra worshippers, caught in the cold glow of Meridia, that even if they explained, they would be scrutinized mercilessly, no use to their words. 

  He remembered the steely feel of his ward in his palm, a chill racing up his spine as his magicka reserves drained into keeping it up against the constant, flashing barrages of the other's lightning. As though moving through water, he toed his way closer to the Vigilant. They locked eyes, Wyndrelis' teeth grit tight in his jaw to the point of aching, brow lowered hard in concentration of keeping just this one ward up against each strike that bounced off it, the force shoving violently into him, each step taken cautiously, cold sweat pouring down the back of his neck from the clammy feeling that overcame him, the pulsating, dark edges of his vision, the ringing in his ears louder, louder, louder, louder-

  The Dunmer Vigilant darted her gaze with a hard gasp, her hands pointed now to the Bosmer who had made the final, decisive strike, the Breton collapsing on the dais as Emeros slit her throat.

  This was what he needed.

  Wyndrelis dropped his ward only for the moment, and in a quick motion, he bashed her skull with the dull end of his mace, hard thud knocking the Vigilant to the ground. He peered over her for a second, and as he heard the Bosmer moving, he struck with the mace, sickening crack slamming through the air as the blood split against his weapon. Emeros rose from the dais, mouth agape.

  "Good Daedric lords, man!" The Bosmer wiped his knees. "They were unconscious! You could have-" 

  "She would have come into the temple after us," Wyndrelis exclaimed breathily through a bewildered quirk of his brow and a tight-toothed ghost of a sneer. He looked to the body at Emeros' feet, then to the one at his own. He could see the clean cut through the jugular, and the display of skill that gave it. Had this body merely been unconscious, then? Who was Emeros to object to what he'd done? Turning back to the Vigilant at his feet, Wyndrelis moved his palm above the corpse, summons of violet, luminary curls to swim over the still-warm remains. The glow circled thickly as the figure lifted from their place on the ground, her feet finding purchase in the stone, shuffling in the way of a sleeper in Muvayni's stories to Wyndrelis' side as the Dunmer did the same motion over the second corpse. 

  The mage had half-expected the other Mer to protest loudly, to make his opinion known, to tell Wyndrelis he was nothing but a bastard who toyed with the dead like puppets. When no words came, when Emeros merely gave him a hardened glare and marched in the direction of the temple's entrance, Wyndrelis shrunk back. This had been the worse of two options, and it had been one he'd not anticipated for all his foresight. He could handle the sound of another's voice raised in anger. Even the sound of someone's fury, pounded against the air like hard winds, did not perturb him. The silence, dead and limp, was the same he'd known in those last icy days in his parents' home. The same silence that swung above his head like an executioner's axe. 

  The only unifier was that someone they considered a friend was in danger, and if the pair did not get through the chambers fast enough, gods knew what fate awaited.

  The image of Emeros' snarling lip at the waves of Wyndrelis' hand did not leave him just as much as the Dunmer thought to the purple magicka pooling under his skin, into the air, weaving in and out until the two Vigilant's corpses rose in stuttered steps. The look in the Bosmer's eyes was the ice that could break beneath his feet. Would it matter so much if he and Emeros had not fought side-by-side before? Spent so much time at one another's side? Would he care so much if the Bosmer was not one of the few in this world that the Dunmer respected?

  This was the shaky ground he still found himself on as he wandered the cobblestone pathways through the twisting, narrow city. Emeros did not understand and Wyndrelis would not try to explain. How do you put into words the things he'd learned so long ago? How do you convey the messages of the cutthroat College of Whispers, the attention of an instructor whose guidance still anchored his spellwork much like the loom in Muvayni's room, even if he'd long buried as many memories of him as possible? That magic, alchemy, enchanting, all of it had its place, and necromancy was simply a branch conjoining the roots of many schools to one another, until one could not tell the difference between them. Necromancy was a branch he perched upon once, doddling between many others like a raven. A skill like any other. Should shame come with his education? 

  He'd hurried through the temple with the other at his side. Maybe Emeros meant well by his objections and his questions, but all it did was make the raven-haired elf grow bitter with every step. What did he want, for Wyndrelis to divulge every little bit of information about his time at the College of Whispers? Gods knew he hadn't even brought up the fact he'd gone there in the first place. Maybe it would explain everything, or maybe it would relay nothing. It was, after all, secretive. Many knew of their experiments being less than orthodox. Surely Emeros had his own conceptions of what a place like that entailed, could Wyndrelis bear to mention its name? Could the alchemist understand the strangeness of the work? Surely, the other must have broken a few rules of his own in his past for researches sake. If he told Emeros of all that he'd been before - or told both of his friends, for that matter - it would mean pulling out from the crevice of memory the things he did not want to relive. The dinners with his mentor and some hand-picked students, strangers shaking their hands and smiling politely while they whispered in the older mage's ear. The conversations that strung themselves in and out of his ears. The offer his mentor had sworn up and down that he would regret refusing. The slamming door. Packing his things. A solemn night at the nearby inn. 

  He rubbed at his left shoulder, reaching to press the spot on the back of it. He exhaled and inhaled. The night birds and the calls of animals and the trudges of guards were all he heard. The lavender sprigs blowing in the breeze carried their scent with them. He let himself breathe it in as he held his hands before him, examining his palms. He imagined himself knitting white threads together, back against the side of a stone building. He pictured the lengths of material bringing themselves together, and watched as magicka glowed against his fingers. He could feel it, soft and soothing, the formation of shapeless energy cupped in his hands.

  The tiny glimmer of mage light, cold and warm all at once, alerted the attention and sharp glare of a nearby guard. Wyndrelis muttered a sharp apology as he dismissed the spell, and the guard drew their eyes narrow for a moment in suspicion before trudging off at last. Wyndrelis watched as the figure disappeared, and looked out to the sea. It was late. Far too late to be out on a night where the clouds stubbornly swayed past the moons. And he needed rest, a meal, anything more than the ache in his legs, shoulders, just about everywhere. He looked to the street, and though a nervousness like ice bristled up his arms, he made his way back to the other two survivors of the day.

---

  He'd not realized the ache in his legs until he found himself back at the entry of the Winking Skeever. He'd been marching the streets in a daze, the days events still burdening themselves on his shoulders. He wrenched open the door and gave a nod to a couple of patrons, the heat of the central hearth slamming into his face and warming him to his core the more time he spent in it. He'd not realized how cold his hands were for such a summer's night. He looked to Sorex and Corpulus, giving a meek wave before he trudged up the stairs, each step throwing him more and more past the point of exhaustion. He looked to the rugs sprawled out on the floor and wondered if his sister would have something to say about it, whether tutting her tongue disapprovingly or a long, silent nod of adoration to the skill. She'd tried to teach him quality weaving from quickly-rushed, cheap work, but he had not listened to a word. What about this could interest him, when his brother offered him tomes he'd collected in Cheydinhal that gave idle hands something much more interesting to do? 

  He wrapped a grey hand around the door handle to the room he shared with the other two. He paused, the idea of simply departing into the night planting fruit in his mind. For all he knew, Emeros could have turned Athenath against him by way of his eloquence and the burden of his experiences, whatever those may be. For all he knew, the other two could be gone, long before he'd had the idea, abandoning him in this place. The sound of laughter from the other side plunged him into the waters of reality, and he pressed his ear to the door to listen. While no word was distinct, he was able to piece together that the pair were in the midst of some story, and while his chest panged with the want to be a part of the conversation, he knew he'd arrived far too late.  

  He stood up straight and tightened his fingers around the door handle, pulling it open, apprehension overtaking him as he thought back on how Emeros had been looking at him, like he were some sort of corrupted creature, like an abomination, like a monster. 

  "You're back," Emeros noted pleasantly without looking up from the table, his fingers wrapped around a steaming mug, "we made tea, yours is by your belongings." 

  The warmth of the chandelier slipped its hands over Wyndrelis' cheeks, the golden light of the flames cast over everything, bathing the room in brilliant hues. Athenath reclined on the bed, tambourine against his chest as they tapped and thumped it quietly, the tiny rattles shimmering against the air. A mug of tea sat beside them, half-empty.

  "How was your walk? The architecture catch your eye?" Athenath asked with a grin. Wyndrelis shifted his gaze between the pair. He'd forgotten that had been his excuse. The architecture.

  "Yes. It was interesting, I suppose." He pushed the door shut behind himself, Emeros standing from his chair. For a moment, Wyndrelis wondered if the other was trying to get away from him, until Emeros gingerly passed the mug into his hands. The heat of the tea inside curled life back into his palms, the Bosmer gesturing to the small table in their room. Fresh soup, some slices of bread, and a few steamed leeks rested on a plate, silverware laid out for the Dunmer.

  "You haven't eaten a bloody thing since this morning," Emeros noted as he thumbed through a book, sitting back into his chair, "and gods know you shouldn't go to bed with an empty stomach." 

  Wyndrelis stood, grasping the handle in one hand, the other to the side of the vessel. The tea, a pleasant, purple-brown hue, filled his senses with the fragrance of bergamot and something fruity. He pulled it tighter, taking a seat at the table. He didn't know what Emeros thought of him, nor what Athenath's opinions may be, but they had set a place for him and made him something to drink and welcomed him back, and that may be enough, even if just for now. 

Notes:

thank you for reading to chapter 30! chapter 31 will be out in december. until then, wish me luck with my finals! <3333

Chapter 31: The Price of Pardons

  Mid-morning nestled uncertainly atop the high mountains at the edge of Solitude. The sun had peaked its curious head out hours ago, the dawn colors taking it as their sign to curl over the sea like dancers among the sprawl of High Rocks' illustrious kingdoms. The shimmer of light across the waters spelt patterns into the rocks and bottoms of boats and against the panels of wooden shack houses near the port, a chill in the air as Last Seed came to its end. 

  A constant breeze trailed off the waves, multicolored flags strung between buildings swaying on their ropes, high above the trios heads as they made the brisk march to Castle Dour. The constant exchanging of sun for shade between buildings rivaled that of coin for goods in the nearby market, and the eternally-present sounds of the blacksmith and his apprentice at work pushed their feet further towards the grand doors. Emeros' chin held high, despite the hammering in his chest like metal to anvil. 

  He'd woken up later than usual, a first in a very long time, and that fact alone had done its best to unravel his senses for the dawning minutes of his day. Breakfast had been a brief affair. While Athenath looked pleased to be done with all of this and finally make their way to the Bard's College, Wyndrelis shared in the Bosmer's uncertainty, glances of cloud-white iris marred by the ink black of his wide pupils. Would Tullius really let them go, just like that? Would he sign off on their pardon and consider them free in Imperial-controlled Holds? 

  Did it matter? They'd done what they'd set out to do. He should expect the General to hold his end of the bargain. If he didn't pardon them...

  Emeros tried not to think too far into the future, the duty of such divinations belonging to those far more skilled in such than himself. Take it one step at a time, one seagull's call after another. 

  The doors parted with the same, loud announcement of their entry in the creak of the hinges. Emeros kept his chin aloft to peer down his nose at the figures of soldiers. General Tullius and Legate Rikke, as though time-frozen in their same places, already spent their mornings engaged in some sort of disagreement over the shining pins stuck deep into an old, frayed map. Tullius took his bent posture with his large hands firmly against the table, studying its every fleck of ink, each trailing of pathways and roads and borders. As the Mer approached, Emeros got a look at the layout, the little pegs shifted since the last time the trio had been in this room. Some of these movements were made in a bright blue, and closer to the red ones than it seemed the General liked. 

   Legate Rikke stood near Tullius with furrowed brow, her stray hairs catching the light, concern plain on her lined and weathered face. She pressed a finger against a section of the map and uttered something to the General, who waved a hand as though dismissing her suggestion. When Emeros cleared his throat, she looked up, surprise overtaking her features for one vital moment before settling into a small grin, the calm approval, the sturdy folding of her arms over her chest. 

  "Welcome back. You lived." 

  "Your fort is cleared. If you would like it to remain that way, then I would suggest sending troops at once," Emeros stated, the stern edge to his voice accentuated by the way he appeared to be peering downward at the General's bent posture, or the Legate's short and broad form. If one were to see through the Bosmer's vision for a moment, they would find he was instead staring at the corner of the table. Too much risk in eyeing the individuals directly. They might catch the fleck of worry in his gaze.

  "Excellent," Legate Rikke motioned for a couple of nearby soldiers, speaking to them quickly, the shuffle of their feet out the door a weighty sound in the air. She prodded the tip of her tongue to the inside of her cheek, thoughts scuffling about behind her blade-sharp eyes. "You know, I'm impressed."

  "That's very flattering of you, but as previously discussed, we're here to acquire an Imperial pardon, nothing more." Emeros maintained the calm in his voice, but his patience waned thin. He understood which gears turned in her head, the same damned urge to bring them into the fold of the Legion she'd joined more than thirty years ago. Loyalty to the Empire had solidified like the cement which bound cobblestones into smoothed paths in the Imperial City, and Emeros would make it clear he shared no such loyalty. This was not his home - not Skyrim, not the Empire, none of it. They had done all of this to save themselves from the possibility of another false imprisonment. Fort Hraggstad had been nothing more than a means to an end. He watched the Legate bite the inside of her cheek, running a hand over her head. Perhaps she was thinking of something else now. She shifted her stocky frame to face the table fully, her hands plucking another red pin and sticking it into the map, marking something important, the very piece of debate which had left she and Tullius unaware of the trio's presences until the alchemist made a sound.

  Tullius rose at last, straightening his posture. The Bosmer found himself surprised not to hear stiff pops and cracks which onset with the age and experience of a soldier bearing his rank. Maybe some portion of his mind half-anticipated that the General solely hunched there through every day and night, a statue on guard. As he turned, Emeros noted the weariness in his eyes. A man who was visibly running on less sleep than advisable - especially clutching dozens of lives in his hands and bearing even more on his shoulders - is a volatile thing. The elf swallowed down his questions, instead opting for the arch of a brow as the General took stock of the three, his focus landing on Athenath's new sword for a second. As though accepting the glowing oddity, he grunted a small noise before he shifted his eyes to Emeros. 

  "You know, I've sent troops to that fort before." He moved his weight side to side, one foot, then the other, his bulky arms folded over his barrel chest, which gave way to the wriggling thought that maybe Legate Rikke's own posture was habit formed from so long in his presence. Perhaps the Empire had sent him to handle the Civil War for his intimidating appearance alone, or perhaps Skyrim was an isolated post used to give disgraced soldiers another chance. In either case, he added, "do you want to know what happened to them, mister Nightlock?" A pause as if awaiting an answer that refused to come. Emeros did not long to try the friendly, responsive approach. "They would come back wounded. Some, not at all. But you three strangers took it for the Legion. And from what I can see"-he looked the three up and down-"not a scratch on you."

  "Riveting," Emeros droned. "And what does this have to do with our pardon?"

  "Don't you get it?" Tullius pushed. "You survived Helgen, took Fort Hraggstad, and killed a dragon in Whiterun! Stories get around, mister Nightlock, we know about the Western Watchtower and what you three did there." He gestured a hand to the map behind him, Rikke taking her chance to go, already following some other soldiers out of the antechamber. On her way to lead a garrison to the now-empty fortress, Emeros figured. In a lower tone, the General continued. "This war is taking its toll. We're hardly a year into it, and yet it's taken many of our men. The Empire is straining its resources, and Skyrim and all its people are suffering for it. Anyone who can turn the tides against Ulfric and win this Civil War will be-" 

  "A hero." Emeros' patience threatened to snap. The words caught at his incisors. He crossed his arms firmly over his chest. "I'm well aware of the rewards of heroism. A nice home in the Cyrodilic countryside may appeal to you, General, but we've no time for such fantasies. Should we continue to traverse the Empire-controlled portions of Skyrim, we run the risk of being captured by your Legion as criminals for, need I remind you, a case of mistaken identity. I understand your desperation, really, I do, but I do not intend to drag myself nor my compatriots into such conflicts." 

  The room dropped into a cold silence. Eye-to-eye, Emeros and Tullius stared one another down, the Bosmer's jaw grit tight, nostrils flaring. Athenath stood back with Wyndrelis, both of them appearing to have decided long ago that it was best that the alchemist handle this situation. The General flicked his gaze to them, then inched it from one face to another, from Emeros, to Wyndrelis, to Athenath, before giving an audible sigh and pressing the crook of his thumb to his forehead, massaging the stress-lined skin. 

  "Very well. You may have your pardon," he reached for a letter, the ink dry, already written and signed for the three elves, "but you'll need to take it by the Blue Palace yourselves." 

  Emeros narrowed his eyes. "Why is that necessary, may I ask?" 

  "We send word to the other Holds on our own. However, since you're already here in Solitude, you get the honor of doing the leg work. Take it by the Blue Palace and give it to the scribe, Phoebe. She'll get the Jarl to officiate it." The General passed the paper gingerly to Emeros, the stamp of the Empire glaring back at the elf as he clutched it tight. He pried lightly up at the lip of the letter, until the wax seal only budged, not broke. He unfolded the rest rapidly, eyes scanning the letter as the General gruffed, "I'm sure that you'll find it's all in order." 

  "Yes, I'm sure," Emeros replied sourly, not looking up once from the paper. He read and re-read the words over and over, let them settle into the pit in his stomach, by the orders of General Tullius, Military Governor of Skyrim...

  After one final read-through, Emeros looked up and gave a curt nod. "Thank you for your time, General Tullius. Best of luck." He folded the letter along its preexisting creases, turning on his heel. The sound of his boots echoed through the chamber, the other two Mer exchanging a look of mild confusion before they followed suit, Athenath giving the General an awkward half-wave as they walked behind Emeros, eagerness in every step the three took. 

  Whether this meant the end of their troubles or the beginning of new ones was a mystery, obfuscated by the mid-morning sun and the glint of metal as soldiers trained for battle in the courtyard. Emeros clutched the letter tightly in a talon grasp, and prayed through the poundings of a stress headache to gods he strained to believe in that this would be over. 

---

  The Blue Palace shone in opulent hues, stone of pale, well-polished grey making up the floor, furniture of sturdy oak set about, the strength of the city itself captured in every piece. Even the waiting area was beyond anything the trio expected, with the tables carved in intricate patterns giving abstract representation of ancient Nord tales, and benches lined with heavily embroidered cushions which bore long tassels from the corners. It should make sense that the city that housed the Bard's College not only bore a reputable museum of art, but filled its palace with commissioned works so fine that they could turn any noble of a dozen cities red with jealousy, with paintings and tapestries strung on the walls and from the ceiling telling of victories won, of heroes and the foes they defeated, of battles and sieges and war. Some were more direct, with depictions of recent kings and queens through history, faces woven in a myriad of colors against backdrops of red. Others were more abstract, taking the approach of depicting animals, of wolves and moths, of gods that had long outlived their relevance since the Empire swallowed Skyrim down its greedy maw. 

  The beautifully woven rug under their feet did little to muffle the trio's footsteps, presences watched from every corner by servants, guards, and the dozens of faces in the tapestries. The elves were lead by a bulky man up the stairs that wound their way to the seat of power in Skyrim, the court busy with several thanes seated on one side, a red-haired girl at a desk to the other, and still, more guards. 

  There, on a throne as ancient as the palace itself, sat Elisif. Many long nights had left permanent circles under her wolfish blue eyes, her face marred with the stress of the past year. She looked far too young to be so old, with the circlet weighing heavy on her coppery hair, already springing the smallest hints of grey. On either side of her were servants and thanes, each busy in their own tasks as the former queen consort rested her gaze on the trio of elves approaching her, caution in their steps. "Oh," the small sound left her lips as though she'd not stopped it in time, a breath like surprise. "If you need anything, speak with my steward, Falk Firebeard." 

  At the sound of his name, a Nord to her right looked up, his gaze stumbling to the three elves. He took note of the paper in Emeros' hand, and the way the seal seemed to flop instead of press the contents together, and rose. His smile, while placid as a still lake, gave the distinct impression of a man under immense pressures. The edges of his cheeks crumpled, and he'd not shaved in several days. 

  "Is there anything I can help you with?" 

  Athenath looked to the steward, forcing up their lips a smile which matched that of the Nord, polite and uncomfortable all at once. "Couldn't we speak with the Jarl?"

  "The Jarl is not to be disturbed with common affairs of court. You direct those concerns to me." His expression, while still pleasant, burdened itself with caution as he kept his voice friendly but stern, dragging his eyes across the three. "Is this a letter from the General?" 

  Emeros lifted it slightly, a gesture of confirmation, brow knit. "Yes, were you expecting anything from him?"

  "Tullius is always sending us updates on the war. We need to be prepared, I'm sure you understand," he gave a light chuckle as he drew the paper into his hands. As the steward scanned the writing, he frowned, brow narrowing, looking back to Emeros. He checked the letter over again, then looked to the other two, then drew in a breath. "Well, then. A pardon is not something we often get, so apologies if I seemed a bit surprised, mister... Nightlock, is it?" 

  The scribe looked up quickly, her eyes boring holes into the back of the steward's head. Falk turned to face Elisif, who now appeared wide awake, staring intently at the trio. While she did not speak, the intensity of her wonder at something different for once spelled out her want to talk with the strange elves. Her attentions immediately dragged themselves away as one of her thanes made a comment in a low breath muffled by a half-cough, and she shot him a look. 

  Falk turned back to the Mer, folding the letter neatly and stepping to the desk near the throne, passing it into the hands of the young scribe. Her hat, flat and plumed with a pair of feathers - one azure, one scarlet - sat atop her mousy red hair. She took the letter into a half-opened hand, but never stole her eyes from the trio, freckled cheeks shadowed by the brim of her cap. 

  "Well, if that's it, Phoebe will set everything in order." Falk clasped his hands in front of himself, over his torso, the gesture of a man ready to be done with this whole ordeal. Emeros looked to the scribe. He'd expected her to pass the letter back to the man, but instead the woman set the letter into a corner of her desk. Likely to be officiated later, he supposed. He again looked to the Jarl - who was busy now talking to one of the many servants in the Blue Palace - then to the thanes, and stood tall as he spoke. 

  "That will be all, yes. Thank you for your time." 

  The pressure in the air loosened, as though the whole palace had been waiting for the elves to be on their way. Wyndrelis knit his brow, a frown decorating his mouth as he looked to the thane who'd made the muffled comment, but said nothing. When the thane's eyes met Wyndrelis', he gave a small, mocking wave. 

---

  With their recent travels, the three had managed to acquire many things that none of them needed. The plan was to sell them off, to keep the weight on their backs light, to get enough gold for future travels. The shopkeeper, a woman named Sayma, gave them a great price for the Whiterun armor. She had explained to the three that her husband was the local blacksmith. That she would recognize Eorlund Gray-Mane's handiwork anywhere, and she knew her husband would be beyond thrilled to see three new examples of it. "He's a legend," she had exclaimed while Emeros stood at the counter, the other two elves looking over the trinkets in display cases, "all blacksmiths in Skyrim hope to be able to acquire some of his pieces in their time." 

  Pockets full and the day ahead of them, the three had wandered the city, Emeros keeping his eyes sharpened for anything of interest. Mostly, the trio discovered, Solitude was quiet. It was the heart of the Empire's control in Skyrim, and it carried this weight with pride. There were stories of a couple - the Emperor's cousin making up one half, no less - marrying soon in youthful hopes for peace. Emeros stood at one of the stalls in the market square talking such details over, allowing curiosity to keep him planted as his friends listened to the same. Athenath would ask for more details, and Wyndrelis stood beside, quiet as he, too, drank in the tales of the city. Emeros had to wonder if he did want to know more, but questions died on his tongue, or if he was simply passing the time with the other two. He could still feel a twinge of the tensions between them, and only hoped that he and the mage had come to an agreement, a truce of sorts. What the truce entailed, neither could know.

  When the sun began to dip into the sea - the waters dyed deep blues and greens, the city itself cast in a shade of lapis - the Mer sat at a table in a quiet corner of the Winking Skeever, plucking at their meals idly. None of them had much of an appetite. In some manner, Emeros found himself grateful that the Blue Palace had been so fast to dismiss them, so terse in their dealings. It showed him just how things worked around here: quiet, quick, and with as little room for distraction as possible. He twisted the metal prongs of his fork into the flesh of a freshly caught fish, the skin and scales pulled off and the meat white under his digging, mind elsewhere. He could seldom focus on the room around him when the look on Falk's face returned again and again. That flicker of surprise. That look of unease, or even distrust, behind a stone-smooth smile. What had the other thought of he and his friends in that moment? That they were deceitful, sided with an enemy Emeros could not define nor care to define? That they had committed some grave misstep, and this pardon was a temporary reprieve before more charges could be brought against them? He swallowed down a bite of his dinner and, though he had his suspicions, did hope that their troubles were over for now. 

  The door to the inn budged open, a figure speaking with the innkeeper for a moment in a hush. Uncertain footsteps moved through the room, stopped on the stone floors behind Emeros. Athenath looked up, knitting their brow and twisting their mouth as the young Altmer cleared their throat.

  "You're the scribe, right?" 

  Emeros turned around in a slow move, the woman from the Palace standing half a foot behind him. She still wore well-tailored, expensive clothing, but not nearly as over-the-top as what she'd worn at her post. The feathers were gone from her cap, and her highly embroidered, decorated gown replaced by plain, dark breeches and a tunic bearing much simpler patterns. Her thick capelet still bore the same flamboyance of one in a high position of the court, but she tucked her chin to her neck, as though attempting to hide inside of all the decoration. 

  "May we help you?" Emeros asked, arching a brow. Wyndrelis sipped his tea, an Imperial blend with bergamot as a main flavor, his hands warmed by the tankard. The woman pulled over another chair, and was silent for a moment. As Emeros opened his mouth to speak again, she interrupted, placing her hands neatly in her lap.

  "The Western Watchtower was your doing, was it not?" 

  All three elves looked between one another, unsure on how to answer the question. "What, you think we sent the dragon there?" Athenath half-joked. The woman shook her head.

  "I mean, the slaying of it. The dragon. That was your doing, yes?"

  "Pardon me, ma'am, but I've no idea why you have such an interest in this, or how you know... Well, anything about that." Emeros kept his expression neutral, fingers folded together in front of his form, but the subtle rise of his shoulders, the tension building in the back of his head, all of it gave the impression of a man who had much less interest in said events than she did. 

  "My name is Phoebe," she removed her cap, the slight points at the ends of her ears suggesting she was a Breton, "word tends to get around to the bards and the merchants of news as tremendous and worrisome as that, and the Greybeards' summon, well, we all felt it," she finished in a quiet manner, Wyndrelis examining her carefully. He pushed his glasses up his nose and leaned back in his chair.

  "What do you know about the Greybeards?" The Dunmer asked, sipping his tea. Phoebe shrugged. 

  "Both my mother and father are instructors at the Bard's College. My siblings and I grew up surrounded by the stories, you see."

  Athenath's face brightened, hands pressing to the surface of the table. A smile shocked itself into place with wide, dark eyes gleaming at the chance to grab information. While Emeros expected them to pile questions onto Phoebe, he didn't expect a breathless, giddy, "bullshit!"

  Phoebe laughed, resting her forehead into an open palm. "No, not at all."

  "So, how do we even apply to the College?" Athenath pressed. The scribe looked up, thinking over her answer carefully. 

  "Applications are technically closed, as initiation is on the sixth..." before Athenath could visibly deflate, she jumped to add, "but if you tell me everything, from Helgen to now," she pointed down at Dawnbreaker, still at the Altmer's hip as though wishing for details of the blade's acquisition to be part of the story, "then I'll put in a word with my mother. She's one of the most respected members of the College, and the dean of signs." 

  "Is this whole bloody city run on deals?" Emeros groaned, rubbing his temples. Phoebe laughed again.

  "I'm afraid so, mister Nightlock." 

  This was the only way they would get into the College at this rate. He knew it, and he prayed that the other two also understood such. With trepidation in their breaths and discomfort building into their bodies, they told her. Only the facts, the easiest of them. Helgen, how none of them meant to wind up there, then Riverwood and Whiterun and the Western Watchtower. The road to Solitude, coming to the city the day of Roggvir's execution, then the pardon letter. The amount of details they omitted would be shameful in the minds of biographers and historians. All personal squabbles, moments of doubt and distrust, Athenath's thievery and Wyndrelis' necromancy and Emeros' stubborness all pulled like wayward stitching from the tapestry they wove for her. Yet, by the time the tale was finished, she seemed satisfied. Leaning back in her chair, Phoebe mulled the narrative over, before speaking again.

  "Do you think the Greybeards will let you three go?" 

  It was a question none of them had considered in all its depth. Emeros had hoped so, that by ignoring them, they'd get the message. That they were not interested in this Dragonborn business. That it was nothing worth concerning themselves over. "I'm not sure," he finally replied, "but we have to hope that we'll be allowed time." 

  Phoebe rose, smiling broadly as she placed her cap back on her head. "I'll speak with my mother. The schedules are not yet finalized, and they're actually very short on students, so I'm certain they'll find room for you." 

  She ducked out the door shortly after, plucking a dried fig from a bowl of one of the bards on a short break, the pair exchanging quick jokes and laughter before she left. Old friends, he had to figure, with the way the two winked conspiratorially at one another. Emeros' shoulders drooped, pushing his plate aside. Every time he thought of the dragons, of Helgen, the Western Watchtower, the execution of Roggvir, the fort and the temple... he lost his appetite. The events haunted him, hounding his dreams, caging him in their tight claws. Shall he be forced to tell the barest bones to people who demand these stories for the rest of his life? 

  He looked across the table at Wyndrelis, who drank the rest of his tea and finished his meal in the quiet. He didn't appear outwardly perturbed, but there was something to his posture that betrayed a discomfort. A tightness in the way he moved, a gritting of the jaw. He looked to Athenath, who despite the excitement at the chance to get into the very place they'd come to this war-torn province for, wouldn't look anywhere but the plate before them. The Altmer's hair ran in dark curls down their shoulders, and he tucked a measure behind his ear, the only motion their hands dared to make. With a gentle, apprehensive shove, he pushed his half-finished meal it to the side, and rested their jaw in balled fists. They looked into the middle distance of the wood grain, and dared not touch their drink nor meal for the rest of the evening.

  Emeros managed down two last forkfuls of fish before he rose. He did not say a word, turning in the direction of the trio's room. He knew their footsteps were behind him, the pair matching his weary gait. He would open the door to allow his friends into the room, shut it behind all of them, and make the gargantuan effort to prepare for bed. Tidy the room, check over gold and supplies, wash up, crawl into the blankets.

  Sleep eluded the three that night. 

Chapter 32: An Uncertain Sun

  A recurring sensation crept down Athenath's arms. That sadistic, serpentine looping of leather that tied their hands together so that they could not fight back against the soldiers that scoffed at his fear, or worse, relished in it. He could scrub his arms red and raw in the baths or wear a million bracelets of the heaviest gold, and they would still feel them when they thought too long of the outpost a little ways from Pale Pass. 

  No matter what they did, he still felt the restraints. 

  The story told to Phoebe was a short one: none of them knew why they were on the prison cart, they got out, went to Whiterun, and came to Solitude because Athenath wanted to be a bard. The three elves explained that splitting up one at a time, at their long-sought destinations, would be safest. No mentions of Rorikstead or the Alik'r Warriors, none of the book which weighed Athenath's pack down, nor the corpses Wyndrelis had given purpose. Just the easy-to-swallow medicine given to the Altmer when he was a sickly infant. A truth, halved the way one did a fruit. 

  The night air wrapped around him like a shawl. The last hours of Last Seed faded into the background of midnight hums, blanketed new in the birth of Hearthfire. The sea swaddled the sky, stars nothing but jewels cusped in silver. The endless rush of noise beneath the city from the sewers that ran deep into the land bridge rattled under his feet as they stood outside the doors of the Bard's College. Stained glass and filigree. Shapes of flowers, Dibellan imagery laid bare. Deep, purple hues mingling with the sweetest azure, all wrapped the same as hard candies in shades of cream that surrounded them. The place Athenath had fought so hard to find. The foundation that they had longed to touch, himself akin to a priest on a holy pilgrimage. 

  This was what he'd wanted. He drew in a breath. Well, wasn't it? The taste on their tongue soured. Admission had, for the past smattering handful of years, meant auditioning before the headmaster, aptitude for the arts acknowledged, spot earned. It had meant doing the work, fruits of their labor bundled in the end of their tunic. It had not meant someone else sealing the deal by recounting the bare bones of Helgen to now to some random scribe who could get them in because she had connections. It had not meant letting someone else do the talking while they sat back and answered whichever questions the scribe could come up with. It had never meant that he should not be a main participant in his own fate, writer of their own scroll, maker of their own history.

  It had never once, in all their years spent toiling over songbook and tambourine and questions bombarding other performers in vain hopes of joining their ranks, meant letting someone else take control and handle it for them while they idly twiddled their thumbs. 

  Their cheeks flared hot in the dim light as they made their cautious steps into the courtyard of the college. Their boots seldom made a sound against the stone as he inched forward, all the way to the back wall, to the view of the sea. Resting their chin in the heel of his palm, they watched the waves, reflected moons winking back at them through the thin bands of clouds. Athenath had wanted this more than anything, so why did his stomach twist and sink down like a heavy weight? 

  "...The sword was a gift, you see, for fulfilling someone's wishes. It was a bit of a hassle, perhaps, but it's a good sword." The words had left Emeros' lips flippantly, with a meager grin as though it were a little joke. Like he could brush everything under the rug that had been done to acquire Dawnbreaker. The events at Mount Kilkreath had been more than a stumbling block on the trio's way back to Solitude. It was a fucking nightmare to get through that temple, and the Altmer still shuddered when they reflected on the voice of the Daedric Prince who pulled them into the sky and out of their body to command him to her will. The events that glowed ice-hot in their mind had given Athenath a glimpse of something they'd never understood, the Princes that people both feared and upheld all at once.

  They didn't feel the nails pricking their palms until the sharp sting became too much to block out. They loosened their balled fists and inhaled, the salt-sea air filling his lungs. Where did this anger come from? They turned their back on the waters and leaned against the wall, sliding down to the smooth stone. Why did it wriggle its way into his head? It writhed like worms through grave dirt with the wrath of the dead at its heel. The Altmer raked their fingers through his curls, dark eyes rummaging the landscape for some sort of focus. A house, or maybe a business, sat across the street with the strong scent of lavender tinting the breeze, their senses focused on the sprigs as they swayed in the wind. The bard sat there a while, letting it perfume the world around them, the sweetness of it plucking away the anger until it melted into a foreign exhaustion. He'd been wide awake mere moments ago, or so he thought. Yet the cool air, the slosh of the waves, and the smell of lavender fresh and sweet lulled them to the need for rest.

  On weary legs, the bard rose and dusted himself off, setting their way back to the Winking Skeever with meandering footsteps. The door budged open with their shoulder, and he looked about, though his eyelids grew heavy every second he spent standing. Some patrons drank themselves into sleep at a couple of the tables, and the innkeeper's son had the task of trying to rouse them. Athenath crossed the room and watched from near the stairwell a while, the noises of awkward intakes of breath, some startling, then complaints that this was the best sleep they've gotten in a while. Why'd Sorex have to wake them up? The man would sigh, mutter words of understanding, and ask them to either rent a room or go home. Then, they'd either pay or not. Some would struggle up onto their feet and wander the long streets home, or shuffle by Athenath with the man leading the way to each room. 

  Once the room had cleared of unfamiliar faces, the bard looked to Corpulus, busy now cleaning the tables, the weight of their eyelids threatening to send them to the floor. As alert as he could keep himself, he leaned against a pillar and commented, "guess the war's toyed with everyone's sleep lately."

  Corpulus paused, brow furrowed until it made little lines above his nose. Athenath thought he was going to reply, but after a moment of this silence, he went back to cleaning, piling mugs and tankards into his arms to bring to the counter. "You should try to get some rest, too," he said, not looking their way, "it's probably past one in the morning. I'm only up because people were still down here." 

  They shrugged into their weary shoulders. He scanned the other, as if searching desperately for something to say. Then, the Altmer darted their gaze to the door, then to Corpulus. Circles thick under his eyes, the innkeeper left Sorex the task of handling the dishes. Athenath observed the pair a while, receding into the shadows as they chatted quietly to one another. The allure of sleep crept through the Mer, and soon they found the stairs beneath himself, trudging up with weak limbs.

  The door to the trio's room creaked open, and Athenath muttered curses under their breath at the hinges, bitter mixture of a grimace and a smile on his mouth. He shut and locked the door, relief slacking their joints when they saw that the other two hadn't awoken. They slid into their bedclothes, tossed their usual traveling garments onto a chair haphazardly, and found the quickest way under the covers. Crawling slowly up the mattress between their companions, he peeled the blanket back at a meticulous pace, enough room that they could tuck their legs up to himself and set the material back down, stretching, fingers pulling his hair from under his shoulder. 

  Emeros rolled over, his restless, half-lidded gaze set on the Altmer. "Either we'll have to reassign sleeping arrangements, or you'll have to plan your night walks for before bed," he whispered, his words slouched in his mouth as if arranged on a shelf to lean against one another due to far too much space. 

  At the sight of his face in the dim, the writhing in Athenath's gut threatened to boil over, the anger from their walk bright and hot in their chest before being snuffed out the same way they did the candles that evening. It was as if the wrath had never been there at all, instead replaced with a null space in their abdomen, an undisturbed quiet, lifeless soil. Tension he hadn't even known he was carrying fled out of their muscles, an ache snaking its way up their body. 

  "Mm, we'll work on it," Athenath dismissed in a hush, raising a hand from under the covers to wave it in a little gesture in the air. A smirk crept up his mouth as he spoke, the Bosmer rolling his eyes before turning back over. There hadn't been a single hint of annoyance in him when he'd spoken, something that troubled Athenath more than if they'd been scolded in the harshest tongues. He knew how to take that. He didn't know how to handle this. 

  He rolled over onto his back and watched the ceiling sway as dreams coiled around their consciousness, eyes closed, falling backwards into the dark like an open crypt.

---

  The college rose beautiful and swan-like before the trio, Athenath's neck craned to drink in the sheer magnitude of the architecture in the daylight. The land bridge offered little in outward space, and so the Bard's College - and the rest of the city, for that fact - had built upwards. The stained glass, so beautiful at night, now shone in all its brilliance. He swore that if he stared at it long enough, he could find so many more intricacies, a dozen little details in equal beauty. 

  The morning had been breakfast and laundry, anticipation building in the Altmer's chest. They shoveled down mouthfuls of porridge with honey drizzled over the top, catching the curiosity in both of his companions eyes. This did not hinder the younger Mer's excitement. Instead, they sprinted through the meal and spun from their seat to stand, a seemingly out-of-place urgency forming the bulk of their actions as he washed up and combed through their hair with the small, dwindling container of rosemary oil, the curls forming into the soft ringlets and waves they spiraled into as he dragged the ivory teeth through the lengths. He had to look presentable. This was the rest of his life, no matter how short. To be a bard whose opportunities opened up like flowering honeysuckle on the vine. He would find himself in palaces and kingdoms and cities from one end of the continent to the other, the possibilities spread like open arms to welcome him, eternal and endless.

  But that was later, a future worlds apart from his present. A woman whose blonde hair was held back by ornate pins waved the trio inside, shoulder and foot propping the door open. She looked them up and down before she opened her mouth, lips painted with a mixture of pigment extracted from flowers and wax. "My sister sent word that there would be some last-minute applicants," she greeted as her long sleeve billowed with the motions of her arm. "If you'd come with me, I'll show you around." 

  The tiles, polished just as well as the floor of the Blue Palace, reflected the colors of the stained glass. Some sections were plain and see-through, though warbled or misty, the sky outside distorted through these pieces and towering with high billows that sometimes foretold rain. Athenath stepped through the threshold, half-breathless at every detail. As he looked around, he couldn't squash the feeling that it was as though he'd stepped into another world, one built of marble and tile and the faint smell of woody, floral perfumes, the walls above the trio fortress-like as his friends looked around with a measure of uncertainty. If the tapestries in the Blue Palace were grand, then the tapestries here were just as, if not more so. The colors, fresh and bright and rich, shone off the materials they were embroidered into, each tapestry in its place against the walls or hanging from the ceiling. He looked to the large, stone statue of Dibella stood near the stairwell, fresh flowers tossed at her feet. Shifting his attentions, they found the displays of instruments from all across Tamriel which sat along the room, plaques detailing the histories of both the items and those who'd held them once before. There, too, were ancient tomes encased in locked displays, parted pages revealing only fragments of the story within. On the walls near the stairwell, too, were paintings strung high in intricate frames from artists across the continent. The whole room enchanted the soul in the daylight, and the Altmer could not shake the sensation that this was where he was meant to be, even if it meant abandoning the world outside for an eternity-and-more.

  The woman introduced herself as Corinne, easy steps keeping pace before the trio, her gown bright shades of daffodil and saffron while her vest was embroidered in warm reds and oranges and hints of blue. She carried herself tall, in a way that almost made it hard for Athenath to believe she was Phoebe's sister, were it not for the shocks of resemblence. The same, square cheekbones, the thin mouth, the chin carved to a fine angle. She, too, held the slight point in the ears, though hers was more pronounced, and her earrings decorated them heavily. As she navigated the halls with all the familiarity of one who'd spent a lifetime among them, she gestured with a flat palm towards displays, explaining what they were and not to touch them, that the new students were to familiarize themselves with their names and histories. "If you fail one of Giraud's tests, I shan't say he'll be unwilling to let you retake it, but I would advise getting it right first or second try. He takes great pains to ensure his students understand the subject, and no bard worth their gold forgets history so easily." 

  Athenath swallowed hard, their stride slowing as every display seemed to leer at him while he passed. Memorizing details from merely reading a subject had always been difficult, amplified when under pressure, an unfortunate fact he'd discovered while learning from the priests of Mara. Gaps would crop up from nowhere in their recollections, their head dizzy with the loss of important information even mere hours after it had been taught. He looked back to Corinne, who now led the group down another corridor. She moved her eyes to two stacks of papers, and pulled three sheets from each, passing them into the waiting grasps of the three elves. 

  "You will need to look these over. Viarmo may have some work for you in order to officiate your admission, but aside from that, I believe we're all set. First term students have set schedules, for the most part, of required courses. Instructors make the final say, and there is some breathing room to take more." 

  "Which ones would those be? The required ones, I mean." Emeros quirked a brow, scanning the information before him, clutching the paper that held writing tight. Athenath looked over at the sheet in his hand, then to the identical one in their own. The next one was blank, with space for a name and room to write down what the student would be doing here at the college.

  "Giraud's history courses, sign language, and at least one instrument, though it will be expected of you to give all the instruments offered a go. You will also be required to memorize poems, songs, recite the Edda, and perhaps perform plays. That is, if we're able to put them on this year."

  "Right, I've heard of the Burning of King Olaf," Emeros replied, examining the list again and again. Athenath turned to him, confusion riddled on his face. 

  "Wait, you know about that?" They asked. The Bosmer nodded, while Wyndrelis raised a nervous hand. 

  "Do we get to choose which instrument we learn first?" the Dunmer asked. Corinne gave a nod of affirmation.

  "Yes, of course. But be forewarned, they are not easy undertakings. You will be expected to learn the history of, care of, and playing of every instrument we offer. As for the first one you learn, that is your choice." 

  Athenath's eyes lit up. Even though the history and care daunted him, the chance to hold a lute in their arms was far too exciting to hide the way that it thrilled them. "So I could learn the lute first?" 

  "Yes, but you will be expected to understand and summarize its history, as well as the proper care techniques for it," Corinne stressed. "Most students won't begin to so much as purchase their lute until around two weeks into the classes, if not further, as we place no strict time limits on one's studies. And we expect prospective bards to care for their instrument, not simply archive this knowledge in the backs of their minds. Several aspiring bards' instruments, and their careers, have suffered due to negligence." 

  Athenath's shoulders slumped. They had understood all of this innately, but time was a fickle beast, and it often took him more than the usual hours allotted to understand things like Corinne described. How long would it be until he was playing the lute, finally named the bard he'd worked so hard to be? A cold air of defeatism passed over him like a warm blanket snatched off his shoulders, but they ignored the sensation, pushed it down deep, and instead gave a feeble smile. 

  Corinne's eyes scanned from one Mer to another, before saying, "if that's all in the way of questions, I'll show you to the dorms. You'll meet our headmaster, Viarmo, later this evening when the bards take supper." 

---

  The dorms of the Bard's College were more like over-glorified closets, in terms of size. The beds were sturdy but set on ancient wooden frames, with mattresses depressed from years of other eager young performers sleeping on them. Each dorm contained a desk with its own quill and inkpot, a chair, and a small bookshelf near the door. A couple of candles in silver holders rested on the squat dresser next to the bed, and the bottoms of the doorways themselves were an inch or so off the ground so as to allow the warmth of the central hearth to trickle in during Skyrim's frigid nights. Right now, the fire in the common area burned to a mellow pitch, the long corridor kept from both chill and overbearing heat by the diligence of the staff. Corinne pointed out several rooms that were already taken, and offered to jot down which rooms the three elves chose. 

  While the three had their pick of any room they liked, and the dormitory stretched to accommodate plenty of students - with a hall that led to a lower level, Corinne explained as she pointed to it - the trio could not help the force of habit. When they looked to one another, Athenath knew that what he was thinking, the other two already agreed with, no words exchanged between them. They picked out three rooms right next door to one another, and Corinne noted the positioning down on a scroll she carried at her hip in her long-fingered hands. Afterwards, the tall woman left the elves alone, heading up the stairs to the main hall of the college. 

  Athenath stood in the doorway of the new room. The knowledge that he could set his belongings down, that they wouldn't have to carry their life on their back, stung with an uncomfortable sensation through him. Years of travel had given way to nomadic habits, but now they could rest without worry of paying for a room, put their clothes in the chest at the foot of the bed for longer than one night, and leave his tambourine safely alone.

  Stranger still, he wouldn't be sharing a bed with the other two anymore - likely never again, depending on if the other two wanted to stay after this term or leave for their own destinations. Athenath looked to the neatly-made bed and the thick, extra blankets piled on the foot of it, and breathed in the scent of the rushes strewn about and their clean smell. They plopped down into the chair, the wooden frame creaking under the sudden impact. After a moment of ensuring that the chair would not fall to pieces from the lightest bit of pressure applied, he pulled the papers Corinne had handed him into view, examining the words. There was no requirement on how many courses must be taken, or when, but that some were absolute requirements, and some were not. 

  Athenath picked up the quill, some of the feathers missing or worn down from years of use, and dipped it in the inkpot. Quickly, he set the blank sheet of paper onto the desk next to the one full of writing, and penned his name and the classes that he'd be attending. The list, its paper more so, looked old, and they wondered how many hands it had passed through before landing into his. He rested his chin in the heel of their palm, twisting their mouth from one side to the other, glancing back and forth from the paper to the doorway. "Hey, you two still there?" Wyndrelis popped his head in first, then Emeros. Both of them were clutching their own papers. Athenath held up theirs. "What classes are you two going to attend?" 

  Wyndrelis tittered. "We were about to ask you the same." 

  Seated together in Athenath's closet-sized dorm, they compared the papers, before finding ways to arrange it so they'd have at least one or two together. They jotted down the course names, times, and days, and gathered them together, matching grins on their faces. Perhaps it would be good to spend time apart, but for now, it would be a great ease on their minds to have a few classes together throughout the weeks. 

  Emeros cleared his throat. "If that will be all, then we should find Corinne and hand these off to her." 

  "Or Viarmo, when he gets here," Athenath suggested, "I mean, he's the headmaster."

  "We shouldn't disturb the headmaster," Wyndrelis objected, shaking his head. "Besides, we know Corinne. It would be easier, I think, to speak with her."

  "You're just shy," Athenath joked with a big smirk, "come on, it'll be fine. When did she say he'd be back?" 

  "In the evening." Emeros looked to the doorway, then to his companions with an arched brow. "Are you certain that's a good idea? Truly?" 

  "Why not?" Athenath leaned back in their chair, the question light on their lips. "In the meantime, I want to go look at those displays." When Emeros shot them a suspicious look, he huffed. "Not like that." A tilt of the Bosmer's head in the other's direction, a harsh arch of his brow, and a firm frown. "You really think I'd do that? Come on, too obvious. But seriously, if we're gonna be made to memorize the information, we should get a head start, y'know?" 

  Emeros relaxed, a grin on his lips. "I suppose that's fair," he breathed, attentions moved to Wyndrelis. "Does that sound agreeable to you?" 

  Wyndrelis rose, running his fingers through his hair. "Perhaps I can be dragged along," he joked, as if pretending he wasn't eager to leave the tiny, cramped room and explore more of the college. Athenath's own determination to know every square inch of the ancient building thrummed through them as they stood, ready to bound out the door and up the stairs the moment the other two were ready. 

---

  The manuscripts on display were the first Athenath led the other two to look over. Peering down at the glass that kept them safely contained, Athenath leaned forward, trying to digest every ounce of information they could from the plaques and the pages themselves. Some of them were old poems and epics, some were histories, all against cushioning, dark velvet. Two pages of entire worlds contained. The beauty of the calligraphy didn't slip the bard's mind, either. Every stroke of a quill in deep, vivid inks, faded only by the ravages of time, still left an impression on the Altmer as they examined the artful detailing of the letters. There, in one, an indrik portrayed in thin hues, and a poem to match its beauty. 

  They looked up from the manuscripts, their eyes falling on a tapestry above the stairwell. A plaque sat against the wall, and with apprehensive steps, he inched to it, eyes scanning the text. 

  'Wolf Queen of Solitude'

  He narrowed his gaze, reading the title over and over, along with the name attached. He looked back up to the tapestry, the deep emerald and azure hues of the background twisting into the image of an old woman, ghostly in a way which set him on edge, pale and small in the background, with a wolf making up the rest, ice-white eyes watching over all who passed under the stairwell. The weaving of it was masterful in its own right, probably taking up weeks, months, or even years of careful consideration over the colors and the pattern, of the style and the technique. Every move seemed deliberate, every choice imbued with purpose. 

  They turned, his friends already examining other works, with Emeros taking time to painstakingly read the faded correspondences on display, and Wyndrelis pouring his attentions into a painting, the details so fine that it was as though one could step right in. Sometimes, the Altmer would swear he saw the tree within it move. Athenath watched them for a moment, before speaking up. "Do either of you know who the 'wolf queen' is?" 

  Emeros straightened, rubbing at his eyes. "She was a ruler in Skyrim, was she not?" He asked, carding his fingers through his chestnut hair. "If I recall, she had something to do with a siege of Solitude, but it's been quite some time since I've heard the name."

  "That would be Queen Potema," came a voice, carried on brisk footsteps from another hall. The trio turned, their attentions fixated on the Breton coming into view, his chin held high and a smile pushing the lines finely into his warm, square face. "She was the wife of King Mantiarco, who ruled Solitude up until the one-hundredth year of the third era." He continued, bringing his hands together in front of him, elbows wide apart, his posture high and keen like a preening bird. He turned his gaze from one to the other, the elves still and quiet before him. "I assume you three are applicants to the college?" 

  A smile plastered itself onto Athenath's mouth, eyes brightened as they replied with a rapid nod, raking fingers through a section of their curls. "Yes, we're hoping to join the Bard's College this term," he answered, calming the excitement that rambled like a river under his voice. "We've completed our course selections, where do we need to...?"

  "Oh! If that's the case, I'll take them up to Viarmo's office," he extended a large, calloused hand. Emeros cleared his throat and tapped the papers into an even order before stepping over, passing them into the waiting palm of the Breton. Their handwritten responses on top, the list on the bottom. 

  "And who might you be, if I may ask?" Emeros arched a brow, the quizzical look on his face not tamping down on the Breton's grin. Athenath thought about elbowing him in the ribs, that same, wraith-like agitation that they'd hoped had been snuffed out sparking for one quick moment, before again becoming nothingness at all. A numbness, even. 

  The man laughed, adjusting the cap on his head. Dark and flat leather bent down one side, white fur surrounding the brim as two periwinkle feathers bounced from their position at the back with every movement. "Apologies, I should introduce myself. I am Giraud Gemane, the Dean of History here at the Bard's College. You will be taking classes with me sooner or later, though I'd suggest sooner, as we've a lot to cover in my course." 

  Emeros extended a hand, and Giraud shook it. He extended his own to Athenath, who took it firmly, enthusiasm in their grasp. When he extended out towards Wyndrelis' direction, the Dunmer shrunk back and waved a hand. Giraud didn't seem offended by this, shrugging as he straightened out the papers in his palm. 

  "Well, I'll see that Viarmo gets these," he turned towards the stairs, his fur-lined boots making great thuds against the tile, "and I hope I'll be seeing your faces in my course very soon." 

  With that, Giraud ascended the stairs, his steps echoing after him. 

---

  Athenath stared at the ceiling. He seemed to do a lot of that these days. Ankle crossed over bent knee, hands folded behind their head and foot swaying up and down in the air, the more time he spent in the small room, the more warmly they looked upon it. Dinner at the Bard's College was not too dissimilar to eating at an inn aside from no gold changing hands, snagging what one wanted and sitting in the dining area on the same level as the dorms. Several students flitted in and out, Athenath not catching the names of many of them. From what Corinne explained, these were the all-year students, who chose to dedicate their lives to the arts and to become as skilled as they possibly could.

  Up until a few weeks ago, Athenath would be rushing to join their ranks. Now, he wasn't so sure. 

  The shadows played on the ceiling, running after one another in shapes of licking flame, those little threads of another world he could never decipher. Up until recently, it had been Athenath's plan to join the college and remain. To kiss the world of traveling and impermanence goodbye, at least for a few years. To dive headfirst through those doors and swim through the endless hours of dedicated practice and study, to strum the lute until their fingers bled and then play some more until the beads of red ran down the carved surface, meat tender and cut down to the bone...

  The grisly image shuddered through them, the bard squeezing his eyes tight for a moment. They turned their cautious gaze to the ceiling after a few moments, heart drummed against quickly by some unseen hand of panic. As it subsided, they fixed their mind back to the focus of the moment. 

  Up until that damned cart, Athenath had anticipated a life in these doors until they had exhausted every instructors ability to teach and every patron at the inn's ability to listen, then to run out into the world fully actualized. As if these walls had the power to change them, to transform them beyond natural means. 

  But now, against all his own wishing, he wasn't so sure. 

  What had changed? Had Helgen really drawn their vision so dark that they couldn't want the light he'd carved out for himself? Had the events at the Western Watchtower and the summons of the Greybeards tainted his longing? Was there still some piece of him that longed to go up those steps, to see High Hrothgar? To see for himself what the mountain could mean? 

  Another thought bloomed in his mind, that maybe it was his compatriots he wanted to stay beside, and he knew they would leave for their own destinations the moment this term came to a close. After all, this wasn't their area of expertise. This wasn't their realm, their interests. And neither of them seemed particularly passionate about it, either. But did that really change Athenath's entire perspective on being here? Did that really affect how he wanted to spend his own time in this world, or live his own life? 

  Did they even have the final say in his own decisions? 

  Athenath bolted upright, the hard knocks at his door pulling him from their thoughts. "Come in," they called, stretching and straightening out his tunic. 

  Wyndrelis twisted the handle, then slowly poked his head through the door. "You're awake." 

  "Yeah, we seem to have this conversation a lot." the other grinned, loose curls draped over their shoulders. 

  The taller elf chuckled, sliding into the room and pushing the door shut behind him. With a patient motion, he sat down in the chair near their desk, pulling it around so as to face the other. "I suppose we do." 

  "What's on your mind?" the bard asked, pressing their elbow onto a bent leg, chin in the heel of his palm. Wyndrelis hesitated, looking to the door, then to the Altmer, his brow gravely drawn. 

  "I worry what Phoebe is going to do with the story we told her." The calm measure of his voice conveyed he'd been thinking about this for a while now, his words level and cold. He pushed his fingers through his feathery, dark hair, adding, "and I'm not sure it was a good idea to tell her anything in the first place." 

  The hearth outside spat up a small flicker, and Wyndrelis winced. The shadows drew heavy on his figure in the room, spindly and dressed in the same dark blue garments he'd worn the entire time he'd been in Skyrim, as long as Athenath had known him. He watched the Altmer, who in turn watched him, the heat of the hearth to the door's side of the room. 

  "I know," a tinge of discomfort ached at his voice as he spoke, "I don't... I don't know what Emeros was thinking, really. Gods know it wasn't... Well, it got us in, so, I know I should be grateful, but like, we don't know Phoebe or Corinne or anyone in this city, and I don't know what to, well, y'know. It's too late now. It's not like we can, well, no, it's..." Athenath trailed off, groaning and pressing their face into their hands. "Gods. You know." 

  "I do." Wyndrelis gave an affirming nod. "I understand." 

  The silence slid through the room like a blade through tallow, Athenath shifting eyes from Wyndrelis to the desk to the door, but never his face, never acknowledging their heart in their throat as the words he'd spoken rang out in his head. Did Emeros deserve blame for just trying to help? Did anyone? And did Athenath have any room to object to it? Emeros had helped them get in by having the trio recount their experiences to Phoebe, and even though it was the barest ghost of a narrative in terms of fullness, to the scribe it was a corpse dredged up heavy and wet from an ocean. The closest thing she would get to the truth. And did Athenath have any room to judge anyone for wanting that, or for providing, as long as the ends were reached? 

  Wyndrelis never moved, just watched the flames dance in the candle on the other's dresser. "I'm going to bed." 

  "Alright," Athenath replied, sucking in a breath, pulling their legs up to their chest, "me too, I think." 

  "Goodnight." The Dunmer took time to rise, every creak of the chair and crackle of the hearth spinning his anxieties into his face. 

  "Goodnight." 

  When the door shut behind him, Athenath flopped back on their bed, and continued to stare at the ceiling, a nervous sort of nausea burrowing into his stomach like an animal from the winter chill. The worry amplified in their mind, but the room around them was proof that what Emeros had agreed to did work in the trio's favor, for better or for worse.

Chapter 33: Colder Than a Smothered Hearth

  The only thing the College of Whispers had over the dorms in the Bard's College was that at least in the College of Whispers, it was quiet. 

  Aptly living up to its name, the cynosures and their shrouded mysteries kept silence a near priority. Whether this was intentional or not, Wyndrelis didn't know. This applied to the dormitories the vast majority of the time, where some students would sleep in the day and work all night, others the reverse. In a way, Wyndrelis could say he missed it the same way an amputee missed a dead limb, for the silence had its burdens that he would rather bury. The dorms had a level of peace, though, despite the ways he'd spent much of his time there. 

  The Bard's College, on the other hand, could not hope to say the same.

  It did not help that the kitchens were so close to the dorms, where a large hearth crackled and spat and the embers produced such a clear glow if he went to see the source of the noise, nor did it help that the year-round students practiced their instruments long into the night, and it truly did not help that he couldn't hear the breathing of another two elves beside him. This was the largest of his worries, whether he wanted it to be or not.

  The late-night noises of inn had never bothered him, in terms of keeping him from sleep. It was something he'd gotten used to over the years. Spending so much of his time on the road meant that the conversations, the laughter, and the playing of a traveling group of bards had become background sounds to him. But the discordance of several different songs played in several different locations cracked against his skull and thundered through his temples. He would adjust, or so he hoped. But for now, he bent his pillow over his ears, stared at the desk, and gave an incoherent grumble. 

  He made vain attempts to push away the thought of how cold the bed was, how small, how empty. 

  Wyndrelis did not like to be touched. He despised any attempts to hug him, and if someone got too close, they were entering the territory of the Dunmer not being afraid to give hard shoves and pushes back to keep someone away from him. But the minor distance between himself and his two companions in the beds they had shared, while at first well past his comfort zone, settled into normalcy to the point that not being able to reach behind himself and place a hand on one of them left the room colder than if every hearth in Solitude were smothered. 

  He would adjust.

  He turned on his other side, wide awake against his will and stared to the wall that met him all too closely, the stone not too far from his nose. How many weeks had the trio been on the road? How many days? How much time had he spent drifting off to the dying sounds of an inn at night, or to the other two's breathing, to whispers for Athenath to give back some of the blankets, for Athenath to mumble a response about how cold their back was, for Emeros to scoff and tug in a way that pulled them from Wyndrelis and left the mage sitting up in dazed, groggy confusion. A stillness, then apologies and laughter and Wyndrelis cracking a grin on his statuesque face before he gave the blankets a hard tug until they barely covered the other two, the rush of cold air raising bumps on their skin as the other elves scrambled for more warmth. Then they were up, and talking, and then back to sleep as soon as they could with a candle blown out and the sounds of movement below. 

  His chest sunk. He pulled the covers over himself and up to his nose. He would never have to worry again about blanket thieft and being kept awake. That didn't mean he couldn't miss it. 

  The Dunmer closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, the noise of instruments set aside in slow succession through the dorms sealing the silence around him, and while he did not dream - as he often did not - the whimper of the light under his door carried itself far into his sleep until it transmogrified into embers in his dark vision. 

---

  Morning roused him from bed with bone-weary apprehension. Did he want to get up? There was nothing the trio had to do, and nowhere they had to go, so did it matter when he woke or what he did with the time he had? But the rambles of life throughout the dorms caught him on its hook, the sounds of people milling about in the nearby kitchens, and even if he wanted to, it would be impossible for him to fall back asleep. 

  He greeted the cold that swept over him as he tugged his blankets off with a shudder. He pulled his clothes on in a hurry and used his fingers to comb through his dark hair, his reflection in a tray barely doing any good to guide him. When he saw that he was at least half-presentable, he pushed open the door to his dorm and stopped dead in his steps. 

  There stood Emeros and Athenath, the Bosmer's hand raised to knock on the door, the Altmer's reaching for the handle, as if they had been disagreeing over which way to wake him. He blinked, brows raised as he observed them both. Neither looked as though they had slept too well, but were still alert, dressed, and ready for whatever this day would bring. He shifted his gaze from one to the other, and entertained the notion that maybe all three of them had been plagued by the absence of the others. 

  Not likely, he scolded himself, and pushed his glasses up his nose. 

  "What do we do first?" he asked the waiting pair. Athenath grinned. 

  "Let's grab breakfast, then maybe walk around the town?" they suggested. "We haven't exactly had a chance to enjoy being in Solitude, so..." 

  "That sounds fine." Wyndrelis shrugged, his arms folded over his chest. He reached one hand back and pulled the door closed behind him, the thick noise of the wood meeting the frame making him wince. 

  "I should like to peruse the local apothecary. I've got a few things I would like to pick up, and then we've no other responsibilities." Wyndrelis looked to Emeros as he spoke, the Bosmer's words as clipped and orderly as ever, but an undercurrent of sleeplessness ran through them like a dark river. He turned to Athenath, whose usual restlessness had been replaced in the night with a mild shuffling of feet, or fidgeting of hands, running a thumb nail under the other nails on his opposite hand. 

  "I'm sure that can be arranged," Wyndrelis managed with a chuckle, Emeros' features lightening as he moved towards the kitchens, the smell of a multitude of cooked things calling their attentions.

---

  Breakfast at the Bard's College was a swift affair. Since there were only a few students, the cook - a somewhat surly, elderly Breton by the name of Bendt - had prepared enough for the staff and the year-round students. Most of whom had already fled for the local inn, Giraud joked. 

  "Well, it's not that Bendt's not a fine cook," he'd enunciated as if worried the Breton would overhear every little comment, "just that he's a little... Rough around the edges, shall we say." As he finished his statement, he winked at the three, before moving to converse with the cook himself, who acted as though Giraud's presence caused him a deep annoyance but made no move to dismiss him, nor did he tell him to leave. The two spoke with one another instead like old friends who knew each other's language, something Wyndrelis drank in as deeply as he did from the tankard of coffee he'd grabbed. He had watched Emeros handle Belethor's thorny attitude with ease, but he wondered if the alchemist could do the same with Bendt. 

  It didn't matter, in the long run, for as soon as the trio had finished their meal and washed up and gotten their gold ready, they headed out the door of the college and down the winding streets until they came to the door of the local apothecary, Emeros entering the establishment with a sort of smile that every scholar carried when in their zone of expertise.

  Wyndrelis didn't pay much attention to what was said, only that the old and somewhat frail, white-haired woman was friendly, and seemed delighted to have another alchemist in her shop. Athenath busied themself with looking over some of the dried plants in big jars, the dried petals of blue mountain flower piquing their interest the most, by the gleam in their eye and a look of briefly-widened eyes, memory knocked loose and made familiar. 

  "Hey," the younger Mer whispered with a slight urgency as he motioned for Wyndrelis to make his way over, the mage obliging with a knit brow as they pointed their finger to the jar, "look at this." 

  He peered down at the dried flowers behind the glass, the trench dug between his brows growing deeper as he narrowed his gaze. He finally looked to Athenath, who was grinning at him like a pleased cat. "What?" 

  "Made you look." 

  Wyndrelis shook his head as he stifled breathy little chuckles, waving a hand as the Altmer bit the tip of their tongue between his teeth, his own snorting subdued behind a hand. Then, they turned their attention again to the jar. His amusement turned into a fondness playing on the far-away look in his eyes while Wyndrelis watched.

  "But, seriously. A lot of people don't know this, but blue mountain flower is an extremely versatile plant." 

  "I would figure it would be, or it wouldn't be here. Or at least that it's useful," Wyndrelis replied. Athenath shook his head.

  "I know, but like... As an alchemical ingredient it's... fine, but most of the time it just gets overlooked. Some people treat it like a weed, but it's great for tea, or you can make blue mountain flower sugar, if you're a baker." They stretched their back and leaned, hands on their hips to give their spine a good bend, Emeros shifting a look their way and arching his brow before he went back to speaking with the shopkeeper. Athenath looked at the jar, then at the Dunmer again, giving him a mischievous grin. "You can also smoke it." 

  "How do you know all of this?" 

  "Sometimes you just learn things." They dismissed lightly as they turned to Emeros, busy still in conversation with the shopkeeper. 

  "So, you sell perfumes?" Emeros' hands rested at his hips, his smile polite as he asked the shopkeeper his numerous questions about her work. To this, she shook her head.

  "We mostly carry herbs and alchemical ingredients, that sort of thing. Before the war, our stock was mostly for aromatic use in homes, yes." She rubbed bony fingers over the tight knuckles of her other hand, as if reaching for something that wasn't there. "These days, we have more people like you coming in, looking for ingredients, healing, and the like." 

  Emeros - as well as the other two Mer, as if in tandem - moved his gaze towards the shelves lined with dozens of ingredients and potions, with jars filled to the brim and with baskets carrying other, fresher ingredients, those that hadn't been dried yet. "Do you sell sachets?" when she nodded, he said, "I'd quite like one to help me sleep, if you've got some." 

  The woman's face brightened, Wyndrelis watching as she reached under the counter. "I've got some bags that you can use, certainly. The local clothier makes them for me, and I enjoy letting travelers pick their own herbs to carry with them. Especially those that are just learning the trade of an alchemist. Oh, you should see some of the things the inexperienced ones pick out," she laughed, her broad smile making deep creases in her face. "How many?"

  Emeros' gaze fell on the other two, Wyndrelis locking eyes with the Bosmer for a moment, before he turned back to the woman, his earrings catching the light. "If I could get three, that would be lovely," he held up his fingers as he spoke, the shopkeeper pulling two more of the cloth bags from under the counter. He took the cloth and a few bundles of lavender from a nearby basket, shedding a backwards glance to his companions as if trying to communicate something wordlessly. She and Emeros arranged the price, the Bosmer counting his septims out quietly to himself before he passed them across the counter. 

  Wyndrelis watched for a while before Athenath piped up, "um- how much is the blue mountain flower?" 

  "Well, that depends on how much of it you're buying," the woman rubbed at her knuckles, the space between them taut as she did so, her long fingers massaging the little ridges of bone and the skin between, as if there were an ache there she could not make subside. 

  "I don't know, how much would I need to make tea with?" 

  Emeros cocked his brow, but remained quiet as the woman replied, "I would recommend getting a handful of the petals from the jar behind you, which will cost about, oh, ten septims. A flower on its own is two, so if you would prefer to buy a bundle of the fresh flowers and dry them yourself..." 

  "That's fine," Athenath gave a small laugh, before opening the jar. The shopkeeper - Wyndrelis realized he'd seen her name on the sign, Angela - confidently strode over and helped Athenath measure the amount, the pair exchanging gold as she pushed the buds into a small pouch.

  "A tea, you say?" Angela asked, a smile creeping up her lips. "I don't think I've heard of it being used for that. Why, I'll have to give it a try."

  Athenath gingerly tucked the pouch into their pocket, raking their fingers through strands of his dark hair and giving a quick nod. "It's fairly easy, the dried petals are the best for it. Drinking it with honey is best, but either way, it's a good one for calming down for the night." 

  Angela stepped behind the counter, dunking a quill in an inkpot and jotting something down on spare paper. "Oh, I could use all the sleep I can get, that sounds wonderful. You know, lavender wouldn't go too terribly with something like that." 

  Wyndrelis looked to Emeros, who in turn glanced to him, the pair exchanging curious looks as the Altmer and the elderly shopkeeper discussed the flower, the Dunmer's gaze fixing on the jar of sugary blue petals. He'd used blue mountain flower before in his studies, as it was an easy ingredient to work with and learn the properties of, but he supposed it's simpler uses were long omitted from the curriculum of the College of Whispers. 

  Once the trio had left the small shop, Emeros turned to Athenath, mouth turned into a curious line. "That was quite a surprise," he commented as Wyndrelis looked to the bard, whose attention landed squarely on the lavender and deathbell flowers so plentiful along the streets of Solitude. 

  "What was?" They asked. 

  "That you knew all of that."

  Athenath's face scrunched up momentarily, as if some notion passed through them like a cold wind, a sensation neither of the other elves could decipher. "Well, you know. You learn things when you travel." 

  "Yes, but..." Emeros trailed off, the thought evaporating into the air, carried off with the wind over the sea. 

---

  By the time they arrived back to the college, several dorms had been taken up by new and returning students alike. Even with the extra presences in the large, elaborately decorated stone building, the corridors still held an emptiness to them. The place had been built to be the home of the arts for Skyrim, but in the aftermath of the Great War, and now, in the midst of a new war much closer to home, the arts seemed to be far from the minds of many a resident in this frozen wasteland. Still, surprise wriggled its way to the forefront of Wyndrelis' mind the more thought he gave to it. A prestigious university a mere shell of its former self. Instructors passing by like fragmented spirits, with polite smiles and an acknowledging nod, but wariness caught in their eyes. He would take his time brushing by them, and would try to decipher the uncomfortable, teeth-bearing smiles. 

  He'd never been much good with reading faces, but he didn't need to be, the discomfort leapt out at him with its sharp teeth. 

  As the Dunmer peered down the hall at several figures conversing, Emeros waved the pair inside his dorm, shutting the door behind the others. "I gather that neither of you slept soundly last night." He pulled the lavender and small, cloth bags from his pockets, setting them on his desk. Wyndrelis shook his head.

  "No, but I think it has more to do with people practicing long into the night than anything else," he half-joked, rolling his eyes in a wide arc as he leaned against the wall nearest the entry, folding his arms over his chest. "And what of you?" 

  Emeros shook his head with the splay of a small grin over his lips. "No, unfortunately not, which is why I'm making these." 

  "What are they?" Wyndrelis observed the Bosmer as his nimble hands tucked dried lavender petals into the thin cloth, the material so fine and gossamer-like he could see the shapes and color of the flowers within. Emeros tied them tightly with an included ribbon, setting one aside and beginning on another.

  "Sachets." when the other two did not respond, he exhaled. "Little cloth bags of herbs, but these will contain lavender, to help us sleep. I used to make these for people when I was on the road, or working in a town. Unsurprisingly, people love someone who can help them get well-needed rest," he elaborated with a measure of pride in his voice, lifting his chin as he spoke, before returning to the work at hand. As he finished the second one, he set it aside, and began the last. 

  "So, you think it'll work?" Athenath's voice laced itself with both interest and skepticism as they plopped down on the edge of the well-made bed. Emeros had left his dorm precisely as he found it, with the sheets tucked tightly and the pillow against the headboard, with his belongings packed away in a chest at the foot of the bedframe. Wyndrelis idly wondered if Athenath had done the same, or if their room was already in a state of disarray. 

  "It should help, yes. Though, I am curious about the tea you told Angela about." He tied up the final sachet, and tossed it over to Athenath, pointing an index finger at the pillow. Athenath tucked it under quickly, putting the pillow back in place. This would happen to be the Bosmer's own. 

  "It's an old recipe my grandfather used to make. He'd usually use milk and honey for my cup because it was a bit too bitter for me," they replied, leaning back, palms pressed into the blankets, "but y'know, as I got older, I realized it's actually fairly sweet already." 

  Emeros turned, slinging his arm over the back of the chair. "Did he say where he got the recipe?" Athenath shrugged, their hands laying between his knees as he leaned forward, looking towards the doorway. Wyndrelis watched his pair of friends, his own intrigue a flicker in the back of his mind. 

  "No, not really. He wasn't the most talkative man sometimes." 

  Seemingly satisfied, Emeros plucked one of the sachets from the desk and motioned to Wyndrelis, before tossing it in the Dunmer's direction. Wyndrelis caught it, his hands wrapping around the lavender-filled pouch. The scent wafted from it with a certain heaviness, as though the flowers had only been dried recently, the hue of them fresh and vibrant. Emeros tossed the other to Athenath, who caught it against their shoulder, hands clasping the pouch. He raised it in triumph, a mirthful little chortle leaving their mouth. Then, he leapt off the bed, looking to Wyndrelis like he'd remembered something urgent.

  "Hang on," the Altmer shoved the pouch into their pocket, cursing under his breath, "I've gotta go handle something, I'll be back in a bit." 

  "Have fun," Wyndrelis replied.

  "Try not to make any connections to more Daedric Princes while you're about, will you?" Emeros called, Athenath rolling their big eyes with an even larger grin sprawled over his mouth. Wyndrelis watched through the open door as their dark curls bounced, his pack tight to his spine while he disappeared out the door, made a swift turn into their own dorm, then exited the college without a word. 

  Looking to Emeros, he asked, "how did you sleep last night?" 

  The Bosmer rested the side of his face in an open palm, moving his hand up and down slowly. "Unpleasantly. You know, I would enjoy a bit of tea. Do you think that Bendt has any brewing?" 

  Wyndrelis snorted. "Not likely. But I'm sure there's some in the inn." Emeros rose, stretched, and straightened out his vest. He pulled his cowl up to his head, the green material a familiar sight over the weeks he had known the Bosmer.

  "Shall we head that way, then?" He offered. Wyndrelis gave a singular, affirming nod, before the two set out to the Winking Skeever, Emeros locking the door to his dorm tightly. 

---

  Tea at the Winking Skeever was a limited selection, but at least they had a selection at all. Corpulus had the leaves in small, wooden boxes, and measured out the proper amount for a full flagon. He remarked as a half joke that he couldn't remember the last time someone aside from Angela and some of the Bard's College instructors had wanted tea, but he kept it on hand because they paid him well enough to do so. It had been, according to him, a pleasant surprise that the elves had requested some not too long ago. It was a rare thing out in the farther reaches of Skyrim, and Corpulus had the pleasure of making coin whenever a weary traveler from said reaches found their way to his doorstep. After all, it was from Imperial-controlled territories. After all, they had tight ties with the Empire here. Wyndrelis listened with an idle boredom, not matching the other's gaze at the mention of the Empire's grubby reaches. He purchased black tea and Sorex brewed it.

  He sipped at the blend slowly, Emeros doing the same, his amber eyes drawn to the window and the people milling about. To any onlooker, Emeros seemed to be far away while seated right there, his thoughts drawn over the distance. Wyndrelis, at first, had found this quality of his uncomfortable to handle. But he also knew from other scholars he'd encountered in the past that such a distant gaze gave life to new ideas, or conspiracy against their academic foes whom, when not in the grips of research, they could call friends. He often did wonder if Emeros had learned from a formal institution. If he had not the chance, where would he be now? Surely somewhere better than this, he scoffed inwardly as he flicked his white irises over the little inn. It was a nice spot. It was still out of place for someone who spoke as Emeros did, held his head up, had all the confidence of a Thalmor ambassador without any of the allegiance or titles. Emeros had mentioned being part Aldmeri, and he spoke - especially in moments of great stress, such as trying to acquire a pardon from General Tullius - as if he belonged with their nobility. Not here, in this tundra province, at a college for bards that he never would have attended, were it not for the three elves crossing paths in the worst circumstances. He belonged anywhere but here.

  "Classes begin in a few days," Wyndrelis managed, the conversation off to a quiet, fumbled start, "do you think more students will come to the college?"

  Emeros, still peering out the window, answered after taking a long sip of his tea, "not likely. I believe we've seen everyone, or we will by the end of the day." 

  "I suppose that makes sense." The mage replicated the action, a long swallow from the warm drink, the leaves lapping at his mouth as he took great care to avoid them going down his gullet. "Do you think it will be like this in Winterhold?"

  At this, Emeros turned, uncertainty tainting his calm features like dye. "I doubt we'll see many people there at all. Nords and their suspicions of magic, and whatnot," he returned with a handwave, "but I suppose that means we'll have the focus of the instructors, and get the pleasure of worrying less about them being stretched too thin." 

  "Good," Wyndrelis grinned, "I would like to have time to speak with them."

  A long pause nestled against the table, the Bosmer drumming his fingers along the side of his tankard, gaze drawn squarely to the wooden surface now. When he looked up, he did so with furrowed brow and a glint to his eyes that set the mage on-edge. "If I may bring it up again," he started, slow, the words creeping at the line of his mouth, "about Fort Hraggstad-"

  Wyndrelis shook his head. "I understand."

  "No, what I mean is-" Emeros sucked in a breath, and released it in a quick, harsh noise. He scrubbed at his face with a hand, resting his elbow then against the table's surface. Wyndrelis observed him carefully in this moment, the alchemists' demeanor shifted radically from the light conversation had in the dorm. The Dunmer had long since understood that the pair's amends were made. He would not have gotten him a meal and drink that night, he would not have made him a sachet of lavender today, were they not on good terms. Still, uncertainty crept into him, his pulse raised. "What I mean is that, while I'm, shall we say, unfavorable towards that form of magic-"

  "Emeros," Wyndrelis breathed, quiet laughter rattling from his lips as he pressed his forehead against the heel of a grey hand. "I understand." 

  The pair sat in silence as patrons flittered through the room, from table to one another to table, the innkeeper and his son busy at work. One of the bards was still playing, the others tuning their instruments or taking a break, the room full with the sounds of many voices overlapping with common songs, either from a lute, a flute, a drum, or sung. When Wyndrelis looked to Emeros, the Bosmer was drinking the last of his tea, scrutinizing the black leaves at the bottom.

  "Hm, well," he muttered to himself, "that's interesting."

  "What is it?" Wyndrelis leaned over to look as the door to the inn swung open with a force. The pair darted their eyes up, Athenath marching over to their friends and plopping down in the chair opposite Emeros with a huff and a fold of their arms. 

  "I thought you two were back at the college, I kept looking for you," they pouted, the clear gleam of good humor coating every word. They had no ability to keep that grin off their face, Wyndrelis mentally noted as it twitched and struggled against their attempt at a look of frustration. Emeros tsk'd and clicked his tongue at the bard. 

  "Well, perhaps you should have come with us instead of running of to do... Whatever it was," he hummed, Athenath batting their lashes. Wyndrelis folded his fingers together, elbows atop the table.

  "Yes, what was it you were doing, exactly?" 

  Athenath's pout disbanded like a small army into a sly smile. "That's for me to know," they sing-songed. After a moment, his gaze fell on Emeros, who had since returned to peering down into the bottom of his tankard with a furrowed brow. "What is it?" 

  The Bosmer clicked his tongue and waved his hand before his face relaxed, reaching for the warm flagon filled with the brew, closest thing to a teapot at the inn. After all, at least with something sturdy like metal, there was no worry of someone breaking it in a drunken brawl. He poured himself some more and sipped slowly, his actions and demeanor both absently brushing away the question. Athenath looked at him with a level of skepticism before deciding to file it away for later, elbows resting on the table. Emeros slid an empty tankard their direction, and the Altmer took it and thanked him and poured their own tankard full of the brew. The leaves had steeped far too long; it was going bitter, very dark, and would not taste the same as the pleasant cup that Wyndrelis was near finishing. He could sigh In disappointment about it later. 

  The pair continued to go back and forth over what Athenath's errand had been, the Altmer shoving off questions with a coy smile, Emeros rolling his eyes as the conversation devolved into them improvising with one another like theatre performers in the Imperial City, much to Wyndrelis' amusement. While he watched them and tossed his own jokes into the air for them to bounce around, he looked to the door, then to the high windows, and the chandelier above their heads. He had to wonder, try as he might to not think it over too much, what Emeros had seen at the bottom of his drink. He'd heard of the art of reading tea leaves, a form of divination popular in Hammerfell, High Rock, and Morrowind, but whether or not the Bosmer knew how to do so was another topic he did not feel there was time for. 

  Still, he could have sworn for a brief moment, he saw the image of an arrow pointing eastward at the bottom of the tankard. He had only seen such once in his life, the scattering of wet dregs in the cup of his old mentor, who had made a thoughtful noise and noted it down in a journal he kept. He'd never learnt what it meant.

Chapter 34: Summons

  The next morning came into being with a familiar haze, the way that dreams formed a thick slurry of colors, sounds and creaks as they struggled to reconcile themselves with reality. He could return to himself in these moments, no gazes upon him and no questions demanding answers, just his form under the blankets. He breathed in and rested his palm on the pillow, linen slightly coarse beneath the heel, the pads of his fingers, his cheek. He dragged his hand through his chestnut hair and sighed, unable to dwell too long in the warmth of the bed. When his eyes finally cracked open, he noted the letter which had been passed under his door, cream paper on the stone. Groggy from the restless state he'd found himself in since arriving in Solitude, he slipped his legs off the bed, made the couple of paces to where it lay, and plucked the note off the floor, blanket still slung around his shoulders. It bore a red wax seal, bearing a lute shaped into a V, or perhaps a V shaped into a lute? Emeros didn't let it trouble him too long before he seated himself on his bed, prying it up until he could read the curled script. 

  The letter, in short, was a summons from Viarmo up to his office in the high tower of the college. He scanned the inky words over and over again. The lack of detail twisted in his gut. Up to his office? For what? What would the headmaster want with him? He could sense a sickness wafting over him at the nerves it provoked. He set it aside and let his lungs fill with air. It said that all three should come at their nearest convenience, but he'd done this dance all too often, and knew it meant immediately. He fished his trousers out of the pile he'd set his clothes in and tugged them on, trying not to rush himself, tunic, vest, and belt following. He arranged himself to be presentable, and checked his reflection in the silver platter all dorms seemed to come with in lieu of real mirrors. He'd scrub his teeth after breakfast and shave, but he couldn't ignore the gnawing in his stomach of both hunger and worry. 

  Emeros pushed open the door to his dorm, only surprised for a single moment to see Athenath and Wyndrelis waiting for him outside, voices shushing as they held up their own letters. 

  "Well, we knew it couldn't just be for the two of us," Athenath snorted, a grin on their carmine mouth, but worry in their round eyes. His tunic hung off their tired frame, no vest to add shape to the garment. Wyndrelis, on the other hand, was fully dressed for the day, capelet and boots included. He looked between the pair and their differences, and stifled a yawn behind his hand.  

  "I would certainly hope not," Emeros replied, half-sluggish, pulling shut the door to his room behind himself and locking it. "Shall we go now, or do you two have plans first?" 

  Wyndrelis gestured with a jab of his thumb towards the kitchens. Silent, but understood by the other two. Breakfast first, wake up a while and talk it over, then go. Whether it was nervous apprehension or simply wanting to be awake a bit longer before presenting oneself to the headmaster of the Bard's College, Emeros didn't care. He needed time to think this over. In his short time in Skyrim, he'd met two Jarls and two dragons, crossed from one end of the province to the other, handled a Daedric Prince's bidding, and earned the title thane in one Hold. Of all these things, being summoned to Headmaster Viarmo's office sent the most dread to tighten around his throat. He'd never been able to access a formal academic institution; his tutoring had been through private instructors back home, and even when he'd begun to learn alchemy, much of it was done on his own while making best use of whatever materials he had on hand. The notion that in the short span of time the trio had been in this building, they may have already made a grave move against the college... He had to swallow down his nerves. He knew that there had to be not only a logical explanation for this, but one that was less harrowing than whatever half-baked ideas flashed through his mind. He mostly wondered now, with all three of their trio summoned, if this had to do with their courses or with their pardon. Perhaps those once considered criminals in the Empire's half-blind eyes were seen through a more-than-skeptical lens, especially considering the priceless artifacts housed within these walls and protected by its dozens of watchful tapestries.

  Bendt was in his usual mood. There was a mutter, a snide comment of congratulations to the three for finding the kitchens, and Emeros watched as Athenath scrunched up their nose in an attempt not to say anything, whereas Wyndrelis hovered in awkward steps in the doorway for a moment until the Bosmer waved him inside. This must be why most bards took their meals at the inn, Emeros thought as he pulled a plate to himself, filling it with fresh slices of rye and cuts of seasoned elk. A Nord sat at one table, one white-blond braid at the side of his head, tending to the drum cradled in his arm, a bowl of troll fat to his side. He used a cloth to diligently rub the fat into the wood and the animal skin, a method of preserving his instrument. When the Nord noticed the Bosmer staring at him, he flashed a small smile. 

  "Good to see new faces," he remarked, his face paint a greyish color as it drew across his eyes and his upper nose like a cloth blind. 

  Emeros gave a quick, curt nod. "You've been here a while, then?" He asked, arching a brow. The Nord's small laugh was a refreshing sound as he went back to his work, his light irises focused on the object in his strong arms.

  "I have been here for several years, yes. I'm close to graduating, and were it not for the Burning of King Olaf festival being on... Indefinite hold, shall we say, then I would be inducted as a formal bard and graduate." 

  Athenath looked up, having been in the midst of his intense, silent selection between the fruits and a boiled creme treat, their eyes latching to the Nord. "It's on hold?" 

  "Yes, until we can get it settled with Jarl Elisif... Well, I don't foresee the festival being put back on any time soon." He blew a breath that curled his upper lip with its exit, and looked to the bowl of troll fat, scrunching up his nose for a moment. "Can you believe there is no way to make it smell any better?" After a moment spent peering into the grease he'd been using on his drum, the Nord flit his hand as if batting the thought away, before looking to the three. "I am Jorn, and you are...?" 

  "Emeros," the Bosmer plucked a bundle of small, ripe berries from a platter, half-leaned over the Altmer. Soon, fruits like these would be mostly found in dried form as the harvest seasons ended and winter began, but for now, it was nice to have the fresh, juicy versions of them on hand, especially when on the road. An extra source of water was always welcome, no matter how meager, and on the road as he'd been so many times, it was vital to keep water in one's body. He brushed the thought away. He had no intentions of being on the road any time soon, gods willing. He'd seen enough of Skyrim's landscape for a while. 

  Jorn looked to the other two elves, one brow cocked. "And you two are...?"

  "Wyndrelis," the Dunmer replied flatly, gesturing to the shorter figure, busy at the moment with filling the trio's tankards with coffee, the brew made early that morning in a large container that, because so few bards ate here, Emeros surmised, didn't often empty. "And that one is Athenath." 

  "Well, I welcome you to the Bard's College. It's a lovely place, even if you're missing out on our main festival." 

  With that, the Nord went back to tending his drum, troll fat on the rag giving off a noxious scent to anyone too close. Emeros moved to a table a good few feet away from the Nord so as not to breathe it in, able to tell from the sunlight slant he noticed at the stairwell that it was likely nine in the morning - a solid three hours past when he normally climbed out of bed. He wasn't used to waking up so late. He'd always been an early riser, what had gotten into him? Exhaustion, perhaps, he dismissed as he bit into his breakfast. 

  "So," Athenath spoke up after a while, the three attempting to fully pry themselves from any dreams and good sleep they'd had into the waking world. The Altmer seemed to be having a time of it, his hair still unbrushed and his belt probably laying somewhere on the floor of his room. "Viarmo. What do you think he wants?" 

  Wyndrelis poked and prodded the filet of slaughterfish with his fork, lip curled downward, digging a deep dent into the side of his mouth. "I hope it's nothing important." 

  "He's probably incensed that we've become students without auditions," Emeros joked with a chuckle, sipping at his coffee. "With our luck, he's demanding we audition in his office so he can glare at us with utmost contempt for our bypassing of the usual admission process." 

  "I don't think that's it," Wyndrelis hummed, "but if it is, then you and I are out of luck." 

  Emeros stifled a laugh, shifting his gaze to Athenath, who stared down at their plate with a distant gaze. With his grin still on his mouth, but a concerned narrow of his brow, the Bosmer nudged them gingerly with his elbow. "Chin up, you'll do perfectly fine if that is the case."

  Athenath looked to the other two, eyes darting between them, a nervousness now evident in the knit of their expression. "You think?" 

  "Well, you're certainly not getting kicked out," Wyndrelis replied. Then, after a silence, asked, "do you really think that's it?" 

  The Altmer pulled a length of their curls over their shoulder, raking his fingers through them, biting the inner edge of their lip, gaze firmly on the table. "I don't know. I have to wonder, y'know, what he could want with us in his office." 

  "Oh, relax," Emeros waved away. "I'm certain that's not it. However, I do have to wonder what compelled him to send us letters, instead of simply summoning us later in the day. Not to mention, saying that he needed us there as soon as possible..." he trailed off, rubbing his chin with the crook of his thumb. "Well, we shouldn't focus too hard on it right now. Let's just wake up and see what he wants when we get the chance." 

---

  Even though he outwardly dismissed all worry about Viarmo's summons, the alchemist couldn't help the gnarling bramble of nerves turning over in his abdomen. Sharp and poisonous, he had to wonder what the headmaster could want with three of the new students, what matters he could bring to their attention, what sort of problem he could possibly have with people who had not even begun attending classes yet. He didn't see anyone else with the letters, but perhaps this was something he did here and there to check on new people. For all he knew, the headmaster could have summoned Jorn the same way on his first few days at the college. What did it matter, anyhow? If the trio were in real trouble, he had to imagine that they'd be alerted by far more than a polite letter under the door. The idea pecked at Emeros' mind, even as he made attempts to lift the spirits of his companions with discussion of the town itself. Solitude was a gorgeous city, and it wasn't hard to pick out details to bring up, from the stone walkways carefully laid to the buildings constructed of sturdy stone and surrounded by blooms of various flowers, but still, the cormorant bird of warning called in his mind, that this city was more than its opulence, and more than its histories. It was alive in a way that unsettled him. 

  He and Athenath had taken a bit of time to get ready and make themselves more presentable, but that only served to heighten their worries, taking time away from when they could be getting answers rather than washing up. Then again, he would rather not barge into the headmaster's office even the slightest bit disheveled. He'd combed his hair and washed up and draped his cowl over his shoulders, and when both he and the Altmer were ready - the younger elf taking a bit more time on his hair, dropping the smallest bits of rosemary oil through the curls and combing it through - the three set out in the direction of the headmaster's office. 

  The march lead them through the ground floor of the Bard's College, asking for directions from Giraud, who pointed them the right direction. Then, several flights of stairs and a cramped tower's well, then a knock on a grand door. A call by a gravel-voiced man lead to Emeros pushing open the entry, his friends behind him, the floors carpeted with scarlet. 

  "Ah, there's our newest students," came the voice, summoned from the throat of a sharp-faced Altmer, whose beard jutted out from his chin into a point. His blond hair was tucked underneath a grandly feathered cap, and every stretch of material on him bore shades of gold and teal. Expensive materials, and well kept, too, as there was not an out of place stitch or mended tear on them as far as the Bosmer could see, and with how rich the dyes were, he had to imagine they had been fashioned by some of the most skilled clothiers money could buy. He looked to Athenath, who fiddled with their hands, then to Wyndrelis, who shuffled his feet. The older Altmer spoke again. "I take it you got my letter, then? Good, Arteus is a great messenger, but he tends to be a bit absent-minded at times." 

  "Forgive my forwardness-" Emeros began, cut off by Athenath, who took a few steps until they were a pace ahead of the taller Mer.

  "Can we ask what this is about? I didn't see anyone else with letters." They kept their eyes focused on Viarmo, but something tense caught in their voice, Emeros' gaze snagged on the edge of their shoulder. Viarmo leaned back in his chair, his barrel-form's elaborate dress complete with his darker teal, velvet cloak covering his shoulders, slits in its side making holes for his arms to move through. The headmaster didn't speak for a while, merely touched the tip of his tongue to the inside of his cheek, and Emeros' mind flooded with the worry that his friend had just made a grave mistake. 

  He didn't voice this concern, however, as before he could put word to it, Viarmo laced his fingers together over his middle and smiled. In a low voice, as though sharing a secret with the trio, he said, "I hear you three were at Helgen. What's more, Phoebe tells me that you played a crucial role in the taking down of that dragon in Whiterun. Is this true?" 

  The trio looked between one another, sharing glances understood in the tiniest shreds of expression. To recount it all again would to bring unnecessary exhaustion onto themselves, and it would certainly leave them all in a foul mood if made to discuss too many of the visceral details. A sinking dread wound its way through Emeros' senses as he turned to the other two, and Athenath answered, "yes, sir. We, uh, didn't expect to... Encounter dragons, but we did." 

  Viarmo leaned forward, resting his clasped hands on his well-polished, mahogany desk. It was definitely imported from Alinor, Emeros thought as he drank in the details, his gaze taking long looks over each and everything of note, from the frond-like shapes in the legs of the desk along with its multiple drawers, to its mother-of-pearl adornments, its strong stature. Each carving was the pinnacle of Aldmeri wealth and pride, and he almost deigned to think of what it cost before dragging himself from such speculation. Whatever it amounted to was enough to dizzy him. Either Viarmo was a very celebrated bard in both the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion, or he had friends in high places, and he didn't find himself in the mood to question which one it was. 

  "You do realize what this means, don't you?" Viarmo pressed after a long moment, as though giving the question much more thought, himself. "The return of the dragons, that is." 

  "We figure it's probably something very, uh, historically important, that's for sure," Athenath replied quickly, managing to bubble out a small, uncomfortable laugh. "Sir, can I ask what this is about? I know we didn't audition, but-"

  "Oh, never mind that," Viarmo sat upright and waved the thought with a heavy hand away, "we've barely got enough students to justify our building right now. Yes, normally, we'd have you three audition and then carry out tasks for the college, but right now, well, it's a complex situation, you see. And what's more, with the war going on... I'm not surprised more bards are choosing to stay in their home cities or just flat out go to other provinces that aren't Skyrim." Athenath's shoulders relaxed as the headmaster spoke. The blond Altmer shifted his posture, rummaging around for extra paper and a quill, drenching the end in thick, good-quality ink. "Now, tell me about the dragons. What were they like?" 

  It wasn't hard to sum up the dragons themselves: large, threatening, gigantic teeth, and they could shout men to pieces with voices-not-like-voices. They set fire with a single word in a language as dead as their bones should be, and they swept across the land like a great shadow, chaos in its wake. Viarmo furiously wrote down every detail with the quill striking in heavy, flourishing curls, asking a question here or there to clarify details - he had to get everything accurate, it seemed. When the trio finished giving their account, he looked up with a clever grin. 

  "You know, as Giraud would tell you, history is nine parts truth, and one part fiction. Your factual accounts of the dragons are invaluable to future generations of bards who may never get to see the beasts themselves, and the college thanks you for it." As he set the paper aside to dry, he flattened a palm in the direction of the door. "If you don't have any questions for me, then you're more than free to go. Classes begin on the sixth of Hearthfire, so do be sure you have all your books and supplies. Your instructors will tell you what you need." 

  That's all? He wanted to say something, to ask what the point in this was, to dredge out every detail until the other had to put himself through a tale as horrific as what the trio had gone through, but he knew that there was no point. Emeros balled his fists behind his back, folding his hands together there in a posture that simply looked straightened and polite. He looked to the other two and wondered if they were also in the midst of their own confusion, the same way that he was, as he tried to swallow down the bitter potion of what had just occurred.

  Athenath gave a small nod, turning to the door, Emeros and Wyndrelis following close behind the younger Altmer. Dismissed and clearly having no questions, the trio made their way back down the squared, winding stairwell, to the ground floor where instruments crowded the walls on display and the voices of other bards were more audible. Several students were making their way around the main area, up and down the stairs to the dorms and kitchens, the large, museum-like lobby housing the instruments filled with more presences than the previous day. This would become routine, it seemed, for the next few days, as only meager amounts of people from all corners of Tamriel filtered into the building and made themselves at home. 

  His attentions fumbled themselves to the Altmer, whose unusually resolute face caught him off-guard. He'd not known them to be so forward, to take the conversation's reigns, and while part of him wanted to be a bit relieved and even praise them for this, his concerns again pricked him inside and out, that if Athenath had made one verbal misstep, all could be thrown into ruin or uncertainty. So long as Athenath did not speak for all of them often, then perhaps Emeros could take the brunt of questions and handle the interrogatory nature of these bards who would, given the knowledge of who they were, swarm them with insatiable hunger for details. He looked to Wyndrelis, who did not react to this, simply shrugging off the conversation as well as he could, and muttering to himself here and there about not wanting to deal with any more dragons or discussions of dragons. Emeros couldn't help but agree with the sentiment. 

---

  Evening fell faster than he'd anticipated, and the streets were either a mingle of patrons making the walk to the Winking Skeever, or back to their homes, and the quiet that draped over the city helped him take in a deep breath. The alchemist slid his knapsack from his spine, and set it on the cobblestone beneath him. His experiments had begun to ruin, their results marred by the length of time between his arrival to Skyrim and now, and there was no way that they would prove anything to Nurelion whatsoever. Some were starting to look strange in hue and there was an odor coming off of one, which indicated to him that he'd need to reevaluate the process of that one thoroughly before he continued onwards to the White Phial. He uncorked a bottle, and poured it down a hole in the sewer grate. He watched the once-vibrant liquid, now a dull shade of green, disappear into the sewers. Then, he set the empty glass bottle aside, and pried another open. This one, he scrunched his nose at the stench, must be the source of the musky and half-rotten odor. He poured it down as well. Then another, until he had four glass bottles lined up at his side. He had tried all new things with these, and while they had been both powerful and ready to be examined at the start of this journey, the changing in temperatures, the agitation, the battles, the shifting of them around at all hours of the day surely must play some part in why they had not remained as fresh and potent as they had once been, and Emeros already held some ideas as to how he could improve. 

  Once he found himself satisfied at the rushing waters below carrying the results of his work out and away from the city, he cradled the bottles into his arms and headed back to the college. He put a great amount of effort into his footsteps, ensuring that his stride was confident and slow as he budged open the door with his shoulder. He couldn't risk dropping them on the ground, he already had ideas for how to reuse the bottles for now. 

  He made a steady descent down into the kitchens and, when the room was empty, snatched a pot and began to warm a solution of water and vinegar, careful to ensure that it did not come to a boil. He had some unpleasant memories of his first attempts at this, the vapors caustic and causing him to fall into terrible coughing fits, the image of his younger self tearing the pot off the hearth with watery eyes to send the mixture flying outside into the grass a wince-inducing moment in his history. Since then, he had learnt quite a lot about how to clean out vessels for his work, and was lucky to have experienced this lesson early. With a great deal of care, he used tongs to pull the warm mixture in and out of the bottles, emptying them into a spare pot off to the side. He set them upside-down on a cloth at a long table and emptied the cookware, cleaning it thoroughly with a hard brush and vinegar. Soon, he would gather some ingredients and make more potions that would prove their use to he and his friends, but now, he had clean glass bottles and time. 

  He'd come here for a shop that, to the alchemist and his current circumstance, may as well be another plane of Oblivion altogether. The legends of Nurelion's genius had long outstretched their hands to the far reaches of Tamriel, the multitude of figures in his life who'd recognized the name and told him as much a whirlwind recollection, his longing to learn from the elderly alchemist planted decades ago. He still remembered that abnormally cold night in Bruma where, despite the summer, the weather chilled him without his cowl. He'd spent the evening in the busy, loud inn, checking and rechecking his experiments until he was satisfied with their progress. A mixture of larkspur and nirnroot here, another of a strange fungi he'd found on the side of a ruin and more traditional ingredients there, the things he'd put together through rigorous hours of study and effort. He'd had several ideas for what the potions could do and had tested them plenty of times, finding that they were capable of changing properties of other ingredients, or shifting the results of other potions in his possession, the things which he could beam with pride over in front of anyone. He'd worked night and day for months to come up with the perfect balance, the exact measurements, every ounce of the powders and roots and liquids scrutinized to Aetherius and back. His notes, too, had been exact. And he'd been ready on that cold morning to get through Pale Pass, to head up and find a carriage in the first settlement he came to, and go straight to Windhelm. Yes, he knew of the Civil War through whispers that frankly annoyed him at most, but what had that mattered to him? 

  Now, it mattered more than he cared to admit. This province was torn asunder by the bloodshed, and who's to say the path to Windhelm would have been a smooth one? He knew now he would have come across a neutral territory first, and that brought up the question as to whether the carriages - for their own safety, or out of respect to Whiterun's neutrality - would so much as step foot in Eastmarch. And since meeting Ulfric in that cart, he half-mused whether or not he would have enjoyed his time there, in one of the oldest settlements Skyrim had to offer, under rule of a rebellious Jarl. He'd not learnt much about the man, but at this point in time, Emeros could say with confidence he didn't want to know much more until it was necessary knowledge. 

  He'd set the cleaned glass in a neat row on his desk, and was waiting to dry the insides of the bottles, condensation forming inside the thin necks and dripping down onto the cloth beneath them as a knock rattled his senses, coming from outside his dormitory door. He thought about not answering, merely dismissing whoever it was so that he could focus on his work, already plotting out the ingredients he'd purchase for the potions he intended to create next. He wanted to be more practical about this, and lugging around experimental mixtures had taken up vital room in his knapsack. He looked to the entry as a knock echoed out again, and called, "who is it?" 

  Wyndrelis' voice piped up, "can I come in?" 

  He paused. "Certainly." 

  When the door opened, Wyndrelis' bashful figure shuffled himself inside, already pulling the knob until it closed behind him. Emeros cocked a brow, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. "Is everything alright?" 

  "Can we not talk about dragons for a while?"

  Emeros touched the tip of his tongue to his left canine, then his right, mulling over the question. Then, he exhaled a long, weary breath, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Gods, I would like that very much, as well." 

  Wyndrelis' relief was immediate, shoulders dropping as a long sigh left his mouth. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes caught on the floor, as though something intriguing were beneath his feet. "Good, good." 

  "I can't stop people from asking us about them," Emeros joked, "but it would be lovely if they did not come up anymore." 

  "I just-" the mage sucked in a breath, bit down whatever he'd been thinking to say, then sighed. "I am just very sick of them. As a topic. As anything, in fact." 

  "I think we all are."

  There was a delicate silence between the pair, ragged and uncomfortable, before Wyndrelis sought to break it with his words staccato in his throat. "I have to wonder if it weighs on all of us the same." 

  He knew what the other meant. How did all three of them handle this? A burden made of scales and teeth and burning flesh. Of crushed forts and watchtowers and settlements. Of words in a language they inexplicably understood, without the ability to explain it or what it meant, and the shouts... The Bosmer could see how this would lay heavy on all of them, but in what ways? Was it the existential possibility, the idea of Dragonborns and of those who carried prophecy on their shoulders? Was it the destruction that dragons brought, the terrible flights that would blot out the sky, the horror witnessed in the heat of battle with these beasts of legend? 

  "I wonder, as well. You're right, let's try to... Well, if anyone asks us about them, I'd prefer not to lie, if we can avoid it. But we should, all three of us, come up with something to say in return. To make it evident we're not here to... I don't know what it is," he pushed a breath between his teeth, raking his fingers through his chestnut hair. "Whatever we say, I should like to cut conversations about dragons short with anyone who asks us." 

  Wyndrelis gave a solemn nod in agreement. He turned his attentions to the glass bottles, and pointed lightly to one. "I didn't see you leave for the market." 

  "Oh," Emeros snorted, "no, these are... Well, were my experiments for Nurelion. But, as we're not heading that way for quite some time, and some had unfortunately expired, though I've really no idea how, it was time for me to dispose of them. I'll simply replicate them when I know for certain we're heading to Windhelm, and when I can reexamine my process." 

  "I see." The Dunmer stood at the door, fidgeting with his hands. "Were they... Important?" 

  "No, not really. I've got my notes, and I could easily remake them, should I have the proper ingredients and time, and of course, better resources than a lab made out of a room at an inn." 

  The pair spoke about the details for a while, but the day had taken its toll. Discussion of dragons had a tendency to drain all their energy, the images of fire, of burning corpses, the stench of death clouding all other thought. The only thing which drained them more was trying to explain the dragons to people who had never seen them. Between the trio, it was an understood terror, shared in silent glances and weary shoulders. So, when Emeros made an idle comment about having to dry the bottles, Wyndrelis took it as his opportunity to leave, and when he shut the door behind himself, Emeros grabbed a cloth and began to dry out the glass containers and think of what it would mean, to one day go to Windhelm, to one day be taken on as Nurelion's apprentice. 

  He knew that he could daydream about this notion for hours, but it was a fickle one when more pressing matters held themselves over his head. He had to worry about dragons, and the whims of Jarls and the military governor of Skyrim, and besides, he was soon to become a student at the Bard's College. What a strange twisting in the knots of fate. 

Chapter 35: Weight of the Air

  Don't think about it. 

  The craggy cliffs. The gnashing sea. The sharp drop, forbade only by a wall made of ancient stones that Athenath leaned his spine against, the mere thought of the far distance to the waters below drawing sweat to his palms. The gulls above and their briney white wings cast long shadows as they brushed against the stars, the kinds of shadows that made his stomach drop and chest pound, and just when he would try to believe he had his heart rate under control, it would kick itself into a full sprint. A habit of flinching.

  Don't think about it.

  Being haunted by anything other than spirits wasn't new to him. Memory was his consistent companion and poltergeist, rattling walls and windows, tearing doors off their hinges, but dragons were a new story. A force enough to easily crush the entire house of his psyche underfoot. None of the trio had seen one since the battle at Whiterun, but to him, it was like every step out of Helgen served to reinforce the dread that pitted his gut. No sense of safety to be found, no way to escape the fire that he could still smell in his dreams as if they walked over and over again into the inferno of burning hair, bubbling fat, charred flesh and children wailing for their parents while the charcoal remains lay before them-

  Don't think about it. A deeply familiar thought over the years as he stifled a gag at the imaginary stench and tried to shut out the sounds that only his mind produced. Even in his childhood, it was an instruction that got him through. 

  What was it that old priest in Bravil used to say? The lilting cant of his worn voice, the cold of his shoulder, mercy was only as powerful as one let it be? He'd lost a son to the Great War, it was no wonder the priest held Mara in such high regard. He'd paced the chapel and prayed with the young elf, much younger then, with short curls and tiny pickpocket hands. Stained glass windows poured light down on their face in the long afternoons, the young elf sweeping the chapel floors and reciting the prayers and songs with the priests and priestesses, candles lit and offerings given. The war had scarred the city and its people, and the remnants still ran through it like a gorge. The chapel still had some stones marked from combat in its walls, windows only fixed in the couple of years before the Altmer came to the town on a wooden carriage with no parents in sight, puffy-eyed and sniffling with a chaperone who did everything in his power to ease the weight on their little shoulders.

  The war. The White-Gold Concordat. Issued a handful of years before his birth and before anyone would care to know the name Ulfric, before the Stormcloaks were even a thing worth calling a group, let alone a rebellion. Yet, a shade cast itself long in the way that Anvil's driftwood spectre bobbed through the stagnant waters of his mind. Sand kicked up by shoes, running through the streets and a kindly shopkeep offering his advice, the new figures come to town, the honey-warm words offset by black robes and strict orders...

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Then, they drew in a shuddering breath, and did so again and again. 

  Flies buzzed noxiously at the drying pools left at the execution block every night, and he did not have to see the insects or hear their noise for him to know this. The rain hadn't come despite the towering clouds on the horizon, simultaneously closer and further than they'd ever been before, and no one had the stomach to wash it away with jugs of boiling water. Best to just ignore it, the consensus among every resident looked to be, the way no one could turn their neck that direction unless they had something to say about it, and he did hear them say it when in the inn. The weight of the sight he tried to block out every time he walked the direction of the Winking Skeever carried even into his dreams, the wrongness and the way that the insectoid symphonies of hunger drove the understanding. Iron and rot and the wrongness of coming into a city to be welcomed with death. Every night, he wrestled to wrench himself free of the waking world, trying to pin down sleep until he could rob the dreams from its purse. And every night, the luck of thieves betrayed him as Helgen washed ashore time and time again, or the Western Watchtower. Fort Hraggstad recently joined the march. Roggvir's head lolled, tongue on the stone, in the most recent ones. 

  So, now they stood, spine to a stone wall as if they had this wretched little hope that maybe the sea would rise to impossible heights to wrap around them, steal him from this and wash their mind out in the undertow, carrying his spirit with it. 

  The dorms stole the comfort he took in knowing other people were there, right at their side, and he missed it sorely; the stone-still sleep of Wyndrelis whose form never moved aside from his breathing, the occasional turn of Emeros whose eyes bore circles of lacking real respite but whose mind remained sharpened as a hunter's blade. The sound of laughter from under their feet and the songs carried deep into the night, now replaced with a silence as cold and brittle as tombs and so, so lonely. The more he pushed against the bulwark of memory, the more memory forced them aside, chest pounding against his best efforts and cold sweat dripping down the back of their neck and oh gods, was the tremor of his palms and the shake of their shoulders and the tightness in their lungs and the strangled tightening of their throat something more than nerves, was there a healer awake at this hour, was there someone who could fix it or were they to fall right here? Was Emeros awake? He didn't want to bother the Bosmer with his problems, didn't want to bring to attention the way a full mountain's weight pushed on them and couldn't stand the look in the other's eyes when he'd been woken from good sleep, he couldn't bear the idea of meeting that gaze in this state. Was there nothing they could do against the tidal waves that slammed into them as ragged breaths forced themselves in and out of his throat of his lungs that barely caught them that threw them right back to the air like a forceful fist, what if the ragged nature was death itself upon them, what if the fire prickling under their skin at every discomfort was Aetherius' call and claw and digging into his flesh to take his soul from it or what if it was a problem with his health, his organs, too much stress and too much done and too much-

  A light, sweet and chiming, bloomed along their insides. For a moment, all he could do was freeze in place, unsure of what the caster's intentions were or who was even casting a spell upon them, until a warmth poured from his head and down his neck and through to his feet, heart slowing to a steady rhythm, cold sweat coming to an end to leave behind only the cold, thoughts halted in their tracks. Their jaw hurt like their teeth had been chattering, and they raised a hand to rub at their jaw. He darted his gaze around, wide-eyed, until he landed on the familiar figure of Wyndrelis, hand raised with the cool, blue swirls of magicka eminating from his palm.

  As the Dunmer let the spell dismiss into fading clouds, he lowered his arm to his side, melodic chiming gone from the air to leave nothing but the winds above the sea and the footsteps of guards on patrol. "Calming spell." His voice became a grounding force, and the night bloomed again around the Altmer, with the bugs and the noise of laughter down the road, the wind and the way it whistled through stones.

  "How did you...?" Athenath managed out, half-choking on the words.

  "It's too warm a night for you to be shaking, especially like that." 

  The shivers had long subsided, but now, a dull ache remained. He had gone from rubbing their jaw to pressing a palm against their cheek which in turn began to warm, and their eyes could not bear to meet the others as he inwardly chastised himself for looking like such a coward in a space where someone could find him. All panic was swiftly swept away, replaced by shame, now. 

  "It happens." Wyndrelis' response wore on the simple shrug of his shoulders, like he had understood the other's inner frustrations without them having to say a word. Athenath watched him closely, carefully, confusion riddling their face before Wyndrelis, as if knowing their thoughts here, too, added, "you're not the only one whose been in such a state before." 

  "Oh." 

  "You should sit down for a moment. Bad nerves will tire you out faster than you think." He gestured to the worn stone pathway, which jutted down this alley and up to the wall, the earth beneath his feet tangible again as they wiggled their toes in their boots. The Altmer nodded like the words had to be hammered into place in his mind and the last letter had, at long last, been set above them. Slowly, they slid down to the ground and crossed their ankles, knees jutting outward, shoulders slack. The level of weariness that found him there was beyond anything he'd anticipated, his posture bearing no strength to remain upright and instead slumping forward. After several long moments of trying to break the spell of the lead-heaviness that made itself at home in their limbs, Athenath rested his sharp elbows atop his thighs and cupped their face and gave a long exhale, Wyndrelis coming to rest beside them, his own bright eyes focused on the street. 

  The birds crept the parapets of Castle Dour, feet fumbling for Kynareth's grace of a perfect gust of wind to drag the scent of salt and lavender through their wings. Somewhere, wolves prowled for prey, and horkers laid lazy on the shoreline. Anywhere else, deer trod through the woods, elk and moose as well, luna moths short-lived beauty in the glowing light of the moons. Animals without the same worries he bore, just to hunt or avoid being hunted. The pride of a sabre cat, or the fear of a fawn.

  "I still think about that man." Fill the silence, don't let it sit inside him, a weight in his stomach and up his sternum, solid and sour-flavored, Athenath couldn't handle it any longer. It shamed them that they couldn't remember the man's name, try as they might, scrunching his nose and knitting his brow before relaxing, making weary half-hearted gestures while their fingertips grazed the stone. "The one back at Helgen." 

  Wyndrelis sat quiet for a long while. Athenath wondered if the other even heard them until he rubbed at the bridge of his nose with pinched fingers under his spectacles and admitted, "I think we all do."

  "I mean, and Roggvir, but it's not like we knew either of them, so why... Ughh," they groaned, dragging a palm down their face as they shook their head. "It makes no sense. No fucking sense."

  "It makes perfect fucking sense," Wyndrelis stumbled out, "a few weeks ago, that could have been us." 

  "I guess."

  The moons grimaced half-circles in the sky, reflecting cursed quartets in Wyndrelis' glasses. The Dunmer, all silver and raven-dark hair and a life long lived before, settled into the silence with the Altmer and seemed to be at rest, in a sense of the word. Wyndrelis' own sleep hadn't been as deep or as comfortable as of late, based on the fact that he liked to take his walks at odd hours of the night, but then again, so did they. Had this been a habit formed many years ago, or a new adaptation to traveling with people? The one time a day where solitude could be found? And, did Wyndrelis prefer to be alone under the stars, or were there silent invitations to join him on these walks that the other two had simply missed? Athenath often speculated on the histories of their companions, his mind reading into each crease and curl of the lip or the twitch of the eye, every little laugh of the men he called his friends. The familiar visages in the daylight as comfortable and as known as their expressions in bouts of fitful sleep. Emeros, so often well-spoken, confidently poised, his tender laughter coaxing easy moods in the right crowd. Wyndrelis, a Mer carved from soul gems and gleams of magic and the silence he seemed to permeate the air with, simultaneously warm as summer's heat and cold as a bone-carved comb. 

  Where did that leave the bard, then? 

  Shadowing them, he supposed. A cat in pursuit, arched shoulders, wide pupils. A loud, whispy, twirling phantom. Not quite of this land, not entirely outside of it. The fragrant scent of rosemary traipsed through his clothes, only the faintest note of it, earth to ground them from the wanderings of clouds above. The things they lived in, lived outside of. The songs he sang, the silvery ring of his tambourine, the capering of their feet on stone, wood, or dirt paths. The lightness of their voice. The weight of the world. Did the others see them as the jovial performer he was? Did they see them for something he did not yet know of themself? Or some combination of the two, the idea swam through the mire of their tired mind. Something not quite here or there, too young and too old.

  The waves sloshed at the rocks so far below the city that their sounds may as well come from another world. The guards patroled the stone pathways, metal of their boots landing thickly as they paced through the night. Athenath watched them and tracked the movements, old habits, keep an eye out for who would and who would not notice him. It took some time for him to decide to speak again, and as they did so, they set their gaze on the mage beside himself. "How did you know where I was, anyways?" They asked, cocking a brow at the Dunmer. Wyndrelis let out a small, breathy laugh, as light as the wings of a bird.

  "You know that you're not the only one who walks at night?" He raked his fingers through his dark hair, the gold half-moon fastens of his capelet illuminated every time a guard's torchlight passed over them. "I happened to see you, and realized you weren't..." 

  They dreaded what would be said next, Athenath holding their breath. Graciously, he trailed off, dancing his fingers like a harpsichord player in the air for a moment, before waving the thought he'd dismissed high and away. 

  "Is Emeros on a walk, too, then?" Athenath watched a pair of guards talk among one another. A few glances their way, and his heart jolted again, dread ice-like and driven through their chest. He mentally recorded their appearances. All guards, unfortunately for his old habits, looked the same here in Haafingar Hold with those heavy helmets. 

  "No, he's back at the college. Asleep, I think."

  "Good. He needs it." 

  The pair let themselves breathe in the silence a little while longer, the guards long off on their ways, before Athenath pressed their palms to the ground to steady himself. Slowly, he rose, Wyndrelis following. "Come on, I think there's a temple nearby," he stated as they dusted their palms off on the knees of their trousers.

  "You want to go to a temple at this hour?" Wyndrelis' half-amused grin spread over his thin mouth, and Athenath rolled their eyes, a smirk touching their previously grave expression. 

  "Eh, why not. The gods don't sleep. Besides, you might wanna talk with yours, y'know." 

  He said nothing in return, but the Dunmer's face visibly fell, and Athenath's nerves again set on edge with the idea that he'd done something wrong. Didn't Wyndrelis mention worshiping Julianos, once, long ago? The god of logic and knowledge, the one so many wizards claimed? He didn't have the ability to ask as Wyndrelis kept his pace even and steady, despite the mage avoiding eye contact the entire march through the streets and up the hill which lead past Castle Dour and to the temple's closed doors. As they stood outside, Wyndrelis paused, tightening his shoulders, his mouth, his features. 

  "Go on in," he told the Altmer, as if his words were hard to get out, "I'll be out here." 

  Athenath's confusion wove itself into their features, but they didn't say a word about it, settling on a look that he figured conveyed the dozens of questions he now had. There were, of course, obvious reasons why someone might decide not to go into a temple - the hour of night being a particularly relevant one - but the tight-wound discomfort that riddled itself all over the Dunmer's body like a massive and jagged scar left Athenath with less and less answers by the moment. 

  He turned at last from his friend and to the temple. He pushed the door open, ignoring the noise it made, the light of the moons disappearing, replaced instead by a sweet-smelling darkness. The long echoes of the hinges filled the room. The priests and priestesses must be asleep, he surmised as he passed down the rows of empty wooden benches, not another soul in sight. The few candles that were still alight spluttered and spat with the wicks coming to their ends, melted wax pools surrounding them. The more Athenath's vision adjusted to the dim light, the more they found himself squinting at the dying flames, as though they were bright as bonfires. The thought of replacing the candles came to mind, and soon, it turned to action, the elf creeping quiet through the dark. He'd spent enough time in a chapel as a child to know to check if the spaces under the altars were hollow, and when that turned up empty, he set his sights on a cupboard close to the benches. Groping around blindly inside for a time, he soon found a bundle of beeswax candles wrapped in cord, and retrieved them with great care not to make a sound, shutting the cupboard. 

  It was easy and familiar work, the kind they'd done as a child, humming hymns to Mara while the sunlight poured over them with the gold of afternoon. They thought on the motions that he'd taken as a child, like the smaller elf were at his side in the night-shrouded temple, holding the fresh wick over the flames until they caught light and the first beads of hot wax began to drip, setting them down on the altars and moving from one to the other. The empty alcove only escaped notice for a moment, but as he drank in the sight, they paused to take it in. Maybe he could ask about it later, but for now, this needed doing, and they were the only one awake to do it. He moved to the next alcove without another note.

  When the room bathed in a warm, orange glow and they'd cleared the old wax off the altars and moved it to one of the long benches for lack of better space to put the remains, Athenath let the large space fill them with something close to comfort. They moved over to Mara's altar, and ran their fingers over the surface, and shut their eyes, trying to still their breaths as he ruminated on the events of the past few weeks, and the situations all at hand, and the compassion she offered which he prayed was still there for him. The fires and battles and the long stretches of walks across Skyrim's landscape, and the amulet which rested against their chest, up and down with each breath. A heaviness, no matter his good efforts, leered over him. Its terrible weight did not shift, but merely lilted and rippled as stagnant waters over them. An Altmer drowning on dry land, shadows dizzy and unfortunate, shroud of worry thick enough to cloud his thoughts. He swallowed and made attempts to remember his childhood prayers to the Divines, the many ones he later learned specifically for Mara, but he dredged up the bucket of recollection to find it empty. He scavenged every inch of his mind, scoured through their body for hint of wording or fragment of old song, but tongue left faltering, they found no choice left but to stare at the altar and do their best with what they had.

  He placed his hands on the base of the alcove and closed their eyes, and when - despite the ever-present nature of the past few weeks - they again returned without words, they looked down the aisles and knew he would leave without the warmth he so desparately sought for tonight. She had not abandoned him, he hoped, but he had simply fallen, and would need to get back up again.

---

  When he exited the temple, shoulders weary with the concerns that now held them, he found that he had to search for Wyndrelis. He was not in the guarded courtyard, not in any of the benches or behind them in the temple, and not outside of Castle Dour. They kept moving until he at last spotted the Dunmer with his back against the stone railing, near the blacksmith's workshop, the embers of a fine fire reduced to ash. In this light, Wyndrelis looked far more exhausted than the Altmer previously thought. Under the moons and stars, the other's gaze traveled past the stone and past the city into places that Athenath knew they could not follow, or even begin to think they could follow. 

  "Can I ask you something?" The bard's words carried a level of discomfort that they made some attempt to subdue, to no avail. Maybe the quiet of their own mind in the temple had prickled the hair on the back of his neck and rose their unease to a new height. Despite all that they had shared with the mage, from the moment they met to this very second, it was as if he still thought the other could ever find the smallest fragments of their curiosity to be nothing but a chore at best to endure. When Wyndrelis moved his attentions to them, he took it as a sign to speak. "Why necromancy?" 

  The Dunmer turned his eyes to the sky, all the dozens of hundreds of millions of stars blinking in and out against the indigo depths, silvery like jewels in the ballgown of an Aldmeri noble. Wyndrelis' face shifted through what Athenath could best describe as several warring emotions before it could settle on something akin to resignation, his posture slumped as he stood there before them. "I was good at it." 

  The simple nature of the answer managed to whittle mystery further into their thoughts, the words like an incomplete melody of a fragment dug from Ayleid ruins. There had to be other steps before one found themselves using the dead like weapons, and even more before one was good at it, and all of these conclusions flooded bright and sun-cold into the ideas he'd formed about Wyndrelis before these past few days. Prying would not be the wisest idea, but had they ever been a wise man?

  "Yeah, but- y'know, necromancy isn't something I hear people getting into because they're just, well, good at it. There's skills before that one, right? So what..." 

  Wyndrelis massaged the bridge of his nose, shoulders hiking as though he were trying to slink back into himself. "I have always been talented in Conjuration. When I began my formal studies, I caught the eye of an instructor who offered to mentor me. As it would turn out, I'm decent at what I do, basics of Conjuration and... otherwise. Some people have natural inclinations such as that, I suppose, and as it would turn out, mine is... What it is." 

  Athenath went quiet for a while. He hadn't really given it much thought, the notion that someone could be great at necromancy like they could be great at Restoration, Destruction, or Alteration. Then again, it's not like he gave magic much thought, either. It had only been a part of their life in the way it was a part of many Imperial's lives, the best example he could reach for, considering his family had no tendency to pursue it. Their grandfather was the closest Athenath had been to a true mage in his early childhood, the old elf using his skill to entertain his family, Illusion magic turned friendly and gentle, bright and sparkling in the earliest pieces of his life. They looked to Wyndrelis in the torchlight, inwardly rumbling with the possibilities of who their friend was before this, and vague concepts of who he would be after. He didn't even know if there would be an after, at this point. Who's to say the trio wouldn't die on the road to the hands of bandits, be mauled by animals, or be eaten by dragons? Who could say that their bones wouldn't be sucked clean by the Sea of Ghosts? Poisoned in the college at a dinner, or eaten alive by skeevers? Mara surely couldn't show compassion for this long, for the things he knew that any person was capable of doing, which had been done, and would be, of the shedding of blood.

  He swallowed hard and blinked back against these images. This earned him a concerned flick of the brow from Wyndrelis, but he pretended to ignore it. He managed to think of one more question to ask, because for better or worse, a bard must know the truth, understand a whole story, be the one to retell it one day. "Who was your instructor? The one who taught you...?" 

  The obvious nature of it lingered. Wyndrelis drew in a long, tired breath, the kind only uttered by old soldiers who'd seen far too much, or Mer hundreds of years their seniors. His body was a diagram of defeat, and the Altmer didn't want to push any further, now. They swallowed hard again and looked away and tried to find something else, some way to change the subject, but nothing came up.  

  "He was just another mage. Older, more experienced. He was also very good at necromancy." 

  The option to pry died in Athenath's fingers. The Dunmer, so tired in the light and moreso by the moment, would not be open to answer anything further. For all the times he'd asked and asked and prodded and poked at others until he was left yelping at the raise of their voices, now he could not fumble into the curiosity required. Biting at their lip as something akin to shame overwhelmed them, they looked to the ground. "Well, come on. It's late. We should, y'know, try to sleep." 

---

  The humming of insects and the thick sloshes of seawater against cliffs below the city draped their way through the air around the two, who in contrast, carried only silence. The walk back to the Bard's College wasn't a long one from the temple, and while Athenath could feel every inch of his skin bristling with the chance to learn more about the mage who kept so much hidden, he didn't try. Wyndrelis was not the least bit ready to talk about it, after all, and if the Altmer kept pushing... Well, he didn't want to think about that. If Wyndrelis had used a calming spell on him, who's to say he wouldn't do the opposite? 

  He shook the thought away. A friend wouldn't do that, but how could he be so sure? 

  When the pair crept into the dorms from the basement entrance, they told one another goodnight and split into their separate dorms. Athenath watched the other disappear into his dorm and shut the door, staring for a moment where the Dunmer had been. He half entertained the idea of waking Emeros and telling him about everything they'd talked over with Wyndrelis, but there was no point in dealing with the other's scorn at being stirred so unceremoniously and without real reason. So, they retreated to their room, shut and locked the entry, and breathed in the perfumed air, aided by the strewing herbs along the floors of the hall, replaced every week to keep the scent fresh and light. He let the earthy smell cover them like a mist as they tugged off his dayclothes and pulled on his large, thin tunic and stretched out in the bed, the linens all the more comfortable after the torrential downpour of his worry had subsided. The warm, woolen blanket atop the linens added to the warmth and weighed him down comfortably, the mattress soft underneath their form.

  He spent a long while staring at the ceiling in the dark, vision making shapes out of the shadows and his hands folded behind his head. How much did they know about their friends? How much would he ever know? As every piece unraveled of their own personal histories and the Altmer struggled to gather the threads into his arms, he half-lingered on the idea that he, too, was an enigma to the other elves. After all, what had he told them about himself? That they were a bard and from Cyrodiil and traveled a lot? How much information was that at the end of the day, really? The more he thought about it, the more he saw them as strangers, adrift on a strange-fated sea, storm to pull them apart.

  Perhaps that's all the three would ever be, bonded through some Nord legend and half-burnt portraits of places and people the others would never meet. Maybe the other two would leave after this term at the Bard's College, reducing them to nothing but bittersweet memories of a late-summer as the Altmer would travel, performing always for a glimpse of them one day, never to be anything more. He wouldn't be satisfied with this, couldn't be, but they had to find some way to admit that this was the truth of the matter. It's not like they could reach into the other two's minds and tug at every thought and examine them in the light for intent to stay, to be at one another's sides, for any idea that the other two truly were here for the same bond that he saw as tying them together. Instead, they had to wait and see, and it would be laughable to say Athenath had ever been known for their patience. 

  He turned over and watched the dim of the hall's light trickle in, giving enough of its bright orange hue to the floors to cast shades on the bumps of stone and straw. He wanted more than strangers. Maybe all he would ever be able to do was want.

Chapter 36: Styrr

  Necromancers were never to enter the Halls of the Dead. Yet, here he was, seated at the worn wooden table while the elderly priest urged a mug of tea in his direction. 

  It was the burden of the conversation which never truly left him. The worries it revived drew over him in shadows and whispers, a crypt which he swore to exit decades ago. He could roll the warm mug of tea between his palms all he wished; he could remain in the silence; he could achieve all of this and more in the mere moments it took for the priest to summarize the Hall and its purpose, recount its history. Relentless in its manner, against all his best wishes, the discussion the prior night did not tug itself from his shoulders, a black shroud all his own, head grown heavy with the weight of it.

  The three Mer had entered the Hall in the early noon and - against any evidence - expected a cool reprieve from the Hearthfire day outside, but were instead met with the opposite: candles in every corner, a crackling hearth, and over all their heads, the chandelier. The Nord greeted them kindly. His smile, an easygoing feature on his weathered face, pushed the fine lines of his eyes into deep crevices. The bony knots of his finger joints were surprisingly nimble as he set into motion to make the three as at-home as possible. And the voice in his throat, worn by the years, maintained a steady sound as strong as the trees which towered over the mountains outside of Solitude. It had been an idea proposed by the priests in the Temple of the Divines to come here, to see the old man, to hear the history of the city from the priest of Arkay who had lived through so much of it. He knew more than anyone the ins and outs of the ancient fortress, and he knew more than anyone its secrets. 

  This scrap of information lead them here, natural consequence, chairs pulled close to the chipped wooden table, nursing a brew made from the local flowers and plants. The green, clay teapot, old and well-loved, had been glazed during its creation so as to hand back to its owner a distorted and dim reflection of the world around it. Wyndrelis would only eye his drink. Gently drum his fingers along the sides of the mug. Arkay was the natural enemy of any who practiced the mage's specific arts, and while he no longer saw himself as a full-time necromancer - nor did he consider himself a religious Mer - the inclination to avoid pissing off the Aedra was naturally engrained in him since birth. Growing up in Cyrodiil left its marks on him, in more ways than one, the evidence of his childhood education still marring his thoughts, even now.

  This whole affair began in earnest that morning. The day, one closer to the beginning of lessons at the Bard's College, hummed above their heads. Tomorrow, he would wake, dress, and prepare himself. He would sit in one of the long benches in one of the many classrooms. It was almost laughable how familiar he'd found the notion as he'd eaten his breakfast. The constant lectures, little breaks, and assignments that he would roll his sleeves up and finish as fast as he could. He'd never once entertained the thought of becoming a bard, but things change. 

  He'd headed to the library the moment the meal had finished, which he found to be a large, open room, decorated with marble busts and paintings on the walls, tapestries joining them, and beneath his feet, ornate rugs. He'd looked to the high, vaulted windows, which drew pools of sunlight down against the marble flooring. He had marched to the shelves, eager to glean anything he could from their contents. Pressing a grey finger gingerly to the spines as he muttered their names under his breath, Wyndrelis took the time to note the placement of them, as well, so as to return everything where he had found it. However, each tome left him more disappointed than the one before it. The Real Barenziah, The Askelde Men, Feyfolken, Songs of Skyrim...

  "What're you looking for?" 

  The voice startled him, Wyndrelis whipping around to peer at its origin. A young, Redguard man stood with a hand on one hip, his dark blue, puff-sleeved shirt accented with gold brocade around the neckhole. His vest was an equally bright shade of gold, fastened with mammoth ivory buttons. Wyndrelis took in the sight of him, his bright smile, his cocked brow, and the extravagance of his clothing. 

  "Do all bards dress so... Ostentatiously?" Wyndrelis forced a nervous chuckle as the words left his mouth. The man waved a hand, dismissing the notion. 

  "Trust me, when you meet Lady Ateia or Headmaster Viarmo, this"-he gestured up and down to himself-"will appear tame by comparison." 

  All he could do in return was to bite his tongue. He had met Viarmo, alongside having met Giraud, but not yet this Lady Ateia. He was right. These articles were tame. He'd turned his attentions back to the bard in time to see that his palm was outstretched, and Wyndrelis awkwardly shook it as the bard introduced himself. 

  His name was Ataf, and he claimed to be the youngest bard at the college. He'd explained that the rumor of new students circulated the entirety of the grounds for several days, but he'd not discovered whether they were true. 

  "You had some questions for me about Solitude, then?" The Nord asked, his voice bringing Wyndrelis back to the present moment. He blinked, the sound of Emeros clearing his throat cutting through his thoughts as he focused his attentions back on the Bosmer. 

  "Yes, we'd been at the Temple of the Divines, but I'm afraid we found no answers there." The Bosmer took a sip of the tea, letting it rest on his tongue a moment. The Dunmer did not repeat the action. He glanced to Athenath. The Altmer had not attempted to drink the mixture either, but he understood why; the liquid was still steaming hot, and the fact Emeros could withstand it was one that the Dunmer found a tad surprising. It almost appeared as if the other Mer savored the taste and temperature on his tongue, quiet in contemplation of it before he swallowed and gave a few small compliments to Styrr for the brew, the notes of jasmine, the richness.

  "Well, you've come to the right place. I practically grew up in the Hall," the priest began with a soft chuckle, the kind of which made him feel all the more as a grandfatherly figure many lacked in their lives. He elaborated shortly thereafter that his parents had, too, been a priest and priestess of Arkay, and that the family had lived in the Hall his entire life. He'd longed for nothing more than to emulate them, to be as dedicated as they were to the service of the god of seasons and death, and to join them in the catacombs when it was his time. "Though, I must say that I believe, in no small part, that I was put here to protect this place from the darkness that pervades Solitude." 

  This, meager a comment as it was, caught the three elves' attentions. Athenath was the one to reply to this sort of comment with a question through the curl of their lip, "what kind of darkness could even be in Solitude?" 

  It was a tone of disbelief and intrigue, mingling like the tea leaves at the bottom of their mugs. The priest licked his lips in an idle motion and rapped his fingers against the sides of his own cup, peering down into its depths. From where Wyndrelis sat, he could see the look of intense contemplation on the other's face, perhaps even a mixture of shame, as though the bearded Nord wanted not to dwell on whatever necessitated warding against. He'd heard stories of priests and mages being the last lines of defense against Daedra, or against the forces which came in the form of hauntings, but he'd never given them much credit, himself. How could he? He'd worked with plenty a spirit, plenty a body, plenty a minor Daedra. It was an inconsequential thing to him, as long as proper precautions were taken. Yet, from the graven look on the Nord's face, he took the moment to acknowledge that perhaps Solitude had darker secrets than he'd been aware of, worse than an execution in the town square.

  "This city has a long history of madness and murder," Styrr enunciated. "The Wolf Queen, Pelagius, the death of High King Torygg... And now," he shed a glance towards the door on the far end of the room, peakings of sunlight through the bottom, "public executions. My books tell the stories. Have no doubt - as pretty as its streets are, as jovial as the bards may be, darkness is drawn to Solitude."

  Wyndrelis' throat tightened as he asked in a quiet voice, "and of strange dreams?" 

  The dreams had been what sent him to the library in the first place, for Wyndrelis seldom dreamt. This had been a fact his entire life. It was one that his siblings would joke about being his "curse" in their bloodline, as so many of them suffered vivid nocturnal visions, but he spent the majority of his life without, simply falling into darkness that sped him into the next day. Since arriving in Solitude, he had suffered nightmares, some very small and fragmented, as though washed up on a sea of black sand. Others vivid, warm, and tangible; as though thrust like a fist into a toy fortress of wood, crushing peace to pieces. Some woke him. Others, he slept through. The first was of twin fires, of a clocktower in his hometown and the desolation of Helgen. The next was of dragons, hundreds of them in all different colors, flying overhead until they blotted out the sky. Chief among them was that serpentine shape, the long-winged, red-eyed beast who'd plunged the rest of Wyndrelis' life thus far into chaos. That shape ever grew throughout the dream, until he outgrew Nirn itself, until the world was nothing but the size of a marble, and the beast was the one swallowing it.

  He'd woken up with a start after that one. It had been the night before they set out to Fort Hraggstad, and he'd been lucky not to wake the other two. He could still feel the cold sweat down his back as he reflected on it, and shuddered. All he could do now was seek answers. 

  Ataf had led him to the history section, chatting about which shelves housed which tomes and which sections he could find which authors within, clearly having spent many a long night tucked away in a chair, curled up with several books to cram for an exam that he'd take the next morning. The bard's deep passion for the subjects, for everything he'd learnt and what it had given him, was evident. It sprawled across his features and danced into his words, his fingers plucking loose a couple of things which he thought might be of interest to Wyndrelis. The pair made idle banter a while, the Dunmer doing all he could not to appear disinterested, until Ataf caught the attentions of another year-round student - Illdi, he thought her name was - and rushed off to join her on a walk through the town.

  At last, he found himself alone. He'd found himself a chair under a window and used the light to his advantage, flipping idly through a few pages. The days since the trio's arrival had been nothing but a flurry of deeds and deals and responsibilities breathing down their necks, with little time to breathe. Rarely, moments of calm could seep into the fabric of their days, but it had become fewer and farther between. Now that most business had been handled, Wyndrelis allowed the curiosity which had been set on the backburner to be satiated, the same way one might satiate a hunger gnawing through the delicate lining of their gut. Occasional figures would dart in and out of the library, but none took note of the Dunmer whose face buried itself in the pages of the books Ataf had recommended for him. The drummer - Jorn, he'd managed to recall - had sent a friendly wave his way before turning back to face someone else. When Wyndrelis glanced up, he saw that it was an Argonian with blue scales, his clothing a ruddy hue, his eyes startlingly bright. He'd looked down, and let the pair's whispers be the background music of his research. 

  "Aye," Jorn had folded his arms over his chest, mimicking the other's disbelief, "a fine man he was, once. Divines know that his betrayal was unexpected."

  "Still, a public execution?" The Argonian's voice hitched a tad higher, as though the words pained him. "This city must be losing its mind." 

  Jorn glanced around. One shoulder, then the other. In a lower voice, just loud enough that Wyndrelis could overhear if he strained, the Nord spoke, "truth be told, I think it's the dreams." 

  "Ah," the Argonian had breathed what sounded like a sigh of relief, "I'd thought I was the only one." 

  "No, we've all been getting a little less sleep than usual. It seems that the war has taken its toll on our minds as well as our families." 

  The Argonian had said something in too quiet a voice for the mage to hear, even if he did strain, so instead he slowed his breathing in order to catch even the faintest glimmer of what direction their conversation may have been taking. He waited and held his breath, only to watch Jorn give a boisterous, rumbly laugh, and a shake of his head. 

  "I am glad you didn't grow up here, Silm-Tei. You have some interesting things to say about this place. Perhaps it is the year, and not the city, that's truly odd." 

  The pair grabbed a couple of books from the shelves - books on the Poetic Edda, Wyndrelis noted, the shelf homing them not far from where he sat - before leaving, both apparently preparing for a class that would start tomorrow. The words of the pair had taken their time to sink in, as the Dunmer lowered the book into his lap and mulled it over. He rubbed at his chin with the crook of his thumb. The idea of the dreams not merely being his own troubles had briefly crossed his mind, but he presumed it was a side effect of the situations he'd been tossed into since the moment he'd made it through Pale Pass. Yet, he'd heard many a time - and experienced it himself, for that matter - the ways in which the environment could change one's dreams. Magic had much to do with it, and more now than ever, the notion of something much worse happening beneath the city came to mind. 

  The idea was merely strengthened by the priests' explanations. Wyndrelis looked to Athenath, whose own brow raised. He'd long let the beetles and worms have their ways with the past he left behind. That was the easiest part. And when he hoisted the skull up every now and again to display to the ones who pried, rightfully, they would shrink away. Recoil, howl at the things he'd once been. Athenath had been far too curious for such recoilings. Wyndrelis looked to the priest again as Athenath began to speak. 

  "We're, uh, bards," the Altmer managed with a small laugh. Styrr examined them, as though he were trying to discern what they'd meant by the statement. Wyndrelis cleared his throat uncomfortably. 

  "We're not officially bards," Emeros clarified, "however, we are to become students of the Bard's College as of tomorrow." 

  "It seems we came to the College at a strange time," Wyndrelis added. Styrr gave a grave nod.

  "Strange times all around, it seems. With rumors of dragons, and of the Greybeards summoning someone to High Hrothgar, and the Burning of King Olaf festival indefinitely postponed... Well, it's no use to worry about it. The gods will preserve us, whether we understand it's their doing or not." He sipped his own cup of tea slowly, the Dunmer's eyes locked to the elderly man. His hands were branches of an ancient and weathered tree, and his body the withering trunk. He had to imagine that there would be someone to replace him at this post, should he pass on, but he could not find evidence of any apprentice or descendant to cast the burden onto, which left him with the conclusion that Styrr had yet to pick one who could carry on his work here in Solitude.

  "Is there any solution to strange dreams?" To say that the Dunmer was skeptical of the idea a city could, itself, be cursed, was an understatement. Yes, he knew much of ritual and curses, and much of terrible happenings as the result of the works of other mages. A Telvanni had cursed his bloodline; the entire family tree had been withered and magically stunted, after all, until he and his older brother were born under odd stars. The idea was still one he had a hard time entertaining. The idea of a solution to the nightmares was an appealing one, however, and even if he were a mage whose works were direct opposition to Arkay, he'd take whatever the priest could offer if it worked. He wanted one night of good sleep, dreamless sleep, the kind he was accustomed to all his life. Styrr dragged a hand down his face, stroking his long, white beard as he thought on the question.

  "I can't say for certain whether I can offer a true solution, but many have had success with simple herbal remedies. Some afflicted by these dreams have turned to skooma, but I'd advise against it. It tends to cause more problems than solve them." After a hefty pause, and some uncomfortable looks between the trio, a lightness drew into his eyes and he offered, "perhaps Sybille Stentor, the court wizard, could be of some help. If not her, then certainly Melaran could certainly give you some idea of what to do." 

---

  They resolved that, soon, they would meet with the two the priest had mentioned. The trio continued to speckle questions into conversation with him, learning about the city, about himself, and about the way that things worked in Solitude before the Civil War. When they'd exhausted topics with Styrr and finished their tea, he bid them a long life and told them that he was always around, should they wish to speak more. In some small manner, the bidding to come back any time was more like a plea, as the three Mer all figured that the old man seldom entertained company at this level. Wyndrelis watched the Nord carefully, his kindness only emboldened by a dreadful loneliness he could feel inside the small building, the kind which crept up the walls and into every corner and crevice and dripped like saliva of a great beast. Being the one who tends the Hall of the Dead, he observed, did not leave one with much chance to socialize, especially in his old age. Nor did it add to popularity, as many would likely want to go in to the Hall to gain Arkay's blessing, and not spend their time conversing with the one who tended the altar.

  Wyndrelis could understand that sort of isolation. He wondered whether his friends, too, understood it, or if they had never been in such a state. 

  The college was its usual, jovial self as they entered the building, glad to be out of the sun. Soon, summer would come to a full close, and autumn would sic itself upon them, and with it, the chill in the air and the snow that would bring in winter's frostbitten hands. As the Dunmer found himself again carried on the raven wings of his thoughts, Athenath moved past him, humming as they began the process of opening tomes, reading the first few pages, and replacing them on the shelves. The search caught Emeros' attention as well, the Bosmer folding his arms over his chest and arching his brow. His cowl protected his ears from the sun, but Wyndrelis' own still felt warmed by the light.

  "What are you looking for?" Emeros asked, raising his brow. Athenath pulled another book down, frowning, then replaced it. 

  "Look, I know we're going to talk to the court wizard," Athenath knelt down, examining books on a lower shelf as he spoke, "but I don't want to wait that long, and I doubt you two want to wait, too. Even if we don't find much here, getting any answers at all would be better than just living without an explanation, y'know?"

  Emeros paused a second. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, and then, apparently satisfied with this answer, began to search alongside the Altmer. Wyndrelis made a brisk walk past the pair to the history section which Ataf had pointed out to him earlier, and when he got the other two Mer's attentions, he said, "this might be a better area to look. It's... well, it's got books on Solitude's history, I'm certain." 

  Little came of the search, despite their best efforts. A few notes about Solitude's proximity to strange caves, or its position on a natural arch possibly giving it magical properties - an idea which caused Wyndrelis to snort in amusement - but seldom were dreams a mentioned topic. Dreams themselves, ephemeral things, seemed entirely ommitted. Each tug of a tome by its spine produced less and less of a satisfactory result until the trio had exhausted all their options, and at last returned to the kitchens, defeated. They prepared a platter to share while they talked the day's events over, the discussions with Styrr, the strangeness of it all. The old priest had planted a seed of wondering in each of the Mer's minds, and while the fruits of this tree did not come easy, there were still other ways to approach. Wyndrelis did not want to speak with the court wizard. Her strange, citrine eyes had chilled him to the bone. Never did he feel so much like prey as when she was around. So, he would suggest to speak with Melaran. Less chance of breaking out in a cold sweat that way. 

  He pushed his glasses up his nose and listened to the other two talk. Athenath insisted they go into town, try to find books from the local merchants, but Emeros merely brushed the idea aside by stating that even if the merchants had a couple of books on the topics they needed, they were not precisely rolling in gold. Selling off the guard armor from Whiterun had been a way to keep themselves afloat, but should they need to purchase books or instruments, or other supplies for the upcoming courses, it would certainly dig into what they had on hand. Athenath, in response, rolled his eyes and let out a dejected sigh before poking his fork into a square of cheese. Wyndrelis chuckled, looked to Emeros, and then to the doorway, where he caught the eye of the Argonian he'd overheard Jorn speaking with earlier. 

  A chill arched up his spine as the pair made eye contact. He had the distinct feeling that Silm-Tei knew he'd been eavesdropping, but whether or not the blue-scaled man minded was a mystery, until the bard in ruddy clothing cracked a smile and winked. He turned and disappeared down the corridor in time for Emeros to look up, glance between the absent doorway and the mage, and ask him what he'd been staring at for so long. Wyndrelis waved a hand. Dismissed it. It wasn't worth telling. He did tell the Bosmer he'd explain later, but he hoped that the other would forget. He thought again, once the other seemed satisfied, on the idea of magic and its influence, and on the comments Styrr had made of the natural arch imbuing the city with magic merely by its geography. 

  While Wyndrelis gave little credence to a magical cause being behind his nightmares, he silently pleaded that he was right. That it all meant nothing, and the nights he spent wide awake, heart pounding in his chest from yet another terrible meeting with the red-eyed dragon, were merely products of his imagination.

Chapter 37: 6th of Hearthfire

Notes:

happy 2 year anniversary to this fic, as of the posting of this and the next chapter!! we got hit by storms fairly hard the past few nights, so the moment i had power again i ran to edit these. hope they turned out alright, and thank you guys for being patient with me! <3 hope this makes up for no april update - i was entirely swamped with school and work last month lol

  The first morning as a prospective bard was about as unceremonious as Emeros had anticipated. He'd never been the student of any formal institution; rather, his education as a younger Mer came in the form of private tutors (many of whom were, however, members of some college or another with a measure of esteem to their names). As he grew older and sought out the one-on-one mentorship of those skilled in his crafts, he found the approaches of each a mixed bag. Some alchemists were a far more secretive lot than he'd anticipated in the haze of his youthful pursuits, whereas others were more than happy to share their knowledge. As in all things, however, the results were more often inconsistent. 

  Until, that is, he'd met the alchemists which he would spend much time learning under, each more significant an impact in his life than the last. Yet, here he was, being brought into the folds of a bardic institution by some awkward wringing of the cloths of fate, and as he fished for his shirt at the end of his bed, he wondered half-heartedly if this path would be a waste of his time. He'd never had much of an aptitude to seek out the arts, moreso existing beside them in a way. Leatherwork was, to him, a practical thing. 

  Though he was far from one to complain about his newfound position. Plus, it was a dull morning, which he found he'd enjoyed far more than anything else. No grand ceremony, no insurmountable pressure in any directions. All he had to do on the first day was show up. 

He'd risen early, washed up, and had a quick breakfast with his companions. The trio spoke little, anticipation eating away at them much like a starved wolf eats even the most foul of scraps. The moment they'd finished up their meal, all three departed one another for the branching halls and rooms of the college, not a word between them, Athenath the most visibly on-edge with the way that they fiddled with their hair, again and again wrapping lengths around a finger. He watched the other two disappear through doorways one-by-one, and found himself alone in the majestic stone building, other students flittering by him.

  Emeros soon took his seat along one of the wooden benches, well-worn and bearing thin cushions which did very little to soften the hard, polished surfaces beneath. There were few students in the room, and he couldn't stop the thought that the hall had very clearly been built to house more. As his gaze darted from corner to corner, his attentions were inevitably drawn to the sound of footsteps, then an imposing figure which made his way up to the podium, resting a large, hirsuit hand upon its intricately carved and just as ornately painted surface. Before the class, commanding all attention with his presence, a Pahmar, his white beard in a tight braid, face decorated by markings of his furstock. His green, round eyes were lined with kohl, and his voice lilted with tinges of well-disguised disappointment.

  "If this will be all of us today," he spoke, folding his large hands together, "then I suppose we'll begin. I am Vashani, and I will be teaching you the flute," he finished through a clearing of the throat, voice airy and warm. Compared to the Khajiit before him, Emeros found his own traveling garb to be lacking in flair: once perfectly pragmatic, now shockingly out of place and fashion. His garments were as elaborate as the rest of the college; velvety, dark shades of orange and red accented by greens and blues, with his earrings which hung from his high-set ears bearing the imagery of Jone and Jode. It was a common motif in parts of Valenwood, the twin moons whose names and tales changed with the time and the place, nevertheless bearing such an impact on their surroundings that it was hard not to believe some of the stories of their divinity. 

  Ripped away from his thoughts, Emeros watched the Khajiit as he gestured with feather-light flourishes of his hands. They would not be given instruments right away, Vashani went on to explain. Instead, they would have to prove that they understood the instrument and its needs. They would learn the history of its creation, and its significance in Skyrim, and its care and maintanence. Only then, he punctuated, could they be allowed to pick up the flute themselves. They had to prove that they understood that it was more than an object, but an extension of themselves - as bards and as people. Emeros briefly wondered if Athenath were receiving the same talk from their lute instructor, or Wyndrelis from the drum classes down the hall. Occasionally he'd catch the sound of Viarmo beginning a sentence several rooms away, but for now, he focused his attentions to Vashani, who gave a warm smile to the students before him, however few there may be. 

  "You may be in luck," he started after a silence, "if this one is not having to divide focus between many, then we should be picking up the actual playing much faster. But I could be wrong," he laughed, a deep, rumbling noise, the kind that caught the edges of Emeros' mouth in a small grin. "I will stop doddling. There's much to cover, and I would like to begin as soon as possible." 

  The lecture began shortly thereafter. Emeros tuned in as much as he could, his eyes locked on the Pahmar who paced his space behind the podium, linen white daylight streaming in behind him from the vaulted windows. He spoke of the flute, and of the materials it could be made from. He spoke of ivory and bone and wood and reed, but emphasized that the flutes of Skyrim were most often mammoth tusk ivory, bone, or wood. "Reed flutes are more common in other parts of Tamriel, and their sound is much lighter..." 

---

  If one could view the first class of his morning as a breath of fresh air, then one could equally view the next one as drowning in unfamiliar waters. He'd spent the half-hour he had between his courses reading up on the flute and its history in order to get a head start on the materials, seated in the commons so as to take advantage of the early day light. He'd been comfortable enough where he sat, in fact, that he'd nearly missed the tolling of the temple bells which called the hour, and found himself hurrying to the semicircle theatre which housed his next class. There, he'd taken one of the many unoccupied spaces and waited until the high-held and proudly-postured Suthay appeared from the same doorway which Emeros had recently emerged from, his cap held down right as a breeze threatened to tug it off his head. Emeros had found himself feeling terribly underdressed twice in one morning, watching the Suthay with his glittering embroidery and even more dramatic flourishing of his hands. 

  The Bosmer had elected to take a theatre class. He had been interested in a handful of plays he'd seen during his travels, and even picked up copies of a few scripts in his time to read over when there was a lull in things to do, and he figured that if he were required to take it, he might as well approach the topic early in his education. Yet, he found himself struggling to understand the lectures of the Suthay, whose sandy fur and dark, earthy eyes moved about as if puppeted by someone who was a stickler for elegance. 

  "Theatre, throughout Tamriel, has played an important role in shaping the way we understand histories. Not everyone has had the benefit of literacy," he lectured, his voice a rolling wave of sharply enunciated consonants, "in fact, many remain illiterate still, despite the Empire's efforts. So! My question to you is, how many of you have enjoyed the performances of traveling troupes in your own towns? Or in your travels?"

  A few hands shot up, including Emeros' own.

  "You learned something, right?" the instructor - Dahtesh - emphasized. 

  A few murmurs. Mostly out of a vague confusion, Emeros gathered as he peered at the other students around him.

  "Did you not pay attention to any of them? You, there!"-he pointed to a girl dressed in dark blue, whom Emeros recognized to be a long-term student of the college-"Illdi! You, most certainly, have learned something!" 

  Illdi shrunk back, as though she were doing her best efforts to disappear into the wall. "Well, I uh-" she tried, "of course, I mean... I've learned a lot through the plays we've put on here, and from the ones I've seen-"

  "Like what?" Dahtesh questioned. Illdi swallowed and gathered her thoughts a moment.

  "I mean, that's how I learned about Saint Martin, and- and the Oblivion Crisis. I saw a puppet show about it when I was a child-"

  Finally, the Khajiit ceased his pacing, planting his feet in place and letting out an exaggerated haRUMPH through closed lips, staring down the seated class as Illdi explained, her words trailing off into the quiet. 

  "Miriam," he pointed to a woman with one blind eye, her dark hands rested over her knees as she watched the instructor, "you shall play the part of The Lady. Casirus," he pointed to a man who sat close with the one called Miriam, his eyes darting from his friend to the instructor, "you shall play the part of The Apprentice." Dahtesh continued to point at students, assigning them roles from the popular comedic troupes that traversed the continent of Tamriel all throughout Emeros' life - and for eons before it. The Great War had put a temporary stop on these shows, but the moment it was over, the troupes were on the road again, playing out the stock characters of the constellations, complete with painted masks and gaudy costumes, or puppets decked out the same. 

  When Dahtesh's finger finally jabbed into Emeros' direction, the Khajiit announced, "you, lad, shall play The Steed." 

  Emeros balked silently at the notion. Of all the thirteen constellations, The Steed - often named Wodin the Faithful - was his least favorite. He'd never once found the figure amusing, and even worse, would tune out whenever he saw the stock character appear in one of the numerous plays put on in many a town square or chapel step. Often, whatever amounted to a stage was little more than an outlined patch of earth, and the moment the mask of a horse's head made its grand entrance, Emeros would roll his eyes and fold his arms and hope that the scene would end shortly afterwards. The stone would thunder with movement of actors footsteps, and the sounds of speech, half-improvised but well-rehearsed, would echo through the section of the town they found themselves performing, laughter in rattles from the crowd. He'd been lucky to find himself audience to plays as they began, but catching one in the middle had never bothered him the way it bothered several of his friends throughout the years. 

  The mockery and second-hand embarrassment of witnessing The Steed's antics made it hard for him to enjoy the character. Stubborn and impatient to the point of disaster, the character acted as the squire of The Warrior - or otherwise connected to The Warrior through some manner - and while the Bosmer biting his tongue, he inwardly protested the assignment. The Steed would stumble on himself in defense of The Warrior, would rush to his call and do as he asked, with little question. This was his main flaw, of course, his unflinching loyalty-to-a-fault, but it made it difficult to stomach the mockery hurled the character's way throughout the comedic narratives performed for the towns throughout Tamriel. Emeros much preferred The Ritual, The Mage, and even The Tower when the role was played well and to great effect. 

  Once everyone had their characters - the class was short two actors, which the instructor made sure to note would not be a problem at all - Dahtesh threw a clawed hand in the air. 

  "Oh," he exclaimed, "The Warrior! How you endanger yourself so! In rushing to the defense of The Lover, you have caused a skirmish with the town guards! And now your friends are to clean up the mess, what luck!" 

  The scene set, everyone flurried into action as their characters: Emeros, ardently defending his superior, whereas Miriam pretended to fan herself with one of the many delicate and gaudy fans which The Lady was prone to breaking throughout these sorts of plays. Casirus feigned gathering a bundle of invisible scrolls and sprinting to the side of the student who had been assigned The Mage, asking in a voice intentionally put on to sound more youthful as to what should be done, and Emeros continued to plead for Miriam to give pardon to his superior. The dialogue flew from everyone's lips with stumblings of the awkwardness of people not trained in the art of improvisation, but came together all the same, the Bosmer himself reflecting on every performance he'd seen in recent years, the flickers of familiarity guiding his actions as he tried to curry favor for Warwyrd the Shield-Breaker. 

  After what must have been a satisfactory length of time, Dahtesh rose from where he'd seated himself and clapped his hands in a rhythm in the air, before reciting the typical ending of many of such plays, and grinning at the group before him. The students stopped mid-action, before slowly settling into an uncomfortable standing before the instructor, unsure of what he was to say next. 

  "This one has learned a lot from your performance today, class." He hummed a thoughtful note, before pointing to Illdi, assigned the role of The Ritual. "Illdi, tell me where you learned of The Ritual's plottings." 

  "Well, I uh, always kind of knew about that trait."

  "Yes, but how? We do not come into this world knowing naturally about the constellations." 

  Miriam piped up, "I think what Illdi's trying to say is that we've just seen so many of these comedies before, we sort of..."

  "Picked up on them? You could then say you learned, lets say, the names of the characters? I doubt that your Elysiah the Beautiful was always named Elysiah. Or that she was always beautiful. Ah, but you learned this about her from seeing the portrayals time and time again, is this not so?" 

  A few murmurs now of agreement, the message clear. Emeros watched as Dahtesh grinned gleefully and stood tall before the group. "Each one of you," he continued, "knew who I said to play, their names, their personalities, who they were connected to... well, this one could go on! But how do we trust the portrayals? We know Saint Martin sacrificed himself, but was he brave? Or was he scared? Theatre, our sacred domain, is the one which so many learn through, and so few know just how much it shapes us." 

---

  "I assume you two have enjoyed your first day thus far?" Emeros asked, looking down at his companions as they each emerged from their classes. While Wyndrelis merely looked as he normally did, the slump of Athenath's shoulders caught the Bosmer off-guard. Of all the students in the Bard's College, he expected Athenath to be the most elated among them. He'd practically imagined them bounding from hall to hall, to sit early inside the classes, wait for the instructors, everything at the ready to take down the most detailed of notes. Wyndrelis, too, picked up on the odd touch of defeat in the Altmer's posture, and when the trio had found themselves in the common area, the Bosmer spoke up.

  "Is everything alright?" He pressed. Athenath shrugged.

  "Yeah, I'm fine, I just... Well, y'know. I wanted to actually play the lute, not look at a bunch of books on how a lute is made and tended."

  "I won't be playing the drum very soon, either," Wyndrelis tittered, "so I suppose we're all in the same boat." 

  "Yes, as for myself, playing the flute is entirely out of the question until I study it's making and care, as well." 

  At these confessions, Athenath's shoulders lightened a touch, before a small grin spread over their mouth. Something beneath it still belied a truth that he was not telling the other two, and Emeros could sense it in the nervous twitch at the edge of their lips, but he let it escape his noting when the younger elf joked, "well, you two let me know when your instructors let you pick up your instruments so I can hassle Inge Six-Fingers about it." He nudged the other two Mer with the ends of their elbows before they looked between their friends and asked, "what else are you two taking, again?" 

  Seizing the chance, Emeros' face sprawled in a highly amused grin as he launched into what turned into a lengthy ramble about his theatre class - and its eccentric instructor - and the methods he used to instill in the class an understanding of one of the many roles the art itself could fill. It was stated practically outright, yet Emeros still found himself impressed at Dahtesh's ability to impress upon the class how much theatre could preserve or alter understandings of history, or of stories and characters, and relay lessons within. Yes, he'd known this for years, of course, he waved away, but to see it on display so clearly made it seem all the more real. With each new point, a level of passion began to fill his voice, intrigue thoroughly piqued by today's example. 

  After several minutes, he finally wound his tangent down, and Wyndrelis snickered. "I see," the Dunmer clicked his tongue, "instead of meeting with Nurelion in Windhelm, you'll run off to join a comedy troupe." 

  Emeros folded his arms over his chest and huffed. "Well, I wouldn't say that." 

  "Oh, I can just see it now," Athenath joked, "you'd make a perfect Wodin the Faithful!" As Emeros rolled his eyes and made a faint sound of aggravation, the Altmer snorted with laughter, rolling their dark eyes. "Come on, it's a joke. But y'know, it is kind of funny to imagine you playing The Steed." 

  "I hope I never have to again," Emeros drolled, "but I have to admit, Dahtesh made a bloody good point by showing us how we knew each character without... Well, needing someone to describe them to us, shall we say." 

  "Yeah, well, I'm going to describe to you where we're going next: the kitchens." 

  "That's why we eat a full breakfast," Emeros tutted, following closely behind Athenath, who gave a shrug in response as they took each step two at a time. 

  "I did, I just want a bite before we have to get back to our classes," they replied as they sauntered through the doorway at a brisk pace, a few other students sat around chatting at the tables. The Altmer snagged an apple off a platter and bit into it, leaning against the wall with one foot pressed to the stone. "So, my turn to tell you about my classes." 

  Emeros and Wyndrelis sat on one of the long benches as the younger Mer described his first day thus far, recounting his first impressions of Inge Six-Fingers in a hushed tone before swiftly moving on to discuss his poetry course, taught by a tall, barrel-chested Breton named Arteus. They described the general outline of each class that they'd had today with mixed levels of enthusiasm: on the one hand, Athenath was grateful to finally be taking a lute course, but on the other...

  "If I can be a bit honest," he said, shrinking into himself a tad, "I'm a little bit scared of Inge. I think. She's a fantastic instructor, but I can already tell it's gonna be a bit of a challenge gaining her respect." 

  "Why would that be? You're a perfectly fine bard." Emeros shrugged the sentence out, Athenath exhaling tightly through pursed lips and rubbing their face. 

  "Gods, I hope so, but... Well, I don't know. Anyways, uh, Wyndrelis, how's your first day?" 

  The Dunmer didn't have much to comment on, as far as things went, as he found Viarmo to be an apt (but loud) instructor, and he found Giraud's history course to be perfectly adequate thus far. When Wyndrelis mentioned that he hoped Viarmo would refrain from bringing up dragons to any of them ever again, the other two Mer groaned in an agreeing exhaustion with the topic. This brought the three into quiet laughter, Athenath disposing of the apple core and wiping his fingers on a cloth. 

  "Come, we have more classes, and I don't want to be late," Wyndrelis announced as he rose and stretched. With his friends in agreement, the trio followed, one after the other, into the one class which they shared. 

---

  Emeros had, many years ago, read that at one period in time, those skilled in the Thu'um would keep their mouths gagged at all times so as not to cause harm to those around them, as their voices were simply so powerful that merely whispering could tear mountains asunder. Thus, the history of sign language in Skyrim was born. Morrowind, too, had its own forms of signs. Cyrodiil's sign language, likely due to Solitude being so interconnected with the Empire, was what was offered at the Bard's College. From what Emeros had gathered, it had two instructors: one hearing, and one deaf.

  The trio sat on one of the long benches closer to the front of the room, with Athenath between his two friends, Emeros looking over at his friends before glancing about at the empty seats, some filling, many left unoccupied, a sight he figured he would become acquainted with throughout his time here. The instructor arrived not long after the trio, and stood at the front of the room behind a large podium, waiting for the class to fill for a moment. He took note of her appearance, her red hair and rounded face, her high cheeks and soft nose, her plump frame and her bright eyes, all of it much too familiar. He swore he'd met her before, and it was only when he saw Corinne approach her that he put the pieces together: this was the mother and member of the college which Phoebe had alluded to when they'd met the scribe in the Winking Skeever, one of the parents which she had relayed their tale to, and whose name they could thank for their admittance.

  Such a thing should make Emeros feel at least a tinge of excitement to meet one of the figures responsible for their ability to be where they were, to sit where they sat, yet he could not shake the need to run and hide from the woman whose dress wore embroidery of the wolf of the old Nord pantheon, and whose clothes were so deeply, evenly, and well-dyed that it made the Bosmer wonder at the price for even a yard of such fine fabric. He watched carefully of the two women - catching the occasional glances sent the trio's direction - and when Corinne and her mother ceased their conversation in signs, Corinne moved to the back of the room and waited for her mother's signal. When she gave it, the younger woman repeated her mother's words.

  "Welcome. Firstly, I want to thank you all for joining this class, as I understand the roads are becoming far more treacherous than they were when I began teaching at the college. My name is Matilda, which some of you may know, and I am the sign language instructor at the Bard's College. My daughter,"-she gestured to the back of the room, and the blonde waved-"is my interpreter. Good luck suffering us both, she takes after her father in her stubbornness." 

  A laugh rumbled through the crowd, uneasy on Emeros' lips, and Matilda grinned. She continued to describe herself, her work here as taking on administrative duties when not teaching, her drumming, her love of poetry, ending with the note that she had been born deaf. As she moved, the light of the vaulted windows caught her earrings, and made the fine strands of her red hair near-gold. Emeros watched her hands with rapt attention, the words formed seeming so easy for her and punctuated by expressions, by body language, all of it thought out and communicating clearly to those who would grow to understand her within their time in her class. She had a grandness to her signs, a fluidity of motion, that the Bosmer could only hope to achieve one day. 

  Matilda went on to explain that the class would begin by learning letters, the most fundamental of things, and build on the knowledge from there. "Runes," Matilda noted, "had actually once been the basis for Nord sign language. Well, when the Empire came to Skyrim, and of course the ever-changing nature of languages themselves, we at the college adopted the Cyrodilic signs. But I will still teach runes, and the Nord sign alphabet."

  The noon sun strode through the high windows as the woman continued to explain the language, the way it was utilized, the ways in which it was helpful in the daily life of a bard. Perhaps, she'd proposed, one was to travel into Stormcloak territory. After all, there was a war going on outside, was there not? And how could one communicate to other bards which songs they should refrain from using without drawing too much attention on oneself? Or, should one fall ill and wake up to the world gone silent, how could they explain to anyone? Matilda emphasized that it was very easy, and increasingly common, to lose one's hearing to the machinations of war. "I teach soldiers, actually, when I'm not here, how to sign. We have a small community in Solitude, but I have no doubts that it will grow." 

  The discussion of the war, which raged throughout all of Skyrim, settled a dour blanket of discomfort on the class. Matilda smiled, and clapped her hands together. "Right," she said, "then let's start on the alphabet. Then I'll show you how to greet someone, say goodbye, and such basics." 

---

  It didn't matter how he categorized the next handful of days; whether fey and flighty, or simply not worth noting. They came and went all the same. Emeros, alongside his friends, had begun to memorize the little motions to form all the letters of the Cyrodilic alphabet, even attempting to sign words to one another utilizing what they'd learnt. Athenath's hands were a tad more sluggish to pick up the pacing, whereas Wyndrelis - much to either Mer's surprise - excelled, latching onto the language and studying it with much intent. The Dunmer would sit at dinner, pouring over a book of signs and teaching the other two at the same rapid pace he studied, which Emeros found to be beneficial. He'd much rather be ahead than behind, and while the trio were still stumbling through the basics, they were quick to grasp onto the language with the mage's enthusiasm brightening his pale irises. 

  Even still, he had other classes, and hardly found them as notable. He enjoyed his tailoring course, certainly - especially as he found it was taught by Dahtesh, and he'd begun to respect the eccentric - but it was a tad too easy in some areas. After all, he had spent much of his life repairing his own garments, tanning hides, working with leather to make tools and clothes and all manners of items. While it still presented its own challenges to him, as he would be learning much more about the materials themselves, he could not find it as demanding as he found his other classes. He did not think it easy by any stretch of the imagination, yet he also did not find himself engaged so fervently in the class that he was making attempts to get ahead. He simply kept pace, as he did with his history course. 

  He'd found that the days bled into one another, mulling over task after task, dinners in the Bard's College kitchens with his friends, chatting with other students, evenings in the Winking Skeever to merely change scenery not uncommon either. He'd gotten to know Miriam a little better, the two chatting before their theatre classes, and he'd introduced she and Casirus to the trio not long after. He would spend his nights comfortable in a bed that he found uncomfortable on the best of days, listening to the crackle of the hearth in the kitchens and the sound of footsteps, or of distant, quiet music, or of people chatting late into the night. 

  He would, if he had the chance, grasp the peaceful nature of these days and hold them forever in his hand. Yet, one warm, Middas morning, Viarmo saw it fit to take the three Mer ("you're my newest students, they'll understand your sorrows at the festival being called off!" he insisted), alongside two students whose inductions as fully fledged members of the college had been halted ("you, they know you! Elisif adores you both, she's bound to listen," he declared), and march them up the long, stone pathway for yet another petition in the court of the Blue Palace for the reinstatement of the Burning of King Olaf. Emeros mentally begged the headmaster to let the subject go, as he quite liked not drawing too much attention to himself from the icy court of the port city, yet it appeared he had little choice. He could balk and protest all he wished, but he knew that should he fight it, Viarmo would simply bring he and his friends up to the Blue Palace another day under pretense of a performance for the Jarl, and there would be little escaping such a thing then, either. 

  So, he walked bitterly behind the bouncing steps of the headmaster, and thought to himself how much he would have preferred attending his morning classes, rather than watch the courtyard of one of Skyrim's grandest feats of architecture draw ever nearer, his eyes catching the uncomfortable glances of the other students.

Chapter 38: A Stranger's Petition

  The unusual, silken heat of the Hearthfire morning coated their arms as the Altmer kept pace with his friends, his uncertainty plain on his face. They thought of Bruma, that northernmost town in Cyrodiil that carried a perpetual chill in the breeze, and wondered if the first inklings of morning frost had drifted up the mountains, or whether it was too early for such a thing. They returned their focus to the sound of footsteps, to the noise of the market and the practicing bards, the music which began to fade the further they drifted from the college. Viarmo had enlisted the help of these five students for his own reasons, and while Athenath would normally have liked to make himself useful to the college if at all possible, this wasn't exactly a task that he was prepared for. The icy reception that the trio had received the first time they stepped foot into the Blue Palace did nothing to soothe his nerves, flashes of memory and the way in which the entire court regarded them with suspicion still fresh in their mind.

  The Burning of King Olaf. Athenath had read about it once or twice, and certainly spoken with a handful of bards who had attended the festival itself - some even being members of the Bard's College, that lucky few. They knew that it had its ties far back into Skyrim's history, and Solitude's economy partially owed itself to the travelers who would come from across the province, even from other parts of Tamriel, to attend. With the scattered and half-inaudible mutterings of Headmaster Viarmo about Giraud attempting to find some lost verse or other, and this being the next best bet, the younger Mer couldn't help the gnawing unease that made him question whether this was worth another go. Couldn't they wait until next year? 

  He looked to Emeros, then to Wyndrelis, and figured that the other two were having the same thought, in some form or another. 

  With two large hands, Viarmo pushed open the door to the Blue Palace, the hinges creaking as he carried himself, chin held high, into the waiting area. His attitude told the students that this could not fail, yet Athenath had his doubts. The gaggle of bards-to-be kept close behind their headmaster the same way ducklings followed behind the mother, and when they were to be seated and wait for their summons, they did so quietly. Athenath turned their gaze to Jorn and Ataf, the way that they spoke to one another with reassurances and hopes that this time, Jarl Elisif would listen. Yet, judging from Ataf's slumped posture, elbow digging into his knee with half-interest in Jorn's honey-warm words, the Altmer came to doubt the other carried the same optimism as his friend. Still, their chest clenched sympathetically at the idea. Disappointment, whatever form it took, was a heavy burden. Even if their own had come in the form of dragons and prophecies, that didn't mean that he couldn't be disappointed in the banning of a festival, too. 

  A man's weary voice which carried down the winding stairwell had been peaceful at first. The sounds of muffled conversation, a slight, desperate tinge to his words which seemed to get him nowhere, and now, it rose to near-hysterics. His pleading in speech half-disfigured by the acoustics of the room and positioning of the court managed to edge a measure of discomfort into those below as he begged, "I swear to you! Unnatural magics are coming from that cave! There are strange noises, and- and lights, and we of Dragon Bridge desperately need someone to investigate before it-" 

  "Your Eminence, my scrying has suggested nothing in the area. Dragon Bridge is under imperial control. This is likely superstitious nonsense," a woman's cool voice interrupted. Entirely dismissive, and utterly uninterested in whatever mystery might be plaguing him so. She sounded like she'd heard this all before, or she'd already made her mind up before the man had even stepped foot into the Blue Palace. With the mention of scrying, perhaps she had.

  Wyndrelis shot a glance. First, to Emeros, then to Athenath. The Altmer straightened his posture, a chill arching down his spine on the oddly warm day.

  Falk Firebeard, then Jarl Elisif, then the man, all their voices lowered as though they'd become acutely keen of the echo they produced. It was an awareness Athenath silently cursed, as now only fragments of the entire portrait of their discussion were known to him, and hardly even that. The entire court set them on edge on a good day - whatever a good day looked like in the Blue Palace, which, to be blunt, they were not entirely sure they'd ever witnessed - and yet, they had become to some degree at ease, old habit of eavesdropping so easy to slip into in times as this. The seat of power in Solitude with its high, vaulted ceilings, its dismissive nature encountered by himself and his friends, its air of mourning, and yet clearly it still acted as a place of petition for the Jarl. And petitions meant, once wading through all the petty squabbles of most people's day-to-day lives, moments of intrigue. 

  Viarmo rose, gesturing for his students to do the same as Falk Firebeard greeted them, his steps barely making a sound down the winding staircase. The man whose petitions had fallen limp to the wayside trudged down the other portion of stair, and Athenath caught the merest glimpse of his face as he disappeared through the doors and out into the streets of Solitude. "Now then," Viarmo said, clearing his throat, "come with me." 

  For the next several minutes, Athenath stood close to his companions as Viarmo rambled on and on about tradition, about the spirit of Solitude, history, all things which fell onto uncaring ears. Phoebe, behind her desk and under her plumed cap, gave the trio a sheepish smile while she listened and recorded the words spoken among the courtiers and the headmaster, her hands a flurry across the scroll which seemed near-never ending in her lap. Athenath would occasionally glance to Emeros or Wyndrelis, and do their best to keep their posture tall instead of shrinking into themself. 

  "Jarl Elisif, you know as well as I do that the Burning of King Olaf is tradition in Solitude. What's a city in the midst of war without its traditions to keep its residents in good spirits?" 

  "Viarmo," Elisif breathed as she rested her head in the crook of her thumb, rubbing gingerly at the ridge of her brow, "we have had this discussion before. It's simply too inappropriate with the death of my husband to reinstate the festival now."

  "Your Grace,"-Viarmo gestured a sweeping hand to the students lined at his side, in such a neat row it could almost be taken for part of a performance-"I merely implore you to think about the prospective bards in the situation. Not only has this festival been held since time immemorial, but the bards that this festival exists for inducting as full-fledged members of the college are unable to take part in their rightful festivities. These three," he moved his hand, bringing to sweep along the air where Emeros, Athenath, and Wyndrelis stood, "are brand new to the college, and taking part in the festival is a rite of passage to the new students! And as you know, Ataf," he moved to gesture to the plume-hatted man, who gave a nervous wave of his fingers, "was set to be inducted as a fully-recognized bard! And Jorn," he gestured to the Nord, who puffed out his chest with pride, "was in charge of this year's effigy! That's a prestigious honor, and we at the College would implore you to reconsider." 

  "Headmaster Viarmo," Falk hardened his words in his throat, words enunciated with a sharpness of warning, "we understand your wishes to reinstate the festival, we truly do. Not only is it most inappropriate during the period of our Lady's grieving, but in such times of war as this, you would have us let our guard down for one night?" 

  The room clenched in silence, the air tight and hard to gather into full breaths. Athenath's gaze struggled to find a focus, slipping quick from the visages of fellow bards to the members of the court, his hands lightly taken by tremor. Breathe, deep and slow, they pushed and pulled air like waves as Viarmo scoffed. 

  "There are plenty of guards who would still keep our city safe, so our residents could rest a moment at ease. This could even serve to boost morale, if you'd let it." 

  "Enough," Jarl Elisif's word left Viarmo scrambling for something else to say, her voice hinting at the drain this conversation put on her as the edges of her speech drooped and wilted like dying flowers. "I understand how much this festival means to you, Viarmo, but High King Torygg-"

  "Was an enormous supporter of the arts, a continuous and reliable patron of our College, and friend to myself and several other members. Would it not be an insult to his memory to push away the very festival he cherished so?" 

  Athenath swallowed tightly as Elisif's weary gaze flitted between the faces of the students, then to Viarmo. 

  "Headmaster, I believe it's time you go. I will give it some thought. You are right in this regard, my husband was always thrilled at the festival's occurance every year, but this is not the time to be discussing such matters." 

  Viarmo floundered for more to say, his brow tight and lowered, his hand raised as though he were attempting to point at some spectre behind the Jarl, but at the measured pace of her housecarl who inched closer in his heavy armor, Viarmo blew a breath out between loose lips and scrubbed his face with his palm. 

  "Thank you for your time, Your Grace." 

  He gave a flourishing bow, the feather in his cap bending with the motion, velvet cape pouring over his shoulders like a velvet waterfall. As he rose, he turned on his heel, gesturing for his students to follow him. Emeros looked down at Athenath and arched a brow, the Altmer shrugging as he turned to Wyndrelis, who similarly wore a look of subdued confusion at the rapid change in the headmaster's attitude. One moment he was ready to stand up for the festival, and all it represented, and the next... 

  The moment the group had exited the Blue Palace, Viarmo gave a long and heavy, near-dramatic sigh. "Well, we'll just have to see what Giraud comes up with. Great work, everyone, perhaps she will give it some thought with having seen you all there." 

  Athenath had his doubts. How could just laying eyes upon some of the students make the Jarl change her mind? They raked their long fingers through their curls, shedding more glances to the uncomfortably grimacing faces of the other students. Clearly, this had gone even worse than anyone anticipated, and Viarmo's disappointment visibly scurried itself up his shoulders. Normally so high and poised, his body slumped in on itself as he lead the way back to the ancient college. 

  "Fear not," he turned to face his students, who stopped in their tracks, "while we may not be able to put on the Burning of King Olaf yet, that does not mean our sacred festival is doomed to obscurity. We'll simply have to be patient. Ataf, Jorn, I apologize if your induction will be later than usual."

  Ataf waved a hand, his face still bearing the hallmarks of his own discomfort, a twitched and upwards-curled lip and furrowed brow, eyes never quite meeting anyone else's face. "I'm not too worried. It just means I can spend more time on my studies." 

  Viarmo gave a nod of agreement. Maybe he truly did believe the excuse, but Athenath knew that sort of phrasing anywhere; something he'd used himself in different times, a brushing off of concerns just to placate whoever stood before them. Either way, the older Altmer said that they should head back to the college, and he'd work on his next appeal in a week or two. Whether this would include him marching the students back to the Blue Palace, Athenath didn't know, and he sincerely hoped it would exclude them this time.  

---

  "Well, that was certainly most interesting."

  Emeros sat at his desk, the trio crowded into his dorm. All of his belongings were tidy and put into their places, the Bosmer taking great care to make his living space as neat as possible. It always struck Athenath as strange, his need to keep his space so spotless, even when the three had been on the road together. In Whiterun, in Rorikstead, in the Winking Skeever, here; always, he would try to either keep his items in his pack, or put them in the chests or dressers provided. Athenath much preferred their own method: whatever worked, worked. Whether this was storing their things in plain view, or strewing them about the room in their own sort of organized chaos, or in a chest or dresser. It didn't matter, just whatever would work for the length of time they planned to stay in any place. 

  The Bosmer rested his forehead in the heel of his palm, and ran his fingers up through the fringe of his dark hair, his words dripped in sardonicism while Wyndrelis leaned himself against the wall next to the door, blotting away the sparest amount of sweat on his forehead with a small square of cloth. The humidity and heat outside had been slightly overwhelming for the woolen-clad Dunmer, who had misjudged the day's weather based on the previous couple of days. None of this was, certainly, the least bit helped by the hearth which burned brightly in the kitchens. 

  "What is with this festival? I wouldn't think a simple celebration would have this level of importance," the Dunmer mused. Athenath, seated on the edge of the bed, leaned back, hands pressed into the blankets to support their relaxed posture.

  "Well, it's more than just a simple celebration," they remarked. "It's uh, a fairly big deal. I mean, aside from being a festival where bards get inducted as college members and leave being a student behind, it's also what draws a lot of merchants to the city. Especially because, since people are coming to the festival for, well, festivities, they can sell more wares. And I mean, the college puts on huge performances, with plays, music, you name it." 

  "I suppose it makes a tad more sense, when put like that, why Viarmo's so bloody determined to reinstate the whole thing," Emeros exhaled, pulling one of his assigned books from his flute class from a pile on his desk, flipping through the pages. He rested his cheek against a folded fist, skimming the text for a moment before speaking up again, "I can't help but wonder if, perhaps, Viarmo thinks he can tug on us for favors whenever he pleases, since he allowed us to skip the regular admissions process."

  It was a thought that they'd all had, at some point or another, and hearing it said out loud made Athenath's stomach churn in venomous motion. Nobody would want this to be true, but how could it not be? Especially considering that the trio were the three who'd fought off the dragon in Whiterun. Maybe Viarmo had gotten the wrong impression of the group, that they were easy to ask favors of, or that they just didn't have any issue with him using them as part of his appeals. Their ears burned at the idea, the sinister whispering of the chance he'd fallen into someone's whims and not seen the path for what it was echoing in his ears. As the ideas mulled over in their mind, the Dunmer made a motion with his hands to draw the other two's attention over to him, severing whatever spell his own broiling anger had placed upon him and replacing it once more with that cold, empty pit. 

  "I know that we've finally settled in," he started, not looking his friends in the eye, "but if we can, we should find out more about that man who spoke of strange lights in a cave." 

  "Thank the gods, I was about to ask if you two wanted to go looking for him," Athenath responded, voice lingering with a touch of weariness, leaning forward now with his hands on his knees. 

  Emeros made a thoughtful hum, his forefinger rested above his chin. "He mentioned something about Dragon Bridge, right? Is that what I heard?" 

  "Yeah, I heard that, too." Athenath rose from the bed, stretching and straightening his clothes, his mind already swirling with the winds of possibility. What could he mean by lights in a cave outside the town? What could any of that have to do with Solitude? Even better, what was making the noises he reported? Sure, this city was the seat of power in the Hold, and sure, going to the Jarl for protection was the best course of action, but protection from what? If people hurried to their Jarls over every odd noise and light they saw, then the Jarls would never sleep. What made this so notable, then? The image of the man's face urged itself to the surface of their mind, with the bags under his eyes and his slumped form, the tension in his shoulders as he moved, the way he seemed in such a hurry to leave the Blue Palace...

  As Athenath opened the door to Emeros' dorm, he almost found himself bumping right into Jorn, whose hand stood poised to knock. The Nord grinned playfully, and looked at the two other Mer, whose faces bore equal amounts of surprise to see him there as Athenath's. 

  "Ah, good to see you all! I was going to ask, would you three perhaps be interested in getting drinks at the inn? Ataf and I are going to head there this evening, around dinner time, and we'd like you to join us."

  The three Mer shared glances between one another, and a grin crept up to Athenath's lips. Now, here was an opportunity for information, if he'd ever seen one. 

---

  Evening arrived with little fanfare, with lessons finished for the day and dinner served in the Bard's College. The three elves navigated the rolling, stone-paved streets of Solitude towards the direction of the market, then past the last few barterings of shopkeepers and merchants with their patrons, into the door of the Winking Skeever, where a silvery-haired bard plucked her lute and sang of heroes from distant time's passed. Jorn, spotting the new students, made the offer to purchase the first round of mead at the table as the Mer seated themselves around the table. Corpulus worked at the bar while Sorex passed through the room, checking in on patrons occasionally, and chatting with his father and younger sister all the meanwhile. 

  Ataf ran a hand over his closely cropped hair, seated next to Jorn. "It's nice to have new students," he commented with a grin, "after all, I'm afraid classes might get a bit lonely once we leave, especially since the war's... Well, you know." 

  "Y'know, to be honest," Athenath began, "I was expected to see... well, more students. A lot more, actually."

  "And you would be right! Normally, the college receives dozens of auditions, and keeps many of those students for years to come! But with everything going on right now, and with the Burning of King Olaf postponed..." 

  "Don't sound so sour." Jorn placed down full tankards onto the table, the thick thuds on the wooden surface and the sloshing of liquid just audible over the songs and other patrons of the inn. He sat down in the last empty chair, his bear cape clasped with heavy brass pins to his clothes. "Next year, you and I will get inducted, and Illdi and Aia won't be far behind." 

  Ataf's face warmed, tips of his ears reddening as he rubbed the back of his neck. "I hope Illdi'll be inducted at all. Gods know Lady Ateia's hard on her." 

  "Wait, is Illdi the one in the dark dress, short hair, nervous when you talk to her?" Athenath questioned with a small smile. He'd met Illdi in one of his classes, a course led by a tall and highly-respected woman he'd known as Lady Ateia. How she'd earned her title, he didn't care to guess. He'd seen Illdi many times tense up when called upon, despite clearly knowing the words to the well-known songs of the region. 

  At this, Ataf groaned, burying his face in his hands. "She's a very good bard," he replied, scrubbing at his face, "but she's so nervous when called upon, I worry one of these days she's going to fall over her own feet when Lady Ateia needs her to sing, and she'll say that this is what ended her career." 

  Athenath watched as Emeros glanced between the figures at the table, occasionally sending looks around the room as though searching for the stranger from the Blue Palace. He then turned his attention to Ataf and asked, "I presume you and Illdi are good friends, then?" 

  The question prompted a snicker from Jorn, and a playful elbowing to his friends ribs. "You can say that they're acquainted," he teased. 

  Ataf swatted the other bard's shoulder as if to tell him to back off, embarrassment tinging his cheeks as he downed another mouthful from his tankard. "Jorn," he groaned through a nervous grin, "by the eight." 

  "I'm just saying that you two are acquainted. I don't see the big deal." Jorn's grin only grew, creasing the edges of his eyes like a cat who knew he'd gotten into enough mischief to last him several lifetimes. The pair squabbled jokingly at the table, a friendship built through the years evident on every word and solidified by every motion. Every objection the young Redguard made was left with the Nord bouncing off it to only embolden his own humor, leaving Ataf scrubbing his face with his hands and trying to change the subject more and more. Athenath laughed and would, on occasion, toss their own mirthful comments into the conversation, even as their eyes drifted across the inn. Their ears tuned to the bards before him, he continued to search the room as nonchalantly as possible as Sorex flitted about, talking with patrons he'd become friends with over the years, welcoming in other customers, and keeping the atmosphere light. The noises all around the Altmer were a cacophony he couldn't escape, no matter how hard he tried, so they merely waited until his gaze came to land on one figure seated alone at the far end of the room, head in one hand, other fingers curled around the handle of a tankard. 

  The bagged eyes, the weary shoulders, the arch of his nose and the slope of his brow. A clear view, at last. 

  Athenath nudged Wyndrelis with their elbow as far under the table as they could manage so as not to draw anyone's attention. The mage, surprised by the act, lurched his gaze to the other Mer, then followed the direction of where Athenath was looking, his pale irises drawing in on the form seated alone in a dim portion of the room. Emeros locked eyes with Athenath, the taller Bosmer knitting his brow subtly, then doing the same, all three now recognizing the man for the pleading petitioner. 

  Emeros rose without saying a word to his friends about his actions, which set Athenath's nerves alight. "I'll be back in a moment, I should really ask about dinner options this evening." He dismissed himself as he adjusted his cowl, the draped green material along his shoulders pinned tight in place by the golden clasp. Athenath pressed their palms to the table, a flash of something gnarled and rotten through their stomach, dissipating as soon as it appeared. Still, it hung in their sharp gaze as they faced the other.

  "And I'm going to see if I can't get the bard to play something else," they ground out as pleasantly as possible, the tinge of their annoyance still brushing through their words. "Wyndrelis, would you...?"

  The Dunmer waved a hand. "I'll stay here."

  A nod, and Athenath crossed the room two steps at a time, Emeros keeping up at a brisk pace. 

  "What are you-?" Emeros whispered with his face wearing vague confusion, cut off by the other. 

  "I want to handle this, too, you know." 

  By the time the Bosmer had stopped as if to ask them something, Athenath slid into the chair opposite the strange man, who lifted his head to face the shorter Mer. Athenath's arm rested on the wooden surface of the table, Emeros finding a seat next to them. He could feel Emeros' sharp gaze burning into them as if trying to decipher every movement, but to no avail as they began to speak. 

  "Not to pry, but were you at the Blue Palace earlier?" Athenath asked, using the same, bright tone they often did when performing for inns. The same, friendly voice which earned them so much trust in such short spans of time over the years, gold pleasant in their pockets for many days after. The man looked to be examining their faces for some sort of answer, then darted his eyes around the room. If Athenath had to hazard a guess, he was trying to find anyone from the Blue Palace, as if maybe he thought they were here to question him on the court's behalf. Solitude was, Athenath had been coming to learn, a city of secrets. The man's meager scowl on his lips revealed he was still defensive, but finding none of the figures he was looking for, he drummed his fingers on the surface of the tankard and spoke. 

  "Yes, is there a reason you're asking me?" He looked to Emeros, whose arms folded over his chest as he leaned back in his chair, appearance casual as though they were simply making light conversation. 

  "We're with the Bard's College," he explained, before the man could speak again. "We were there earlier, and happened to overhear what you were telling Jarl Elisif. If it's not too much trouble, may we ask what it was you were so concerned about?" 

  The man scoffed, peering down into the dark pool of his drink. He ran a hand over his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose, then scratched the back of his ear. Athenath kept their gaze narrowed to him as he stared into the dark, amber liquid, taking a long swig from the tankard before clearing his throat and nodding. 

  "I have reasons to be worried about something outside of Dragon Bridge. But," he sucked in a breath, held it, and let it out in a long shove from his mouth, "I've already told the court in the Blue Palace the majority of it. If you really want to help? Then talk to Falk Firebeard. He'll... He's got the details." 

  "Does it, perhaps, have anything to do with how terribly tired you look?" Emeros cocked a brow, asking the question with a slight downward turn of his lip. Just as Athenath opened his mouth to snap at the Bosmer, the man nodded bleakly. 

  "Aye, that would be... An understatement, actually." Licking his lips, he leaned slightly forward so that the elves were the only ones to overhear as he spoke in a hush, "I don't know what is going on in Wolfskull Cave, but it's not natural. I know it's got a history, but I can't imagine anyone would be foolish enough to go in for the reasons one could suspect."

  A boisterous rumble of laughter from the trio's table, Ataf regaling Wyndrelis with some story or other, the Dunmer's amusement coming in the form of a half-smile and a lean back, arms folded over his chest while Jorn seemed to be filling in the details.

  "Those reasons being...?" Emeros rotated his wrist, the gesture a clear motion to get the other to disclose more information to the pair. The Altmer merely sat, his chest tight with tension, head buzzing with the same anger which often snuffed itself out not long after, an inside-outside sensation, partially from them and yet fanned by something greater, something worse, they couldn't say, but gods, it burned. They'd come here to help get the information, and gods knew he had his own questions, and if Emeros didn't finally shut up and let them speak-

  "Well, there's stories, you see." 

  "What stories?" Athenath prodded instantly, chin against the ball of his heel. The man furrowed his brow.

  "You don't know? Surely bards would be aware of the Wolf Queen Potema." 

  The Altmer shook their head. "I'm not." 

  "The Wolf Queen was, well, as her name suggests, the queen of Solitude for a while, and- well," he flit his hand, "you have a library, and a historian, right? You should search for answers there." He rubbed the circles under his eyes with his forefinger and thumb, moving the digits back and forth against the soft skin as he sipped his mead. Emeros quirked his brow momentarily, gesturing with a quick lean of his head for Athenath to follow him. All this served to do was amplify the hot iron burning under his sternum. 

  "Come on, I fear what mischief Wyndrelis may have dragged our new friends into," Emeros grinned as the words slid from his mouth, but something uneasy in his eyes turned Athenath's stomach raw with how concerned he appeared to be. How worried. They would scowl if it wouldn't be obvious. Concern? For what? For someone who could take care of himself? For someone who had their own questions to ask? What, did he think his line of questioning was the only conclusive one? The only path? The only answers? 

  Athenath stifled down the sensation and rose from the chair, striding back over to the table with Wyndrelis - who was now listening eagerly to Ataf and Jorn's stories of their first years at the Bard's College - and pulled their chair out with a loud scrape against the floors. The Altmer plopped down, Emeros taking a moment to gather something for the group to eat, platter in hand as he returned to the table in the tail end of one of the wild narratives spun by their new friends.

  "-And then, gods," Jorn guffawed, face ruddy with intense amusement - or perhaps with drink, as his tankard bore less and less mead by the half-hour. "Lady Ateia tore into us for that one, gods-"

  "She was furious," Ataf finished with a smirk, taking a sip and elbowing Jorn lightly, "but it's alright. We got the flute back, and Vashani was none the wiser." 

---

  He needed some air. The heat of the hearth, the warmth of the mead inside them, and the noise all together meant that Athenath needed a few moments to drink in the cool night breeze, pressing their back to the stone wall outside the Winking Skeever. They wrapped their arms around himself, hands above elbows, hair mussed and frizzy from the humidity. When the moons were absent some nights, he remembered his old friend snickering about Jone and Jode having "other duties", much to the chagrin of the young Khajiit's brother and sister, who would make faux-gagging noises. Now, however, the moons were out, even if the clouds would brush by them with faint hands. 

  They closed their eyes, breathing slow through his nose. The waves splashing the stones well beneath the city was a pleasant melody to get lost in, to draw silence back like a curtain. Insects, too, played in the harmonies, as did animals in the woods and mountains which made up Haafingar Hold. If, given the twist of fate to meet again, if he and his old friends caught one another's eye across a crowded street or busy inn or quiet temple, would they recognize one another? He thought he'd changed a lot in the past nine years since they'd left Bravil. He was sure they had, as well. Mara only knew what any of them were up to these days. 

  He tried to narrow his attention back to the present, to the stranger whose name he forgot to ask, to the "strange things" in the cave. 

  Given the minute to reflect, he let the words drape over their thoughts, the concepts they contained. A cave and a queen and the city and its history, all interwoven with one another. What stories could have possibly ruined the stranger's sleep? What sort of things was he seeing? Was he not telling them the full story? The image of the balled fists he'd clenched tight as he stormed from the Blue Palace rose in Athenath's mind, the sight of someone so troubled that they would raise their voice in front of the entire court of the city... Well, okay, the raising of a voice wasn't unusual, they corrected themself, but still, his behavior had been so strange that it almost warranted investigation as much as the cave. 

  The door pushed open, the sounds of music and conversation flooding every thought, washing them away. Someone stumbled down the road, back to their house, drunken song on their lips. A guard patrolled the streets, sounds of his armor clear in the evening.

  Athenath, at last, opened their eyes. They looked to the stage where Roggvir had been executed. It stared at them a while.  

---

  Jorn was a bit of a group effort to get back to the college, his stumbling and swaying off the support of his friends feeling more and more like an attempt to hoist himself off their shoulders and down to the stone, laughter bubbling off his lips. Emeros on one side, Ataf on the other, listening to the Nord ramble on and on about his drumming lessons and what a great soldier he'll be once he's graduated the college. Athenath had seen plenty of people go far beyond their usual limits, and he and Ataf made their best attempts to keep Jorn talking so as to surmise his current state. Right now, he was giddy, and keeping him that way would be the best bet at coaxing him into bed once they passed through the college doors. Wyndrelis led the little procession, himself quiet save for an idle comment. 

  As though he were leading thralls, the thought poured in before he could stop it. As though they were just his dead puppets under command of his skilled magic. What if Emeros had been right to begin with? What if these flares of anger came not for Emeros, but for the fact that he may be right, that Wyndrelis were nothing more than a necromancer who'd found himself easy marionettes? Athenath had definitely fallen into trusting the Dunmer much too fast, but he could say the same about the alchemist, but all the same...

  He swallowed the flurry of questions down as the group meandered into the common area of the Bard's College, working to carefully bring Jorn down the stairs, catching the sight of Illdi who offered her assistance. She'd laughed a bit and cursed under her breath and joked with Jorn about him overdoing it, and Jorn cracked a few comments back. She and Ataf helped him to his room, thanking the others before disappearing behind doors for the evening, the noises of their conversation giving way to the quiet. Athenath watched them go, fingers raking through his dark hair. They twirled a length around his finger, the ringlet wide and circling the digit, anything to distract from how their head pounded with need for sleep and answers both. If the day had not been so long, then they would be in the library, books stacked and skimming every mention of a wolf or queen or Wolf Queen. Against these wishes, his feet dragged him to his dorm, bidding quick goodnights to his friends with the faintest smile on his mouth. 

  Did any of this matter? They toyed with the idea as they kicked off their boots, door shut and locked behind him. So what if there were strange lights in a cave. Skyrim was a strange place. He tore off his dayclothes and tugged on a nightshirt and peeled up the blankets, sliding in beneath them with a strange amount of caution. The ideas of what lay ahead remained in his mind, even as he tried to get comfortable in the bed. Was this worth it, to investigate this rumor? For all he knew, the man never slept right, and it had simply made his thoughts strange and garbled and sent him to demand answers. In that case, would he not seek a healer instead of the Jarl? Suppose that, should his lack of sleep be a common problem for him, then maybe they wouldn't head to the right person for answers because they couldn't think clearly enough to do so. But what did it matter? Was he just mad? 

  Athenath turned over in their bed. Every question rumbled like a thunderstorm beneath him. They came from him, in their own voice, but something slithered beyond, as though they were phantom projections of something or someone else's mind. Bitterly, they wondered if Wyndrelis had anything to do with it - mages can manipulate much, can't they? Or what if Emeros had something to do with it, using potions to dampen their capacity to think clearly? The Altmer frowned and scrunched their nose. These ideas, too, flew in from somewhere, like a cormorant with its serpentine neck leading the way. The moonlight had been a fickle thing, coveted for the brief moments the clouds didn't spurn its light, dark shapes snaking through the sky and veiling the stars. Words formed in him, but were not from them. He would close his eyes and curl close to their pillow, but he took no comfort that his usually vivid dreams would be peaceful ones tonight.

Chapter 39: Influence of Ritual

  Last he had heard, Wolfskull Cave was a miserable little outpost with nothing much in the way of magicka left to drink from. Yet, here he stood, questioning this notion while the pair of Mer he had grown to call friends stood before the nobility of the Hold and asked after the Nord from the prior night. Their last resort had come to pass. They must speak with the court of the Blue Palace, whether they wanted to or not. 

  Falk Firebeard stood with a little smile on his face and hands folded together, as pleasant as he could make himself in front of the gathering of strangers. Surprise tugged at the corners of his eyes, the lightest marks of age making their appearances. Perhaps thirty-seven winters, Wyndrelis estimated as he stood towards the back of the gathering. Maybe more. He'd never been the best judge of this. His own elder brother had been the sort of man mistaken for someone half his age, and while the roots of youth hadn't been pulled from his hands, he still held a decent fistful of years over his siblings heads. Tavern trips in Cheydinhal made often when Wyndrelis was barely able to walk, the older elf bringing the boy along. He'd never understood, in those bleary and mostly-forgotten times of his life, why his brother was not satisfied to stay in their own town, drink the night away there, laugh the evening away in the comfort of a familiar landscape where their family carried and commanded respect both.

  He turned his attentions back to the room as the steward rambled on about something or other. Falk had been under the impression the trio were here to continue the petition for the Burning of King Olaf, and it took a few attempts from Emeros and Athenath to convince him that this was not the case. The steward, naturally, almost didn't believe them, evident in the way he stroked at his small beard and gave questioning glances back to the mage, who merely flicked his pale eyes at the steward and then away at the icy-faced wizard nearby. A sigh had heaved at Falk's sternum, but relief washed it away while he relaxed and explained the current state of affairs in Solitude in as curt a way as possible: morale was fine, thank you, yes, we have plenty of grain to last us the winter, you should enjoy your time at the college, we hope you join our revered local bards someday in our history...

  "We're actually here about another matter," Emeros interrupted as he cleared his throat, his dark eyes focused intently on the Nord, who seemed to pause a moment at the idea. Clearly, he had not considered that the trio were interested in anything but the affairs of their college or the well-being of the city, and now he tugged at the sleeve of his thick, quilted coat, as if he could pull his own worn-out nerves together by its threads.

  "Really? Well, I am more than glad to hear any concerns you three may have, as is the duty of the court," he made a slight gesture while he spoke to the other figures in the room, all gathered around the throne of Jarl Elisif, who sat in whispered conversation with the heavily-armored figure to her side. 

  "We're here to inquire about the investigation into Wolfskull Cave, and whether or not you'd like any assistance." 

  Falk made a small, dismissive gesture with his wrist. "You mean the Dragon Bridge issue?" he asked, and Wyndrelis watched the other shed a glance in the direction of the court wizard, who seemed too preoccupied with studying the trio to return the look. "I'll be honest with you, I was planning to let that go. Varnius is jumpy at the best of times, you see. If it were anything, I'm certain that Sybille's scrying would have picked up on it." 

  The court wizard gave, at last, Wyndrelis a shard of her curious gaze, and he swallowed a lump in his throat. Her near-luminous, citrine eyes under her dark hood kept his feet firmly planted to the stone floor beneath himself, the fresh-cleaned gleam of it still sharp in the bleaching light of the sun and the gold of the chandeliers. The way this Breton looked at him pressed a reality, not the mere impression, into him that she was not unlike a hunter studying its prey, making attempt to peer past futile flesh and into the very veins below where she might strike. It was the sort of look that froze him, the same he'd seen in several pairs of eyes before throughout his travels, the same look that always made him flinch. There was no contempt in it, of course, there never was. There was just an understanding that whomever she set her eyes upon was lesser in the way a bug was lesser than the boot. 

  He shrunk back barely a step. She grinned.

  "Well, what if her scrying didn't pick up on something?" Athenath suggested, a faint urgency making itself clear in their voice. "Look, I'm not saying she didn't do well, and I'm really no expert in this, but don't you think it'd be best to send someone out to look into the cave and come report back, rather than leave it up to chance?" 

  The man rubbed his face, hands fidgeting with one another idly. Falk's glances to Elisif, her housecarl, and other figures in the court landed him with approving nods, and again he spoke up. "There have... been reports of weird happenings near Wolfskull Cave. Travelers disappearing, odd lights. I suspect wild animals or perhaps bandits."

  "Travelers disappearing?" Emeros repeated, eyes narrowing. "And you didn't think that this was worth an investigation?" 

  Falk held a hand up. "Again, I thought it might be bandits, wee all did," he justified as Wyndrelis studied the way Athenath's hands tensed, not quite into fists, but not quite beneath the idea. He'd noticed the minute changes in his friends since arriving to Solitude, and he found himself wondering if using a calm spell on the Altmer would make things better or worse in this situation. As if he had not been doing so since they got to this town, he mused internally. 

  Falk carried on about bandits and wild animals, the bears of Haafingar Hold, a topic that seemed further and further from the reality of Wolfskull Cave by the moment. "They've taken advantage with the war going on, all this uncertainty, no one is truly safe. And, well, you can't exactly prepare to best a wild cave bear or pack of hungry wolves if you come unprepared. But I digress, if you really think it's worth looking into, then I will make sure that you three are repaid for your work." 

  A housecarl nearest Falk scoffed into a drink, prompting the court wizard to scowl as she turned her head to face him. "Is there something funny, Erikur?"

  "No, no, not at all." The man rolled his eyes as he sipped from his goblet, a sort of wine from the hue of it. "I just find it a bit interesting that we're sending three strangers to investigate Haafingar's matters. This should be the work of someone from our own Hold, not these elves who had to get a military pardon when they first arrived here."

  Phoebe, over at her desk, winced. She glared at Erikur, a sharp, probably dangerous look if on anyone else's face that merely served to make her appear like a mouse scolding a wolf. 

  "Besides, our coffers are emptier by the day. What can we even reward three would-be bandit-slayers when they inevitably return without having spilt so much as skeever blood?" 

  "Erikur," the hulking figure on the other side of the throne snapped, "that's enough." 

  Erikur shrugged, and took another long drink from his goblet. Elisif scanned the trio, her face worn down into a dreary resignation. "Then what do you propose? We've already sent a detachment to Dragon Bridge, and Sybille's scrying has shown nothing. Yet, I must admit that the idea of leaving this uninvestigated makes me uneasy." 

  Erikur's focus darted around the room. "We should send a handful of our own soldiers. Perhaps discuss it with General Tullius? See if he will offer some help." 

  The room descended into murmurs of agreement, the idea tantalizing to the nobility of the court. Wyndrelis frowned. He looked to Emeros and Athenath, both sharing in the same uneasiness that fell over them.

  "I will send word to Captain Aldis, and ask if he has any new recruits he might test by sending them that way. Phoebe, draft a letter to the Captain, and deliver it as soon as possible," Elisif commanded, tension leaving her as she watched the pale-haired girl scratch something down into a new roll of paper.

  Athenath spluttered, "but what if it's something- I don't know, important?" 

  "Then our soldiers will have it taken care of, instead of strangers- sorry, students, dirtying their hands." 

  Erikurs cavalier reply left the Altmer again struggling for words, Emeros placing a gentle palm on his shoulder. Wyndrelis shrunk back, his steps taking him to the stairs. A few mutters from the Bosmer, and Athenath's feet turned to the stairwell, face scrunched in a look of intense frustration with the way they were so easily dismissed. As the trio left the Blue Palace, the sneer never quite fell from Athenath's face, and Wyndrelis swallowed down the urge to ask of it, or to pry into why Erikurs words prodded so harshly into them as to leave their features twisted. This wasn't ideal, but when was anything the trio had been through in the past few weeks? 

  He again contemplated using another calm spell on the younger elf, and this time his fingers twitched with magicka. 

---

  They had come to the library first thing this morning, and again, between classes and in spare moments, they had found chairs and made more use of the books housed there than many students seemed to make in the early days of classes. They had shared a breakfast where Athenath insisted on speaking first, and as the trio now returned from their latest encounter with the Blue Palace, Wyndrelis found himself left to reflect upon it as they returned to their research, books still stacked high on a table beside one of the many windows lining the library walls. They'd explained that the man they'd met the prior night had his concerns steeped in the history of Wolf Queen Potema, and the fact that she'd spent numerous hours of her life using the cave for her own purposes, and that the man had hardly slept in some time from the ways his worries haunted him. Emeros then had clarified that he believed the restlessness was due to nightmares, and while none at the table said it aloud, the shared opinion was that it could be no other reason. Wyndrelis' own dreams had been less than pleasant since the trio had arrived in Haafingar Hold, and part of him wondered if the reason were something more strange than the stress of the events which had weighed on him since he'd crossed Skyrim's snowy border. 

  Encroaching evening speared through the noon's golden traces on the ridges of purple clouds, and while torchbugs were fewer and further between as the season grew colder, Wyndrelis watched a couple lazily drift here and there over the windows of the college. He looked back to his friends. The way that they both sat with books propped in their laps, skimming over the notes in tomes they pulled from the shelves of the history section. He pretended that they were the same people they had been back in Whiterun. Perhaps burdened, worried, and recently scarred by the events of Helgen, but they had been different, somehow. Changed by the arrival into this city over the sea, and he did not know if the two before him were the same people that he had met in that hellfire. 

  He could pretend he didn't notice it. The little things, minute changes in his friends. The way in which Emeros' shoulders tightened further to himself with tension at each passing day. The way he seemed so concerned with what the other two were doing, where they were, how they were. He'd try to hide it, always. Burying the questions beneath curiosity. Playing it off cool and calm. Aloof, even, like he always did. But the signs were there of the twitch of nervousness at his mouth, or the dart of his gaze towards any loud noise. The way Athenath shot glances which grew more and more acidic with each passing day, before they dissipated in a fog of exhaustion, where the Altmer looked about the room as though not knowing where their own anger and agitation had gone. The way they would scowl for only a moment. The frowns. The roll of the eyes, the sighs, the retreating further and further away like a dog in a burrow, locking in on themself to hide every ounce of any hint that something may be wrong. Wyndrelis could only hope that they'd not picked up on the mage prying through his magicka, short-lived attempts at weeding out a source entirely unsuccessful in the mere moments these flashes happened, hands hidden under the table and all focus on the younger bard so no one could see the way his magicka lit up his fingers. He had learned quickly to put his focus solely on keeping outbursts under control. No use finding the font from which this bitterness flowed if the result would remain the same. 

  He'd changed, too. This creeping up of phantasms he'd long confronted had a habit of finding him in the most silent moments. The noises of night at the Bard's College had become nearly comforting, if he could manage to get past the fact that it made it hard for him to sleep. Silence was once his cradle. Now, it became an enemy. A chorus of his own history behind him, at every step he took, nipping his heels. Today, he ran faster from them. The name Wolfskull Cave rang a distant bell in Wyndrelis' mind. In a memory meant to be buried, he could feel the syllables tap off the sharp teeth of a figure which he'd spend his whole life trying to forget, and the claws of the stories dug into his shoulders while he sat watching the light from the windows grow fainter.

  Wolfskull Cave was a miserable little outpost in the middle of nowhere. This had been emphasized to a point. 

  As he sat here, in the dim library lit by ancient chandeliers, his mind began to wander to the college, to the people and the classes, his own lessons. His drum course was going about as well as it could, given the fact that it was Viarmo who was instructing. Wyndrelis admired the Altmer's musical prowess, but found him a baffling and flashy figure, his clothes glittering with the brocades adorning so many parts of the garments. He had a deal of respect for the Altmer, whose shoulders rose and slumped with his every emotion, whose face bore the hallmarks of a good life, whose tastes showed that he was an elf who enjoyed this world to the fullest and who deeply appreciated masterful crafting in any pursuit, whether it be music, poetry, or the art of textile. He was an elf who brightened at the sights of his fellow instructors, at his students when they displayed a proficiency for whatever he was teaching them, and who utterly and completely bewildered Wyndrelis to Oblivion and back. 

  Despite all of these things, he still did not hold much in the way of positive emotion towards the older bard. He could not look at Viarmo without thinking about the way his office bore down the bleaching light of the sun on he and his friends, while they recounted the story of Helgen and the dragon, the way his grin slid up his lips and brought a shine of delight at each little detail to his eyes. Where the trio were horrified, he was excited. Where they were left with the ashes of a dead outpost, Viarmo marveled at the corpse. It sent a shiver up Wyndrelis' spine to reflect on, and he instead shifted his thoughts to the pottery course which he'd been eager to start, but the instructor had been strangely absent. 

  Viarmo lamented that they were cursed. A late instructor, so few students, and rendered festival-less. Really, it was the roads and their dangers that kept students and instructors away. And the grief of a widowed Jarl kept the festival on hold. Still, maybe there was something to the notion.

  He kept the other two where he could see them, seating himself so that he could surreptitiously glance above the cover of the next leather-bound book in his hands to draw the image of his friends in. Emeros mumbled to himself. Wyndrelis caught Athenath shooting a glance nothing short of acidic. A tremor of the lip or a knit of the brow, and then it was gone, and the young Altmer would return to their own reading with a heavy sigh like a bored and easily agitated hunting dog. They flipped through a few pages between rubbing their temples or raking his fingers through his curls, and brought their legs up closer to his body, unable to get comfortable in the leather chair while attempting to search for any bit of information relevant to the trios shared curiosity. He'd been watching the other two closely the past few weeks. He couldn't place why. Something in their eyes, an anxious pacing behind both pairs of them since the trio had arrived in Solitude. Maybe it was the shock of Roggvir's execution, he'd tried to excuse, but it had been weeks now. Time had flown in carrion bird's wings. Yet, this had done nothing to stop the Altmer's shirk up of the shoulders, or roll of the eyes, or grumble under their breath. It certainly did not stop the worried knit of Emeros' brow, the way he kept closer to his friends than before, the way he seemed so intent on knowing if they were alright, playing it off as wondering if they were nervous over their studies while he fidgeted with his hands. He didn't even know if they were aware they were doing it, and while he pretended not to notice these changes, it became clearer each passing day that this could only go on so long. Something had to give. 

  The Bosmer worked slowly through each page he read, taking his time and dragging his finger under each line, his attention taken up entirely by the task at hand. The back of his green vest pressed against the worn leather, and his golden earrings reflected the dying light from the window in little metallic fractals on the walls. A bust of a scholar long passed blocked off shadow along another shelf, and from here, the trio had a good view of the commons and their dozens of displayed instruments. Wyndrelis again looked at Emeros, and then to Athenath, who still struggled in their inability to sit still. He'd adjust their body to the chair, legs either to their chest, or dangling off the chair, or crossed at the ankles. 

  The doors to the college parted with their loud and heavy hinges, Viarmo carrying on with his hands gesticulating wildly in every direction as he led the way inside, a woman behind him, handles of her luggage bound in both her steady fists. She kept her head high above her tall spine, and without the point of her ears, Wyndrelis made the guess that she was a Nord. Her hair, thick and light, rested in a circular braid at the back of her head and seemed to be coming slightly loose from a long day's travel.

  "I was starting to think you wouldn't make it!" Viarmo exclaimed, his voice bouncing off the stone floors and walls, leaving a light echo as he smiled, cheer evident on the rosy hue of his golden cheeks. She laughed, but her voice came out dry and weary and equally echoed. 

  "Oh, as was I," she responded as another figure trodded into view, Wyndrelis noting it to be Giraud, "bandits these days. Gods. You know, there's a whole encampment of them near Markarth! Made me pay a toll and everything. Nasty fellows." She emphasized her point with a shake of her head, hurrying her step behind the headmaster, the three disappearing up the stairs which led to Viarmo's office. 

  Wyndrelis looked to his two friends, all catching one another's curious glances. "Who?" he signed in hopes not to catch anyone's attention, and when Athenath met his question with a shrug of the shoulder, and Emeros with a shake of the head, he sighed and set his book down. 

  "By the looks of it, one of the instructors," Emeros posited as he did the same, pushing his own book aside and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "All of mine have been present, so I'm not entirely sure of that, however."

  "Mine, too," Athenath, at last, joined his friends in the neglect of their research into the cave. "Wyndrelis, didn't you say your pottery courses were delayed?"

  He perked up, the thought settling neatly into place. Right, the instructor had been caught up in some business and couldn't make the first few days. First few days, of course, turned into a week or more, and left the students who'd been preparing to take the course with a free hour. Wyndrelis had been using it to study sign language, spending his hour seated in the library with the course book and studying the depicted letters, phrases, anything he could memorize and use. As glad as he would be to sit, at long last, in the pottery course, he couldn't help feeling disappointed that this hour would now be taken from him. 

---

  Emeros had proposed they go to dinner. A meal to break up the research. Time away, time to think. Mull it over while they drank on ale and ate on thick stews, slices of cheese from the farm not too far from the city gates, and bits of fresh fruit that would grow more sparse by the creeping winter. 

  The traitor named nostalgia bubbled up from time to time in his thoughts, the once-warm features of those he'd known so long ago phantasmagoric in his mind. Many years ago, he had shared similar meals - among mostly strangers, then - as they chatted about their research and other matters and cut into butchered cuts of meat, cooked well over a fire and drizzled in spiced sauces. Surilie Brothers had been the favored wine of their group. Research into rituals and their effects had been going well, Wyndrelis taking a particular interest in the far-reaching implications of certain works. How did the summoning of particularly powerful atronachs affect the area around them? How did rituals intended to change the world around them, change the ritual master as well?

  He swallowed dryly, and then took a swig of his ale. Feverish and half-resembling themselves were the people in his mind, features blurred and covered in the glow of a hearth. And here, in the present, he would deny their names to preserve what was left of himself. But the ideas they had planted, and the works they had done together and the things they had studied, those he would keep.

  The idea came to mind again, pushing itself thornily into his side. Rituals and their far-reaching implications, how did magicka impact the environment around them, the people, places, things? He considered this wordlessly while he ate, listening to Athenath chat with one of the local bards. They passed over a couple coins, requesting a song, and before Wyndrelis knew it, the music shifted to a livelier sway. Some of the musicians clapped their hands in a specific rhythm, all singing as the Altmer went back to their meal. Emeros, meanwhile, poked at his own with his fork and seemed to be thick in the middle of his own thoughts, all unspoken.

  He didn't know what started it, or how it would even begin. Wyndrelis had been in the mixture of the music, of their conversations, and of his own half-remembered research. He'd said something, he could remember faintly. Something that maybe didn't settle well. Had it been a joke? A reference to the day's events? Had it been something personal or something distant? He could try, but he couldn't remember. He'd always known something was off about the odd, sharp anger in Athenath's eyes that he only caught in peripheral looks or when narrowed in on anyone else, but once that look finally landed on him for one brief moment, he could feel his stomach knot itself into several tight shapes. He halted, every muscle in his body taut. It was not the look that scared him. The look was of a dog, backed into a corner by captors, held hostage and warning with their eyes. But the way that it gashed across a face he knew it didn't fit, the way it imposed itself on Athenath's usually grinning mouth, the way that it soured everything in their usually-bright eyes, it struck him through like a lance. 

  He watched as the Altmer's features softened and sighed and their brow knit, as if they hadn't known, himself, where this anger had come from. Athenath looked down at his meal, apparently uninterested. Emeros gave concerned glances, and worry licked at his own face, but the Bosmer said nothing of the tension in Wyndrelis' shoulders or the slump of Athenath's own. He merely tugged his cowl further over his head, and sipped his drink, and picked at his food. 

  Wyndrelis looked about the room. The tired faces. The way even the bards, whose energy was normally quite high, had a slouch to them. The innkeeper, his son and his daughter, all worn out. No one had been sleeping well, and the mage could find it clearly now in this room. This town, in its entirety, bled of nightmares.

  He couldn't wait to leave the inn, and when it seemed his friends were finished with their meals, he pushed his own away, paid for the dinner with his own coin, and pretended not to be in such a hurry to leave. Despite this, he found his feet under him at a pace that the other two could hardly keep up with, and for once, he was at the head of their travel, leading Athenath and Emeros back to the college under the two glowing moons. He would need to double check something. The college's expansive history section would surely have at least one book on the matter, he reassured himself as he made the brisk march back to the college, through the winding streets of Solitude past beggars and merchants and everyone who landed in between, none of their faces or presences registering as he pushed through the doors and through to the library and back to his research. 

  "I think I'm going to call it a night," Athenath emphasized with a stretch. "What about you two?"

  "I'm getting a bit tired, myself, but I think I'll stay up and work on some reading for class," Emeros answered. He looked over at Wyndrelis, who was now digging through the stacks of books the trio had left in their wake for Giraud to sort through later. "And you?" 

  "I'm going to look a bit more into this. Goodnight." 

  He didn't mean to sound so dismissive, and in normal circumstances, a flush would find his face as he realized his faux pas, but neither seemed to mind. They merely shrugged, and went their own ways, down the stairwell and into their respective dorms. Wyndrelis, meanwhile, kept flipping through book after book until he came to the conclusion it wouldn't be among the ones they'd pulled for their investigation. He darted to the shelves, his bony fingers tugging spine after spine, flipping through, replacing, until he could find the one he knew he needed. His old mentor had practically written the book on the influence of rituals - indeed, the one he sought had his name credited in the margins of the back for his assistance - and Wyndrelis cursed himself that it took this long to think back on it. Every time he pushed his recollections out, he found them push back against him, and now he welcomed the waves as he saw what they carried.

  It was an old, leather-bound and slightly beaten copy. An oddity among the rest of the categories, in a weird space where history met myth. Magic was not usually the study of bards, but the stories of mages could make for great stories in the royal courts. He parted the pages and skimmed familiar passage after passage, and as the words sunk in, so too did an ice cold dread. 

  Rituals had a habit of influencing the world around them. Powerful rituals, moreso. Nightmares. Personality changes. Sleeplessness. Madness, paranoia. He swallowed hard and let himself graze the rest of the pages he needed, mouthing the words silently to himself until he was satisfied. The book detailed an account of mages throughout history whose rituals had affected the world around them, from the myth of Shalidor's single breath forming the city of Winterhold, to even the way those skilled in ancient Nordic magic could not speak, their voices too powerful. Each one had gone through their own rituals to become these figures, their own paths, their own methods.

  He would take it for now. Replace it when he had finished convincing his friends that this was the cause. He could hear a voice in the back of his mind as he made the slow, agonizing march to his dorm for the evening, the laughter half-mad.  

  Wolfskull Cave, last he'd heard, last he was told, was a miserable little outpost in the middle of nowhere. Emphasized to him with the shaking of an index finger and the manic look in his mentor's eyes were the rituals which had taken place there long ago, and that every budding necromancer should at least try to taste of its deeds once in their lifetime. 'While it is not the most reputable nor easily accessed place,' he could remember the point made, yet hardly any of the history behind it, 'and certainly, there is little to drink from there anymore - believe me, my boy, I have tried - it is still a ground which must be felt under the feet of any true student of our arts.'

  He knew now that this had only been half-truth. There was magic still housed within Wolfskull Cave, and it was not merely the dregs of what had once been. The font still flowed. If he was right, then someone was currently drinking from its cup.

Chapter 40: The Hunted, The Deer

Notes:

welcome to the annual birthday double-update! <3 hope you enjoy, and let me know your thoughts on the fic so far! i'm always happy to hear from you guys!

  He was to kill an indrik. 

  The hunt was a coming-of-age ceremony, one prevalent throughout Valenwood. Once conducted with the aim of taking down gazelles and other such beasts, the introduction of the indrik into the province from Alinor by Aldmeri nobles had created a peculiar problem. The creature, that many deemed a pest, had proliferated throughout the province. Some Bosmer had started farms of indrik, a way to butcher some calves and spare the rest, a good source of food throughout the northernmost cities. The plumage made for grand decoration on hats and other pieces of clothing, and even grander quills. The belly bore a layer of thickly-muscled fur, though not enough for clothing a grown elf. Instead, it made for swaddling blankets, or small rugs, or parts of a larger whole of a piece. 

  He tracked it for almost a week. In his memory, he was with several other Bosmer, all on the same hunt. To work together, to build a connection to the Valenwood itself and to one another was as integral to the ceremony as the taking down of the animal. The hunt lasted days, tracking the beast through the dense forests and humidity of the summer. They would fell the indrik and take the hide, rolling it off like a tight glove, and decide what to do with the other parts. The meat, the organs, the bones, the sinew. He'd made good needles from those bones. Ones which he still used, many years later. He was deemed the best tracker of their group, and with his fathers hunting knife, he crept in pursuit of the wild beast.

  In his dreams, he was all alone, and the indrik was hunting him. 

  He'd run through the forests, thick with the natural growth of his home, the sound of hooves not far behind him, trampling the ground and pounding into his skull. The echo crowded all around him now as he sped into any direction which could grant him a chance of survival, meager as it was, zig-zagging through the brush. He'd come upon a house, and he threw open the door and bolted it shut and toed away, eyes wide in terror, the room filling with people he knew - faces, phantom-like, as though his mind didn't dare conjure them up - and the voices of curiosity, questioning, why was he running, what from? Faces from his earliest memory, faces from recent, all taking up residence in the growing claustrophobia of the house whose walls threatened to fall in with the force of the indrik outside, pounding away at the door with its antlers, knowing that the one it sought stood there. 

  The door would fall open, and the indrik would grin, and the dream would shift. Blood, in him, outside of him, endless stars, the wink and wax and wane of them. And fire, gods, the endless scorched forests and homes. 

  This, all of this, had been his fault, from the very beginning. The house would not burn if he did not live there. The people would be alive if he had never been. Their faces, fractaled and incomprehensible yet unmistakable, stood in the doorway of a collapsing city and another starless ride through the sands and through the thick fields of another place and the faces shifted to blood on familiar, new faces, to hands reaching from dark waters, to nothingness.

  Emeros' lungs desperately clamored for air as he awoke, the night still thick around the college. Sticky with sweat and half-aware of his surroundings, he fumbled a shaky hand over his blankets and tore them off. The back of his throat burnt, hand rubbing against the column of his neck, muscles beneath shifting as he swallowed. Sleep talking, perhaps, the dryness quick to subside with a few more attempts to soothe it. He waited in the stillness, slow breaths through his nose, out through his lips, and again, until his heart clawed towards the safety his mind had become aware of the moment his eyes flashed open. He dressed quickly, seating himself at his desk, head in his hands. 

  He had not dreamt like this in quite some time. There had been nothing to lead his mind down such dark pathways, the time spent in Solitude relatively peaceful, his sleep seldom disturbed by such grotesque visions. The indrik he'd hunted as a teenager had been a quick kill. Yes, it had taken a few days to track it through the dense forests, but in comparison to the use they all got out of it, the pursuit had proven worthwhile. Bones for tools, a skull they'd boiled into a stew the night they'd caught the beast, antlers into flutes and other instruments, sinew to thread... It had been routine, practically, and when the gaggle of youths returned a little haggard but with their kill, and showed their skills in taking it apart with the proper techniques and reverence, then they were deemed ready to take on the responsibilities that came with their age. The indrik had never seen its death coming. 

  But in his dream, the eyes took on an almost personal quality, as if they bore hatred for him and the poisonous desire to do him harm. 

  Emeros ran his fingers through his thick, chestnut hair, scratching down at his neck and repeating the slow motions, before smoothing it all back with his palm and rising. There was no one to talk to at this hour, whatever hour it was, and the silence permeated the stone walls around him. He slid through the doorway of his dorm, darting his gaze left and right, the licking flames of the hearth and the utter stillness confirming that he was the only one awake, at least on this level. He pulled the door shut behind him and made his way to the kitchens, the sound of Bendt's snoring from his room nearby the only sound aside from the small fire. 

  He could use a drink. Maybe two, if he were being honest with himself. 

  Emeros pulled one of the high bottles of wine from its shelf, clinking of glass together causing him to mutter curses under his breath, hand clasping the thin neck as the wine sloshed around inside. He pulled a goblet from a table and popped the cork from the half-drank container, seating himself to watch the flames.

  He still thought about that rakish boy, the canary-haired Altmer. He thought of him as he sipped his wine, and wondered bitterly how dire the situation in Whiterun must be, now that a Thalmor agent had been given a hand-written note to waltz right through the city gates and up to the Temple of Kynareth, all too close to the statue of Talos and the ninth divine's zealot. The chill up his spine dusted over his shoulders and through his hair, and it wasn't from a wanton draft down the stairs. He sipped from the brass vessel and studied it in the light, the fine craftsmanship of it, the dents of a hammer which had worked away until the shape came into being. He twisted it in the crook of his thumb to watch the flames cling to the curves, the shadow always falling on his side. 

  Another long drink of the wine served to help ease his nerves. He poured the goblet full again, and examined the label more closely. Surilie Brothers. Figures, he snickered, that vineyard had a reach that many could only envy, though he had to wonder how. He watched the embers glitter in the bottom of the hearth, reaching up to rest a hand under his chin, fingers pressed against the skin of his cheek. He could, in this silence, imagine the flames licking away at him, waxy skin to melt and reveal the bones beneath. The way which the tallow would drip and splutter into the logs, sickly sound made of the discarded face he wore. The indrik's eyes from his nightmare still terrorized him, even in waking, the manner in which they pierced through him to his core, he could tell it sought to use its antlers to flay him. Prey become predator. Hunter and animal. He knew not which one was which. 

  Emeros drank the last of his goblet in the silence, and placed the bottle back where it belonged, and moved to the dormitories. He stood, empty brass vessel in hand, outside the rooms of his friends. Wyndrelis' dorm was to his right, and Athenath's was to his left. He stood outside Athenath's door first, and pressed his ear to the wood. He could hear their breathing, punctuated by an occasional snore, then down into the quiet of good sleep. When he made his way to Wyndrelis' room, he twisted the knob, the Dunmer having admitted that he had a habit of not locking doors all the time. It moved, and he peered inside at the sleeping mage, the other in his typical, curled-up position on his side, face buried into the pillow. 

  He shut the door and made his way back to his room, slipping into his chair and watching the faint light trickle in from under the entryway. 

---

  Sleep never quite took him again, and when morning came by way of students making their slow risings from bed, he pulled his head from his arms and stared at the wall before him. He'd drifted in and out at his desk, face buried against his sleeves. Slowly, he stretched and tried to stave off an ache that would catch up to him at the end of the day, joints stiff at the discomfort of the unusual sleeping place. 

  Lucky, the word came to mind, a word he could thinly use to describe himself, because he didn't dream any more that night. He straightened out his clothing and ran a comb through his hair, readying himself for the day that he had already resigned himself to contain several headaches and a deep desire to curl up under his blankets. If he thought about the sunken mattress and thick quilts for too long, the soft, feather-filled pillow with its lump at the top and a couple of awkward spaces, the warm room and the dark that could swaddle him into a deep rest, then there would be little to stop him from crawling back into it and ignoring his classes for the rest of the day. Gods knew he deserved a bit of rest, a bone-deep yearning for the warmth every time his eyes made contact with the pillow, but the knock on his dormitory door and a voice from beyond stole away his hope. 

  "You awake yet?" called Athenath. Emeros murmured to himself a few sharp words against his idea of sleeping in and adjusted his clothes once more, cowl worn at his neck like a loose scarf more and more often these days. 

  "Yes, what is it?" he replied, checking over his appearance in the surface of a silvery platter, empty on a shelf above his desk. 

  Wyndrelis spoke up this time. "We do have classes to attend." 

  The snicker in his voice, a half-joke, left Emeros rolling his eyes in a humored manner as he opened the door. His friends were already prepared for the day, and he'd been the one to keep them from breakfast for a bit too long. For a moment, the idea of explaining his nightmare to the pair came to mind, but something in him shoved it aside. Why should he worry them? It would be no use. After all, he could handle a bad dream here or there. He shut the door and locked it firmly, his friends already halfway to the stairs.

  "Come on, lets have breakfast at the inn," Athenath suggested, though it sounded more like a command than a possible idea for his friends to consider, "I want the latest news." 

  "Latest news?" Emeros arched his brow as he followed, Wyndrelis leading the way up the stairwell, still rubbing sleep from his eyes with flattened fingers. 

  "I want to know if Elisif is going to make good on checking out the cave." The Altmer fidgeted with the cord of their amulet, the tightly-wound leather wrapping around their finger. Emeros narrowed his brow, but said nothing. In truth, he wanted an answer, too. If the Jarl were to send someone to investigate Wolfskull Cave, then he would like to be among the first to hear about it, and the subsequent findings. The way the man - Varnius, his name had been Varnius - peered at he and Athenath with those worn, sleepless eyes had never quite left him, the notion that only bandits and fools made the cave their home growing further and further from reality each day. What he had read, and what he managed to piece together, paired with the blithe dismissal at the Blue Palace only served to raise his suspicions that everybody knew it had to be something more dire. He caught the edge of a strange look in Wyndrelis' eye, the mage glancing at the alchemist through his periphery. The expression was one of knowing something that neither of the other Mer knew, something which clearly weighed heavily on his mind, and Emeros found himself giving a questioning look to the other. Wyndrelis said nothing, and ignored it, and kept moving. 

---

  Mornings at the Winking Skeever were not precisely quiet, but they were far from as boisterous as their evenings. They functioned as a time for people to grab a meal, or catch up on the latest town gossip, or even converse with the innkeeper and his son, Sorex. Upon first meeting Sorex, Emeros had mistaken him as Corpulus' brother, both sporting greys at the temples and Sorex looking near as weathered as his father, and his father maintaining a youthful countenance despite his years. Corpulus' hair had gone from dark to mousy in color over the years, and the Mer figured that his daughter - a young girl who sat behind the counter and chatted away with patrons as if she were the true innkeeper - would one day be the same. 

  Today, the inn carried the scent of roasting, honeyed meat and sweet, fresh-baked breads. Athenath found the trio a table, one towards the stairwell and just beyond the cooking hearth, while Emeros marched to the counter. They were running low on coin, all of them were. The expenses for the road had done a number on their pockets, and while they had managed to sell off things that no longer served them - and the money from the Whiterun guard armor was plenty to live off of for a while - he still fretted at the lightness of his coinpurse these days. What if one of them were injured, and he had to rush to purchase the proper salves or poultices, or even a potion which could do his job, and he didn't have enough? What if Wyndrelis' magicka ran out, and so on top of injury, there was no mage to help? What if his own potions were not strong enough, he didn't have the things he needed, he couldn't gather it fast enough, what if a wound became infected and sore and wept and what if there was nothing he could do to fix it, what if...

  "You don't look too good," the tiny voice piped up from behind the counter. Minette Vinius, next to her father, watched the Bosmer with a big smile. "My pa says drinking too much'll do that to you. At least next time, get your mead here."

  "Minette," Corpulus snapped in a hush, then, in a softer tone, "why don't you go see if Kayd is able to play?"

  The girl shrugged her shoulders in a high motion, then after a few moments, ran out the door, calling after a boy across the street. Corpulus exhaled heavily and dragged his hand down his face. "Children," he laughed, "gods, they're a handful." 

  "I understand," Emeros presented the man with a handful of gold, quickly rattling off the items the trio wanted. Corpulus pulled over a platter, cutting off a few bits of meat from the elk roasting on the hearth, a loaf of bread, and a fine wedge of eidar cheese. 

  "Do you have any of your own?" The innkeeper asked. Emeros shook his head. "Well, don't. They're terrible, no-good, purse-emptiers that'll bleed you dry," he joked, voice drawing louder as he winked to his son, who raised his tankard full of fresh coffee, "but they're amazing, I only wish their mother were here to see them grow up. Gods, Minette practically runs the inn now." 

  "And with an iron fist, at that," Sorex raised his tankard with a smirk, "well, she's got a long wait before she officially takes over, it's gonna be in my name first, old man." 

  "If I ever retire, that is," Corpulus shot back, setting the heavy platter on the counter. Emeros lifted it and thanked the man, finally making his way back to the trio's table. Over the sound of other conversation, Corpulus and Sorex's voices still lurked in his ears, jabs about retirement and a couple more comments here and there. Emeros placed the tray on the table before him, pulling his chair, the wooden feet scraping on the stone floor as he sat. 

  "Are we going to be late?" He half-grumbled out. Wyndrelis shook his head.

  "We have an hour."

  "Thank the gods." The Bosmer sipped from his tankard, the warm coffee on his tongue the only hope he currently held for getting rid of his headache. The earthy, bitter flavor rolled through him, a medicine to wash away all thoughts of his strange dreams, growing stranger still as they faded into history. In vague ways, he'd been made aware of the other two's own struggles with sleep, or lack thereof, but to ask still carried a weight to it. Should he open the door, descend the steps into the cellars where he knew all too well that many buried their worst nights? He could pick at the open wounds of recent horror, but that would lead to the festering and the infection. He was not keen to bring these things to light, so he sipped his coffee and ate his breakfast. Got as much down as he could. 

  In the meanwhile, he kept his ears open for any mention of Captain Aldis, or Wolfskull Cave, or anything about soldiers heading out of town, but none came. It appeared that both Athenath and Wyndrelis were doing the same, as their features both mirrored his own, their focus on the inn he held his back to, with Athenath's lip curling ever downward and a pout making its place on their mouth as the lack of news trickled in. They would have to come back in the evening to see if anything had transpired, if Lady Elisif kept her word on sending someone to the cave, or if this was a kind lie to placate the strangers who bore a military pardon their first time in her palace. 

  No matter. He would turn here and there in his seat and catch the glance of Corpulus, who in turn went back to his idle conversations with his son about checking the mead and ale, about ensuring Sorex went to the market that day, about the little things that kept the inn running. All the miniature gears which kept a business functional ran at a leisurely pace in this town, once a bustling place of commerce, now in the middle of watching its own resources strangle at the war's hands. The Empire could keep it well funded and keep heads above water, but for how long? When did sales dwindle in all the shops, the market stalls, when did the sprawling branches of life begin to prune unceremoniously in the tools of a broken country? When winter came, those dark nights where the sun dared only show its face briefly, what grain did they have? What meat could be butchered - or gone without - before the calving season? Surely the imports from Cyrodiil could help Solitude, but the sea had a habit of freezing this far north, and weather betrayed even the most experienced captains. The summer was soon to flee. The winter would take its place. The war would come with it, he knew, as war did. Whether it came as battlefield or famine, he tried not to think about. 

---

  It didn't matter how rousing the lecture, Emeros could not focus his mind on the Khajiit who paced the amphitheatre before him. Certainly, the idea of studying the architecture of different theatre spaces throughout Tamriel had its merits, and he knew that were he in the right state, he'd probably find it overall a fascinating topic. The sea breeze which never seemed to end ruffled up his hair as he sat, eyes on the boots of the instructor while his other classmates peppered Dahtesh with questions. Despite knowing the name of the cave, and despite the attempts at soothing the trio's nerves, he could not find any comfort in the notion that someone else would be sent to the cave. He couldn't explain the pull which lured him towards the place, or gave his curiosities a perch to rest upon, only that he could not shake it no matter how much he tries. Common sense dictated that it truly was bandits, the likeliest of all options. Bandits failing, then wild animals, as he had seen quite the few near the roads to Solitude when he and his friends had left the city and returned to it. Maybe, he told himself, he was being abnormally paranoid about this situation. Maybe, he also thought, he was onto something in the belief that there was truly something wrong with the place. After all, can one ever shake such a feeling after they'd learnt about Potema and her favorite cavern where she'd performed terrible feats of necromancy?

  The only thing to pull him from the mire of his thoughts was the clearing of a classmate's throat, the man sat beside the Mer, pair glancing between one another. The man winked, as if he'd saved Emeros from some social faux pas in time to see Dahtesh' eyes land on him, and as the pair locked stares, the Khajiit asked him a question. It was a trivial fact, something everyone knew about the traveling troupes who took their shows to the different cities across the continent, and looking satisfied, the instructor carried on with his lecture. 

  He turned to the classmate who had given him such a timely warning, and winked back. The man smiled. 

  The cloud-dressed sky hovered above the city, and he looked briefly into it, thinking again on the look that wore Wyndrelis' features so sour. Had the mage uncovered something? He'd meant to ask in the Winking Skeever, but surrounded by so many gossips and other curious patrons, this would be a risky gamble. He did not want to cause alarm. In fact, it was the last thing he wanted to do, and he'd meant to ask when they'd been on their way to class, and simply forgot in the mix of the three discussing their course work for the day. No matter how many times it came to mind, something else swept a firm hand across his thoughts and cleared the slate, forbade the words, and bound any chance he'd have to ask his questions to the past instead of present. He could feel it even now, the wipe of a palm over the notion of discussing anything. The research they'd done faded further and further into the backdrop of his thoughts, and Emeros leaned his elbow onto his knee and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his palm. He could feel the concerned glance of the classmate next to him, but chose to ignore it as he struggled to recall any more of the reading he'd done last night. He could recall fragments, pieces, but nothing solid enough as to grant him a clear picture as to what he and his friends may be walking into, should they pursue any more details on Wolfskull Cave.

  He dragged himself back to awareness as the class came to a close, Dahtesh clapping his large, furred hands together and giving the night's reading assignment. A few grumbles and groans, but no sound from himself. The Khajiit spun on his heel and headed inside, likely to take his lunch before the next class began, the sound of his boots thudding hard on the stone. Emeros rose, rubbing at his temples for a second before he caught the eyes of the man who'd been so kind as to warn him before Dahtesh called his name.

  "I suppose that I should thank you," Emeros said with a light chuckle. "I wasn't quite focused on the class, if it wasn't obvious."

  The man laughed a little, and shrugged into the neck of his tunic. He did not bear the same, ostentatious garb most of the other students wore, instead preferring something light and practical. Perhaps he, too, were a traveler for the most part, finding himself strangely stationary for a time. "No need, friend. It happens." 

  Through an only mildly awkward silence, Emeros extended his hand for the other to shake. The other took it with a nervous apprehension, and introduced himself.

  "I'm Casirus, I'm a bit new here, so if you're looking for any of the local rumors, I've none."

  "I've none either," Emeros said through a small laugh. "I'm also new here, though, truthfully, I'm not quite sure how I got roped into attending this college in the first place."

  He quirked a brow. "Is that so?" 

  "It's a long story."

  The footsteps to his right took his attention from the man before him, landing instead on another classmate whom he'd heard referred to as Miriam. She moved from a higher seat at the amphitheatre, and Emeros noted that she'd been spending much of her time staring out at the ocean as of late. Dark curls brushed her forehead, and she in turn brushed them away with a calloused hand. While a scar ran diagonally across her face and seemed to be the reason for her one blind eye, she locked her gaze entirely on the other two, and wore a grin on her lips. 

  "So, I see Casirus is being social, for once," she commented with a hint of humor. "Y'know, I appreciate having our courses outside, but by the gods am I stiff." 

  Emeros nodded, the golden embroidery against the teal fabric of her shirt catching the light of the sun. "As am I, though I think it's quite nice to spend some time learning out here instead of, well, indoors. Are you new to the college, as well?" 

  She shook her head. "No, no. Well, it's a long story," she waved a hand as if brushing the question aside, walking again to the wall as to peer out to the sea. Emeros followed curiously behind her, taking in the sight of the sea, the waters as they washed up against the rocky cliffs and shoreline, the birds which called this place home, an albatross seated on a rock nearby. In the distance, he spied what looked to be a barrow much like the one above Riverwood, and shuddered at the thought of more dotting this near-picturesque landscape.

  "Miriam likes to keep an eye on the sea," Casirus explained, "keeps her calm. It's practically her second home- or, well, was. Will be, it's... You know." 

  "I'm a sellsword by trade, typically," she clarified, tapping the Colovian style belt on her waist which held the proper fittings for a scabbard, "been working for the East Empire Company for the last five years." She shook her head, a bitter look crossing her face before she sighed and turned her gaze again back over the waters. "If you want, actually, Casirus and I were heading to the Winking Skeever for dinner, and we'd be fine making some new friends in this town. You want to join us?"

  He thought the invitation over, the strangers before him, both young but clearly far removed from the shelter of childhood, both very obviously from different walks of life. Perhaps it could be nice, getting to know what brought these two into one another's lives, and even more, into the arms of the Bard's College. Maybe it would even give him an excuse to mull over the research he'd done the previous night, and so he accepted on the condition that he would be bringing around some friends of his own. When they'd parted ways, he looked in the direction Miriam had been staring, and saw the towering clouds above the thick waters. An albatross called as it flew by, and he drank in the sight of the gleaming waves, and the looming horizon, and the rocky outline of Skyrim's landscape. He'd taken note of the strange formations days ago, but had thought that a storm would surely come, and the skies would clear again. He'd been warned of the pattern in the distance, the darker they were, the worse the storm. 

  It had been days, and no rain, and the pit in his stomach only grew. 

---

  Dinner at the Winking Skeever was an easy affair, despite his nerves over the lightening of his coinpurse. Wyndrelis and Athenath paid him their shares for the meal, and he purchased whatever caught their appetites, and placed the platter down at the table. Tankards soon followed, brought over by Sorex, who grumbled and groused about some patron or other who'd been in the inn earlier that night. He listened to the man for a while, before Corpulus called his son over, and Emeros was left to explain the two people who would be meeting them for the evening. Athenath seemed more than ready to meet some new faces, but he couldn't keep his eyes off the expression on Wyndrelis' face, something cold and uncertain, something that worried him down to his core. 

  He knew something, and Emeros would demand to find out what it was as soon as they'd gotten back to the dorms.

  The doors pushed open with a familiar groan, Miriam marching in and paying for her meal quickly, Casirus not far behind. It seemed as though wherever one went, the other followed, a sort of clinging to the security of having a familiar face around which Emeros knew himself to be guilty of. He watched as Miriam waved at the group, Athenath returning the wave as they bit down into a slice of bread dipped in a fine, Cyrodiilic oil filled with herbs. 

  "These must be your friends?" she rose a brow as she asked, Casirus taking a seat quietly. He'd ordered a warm tea, and the scent of mint and other sweet plants wafted from the steam above his tankard. Miriam, on the other hand, chose a fruity mead, tugging the cork from the top of the bottle as she sat down.

  Emeros introduced his friends, gesturing to them as he spoke. "This is Wyndrelis, and this is Athenath."

  Casirus nodded, and shook the pair's hands, Miriam doing the same as she said, "it's good to meet some friendly faces. I swear, it's as though this town has gotten more bitter with each winter."

  "Well, there is a war on," Casirus mentioned. She shrugged.

  "Doesn't mean the townsfolk have to be so... odd. Especially this year, you know?"

  "What do you mean?" Wyndrelis piped up, careful in his tone not to indicate too much urgency, something Emeros caught the edge of as he latched his gaze onto the Dunmer. The Redguard man merely shrugged.

  "I think this year has just been particularly hard on this town. Especially with the death of the High King, as I'm sure you know about." 

  Athenath snorted. "We came into town when Roggvir was being executed, so... yeah, we know about the death of the High King."

  Miriam winced. "Divines, what an awful sight."

  "You're telling me," the Altmer forced a wry grin, taking another bite of their meal. 

  Emeros was quick to change the subject, to focus on their studies, their work, their time at the college. The mood lightened significantly, and he couldn't be more grateful to whatever gods were out there for such a thing, as the group began to discuss their different courses. Miriam had a focus on music, as nearly every student at the college did, but her personal focus, she clarified, was on becoming more well-versed on writing music down for preservation. 

  "Out at sea, you hear a lot of songs that nobody has written down. I'm hoping I can begin to collect these shanties once I go back to my work, and maybe even preserve them. I've heard the same song in different variations all across the coasts of Skyrim, Hammerfell, Cyrodiil, you name it, there's a shanty that uses the same melody but entirely different words based on region." 

  Athenath watched her, bright eyed at the idea. "So, you're aiming to preserve them for future bards?"

  "Exactly," she said with a nod, "and future sailors. I've already got a few written down, but I want to be able to write and notate properly before I go back out there." 

  The Altmer's smile refused to budge from their mouth. "That's fantastic! I'm not too familiar with them myself, but I always hate when I'm attempting to learn a piece, and there's only versions written down that I don't know, y'know?" 

  Emeros watched the pair as they launched into a discussion about variations on songs across the provinces, and let their talk disappear into the background as he again faced Wyndrelis, whose own head turned to lock his gaze with the other Mer. They eyed one another, Emeros' features stony as he mouthed, "What's going on?"

  Wyndrelis shook his head. He signed, "not here." 

  Emeros signed back with a knit brow, "why not?"

  "Not wise."

  Deciding this was an opportune time to drop it, as Casirus had caught a glimpse of the signings and had even lifted his hands in preparation to converse with the other two, Emeros cleared his throat and asked the man, "how did you and Miriam meet?"

  Casirus swirled his tea in his tankard, his gaze focused on the way the dark liquid rolled against the metal container's walls. "It's quite a long story, but I guess it's no harm to tell. I was, er... quite a while back, I was a Vigilant of Stendarr. Raised in the Hall of the Vigilant, actually. Well, anyways, I was on the road, and we happened to cross paths."

  At this, Miriam leaned slightly over to Casirus and smirked. "He was supposed to clear out a vampire coven, and got himself in a little trouble. I got him out, helped him with his job, and we've been friends ever since," she explained while shaking his shoulder a little with her palm. "He's a good kid."

  He rolled his eyes. "You do know I'm not that much younger than you?"

  "Pfft," she flitted her wrist, "anyways, I'd just had some trouble with my former employer, and I guess the stars just aligned for us to help each other out a bit. When I said I was coming to the Bard's College, he decided he'd come along, too, so... I guess that's all there is to tell."

  Emeros, despite being satisfied with this story, could tell there was quite a lot that the pair were not sharing. They went back to lengthy discussions of their studies, of classmates and instructors, and while he participated, he could not shake the sense that he was splitting his attention between two different realities. In one, he was an aspiring bard, despite never once wanting to be one in the first place. In the other, he sat in the dark on a dozen different details which would dictate whether or not he could sleep peacefully tonight. He shoved as much effort as possible behind being the first, and burying the second, and keeping the smile on his face as he told stories of his own travels through the years and his time spent in cities that Miriam had been to on a number of occasions, the difference in years between their visits evident the more they spoke. Athenath piped in with tales of their nights spent performing in different inns for a room, a sweet, syrupy coat of nostalgia draped over their words while they hummed and sighed and listed off the best inns for a new bard, the ones which paid well and the ones which didn't.

  Wyndrelis, however, said very little, and sipped his drink while keeping his gaze focused on his two friends. 

---

  The group left the inn only a while later with dinner warm in their bones and the night settled all around them. Emeros' eyes still drew themselves to the strange clouds. They had not moved in the ways that they should, the towers still high, and the threat of rain still over the city. A sense of wrongness gnawed at him, nameless, shapeless, and sharp while he bid his friends goodnight, shutting the door to his dorm behind himself and beginning to ready himself for bed. Was it the nightmare that held this unease over his head? Did it still haunt him a full day later? He could try to push it out of mind, but the image of the indrik and its terrible, violent gaze had a power over him. 

  He sat in his desk chair once again, the taper candle in its metal holder seated before himself. Slowly, he pulled his theatre book towards himself and pried it open with a sigh. He couldn't worry himself too much, he had to keep up with the studies he'd somehow decided were worth his time, though he frankly still had no idea why he'd gone along with admissions to the Bard's College. This had been Athenath's dream, not his, and for him to toss his goal of meeting with Nurelion aside for a stranger he called a friend seemed nearly laughable. Still, he couldn't help but enjoy his time in Solitude, in spite of the way which they'd entered through the gates, and what they had seen. Gods knew he liked his classes, and found them to be a great distraction. 

  A knock on the doorframe alerted him to another's presence, and he called, "who is it?"

  Wyndrelis answered, "I'd like to come in."

  A thick silence followed, Emeros moving to slowly close his book. "Yes, well, it's open." 

  As the knob turned, he watched the mage peer a curious, pale eye into the room, his spectacles catching the light of the candle. He moved closer, shutting the door behind himself as quietly as he could, and he cleared his throat as he shuffled his feet uncomfortably on the stone.

  "How did you enjoy our evening?" Emeros asked as the candle made deep shadows on the wall. Wyndrelis gave a shrug, a smile creeping up his lips as he tittered quietly. 

  "It was amusing," he admitted. "I don't think I've seen Athenath so excited over getting to discuss music."

  "To be fair, they've been having to try to explain their profession to two people who'd never thought so much about it, I'm sure it was thrilling to meet someone else who finds it just as, well, thrilling," Emeros chuckled as the words came out so much more uneasy than they had sounded in his mind. He sat there, rested in the silence a moment, the question in his mind still nagging at his teeth. He drew his gaze down to the stone of the floor, then the wall, then the tapestries and paintings in the room. This entire college was covered, from floor to ceiling, in art made by the various artisans and bards and contributors who wished it to be here. Everything preserved and delicate, fragments of time he would never access. 

  "You're a mage."

  "Yes." Wyndrelis gave a mildly baffled nod as he folded his arms, Emeros now noting the book clenched tight in one hand. "I am." 

  "Have you happened to notice the..." he sucked in a breath, feeling utterly ridiculous, "...the clouds, lately?"

  At this, the mage gave a pause before glancing to the candle as it spluttered, and again to his friend. "You've noticed too, then." Emeros' eyes grew wide as the mage stepped over, placing the book over the one Emeros had previously been reading, flipping through the pages. "I was going to tell you, but I kept forgetting, somehow. I'm not even sure how."

  "I kept meaning to ask, but the same thing was happening to me," he breathed, the other landing on a page he'd clearly dog-eared for reference, grey finger tracing between lines of text.

  "I could be wrong, but some magic can... Well, very powerful rituals, with many participants, can alter natural phenomena as a byproduct. Think of, well, when the Oblivion Gates, when the Mythic Dawn, what they did. The accounts of the wildlife behaving strangely, or the skies turning red the closer one grew to an Oblivion Gate. This is not as extreme, but I think that..." Wyndrelis heaved a heavy sigh and ran his fingers through his dark hair, as though the idea gave him a level of pain, "...I think something is happening in Wolfskull Cave."

  "And if it is not investigated properly, and- and swiftly, then it..." Emeros trailed off, and Wyndrelis' grave face mirrored his own in the dim. The look, the cold, white eyes and the dire draw of his mouth, told Emeros everything that he needed to know. The weeks spent agonizing over nothing, fretting about the smallest things, the looks of venom in Athenath's eyes, the shrinking back of Wyndrelis and the discussions of nightmares across town, not to mention their own... 

  "Let's give the Blue Palace a few days. Perhaps they'll hold true to their promise of investigating it, but if we've not had news in the next..." he mentally doddled between numbers, before suggesting, "...perhaps ten days, if we've not heard anything of the cave in ten days, we'll look into it ourselves."  

  Wyndrelis flitted his gaze to the book, then back to Emeros, then gave a shrug, biting at his lip. "I suppose that works." 

---

  Ten days to wait, to pace inside his dorm with hopes of news, or rather, the hope that there would be no news, as there would be nothing to tell. The following morning, he and Wyndrelis shared knowing glances on their way to breakfast, Athenath poking at their meal with their fork. The pair cautiously explained the plan to the Altmer, Emeros keeping much of the reading he'd done after Wyndrelis had left his dorm last night to himself, details brief and sharp. Athenath gave him a knowing look and narrow of their gaze. He knew that Emeros was not telling the entire story, but he brushed it off and shrugged their shoulders and agreed. Ten days, then. 

  All of them were torturous hours, wasted only to get through the day. Emeros listened to the bells at the Temple of the Eight as they chimed the hour, and every time, it made his body jump. He'd become more nervous since the nightmare of the indrik, unable to get its fiery eyes out of his mind, its determination for one thing only: to see him dead, on its antlers, parading his carcass like a grand achievement. 

  He rested his jaw in the heel of his palm, poking with spoon idly into a stew Bendt had cooked over the night, its thick flavor and tender texture enticing in its own right, the various vegetables from different parts of the Empire carefully preserved during import, and the fresh meat, mixture of beef and goat, half-melting in his mouth as he tried to get it down. Something nagged at his mind, stole his appetite, and tore every opportunity of peace to shreds in its hands. He thought of Erikur, and of the housecarl in heavy armor, and of the steward, the court wizard, and of the scribe. He did not know the court of Solitude to be either reliable or unreliable. He did not know them well enough to pass a judgment, but their hushed voices in the presence of the strange elves held him fast with a sense of distrust to those who oversaw the Hold. 

  Word would not come easily at the end of their waiting, in the form of rumors or in the form of an announcement in the town, or in the form of seeing the soldiers parade themselves in and out the gate. It would not come by the laughter, or of song, or stories passed in the inn.

  On the ninth day, the news of Wolfskull Cave's investigation came in the form of bodies wheeled through the city gate, and into the Hall of the Dead.

Chapter 41: Shadows of The Words I Said

  Every day, the force which spoiled every emotion, curdled every moment of mirth, and turned even the most mild of aggravation red-hot and boiling pressed harder and harder against his resolve. He woke up and could feel it. He heard one snide little comment and the urge to snarl and snap his jaws found him. Something that came from some unknown place in his mind had made itself ever-present in their daily life, worming under their skin and beckoning against it, squeezing firm hands around his stomach for acid to coat his every word.

  The sun beat down on their back as they sat on the smooth stone of the amphitheatre, book propped between their garnet-clad legs. Soon, he'd have to make the choice on whether to buy wool stockings or thicker pants, but for now, he'd enjoy the way the material felt under the brush of their hand as he rested under some spare shade. The text, while thorough, was also thoroughly dry, leaving his mind parched for any bit of prose in the details, any hints of imagery or style. The lute was a complex instrument. It made sense he had to sit here, studying its history and care inside and out, to be able to proceed with his lessons. Still, that didn't make it better, especially when the wind carried the melodies of other bards who'd long completed their studies and strummed it freely in the market square or up the road towards Castle Dour. 

  The idle whisper of a thought came to him as he rubbed at his eyes. He knew his friends were hiding something from him. How could they not know? The shifting of Emeros' eyes, and the disconcerted look on Wyndrelis' face told him everything. The pair clearly had found something that they weren't telling Athenath about, and all this did was serve to embolden the thorny voice inside himself. They'd found something out, and probably something important, and then they spent all this time telling him to wait out the next ten days and not give him the same information they had? The notion continued to turn itself over and over like a wheel in his mind, rapidly rolling until he could feel the same wrath he'd been suppressing boil in his stomach, heart thundering in his ears while his blood rushed with his pulse up his neck. He inhaled deeply, forcing himself to take a few breaths, closing their eyes tight and trying to put their mind on anything else. 

  There was no chance he was going to be able to focus in the midst of all of this. Athenath closed the book with a thick thud and set it to their side. An exhale, more of a groan, left their mouth as they leaned back to stretch. Gods. This wasn't what he'd signed up for. The amulet around their neck glinted and caught the daylight, Athenath wincing as a spare spot of shine off the metal passed their eyes when they moved. They shifted forward and took the amulet between their hands and moved a finger over the stone, rubbed smooth from years of their thumb tracing it in moments of nervous contemplation, gaze examining the intertwining details. Turning it around, he peered down at the inscription on the back, Ta'agra plain and jaggedly pressed with a knife into the space it occupied. 

  'From your loves, to your love.'

  Their chest ached as they read it over and over. The years in Bravil had been hard. The city reeked of stale piss and sloppily tossed ale, with the wafting of skooma from the dens littered throughout, and the stench of burnt hair and flesh after a fight between two rival factions of dealers had a way of lingering. Sellswords found good work there, protecting private residences. The chapel had not escaped unscathed, either, with marks of ash and lightning bolts across its walls, every spark put out by diligent priests and priestesses. The statue of the Lucky Old Lady crumbled under the weight of battle, stone fragments littering the grasses and dusting the street. Under the Count's employ, the ground was cleared on one foggy afternoon, but the statue remained hapless and broken. 

  That had been the thing which gave Athenath pause. The Lucky Old Lady was where he so often sat throughout the early years spent in that city, either folding laundry or playing with their friends or resting with an apple in hand, taking bites and talking to the statue around mouthfuls of fruit like it were a mother. Better than talking to their actual mother, he scoffed internally. The Lucky Old Lady had been quiet, of course, but she'd brought a calm over him when they would rest under it and give their joys and woes both to the stone and work on whatever idle task he'd been set to by a parent or priest. He'd liked the statue. It was a reminder of Mara to them, a thing which gave them comfort when they dwelled long on the thoughts of their goddess and her word. 

  He didn't miss Bravil, but gods, they missed their friends. How long had it been since they'd stepped foot in Dra'khurra's shop and smelled the freshly drying herbs? How long since they'd spoken to Ji'fayna, on her way to handle chores around the chandlery? It had been nearly eight years, if they counted the years right, and the summers had been so long since he'd seen those familiar faces or heard their laughter. He licked their lips, and could practically taste the wine he'd stolen in the middle of a balmy summer night from that ramshackle inn. 

  He tucked the amulet beneath their tunic's neckline. They didn't miss the rotting bridge and paid-off guards and sickly air. He definitely didn't miss the fighting in the streets through the night, and the heavy hand of his friend's mother combing through their hair while he buried his face in her lap, whimpering at the metal clashing and electricity zipping through the wind. They didn't miss the mildewy stench all the homes there held, or the stink off the river that flowed through town, or the guard's leering gazes. But they did, if they could admit it to themself, they did. 

  They rubbed their hand on the back of their neck, standing with the book tucked under their arm. The flesh was warm from sun and heat of their long hair, and he half contemplated cutting it for the thousandth time, and knew they wouldn't. The position he'd sat in for the past hour left his legs stiff and back feeling out of place, and every stretch to loosen his joints made those awful little pops and creaks to confirm that he'd been in that uncomfortable position for far too long. They turned and slowly stepped through the main hall of the college, plaques gathering their attention as he read from them, examining the instruments they detailed, the way that they were held aloft and poised as though ready for playing should their original owner return. Then, the tapestries, and the paintings, and the statue of Dibella. 

  And the wolf, of course. The tapestry over the stairwell which had gotten their attention the first day he and his friends had come to the college, the beauty of it and the terrible pit in their stomach it had brought, dread hoisted from a depth they could not fathom. They liked the tapestry, and they didn't, and they loved the colors, and they hated it. The opposing senses left a numbness in its wake. But it was a tapestry, and a tapestry could not unravel its history for them, nor the feeling it provoked. Perhaps it was the idea of what it represented - the vague notions of a cave, and its name, and the sinister conjurations it brought to mind. The idea of something so unconnected, yet wholly tied to every thread of the intricate work, made their chest tighten. 

  Maybe they should try to make some tea. He prayed silently to his goddess that it would help.

---

  Against their better judgment, he sat himself outside again, fully intent on taking advantage of the natural light before the days shortened to impossibly long nights. He held the sip of blue mountain flower tea in his mouth, letting the lingering sweet, floral flavor melt against their tastebuds. It had always been a favorite of his, especially with a little honey. He swallowed, and set the book again against his legs and turned the page, leaning their spine now against the wall which blocked off the sea. They made enough of the drink for one, but they could already tell he was going to want more later. The seagulls brazenly swung low over the city, laughter reverberating down the road from the kids playing up and down the street. Another light breeze slung itself over their shoulders, curls tickling their nose as he used his spare hand to brush them away, sighing as he thought about the rest of the material he had to read. The entire book wasn't too long, but they couldn't retain anything. He'd tried to recite the information to himself, but always left with the impression like something had stolen away all the key details, leaving only a jumbled mess behind. So, here they found themself again, re-reading the same paragraph a couple of times because they couldn't remember the word that came before it. He'd always been good at memorizing from repetition, not from words handed over to him by an authority figure. The priests had called it something of a worry when they'd taught him to read, but he had taken to words quickly enough, so it had clearly not been enough of a concern for them to consult with other healers.

  He went to take another sip from his tankard, the noise of wooden wheels navigating the street, when a foul odor carried on the latest breeze. He scrunched his nose, scrutinizing the tea to make sure nothing had fallen in, and after examining the contents, he looked wildly about for a source. The sound of wheels grew closer, along with the voice of the old priest, and other pairs of footsteps with him. The stench was near-sickening in both its sweetness and its horrible stink, something musky, meaty, and metallic slithering beneath it. He set his tankard and book down at last and took a few steps out of the ampthitheatre, staring in the direction of the Hall of the Dead, and gagging on the newly evident smell of burnt hair and flesh as the wheelbarrow drew closer. 

  Piled atop it were the remains of several of the guards. Their armor bore the marks of battle, from thawing, slick sections of armor, to burns coating the entire faces of some of the men, making them near-unrecognizable, features melted halfway to the bone. A procession of onlookers followed, some calling for answers, most just gawking at the sight as Captain Aldis - or who Athenath presumed to be Captain Aldis - spoke to the priest in a worried voice.

  "I sent ten men," he hissed, wiping the sweat from his drenched forehead with the back of his arm, "ten men! And you know how many return to me alive?" A silence. "Zero. Not a single man. Trained men! Good, trained soldiers." 

  Styrr shook his head low as the guards wheeled the wheelbarrow towards the Hall. "It's as I feared, then. Something truly is happening in that cave."

  "Then what do you suggest I do about it? We're not exactly flooded with recruits, here!" he raised his voice, the priest shaking his head again and murmuring to himself some prayers before he found fit to reply.

  "You notify the families, first. I will give them a proper burial, and perform the rites of Arkay. Then, I would suggest bringing this to the attention of General Tullius. He may not be able to spare much in the way of soldiers, but he at the very least may have some idea on how to handle this." 

  Captain Aldis went quiet a moment, the pair reaching the Hall, the cart coming to a halt. Flies buzzed noxiously over the corpses, and the captain swatted at them with his hand. "Very well," he finally answered, stone-faced. "but gods only know what these men saw before their bodies were retrieved." 

  Styrr hummed, "it's lucky that they were able to be retrieved at all," before leading the Captain to the Hall and out of the Altmer's sight, the crowd dispersing as people returned to their daily duties. 

  Athenath chugged down the rest of their tea to stop the nausea from taking him completely, his stomach curdled with the poisonous mix of worry and shock. He swallowed hard and tried his best to inhale the sweet scent of the fragrant flowers at the bottom of the tankard, but nothing could wash away the rot. They took a few more deep breaths, hands growing clammy as every possibility ran through their mind. Elisif had not backed down on the Blue Palace's word, she'd truly sent some of Captain Aldis' men there, and this is what happened. These men were all dead, some looking as though they had been for a couple of days, at the very least. This had to be the result of whatever was going on that had made Varnius Junius so upset. Gods, what had happened? And the prospect of survivors was just a fantasy. Would that mean the bodies are still in the cave? Then maybe...

  "Emeros, Wyndrelis," Athenath called, pounding with a fist on one door, then another. They didn't even know when they'd managed to make their way to the dorms, only that the book was tucked under their arm and they were calling through every room they came across for their friends. They'd tried the library to no avail, then the halls where students practiced their work, and nothing. Finally, he'd settled on the dorms, and now he stood with desperation clinging to their skin like sweat for any sort of answer. Wyndrelis emerged from his room, and at the sight of the Altmer, he paled. 

  "I don't know where Emeros is, what is it?" He asked, pushing his glasses up his nose.

  "We need to get him. Something- Captain Aldis-" Athenath exhaled and pushed open the door of their own dorm, storming in and tossing the book on the bed before emerging and shutting the door once again, whipping around to face the Dunmer, whose perplexed expression bore more and more concern by the moment. "I think we're going to need more information on that cave." 

---

  The Winking Skeever carried the sounds of laughter and song well outside its walls, however thin it was this time of day, the majority of the people in Solitude carrying about daily life. Athenath wrenched the door open and marched inside, doing everything he could to keep their steps even and calm. Emeros had found a table, and was currently peering down at his books given to him by his flute instructor, working on notes and sipping from a tankard, the smell of another sort of tea wafting from it. The sound of the Bosmer's mutterings to himself brought a surge to Athenath's chest, another pang of this outside-inside sensation, but they were quick to subdue it before he made his approach and pressed their palms on the table, drawing the other Mer's attentions instantly.

  "Emeros," Athenath started, voice hard in their throat. "It's been nine days, right?" 

  Bafflement turned to worry turned to a stone, grave look. "What happened?" He asked in a low voice.

  "They just wheeled in bodies. All in armor. Captain Aldis said he'd sent out ten men, and none-" Athenath drew in a long breath, his words near-unintelligable from the speed they left his lips. In a slower pace, he explained, "the guard captain sent out men to the cave. They just wheeled in bodies." 

  Emeros rose as slowly and carefully as he could, studies all but forgotten on the table. "Are you sure it's from the cave? There's a war going on."

  "Certain. He mentioned a cave- he and Styrr both, actually."

  "Could it be another cave?" Emeros interrogated further, packing up his belongings into his knapsack, closing the lid on the inkpot and quickly wiping the quill with a cloth. Athenath's words hissed out of their mouth as they stared him down.

  "I'm completely dead fucking certain it's the cave we're talking about."

  Wyndrelis looked between the pair, Athenath catching his gaze. Then, he rubbed his brow and nodded. "I wouldn't put it out of mind that it's from Wolfskull Cave," the mage spoke as he looked to the door, "in which case, we need to get a plan together." 

  "Alright." Emeros said, after a long moment of pause. He pulled his knapsack onto his back and followed his friends out of the inn, waving goodbye to Corpulus, and heading in the direction of the college, where news had already reached several other students who had watched the same display as Athenath. The unease never left them, that this wasn't the work of typical bandits. The stench from the flesh told them of a battle with mages of some kind, but what? Destruction mages holed up in a mountain seemed far from the possibility, but as they marched in the direction of their dorm and pulled Dawnbreaker out from under their bed, the idea came to mind that perhaps these were not the usual wayward wizards that he'd thought they may be. Perhaps there was something else to this. 

  "Wyndrelis, can I ask you something?" They turned to the Dunmer, already setting the group's map on the table and examining it for the best route to the cave. He looked up, and nodded. "What do you think is going on?" 

  Apprehensive, the rubbed his chin with the crux of his jaw. "I wouldn't... Normally, I think, give it too much thought, but I've heard of Wolfskull Cave before. When I was studying under a mentor of mine," he added in a hurry, Emeros' arched brow giving him need to clarify, it seemed, "I have heard that mages prey on the leftover magic of those who practiced there, before. Namely, the Wolf Queen." 

  "What kind of work did she do?" Athenath interrogated in a partial rush, checking over their knapsack for anything they may need, and what to replace. He knew the answer. He knew from their shared hours of research who the Wolf Queen was, and what she'd done, but he needed to hear it out loud. To be assured he wasn't making something up, that this was real, and that it was becoming more and more terribly relevant. The supplies the trio had enjoyed on the road had been depleted, and then eaten as a quick snack, or a midnight meal. Athenath had their usual belongings - gold, a cloak, their sword, and some necessities - but the rest would need to be replaced before they went marching up the mountains. When they looked back to Wyndrelis, he shuffled awkwardly, and did not meet anyone else's gaze. The silence urged him, however, and he let out a long breath and looked to the map.

  "Necromancy, mostly. The Wolf Queen, she was a necromancer, and a powerful one at that."

  "So, what do we do?" 

  Wyndrelis rubbed his brow, the ridge between his forefinger and thumb. "I think we need to take a day. If we are not careful, and that truly is what whoever is hiding in the cave is doing, we could be walking right into their clutches."

  "And wind up thralls for their use," Emeros added, tracing a route on the map with his finger, his words landing with a wince against Wyndrelis. He didn't seem to notice, as he took the quill from Athenath's desk and marked the easiest path to the cave in long strokes of ink. He stood to full height again and dragged a hand down his face, watching the other two for a while in silence. "We'll go ahead and purchase our supplies now. I would like to get some new arrows, though I'm not sure how much they'll cost, but I've heard that there's a fletcher in town. Let's focus on preparation, and not run headlong into this with no precautions."

  "What sort of precautions?" Wyndrelis quirked a brow.

  "I think we should head to the Hall of the Dead, perhaps ask Styrr to give us a blessing of Arkay. While I certainly don't intend to die any time soon, let alone in some hole in Skyim's landscape, we should... Play it safe, as it were." With no objection, he clapped his hands together. "Right, let's check in with Sayma, and see if she has anything we can take on the road." 

---

  Where Athenath urged them to rush, and Wyndrelis wanted to stay back a while, Emeros steadied. He made small talk with shopkeepers and kept his attitude light, but a clear unease melded into his normally high-held features. The supplies were easy enough to purchase with the gold all three elves had, but he still fretted over approaching the fletcher, his tension revealed in the twitch of his lip, or the way he continually messed with the hem of his sleeve or his cowl, adjusting, readjusting. Emeros headed inside the small shop, near the blacksmith's own, Athenath and Wyndrelis deciding to remain back. 

  The birds flew low and down over the sea, landing atop the parapets of Castle Dour. Wyndrelis stared up at them, the fluttering wings and the way they shuffled along the stone and into nests unseen, before disappearing into the horizon again. Swords clashed against dummies in the Castle Dour courtyard, and arrows made their marks in targets, all under the barked orders of Captain Aldis whose voice dragged itself heavy with the weight of the day's news. Athenath turned their attention to him, the way he wore a grim expression as easily as he wore his blade at his side, and seemed less interested in the activities of his soldiers by the moment.

  They couldn't shake the bone-deep urge to go up to him, to ask, interrogate. But would it yield anything worthwhile? The results could be exhausting if they did that, being told off or chewed out or ignored entirely. He kept glancing from his friend, where silence brought a heavy hand down on any desire to talk, to the guard captain, whose recent failure had an allure to it so strong that Athenath had to mentally chastise himself about trying to talk to the captain about it. Interrogating someone would get him nowhere, especially someone who had the power to lock Athenath away for however long he saw fit, or have him tossed out the city gates for whatever reason he'd like. 

  When Emeros emerged, he carried with him new arrows, examining the pair of Mer before heading down the winding road and back towards the college. "I was able to purchase what I'm presuming will be enough, but we're going to need to discuss how to earn some honest gold when we return." His voice came out hollow and quiet, nearly strangled by whatever was going through his own head. 

  They followed close behind him, rolling and unrolling a length of dark curls around his index finger. "We could take some nights to perform at the inn. I got my way through Cyrodiil like that."

  Emeros quirked his brow, giving a low, dry chuckle. "You mean through that, and your other means?" 

  Athenath rolled their eyes, the anger which slithered in and outside himself burning at the insinuation. "What's that supposed to mean? And- y'know what, shit, what does it even matter?"

  "It matters quite a bloody lot, actually," Emeros retorted, "I'd rather not you, nor any of us, find ourselves in the dungeons in the midst of all of this. Do you understand?" 

  Athenath's nostrils flared, chest tightening against his ribcage. "What do you mean by that?"

  "I mean exactly as I say." 

  Wyndrelis winced, and Athenath could read the hike of his shoulders as a signal of wanting to disappear inside himself like a shell. They did, too. Embarassment tainted every bit of his rage, but did not snuff it out, as it rose higher inside their neck like flames of a burning forest.

  "Oh yeah, sure, why don't you spell it out and tell me what you really think of me, then?" Athenath stopped in their tracks, brow narrowed and gaze hard on Emeros, the faint outline of a sneer coming up their mouth. He couldn't feel the words leaving his mouth. They could only hear them, as if from an outside space, as if observing themself in a cage behind their eyes. "Good for fucking you, you get to judge me, but you've never been in the same position I was. You think that was my first choice? You really think I've always dreamt of picking pockets for a fun little hobby? Just admit you never had to go through the same shit I did and leave it at that." 

  Emeros watched them for a while, as though unsure what to say, his eyes scanning their features until concern dominated the slight open of his mouth. The weight of their own words pressed down hard on their chest, Athenath struggling to draw in each breath, keeping their composure as well as they could manage despite the way their eye twitched and sternum trapped their heart. They stood there before him, glowering, while the alchemist merely folded his arms over his chest and gave that same, weary look his mother always had given him when she'd been so gods damned disappointed. The boiling wrath began to pull its hands back from his clouded thoughts, and every ounce of what they'd said lingered acidically on their tongue.

  "Athenath, please, don't be childish." 

  That was all it took. The Altmer stormed past him, shoulder budging into the arm of the Bosmer as he made a brisk walk back to the college and directly to his dorm, unease prickling every sense in his body. The taste of oil burnt up his throat, tightness of a headache making itself known. All he could feel was the warmth from the kitchens, sweeping over him the same way a fine mist might on a cold day. He swallowed hard and locked his door, pulse rapid in their ears, the rush of blood to the beat of his heart overwhelming. Everything overwhelmed them, from the feel of their clothes to the sensation of their hair on the back of their neck, to the way his skin felt when he touched it, to the way his own blood ran through his veins. He pulled a pillow off his bed and threw it hard against the wall, watching it land on the mattress below in a pathetic, half-hearted heap. He stared at it a while, fists balled until his nails made red crescents in their palms, and drew in breath after breath as the rage gave way to an all-consuming guilt which made their eyes water. They swallowed hard against the waves, and sat down in their desk chair, face in their hands. 

  Where did this feeling come from? All of it manifested the moment he'd come to Solitude, and just grew with every passing day. Nothing Emeros said was even worth that, it didn't matter! A snide comment was something he was more than used to, and hell, he could even brush it off with a joke most of the time. Gods knew if he were in Whiterun right now, they'd make a bawdy joke about it and what those other means could be just to watch Emeros regret his little jab. None of this mattered, but something held his mind in a vice grip and cultivated every raw bit of anger until it grew and grew, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.  

  He sat there in the quiet, face in his hands as he rolled every moment of the interaction over and over in his mind, gorging themself on guilt. The wrath, as per usual, left him hollowed out. A shell. A vessel for only regret to fill. He waited a while longer, and then more, and waited again.

  When no knocks came and no voices called for him, they buried their face in their arms, and drew in a shaking breath to make the vain attempt to come up for air from the agony of embarrassment. 

---

  The mattress, the thick blankets, it all swaddled them in a desire for sleep. The long, restful kind, where he actually woke up feeling as though he'd slept at all, rather than battling against whatever nightmares his mind conjured until morning. They pulled the sheets tight as they turned over, head buried in the pillow. The sound of people outside had long since faded. Now, only their thoughts remained, and the things which they swam to capture at the bottom of their senseless, stormy ocean. 

  He slept with the sword under their bed. This was never something they'd anticipated doing, but it looked like this was the life they lived now.

  Athenath had remained in their dorm the rest of the day. It didn't matter. Nothing did, really. Tomorrow was, if they guessed right, the hike to Wolfskull Cave. Didn't matter how many bodies got wheeled through the city gates, the three were going to investigate and hope to the gods above that they survived long enough to report their findings. This would put a stop to the nightmares, to the sleeplessness, to the itching under their skin, wouldn't it? It had to, he told himself mentally. There was nothing else they could do, aside from clasp a loose fist around the lavender sachet Emeros had made and chastise themself over and over and pray to Mara for her compassion, her guiding hand, anything.

  He shed a small glance towards the floor, and the faint glow Dawnbreaker produced against the stone, and again turned their eyes to the wall.

  What made these soldiers look so grave? What had killed the ones Captain Aldis sent? Gods, what had happened that rendered a group of ten men not only dead, but some unrecognizable? What did it matter anyways, was it worth investigating? They shut their eyes tight. Breathed deep. Yes, it was. There was something wrong, and if the court of Haafingar Hold wasn't going to investigate it further - a suspicion he held that continued to break through parts of his mind - then they should at least give it a shot. Captain Aldis had stood over the bodies with a solemn expression as they were wheeled into the Hall of the Dead, Styrr at his side. The sight of them, the stench of the corpses, it made Athenath sick. 

  They turned over onto his back, pushing the sheets off themself and sitting up. The air which met them wasn't much warmer than the bed, nor much colder. It simply was. Maybe they just didn't dare try to feel it fully, instead trying to numb themself against anything outside their mind. They tugged on their tunic and trousers, kicking one leg through, then the other in a haphazard way which barely mattered at all. They combed fingers through their hair as he toed out of his room, pushing the door gingerly to cease as much creaking as possible in the hinges, then shutting it with the same care. The kitchens still had plenty to eat, and as his stomach clenched at the idea, he realized he'd not eaten dinner. Gods, what a shitty day.

  Slowly, they navigated the very short walk to the kitchens, and reached on one of the shelves for a clean, wooden plate. He turned on his heel and stopped, pulse racing again in their ears when they were met by the sight of Emeros seated at one of the tables as though he'd been waiting for a while, an empty goblet beside him and a half-eaten bowl of stew abandoned. Emeros looked up, and when the pair locked their gazes, the Altmer half-contemplated going back to their room. Instead, he found his feet planted firmly to the ground, and watched as the Bosmer rose from his seat and gestured for Athenath to take it, instead.

  "I'm- I'm good," they managed out quietly. He shook his head.

  "I know you haven't eaten. Let me get you something, alright?" Emeros offered, motioning for Athenath to sit. Against their own battered nerves, he did, taking a slow and cautious seat at the table while Emeros poured them a warm bowl from the leftover stew on the cooking hearth, bringing it over. 

  "No, I'm- really, I'm fine. I was just going to..." he trailed off, before exhaling and raking their fingers through their curls, wrapping a length around his finger again and again as Emeros worked. After he'd set the bowl down, the alchemist went to work cutting a few slices of day-old bread and salted meats, placing them on the plate Athenath had grabbed, adding a couple slices of eidar cheese before bringing it over, as well. Finally, a spoon, and a tankard filled with the same watered down mead that was served with every meal.

  Athenath thanked him quietly, and watched as the Bosmer hovered awkwardly in the doorway. He stood with his shoulder against the frame of the door, as though this would make him look less nervous. Of fucking course, Emeros was the person he ran into, and of fucking course it had to be when Athenath least wanted to see him. The pang of guilt barged against their sternum, chest aching from the pressure of their outburst even hours later. 

  They prodded at the bowl with their spoon a while, before looking up and asking, "can we just- I don't know, eat outside? I think I'd like some fresh air," he ended with a nervy chuckle.

  Emeros shrugged, muttered an agreement, and turned in the direction of the stairs. Athenath grabbed his dishes and followed slowly after, plate piled atop his arm, bowl clenched in one hand, tankard in the other. Maybe he should have thought the suggestion through, but too late now. 

---

  Here they sat, on the uncomfortable stone of the amphitheatre, pulling apart bread and dipping it into the stew. The moons slid through the dark of night in their slow motions while the Altmer spent the pair's time quietly biting down into their meal, caution dripping over every move they made like a starved and terrified dog backed into a corner, inching their hand toward the bread, inching it to his mouth, each bite taking longer than normal. Why? Aside from an argument here and there, Emeros had been nothing but kind to him. Hell, he practically led he and Wyndrelis out of Helgen and to the safety of the fortified cities of Skyrim. What was this horrible sense stirring worry into his gut? 

  When he'd finished his already-cold dinner, they set everything aside, wiping their hands together to brush off all the crumbs from the bread and pulled his knees up to their chest. The fresh air was a good idea, he thought as he listened closely to the night animals. The birds swung and flew overhead, the serpentine neck of a cormorant spotted among them, the dark wings finding their way through the clouded skies. The moons in their mocking orbit, and the stars in their trickster winkings. All Athenath wanted was to feel some level of calm, something so forbidden now it almost felt taboo to ask for it. The idea of rest in the midst of war, what could Athenath even think in wanting that? And the executions, gods knew if there would be more. A country willing to sentence he and his friends to death for being in the wrong place at the wrong time was not a country they'd swear fealty to, but who else would they? The Stormcloaks? Who'd started this gods damned war? 

  The Altmer sighed and raked their fingers through their hair, curls winding around the digits. "Are you, uh, ready? For tomorrow?" They croaked out nervously. Emeros stared at the street, the guards patrolling with their torches, the scent of lavender filling the air from the sprigs which grew stubbornly all over Haafingar Hold. 

  Maybe it was the slight stammer of their voice, or maybe it was the avoidance of his eyes, but Emeros looked to the other and said, "you're not usually like this, you know." A pause. "Storming off. Disappearing for hours on end into your dorm." Athenath arched a brow, keeping their gaze on him. "Wyndrelis knew you were in there, told me not to go in after you. You needed time to process, and, well, I couldn't help but agree." 

  "So you two decide what I need without asking me?" 

  It came out much harsher than the bard had meant for it, the sentence spat before they could think it over. The words happened, nonetheless, and now they couldn't take them back. Emeros looked to the ground, then his hands, then to the other. They couldn't read his face, something in it so foreign to them that it seemed it may as well be a mask formed in Pyandonea, but then he exhaled, dropped his shoulders, and again turned his eyes to the guards who passed by the pair at their distance. 

  "I hadn't thought of it like that." 

  "Well, it sounds a lot like that's what's going on," they doubled down.

  Emeros looked again to them. "Athenath, I swear to you, I mean nothing by it. Neither does Wyndrelis, in fact. What has gotten into you?" The disbelief in his voice snapped against Athenath's sharp gaze, and the Altmer drew in a long breath through their nose. They watched a bug skitter across the stone ground. It had been years since someone had asked him such a question, and gods knew it was obvious. What hadn't gotten into him? A day of dead bodies and rot and the revelation that they would have to check out that cave themselves, the uncertainty, the bad luck and the anger and the shine of the moons on his friends' earrings, and all the exhaustion he could eat. The face of the Bosmer in the dim light stuck out to them, the way he fiddled with the end of one of his earrings, the long chain which went to his jaw and ended in a golden charm of a five-pointed star, the way they could only see it if he turned his head so his right side was visible. They swallowed down waves upon waves of responses, acidic and cruel, placid and genial. None of it did him any good, so they sat there, and folded their arms around their legs. 

  "You know. The usual." The response came easy. Helgen, of course, could come to one's mind, but that wasn't it, only part of this interwoven hellish tapestry they fled under like a blanket they could use to hide from guards or bandits or any number of trials. "It's been a long year." A shrug. "Or a long month. Take your pick." 

  Emeros nodded thoughtfully. They couldn't tell what he was thinking, but he seemed to be giving something enough mental attention that it took a moment for him to reply. "Would you indulge me in a discussion about it?" 

  "Indulge you?" Athenath quirked a brow, half-laughing.

  "Yes, I'd like to know how this month has been long for you." 

  The bard rolled their eyes. "Helgen, you know. An- and the Western Watchtower, and this whole Dragonborn bullshit. And Roggvir, and this town, I swear, I never thought Solitude would be so... So..." Fumbling with their words, they scrunched up their face and stammered out a few noises before ending on, "...messy. Chaotic, I guess. I wanted to come here and just focus on my studies and graduate, then maybe go back to Cyrodiil and, well, I don't know, but bards from the Bard's College have a much better chance than those who're just doing their own thing, y'know?" 

  Emeros nodded. "And... is that why you stormed off today? Because of our college?" 

  The mere notion of the Bard's College having this sort of impact nearly made them laugh. Obviously not. It was the bastard next to them thinking that he could be in charge of everything, and everyone. It was the past few weeks. Finding out that Wyndrelis was a necromancer hadn't mattered at first, but what if there were necromancers in this cave? What if Wyndrelis turned on them? And then that line of thinking expanded into a wide-mouthed river, what if he was planning to all along? Or worse, what if he and Emeros both had planned to, what if this was all a farce meant to... Athenath didn't know, but gods, what if this was all going to end in the awful ways things did, with Athenath again fending for themself in the middle of the world, torn apart by war and chewed up by corrupt counts and officials and spat out by every shitty thing that came their way? What if Emeros would poison them, what if Wyndrelis would use them as a puppet-weapon, what if...

  Athenath thought back to the moment under the Gildergreen, where Emeros had given them time to breathe, and let them think things through, been so patient beyond anything he'd had to be. They'd hardly known each other, then. Shit, they didn't know each other that well now, either, but... They did. Or they did, better than they had. And that was, to Athenath, something noteworthy as they formulated their response. 

  "No, obviously," they snorted in reply. "It's just that- it's... I don't know. It's like something's- it's as if someone else is- I don't..." every attempt at a sentence failed him, as if the very concept of speech fell out of their grasp, and they rubbed at the sides of their face and fidgeted with their sleeves. 

  "It's as though something else has a hold on you?" He offered. Athenath turned to him. The boiling, bubbling emotion stirred again. 

  "You don't need to explain my own emotions to me." 

  "I wasn't trying to." Emeros replied sternly. "I think you, Wyndrelis, and I, are all experiencing the same thing." 

  The wrath snuffed out at the idea, leaving that same damned emptiness in its wake. "What do you mean?"

  "What I mean is, I think that whatever's happening in Wolfskull Cave has had far-reaching consequences. Haven't you noticed that none of us have been feeling well lately? Surely, we've all discussed our nightmares, and I've a sneaking suspicion we're not the only ones enduring this." 

  The idea had occurred to them, but had been quickly smothered. Now, it formed again, clear and vivid. "What sort of consequences?" They slowly managed out.

  "The weather, for instance. The clouds that we've been seeing, those that tower over the ocean, typically indicate rain. It's quite unusual for them to be there for so long without even so much as a drizzle. And the court of the Blue Palace, I've a suspicion that they're not usually quite that secretive about whatever they're discussing. Wyndrelis believes that it's something to do with magic - that something truly foul has been affecting all of us - and I will admit, at first I was skeptical. Now, however, I'm inclined to agree." Emeros reached out a hand, a very slow, minute gesture as he set it beside himself and waited. Athenath looked to his palm, the ever-clean nails and the smooth lengths of his fingers, and slid their hand into his. The Bosmer gave a reassuring squeeze, and after a moment or two, the Altmer returned it. 

  "Athenath, I'm not cross with you for earlier, but I do wish you'd explain what set you off." 

  They ran a hand through their hair, mussing it between their fingers. "You don't need to take care of me. I can handle myself." 

  "Yes, but-"

  "Emeros, please. I can take care of myself, if I fuck up and wind up in the dungeons, leave me." 

  The Bosmer balked at the idea, leaning back with wide eyes. "Leave you? What the devil gave you that idea? I know I may have- perhaps, I may have threatened to back in Whiterun, but that was different, and I'd hoped you'd realized by now neither of us would do such a thing. Athenath, why would you presume any of us would leave you in the dungeons, for the gods' sakes?" 

  Athenath sat for a while, unable to find whatever thoughts they'd been following, trail cold and growing colder by the moment. "Gods, I don't know, Emeros, maybe because you said you would?" Their dark eyes met Emeros' own amber gaze, the worries clear in the eldest's features, the way he solemnly searched their features for anything that would tell him that they were joking, that they'd not considered the idea even remotely possible. The Bosmer visibly resigned at his search, and again squeezed Athenath's hand.

  "Well, I apologize for that," he exhaled, "because we won't do that to you. Not now, not ever. You know Wyndrelis certainly wouldn't, and neither would I." He gave a moment for the words to sink in, and added on in his low, oaken-warm voice, "like it or not, the three of us have to handle whatever it means to be Dragonborn, and I don't believe only one or two of us making our way up that mountain is enough for the Greybeards."

  The words he didn't say sat heavy in the air, that the Greybeards could go screw themselves, as long as the three of them were all carrying the burden of this prophecy together. Athenath squeezed his hand and rested their forehead in the crook of their other thumb. 

  "I'm sorry about earlier. And, y'know, Whiterun, and, well, anything else," they chuckled, the faintest twitch of a smile on their mouth. Emeros mirrored the expression, and slowly rose, pulling the empty tankard and bowl into his hands as he let Athenath take the plate.

  "Come, it's quite late, and we'll need our rest if we're really going through with this. I have a feeling that it's going to be a long day, and I've no intention of seeing it on little sleep."

Notes:

last part for the birthday double-update! see you guys in august, hope you're all taking care! <3