Cycle of the Serpent

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.