Cycle of the Serpent

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.