Cycle of the Serpent

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."