Cycle of the Serpent

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."