Cycle of the Serpent

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."