Cycle of the Serpent

The violent pounding of Athenath's head reverberated like a fist to the door of a grand hall, silencing everything within.

Consciousness muddled and fleeting, the elf struggled to open his eyes. One, then the other, lazily raising their eyelids until the dark gave way to shapes, then to color and identifiable details. Morning, in some dim, clouded manner, danced against the mountainous skies as the Altmer caught the sounds of wagon wheels and horse shoes trotting against worn stone. He had no memory of meager gold changing hands. No memory of the wagon, or its driver. Just inky shapes where the past few hours should be, if even that long ago.

Early light prickled through the branches of the high conifer trees, mountains still blanketed by snow clinging to a winter long-passed. A slowly fading fog still clung to the air, humidity mingling with the chill and brushing through the fabric of their light tunic. They knew he should've dressed warmer. Bruma was not the kind of place to take lightly, but he'd been in such a rush that they'd headed into the mountains without tossing on much else than their usual traveling clothes. Remembering the cloak bundled up nice and neat in their pack, Athenath silently cursed his past self.

He looked up, neck craning for anything identifiable above. Nothing but the clouds and the trees and the deepening blue sky. Finally, as if against their own better judgment or some nagging feeling not to, they looked at the man driving the cart. The back of an Imperial helmet raised their alarm, nerves digging at the back of their neck as they turned their gaze to the other people in the cart, finally taking the time to view these passengers in full, eyes darting around as their heart went from a steady rhythm to a hammering drum. And the way the other people in the cart slouched over, weary and unaware of the Altmer's presence, and the way they all sat with their hands at the knees...

Looking down, he knew why.

Fear balled up like a fist in their throat. He made a strangled noise of surprise, struggling against the tightly-knotted leather around their slim wrists. The Nord across from them turned his gaze, his blue-and-silver armor gleaming in the now-heightening daylight, mussed blond hair catching the shocks of sun that pushed through the stubbornly thick trees. He offered them a weary smile, like he was trying to earn their trust the same way one did a stray animal, circles under his eyes dragging down his features, aging him by a decade or more.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake." He held up this ghost of a smile against his bedraggled features, like he was trying to comfort the Mer that continued to struggle against the binds. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush. Same as us, and that thief and those two over there." He jabbed his head in a small motion to the flighty-looking man next to him, whose gaze rarely rose from the splintered, wooden floor of the cart. Athenath looked to him, then turned their eyes to the right, to the stoic figure in dark finery whose mouth was bound as tight as a belligerent hounds. He did not struggle, but sat with slumped shoulders, brow set in a permanent glower.

They looked then to the others in the cart. Beside the thief sat a Dunmer, his round, gold-rimmed glasses firm on his nose as though he'd enchanted them to remain there, no matter what skirmishes he may encounter. To his side, at the end of the cart's bench, sat someone Athenath couldn't define clearly. His dark, sage-green cowl obscured his ears, and his stature lent itself to him possibly being a Breton. He noticed Athenath, the pair locking dark eyes across the cart. He nudged the Dunmer next to him. The three exchanged looks.

Something in Athenath's stomach told him that none of these three had done anything to wind up here, that something had gone very, very wrong for all three of them.

Of course it had, they mentally chastised themself. No one means to get caught by guards or tossed into a prison cart, right? But this was different. Why? They couldn't say. But the man in dark finery, and the Nord in armor, they shared something in their eyes that told Athenath that not only did the pair know each other, but this was not a normal arrest, this was targeted. And what was that about an Imperial ambush?

Athenath shifted his attention back to the arguing pair, the Nord and the thief. Something about Stormcloaks. They'd heard the word before, a fragment of fleeting conversation from the night they'd spent in Bruma before crossing over into...

Skyrim. Gods, that's right, he'd been crossing into Skyrim this morning. The sun had barely even begun lifting its head over the horizon when they'd been on the road, eagerness chilling their fingers as they gripped a map that he wasn't entirely sure he was reading correctly, and the strangers that they fell in step with while attempting to ask for directions. And then a shooting pain, and then nothing, and then here.

In binds.

"Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

"Ulfric?" The thief exclaimed, his gaze lurching to the man in finery. "The Jarl of Windhelm? But if you're here, then... Oh gods, where are they taking us?" His voice left in a quiver, face growing pale as the snow drifting off the mountain peaks.

"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits." Solemn, the Nord looked to the Imperial that drove the cart. The man in the cowl opened his mouth as though he were going to make some sort of remark, but as if the Dunmer next to him knew, he nudged the other with his elbow. Did they know each other? Athenath watched the two, puzzled, as the one in the dark cowl raised his head. He looked to the sky. Was he praying? Athenath couldn't tell, but saw him staring off into the distance, lips barely moving and no sound coming out.

"General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!"

The thief hurried out the names of the Nord gods, ones barely familiar by their association to the Imperial pantheon. His own heart raced and battered against the cage of his sternum as his brow collected cold sweat. The Dunmer attempted to cast some sort of spell and cursing himself in words Athenath couldn't parse when it fizzled out against all the Mer's best efforts. The Imperial soldier continued to drive the cart with an ease that turned their stomach. He knew what lay ahead, and by the tune he was whistling, he was glad to take them there.

"Look at him," Spat the Nord, "General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this." He raked a bound hand through his mussed, dark blond hair, his eyes not flicking over to the elves in the cart with him. Athenath lurched his eyes to the Thalmor soldiers that patrolled through the outpost, golden armor and black robes decorating their figures. Athenath watched them as the cart rolled by, searching their faces, each one that passed like a dream he struggled to remember. As they disappeared from view, Athenath looked to the other Mer in the cart, then to the Nord who was - if they wanted to put a name to what he was doing - currently aiding the atmosphere of despair with his nostalgia for the town they'd wound up in. Vilod and mead, or something, they didn't know.

"Why are they stopping?" The thief quavered.

"Why do you think? End of the line," came the dour reply from the blue-and-silver clad Nord. The cart stopped and began to unload. Other carts trotted up to surround the tower, the sun bathing the scene in its embrace as blue-and-silver and red-and-brown armor corralled around the courtyard.

"Step towards the block when we call your name, one at a time!"

At the call for Ulfric, there was muttering among the blue-clad prisoners. Honoring him, a pleasure to serve him, none of it met the blood rushing through the Altmer's ears as they still struggled against their binds, furiously now. Ragged breaths met his lungs, aching from the force of each. Their eyes flitted back and forth over the people, all soldiers, and then the other Mer, begging their goddess that something, anything could save them. He'd not lead a great life, sure, but this wasn't it. This wasn't how things were supposed to go, gods, they weren't even thirty yet-

The man in the dark cowl placed one of his own bound hands against Athenath's, the Altmer meeting his gaze, their hands pausing. The other met their eyes, the Dunmer looking over as well, as the tallest of the three shook his head, the sound of metal beneath the cowl jingling against the air.

"No, I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"

In his blind panic, the thief made a desperate sprint up the cobblestone pathways like a fleeing dog. The archers didn't take long, each arrow piercing a different part of his torso like a hot iron through fresh meat. Athenath swallowed down the bubble of a scream until all that came out was a barely-audible whimper. They didn't know what to do. They didn't know who to go to, if there was anyone to go to. Had Mara abandoned them? Had their goddess cast him aside, compassion forgotten? The feeling surged through their spine as the list-reader called out for the Dunmer.

His irises were as white as snow, sclera dark as the foggy morning they'd ridden the cart through. He stepped up and cleared his throat, but this was not a brave act as he gave his name, the one he'd be buried under, here in the mountains of Skyrim. "Wyndrelis Femer," He spoke calmly, but with an accent Athenath couldn't recognize. It sounded vaguely like one they had heard on the borders of Morrowind and Cyrodiil in their travels, bringing to mind one small town in particular, but...

"Next, you," the list-reader pointed his quill to the one in the dark cowl, who stepped up calmly, chin held high.

"Emeros Nightlock."

"Nightlock?" The list-reader repeated, jotting down the name. "Not many wood elves would choose to come alone to Skyrim."

"Thrilling, I'll be sure to mention that next time I write home," he retorted, the bitter tinge of his voice leaving Athenath with more questions. He sounded straight from the gleaming shores of Alinor, a place Athenath had never seen, themself.

And now they'd never get to.

"I said, your name?" The list-reader quickened his words, harsh against the edges of Athenath's mind. They turned their attention to him, trying to suppress the wide-eyed horror that threatened to spill over into pleas for freedom.

"Athenath Aelsinore," they pushed their name through shaking lips, enunciating, then looking to the two other elves they stood beside. The soldier paused, and after writing every name down, turned to the Captain.

"Captain, what do we do? None of these three are on the list."

The Captain waved her hand in a wide motion. "Forget the list. They were with the Stormcloaks, right? Then they all go to the block."

The list-reader turned his attention back to the three Mer, apprehension in his voice as he spoke. "By your orders, Captain." He looked each of them up-and-down, as though the last vestiges of a conscience scrambled to explain why he was sending them to death. "I'm... Sorry. We'll make sure that each of your remains are sent to your homelands."

Athenath and Wyndrelis both opened their mouths to speak, but Emeros clearing his throat silenced the pair. The Altmer looked up at him, but only saw the calm of his gaze, the steadiness with which he stepped into line. Wyndrelis, as though resigned to it all, followed behind without a hint of an expression. Athenath inhaled slowly, and murmured again to their patron, begging Mara for a way out of this. They ignored the disdain in the faces of the Stormcloak soldiers, whose eyes latched to the Mer. In their head, they swore he heard the thoughts of the Stormcloaks. Grow up, be strong, die with honor.

"Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne." Muffled protests. The General went on, "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace."

Unfamiliar noise rang out across the mountains. The sun obfuscated his vision, but Athenath still looked up into the clouds. They swore, momentarily, that something had swept along the high peaks beyond the outpost, ducking beneath the jagged ridges before it could be caught.

"What was that?" The soldier clutching the list spoke.

"It's nothing, carry on."

A priestess of Arkay stepped forward. As she gave the last rites in a steady, half-bored voice, Athenath wondered if this was her first execution this week, or even the last. His breaths grew ragged and panicked, struggling hard against the leather bindings, fingers attempting to find any weak spot, unable to reach the knot that barred them from freedom. He looked to the Bosmer, his hair, his shoulders, then to the Dunmer just before them, whose own shoulders slumped in defeat.

The axe swung true.

"Next, Ralof!"

As Ralof was pulled forward by guards, the shrill noise rang out again, clear as the Anvil chapel bells. Athenath darted their gaze to the sky, a large, dark shape disappearing just when they'd get a good look at it. At first, it swept distantly, riding the winds, before it rose high above the town. The beast, dark as night, spilling shadow over everything it crested with it's massive wingspan, pulled the wind aside and into it's maw.

"What in Oblivion is that?" General Tullius cried out. The sky went black as the thing spread its wings.

"It's in the clouds!"

The enormity of the creature was beyond belief enough for the Altmer that he almost didn't think that what they were witnessing was real, but as it landed on the tower with a horror both surreal and divine, the world shuddered.

Then, the world screamed.

A blast of something like thunder bounded from its jaw, splitting the headsman's body open like a vivisection gone terribly wrong. Then, it turned it's attention on the land below, and with what sounded like words, it scorched the earth. Athenath didn't look up. He didn't even remember doing it, but found themself with their back pressed to the stone of the tower the beast perched atop. Maybe it couldn't get him if they hid here? Like when they couldn't see someone hiding unless they looked directly down off the roof of a house? Their throat burned, was it from the heat as fires erupted and spread from the creatures mouth, or was it from screaming?

Emeros had darted behind the cart the three had been captives in, ducking below as he used a dead soldier's axe to drag his bindings across, trying to cut himself free while cursing loudly, brow lowered in an anger that only came about through intense fear. Athenath watched the tiniest glimpses of his figure as the creature swept over the town, circling like a hawk to a mouse.

Wyndrelis' back pressed tight to the post of one of the houses, watching the creature through small duckings in and out of his hiding, eyes wide as Secunda in full bloom, his terror so deep he dared not breathe.

"Hey, you three! Come on, the gods won't give us another chance, this way!" Ralof called, making wide windmill motions with his arm as he sprinted to another tower. The three Mer locked eyes. One to another to the last. They had no other options.

The tower was already being flanked by the beast, who rose higher into the heavens. Kynareth herself pushing the three through the courtyard as they sprinted into the stone building, taking little time to assess the situation outside. Ulfric had managed to get his gag off and cut himself loose, soldiers in blue-and-silver flocking to him, desperate for instruction, or better, for explanation.

"Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?" A soldier asked in ragged breaths, trying to hide how terribly burnt his left arm was.

"Legends don't burn down villages." Ulfric looked to Ralof, who returned the gaze with a grin. "We need to move, now."

Ralof looked to the three elves, urgency in his voice as he gestured up the stairs. "We can't allow it to find us. This way!"

Before any of them could process his instructions, Ralof rushed up the stairs. Athenath tried not to focus on the screaming outside. Besides, all they could hear was their heart and the pounding in their head. Still alive.

Emeros was the first of the three to bound up the stairs after Ralof. Athenath followed quickly after, Wyndrelis right behind them, using the stone wall for support as he attempted to balance his run while his hands were still bound. As they sprinted up the stairs, Wyndrelis stumbled, Athenath turning back to see him crouched on the stone, attempting to shove himself up.

Emeros grabbed both their wrists by the leather bindings, pulling both up to the stone landing just as the wall collapsed, a massive, red eye peering in. He threw the three of them to the ground, fire cascading over their heads, the winged beast turning to continue its massacre on the town below. The moment the Bosmer thought the coast was clear, he pulled the other two up as he rose, Ralof gesturing through the hole.

"See that inn on the other side? Jump through the roof and keep going! Go, we'll follow you when we can!" Ralof instructed before sprinting off, answering some unheard call. Emeros looked between the pair, then to the remains of what used to be an inn, apparently. The three looked at the broken-down frame of it, a child's toy crashed into by an older sibling from this view, wooden beams blackened and teeming with fire, threatening to collapse if they hesitated any longer.

"You heard the man." Emeros grit his teeth as he peered down at the burning structure on the ground. He waited only long enough to catch his breath, take a few steps back, and run forward, jumping through and landing with a thud. Wyndrelis looked to Athenath, then to Emeros, who waved frantically for the other two with his still-bound hands. It would've been almost comical if not for the screech of the monster in the distance, getting ever-closer, coming back for more. Wyndrelis dashed towards the burning inn and landed beside Emeros, the Bosmer helping him up.

Then, there was Athenath, teetering on the precipice with the cold sweat running down the back of their neck, clinging to their dark curls, their throat tightening by the moment.

"Just jump!" Shouted Emeros, the other's terror-wild eyes trying to deny the moment was even happening as the Bosmer continued to shout. "You either die to that- that thing, or you have a chance to leave this place!"

Athenath was out of time. The beast swept along the mountains, circling the town like a starving vulture over a feast of fresh meat. No decisions left to make, it was this or die. They stepped back and sprinted like he'd watched the other two do, jumping through, landing with a hard thud, but nothing broken, nothing too bruised. Wyndrelis looked to the other two.

"Where do we-"

"Down here," Emeros rushed to the stairs leading down into the lower floor of the inn, "come on, we need to keep moving or we're dead!"

The pair knew they had no choice but to follow, feet carrying them down the stairs after him. The inn crackled, threatening to crumble above them, beams jagged and broken, support beginning to splinter under the weight of the world. The three rushed out the back, survival instinct carrying the three Mer until they found another figure, recognizable among the carnage.

The list-reader, covered in ash and red-faced, did everything in his power to get the civilians to safety among the wailing, panicked voices surrounding them in a chorus of hell. He turned to a man just as the shadow blotted out the sky once more. "Gods... everyone get back!"

He did his best to shield a young boy with his body as the fire came down, scorching the land as the creature ducked again into the mountains. Athenath swallowed the taste of bile and clutched the amulet beneath their tunic as the stench of burning flesh reeled through his senses, bodies strewn about the street, some burned to points beyond recognition, some split open through some otherworldly force, still others merely scattered parts from getting caught in the beasts jaws and tossed out like broken toys.

The list-reader moved, shoving the child into the arms of another soldier who promised in shaking words to keep him safe. He knew the kids name. Gods damn it, these people knew each other, the Altmer thought as he looked to the list-reader, who was now examining the three.

"Still alive, prisoners?" He caught all three's attentions, the elves meeting his gaze. "Keep close to me if you want to stay that way. Gunnar, take care of the boy, I have to find General Tullius and join the defense."

"Gods guide you, Hadvar," Gunnar spoke gravely as he took the boy into his care, rushing to another part of the town as yet another building began to shake, stones and wooden framework ignited. Hadvar gestured widely for the three to follow, and out of options, they did.

Hadvar lead them through the town in a mad-dash, Emeros looking back every few moments, ensuring the other two ran after him. He turned his eyes forward just as Hadvar yelled for them to get down, the four pinning their backs to what remained of a stone wall as the beast soared low overhead, the acrid stench of smoke getting more and more nauseating. The moment the beast fled away from them, Hadvar took the helm again, rushing after the familiar, grey-haired figure, who looked his direction only momentarily.

"Hadvar! Into the keep, soldier, we're leaving," General Tullius announced quickly as he gathered the soldiers and began a retreat, word carrying from mouth to mouth of the new orders. Hadvar shouted something back before sprinting another direction, the courtyard spilling with soldiers in different armors, all trying to escape this cruel end. Hadvar turned to face someone, but stopped in his tracks, drawing his sword.

Ralof did the same, the pair facing each other. Time around them stopped. The fires didn't matter. The beast didn't matter. They eyed each other with exhaustion and anger and fear, all mingling into something sour and palpable.

The two stood in the courtyard of what was once an Imperial outpost, Hadvar in Legate red, Ralof in his Stormcloak blues, ash and soot and injuries coating them both. "Ralof! You damned traitor, out of my way!" He barked.

"We're escaping, Hadvar. You're not stopping us this time."

"Fine. I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde," Hadvar snapped in return, something carried in both their voices that Athenath couldn't decipher. It didn't matter. He followed Hadvar with the other elves, the keep door slamming open, inhaling the four figures and shutting tight behind them.

Hadvar bolted the large door, sweat pouring down his face and streaking the soot on his cheeks from the fires around the town. He mumbled something to himself, the echoes of the outside world muffled in here, but still evident.

"Looks like we're the only ones who made it," he remarked as easily as noting the time they'd arrive to some grand city far away by some even grander passage. Athenath pressed their spine to the warm stone wall as Hadvar mused to himself, something about dragons, but they couldn't be sure. The dark of the room mixed with the dark of their vision. He swallowed his breaths, trying to get their pulse under control.

The flames flickering among torches seemed to mock the group. Rows of beds and chests sprawled through the stone room, armor scattered about haphazardly. Some pieces were in several states of cleaning, rags and bottles set about. Athenath wondered if the owners of these sets would ever come back.

Wyndrelis snatched one of the rags and, in an awkward motion, tried to clean his glasses while his hands were still bound. He managed well enough, turning them in strange positions until the lenses were clear, pushing them back up his nose.

"What's this about a dragon?" Emeros asked, the barely-disguised agitation pushing up against every word. His patience with Hadvar was wearing thin, as though the soldier bore the entire responsibility for the day's events on his own shoulders.

"The bringer of the end times," He tried to explain, but the Bosmer only looked more confused. "Nord legends, it's said that at the end of the world... This isn't the time, we need to keep moving. Come here, let me see your bindings."

Emeros took this second to shake his cowl off his head, the heat of the fires bringing a ruddy flush to his cheeks, presenting his still-bound wrists to Hadvar. The marks from the axe had dug into the leather, but did little more than that. Wyndrelis, whose gaze had gone far away in the few moments he'd been standing in silence, only seemed to return to the room around him when Hadvar spoke. He presented his wrists and flinched as the soldier dug a blade through one strap of leather, then another, slowly pulling the strips away as he had just done for Emeros. The Dunmer turned to Athenath, while Emeros began to rifle through chests and wardrobes.

"You, too. Come on."

They stumbled to their feet, nodding and shambling forward. He squeezed his eyes tight as they held out his wrists, the tugging and snapping of leather filling the air until his flesh tasted freedom.

"There you go." The Altmer opened their eyes once more, and rubbed at the sore skin as Hadvar spoke. "Take a look around, there should be plenty of gear to choose from. I'm going to see if I can find something for these burns." He rummaged through chests and cupboards with more familiarity than the Bosmer had, the three searching the dark.

"Hadvar, would there be a place where prisoner's belongings may be kept?" Emeros asked, watching the soldier grab a container from one of the wardrobes, opening it and rubbing the contents on his arms. At the question, he perked up, then tucked his chin to his neck, grimacing.

"The, um, interrogation chamber."

"I think we all know what that means." Emeros stated plainly, words somehow signaling to Hadvar that he didn't need to tell them any more. The soldier obliged, and instead continued to work the salve against his wounds.

"We should look for weapons. Who knows what's lurking in the rest of this place." Wyndrelis managed to subdue most of the tremor in his voice, but the slightest note of it snuck through as he suggested the idea.

It didn't take long at all to find some armor to toss on top of their clothes, and bows, arrows, swords, and daggers to arm themselves with. Emeros snagged a bow, some arrows, and a sword, giving it a close examination before sheathing it at his side. Athenath grabbed a sword as well. This was one of the only weapons he could reliably wield, and in this situation, gods knew they needed some familiarity. Wyndrelis, following suit, found himself a sword, and after digging around in another chest, swept a mace from the depths of some likely-dead Imperial's belongings.

The fights through the keep were tiresome on top of a horrifically exhausting day. Hadvar lead them through the interrogation chamber, but stopped at the far end of the room once the Stormcloak soldiers had been dealt with.

"This would be where prisoner's belongings get kept. I can't guarantee any of your belongings wound up in here, but-"

"Do you have the keys?" Athenath hurried to the soldier's side, words tumbling over one another.

"I think they're around here somewhere-"

Athenath moved to the chest, bashing the hilt of their sword against the lock, swearing quietly until they figured it broke enough that he could open it. It didn't work. They snatched the sword of a dead Stormcloak from the ground - no use in breaking their own - and shoved it into the small opening between the lid and the chest, forcing it to open. They set the sword aside and pushed the lid up, face brightening for the first time all day.

He reached within and tugged their arms out, holding the deep, garnet-red knapsack to their chest, chirping, "yes! It's okay, it's still okay- is it?" They opened the knapsack, pushed a hand around inside, and visibly relaxed, "It is! It's still okay, holy shit-"

"Careful," Emeros chastised them sharply, "you could have broken something! One of my things, in fact, if you bloody well care." He pulled his own knapsack from the chest and examined the contents, bottles and items clinking and clanging about. Finding all was well, he reached for an ornate hunting dagger tucked neatly within, seeming relieved it was still there. He donned his pack slowly, cautiously, as though the bottles inside might burst if he moved them too much. "You're very lucky you didn't spill one of my experiments, or out there wouldn't be the only place going up in flames."

"Experiments?" Athenath repeated as Wyndrelis grabbed his own bag, a deep, greyish blue knapsack with small golden stars embroidered along the lip in the shape of a constellation that Athenath couldn't make out. He peered around the bottom of the chest, scrutinizing it's wooden surface. The scrunch of his face and knit of his brow told Athenath that something was missing.

None of them had time to think about it. Hadvar warned them that more Stormcloaks were coming, and if they didn't leave now, they'd be in another fight in just a few moments.

"This looks like the way out! I was starting to wonder if we'd ever make it," Hadvar breathlessly admitted as the sprinted towards the hole in the cave, the light almost blinding the four after the murky darkness of the cave they'd wound up in below Helgen. Hadvar exited first, then assisted Emeros through the tight space, Wyndrelis, then Athenath. It was just large enough that all of them could get through without much issue beyond a couple snagged threads of their tunics and some hair mussed.

When Athenath finally rose to his feet, they took in the sight before them. The sky, impossibly bright and blue beyond the crack. The world, still turning. Gods, it was overwhelming. He wanted to cry. To curl up in a ball on the ground and sleep off the entire day, sleep away a week.

That thought extinguished itself as Hadvar motioned for all of them to hide in the shade of a stone, the dragon flying low overhead, barely missing sight of the four by moments. It glided off into the distance, letting out a bellowing roar that none of the four would soon forget as it went from being a shape so large it blacked out the sky, to nothing but a tremoring dot, to gone.

"Looks like he's gone for good this time, but I don't think we should stick around to see if he comes back," Hadvar cautioned, rising to his feet. He dusted off his knees, his shoulders, dirt clinging to his clothing.

"Where's the nearest town? Where are we, even?" Emeros pulled his fingers through his chestnut-brown hair, trying to comb it out quickly, his earrings making the smallest, metallic sounds as he leaned and tilted his head.

"Riverwood. My uncle's the blacksmith there, I'm sure he could help you out." He hesitated, before speaking again, "listen, you should go to Solitude and join up with the Imperial Legion. We could really use people like you. And if the rebels have themselves a dragon, General Tullius is the only one who can stop-"

"You place quite a lot of confidence in this General Tullius," Emeros interrupted, arms folded over his chest, his dark eyes leering at Hadvar. "Either way, does it look as though any of us have a map on hand? You'd best lead us there. You can introduce us to your uncle in person."

Hadvar considered his words carefully for a moment, coughing as though his lungs protested the clean air. "Perhaps you're right. Well, then, we need to be going."

The road wound itself down from the perch Helgen must have once sat on. Even this far into summer, the jagged rocks and shrubbery still sat powdered in snow like the sweets Athenath vaguely remembered from their childhood. Further down, grasses sprung up in brilliant green hues, and as the four marched their way far from the smoldering fortress, the greenery only multiplied. Logs toppled over decades ago scuttled with insects, distant deer hooves trotted along the mountainside, and the rush of a large river spread through the air. Birds swarmed the highest trees, or poked at the bark of the conifers, or flew along the ridges of the mountain now that the sky above this road was theirs again to claim.

"See that ruin up there?" Hadvar pointed across the road to a gigantic, sprawling structure, coated in thick snow. "Bleak Falls Barrow. When I was a boy, that place always used to give me nightmares. Draugr creeping down the mountain to climb through my window at night, that kind of thing. I admit, I still don't much like the look of it." He gave an exaggerated shudder as though even the sight of it chilled him to the bones.

Athenath stared at the enormous, sprawling ruins atop a mountain. All the while, Wyndrelis walked behind the group, digging through his pack and muttering to himself. The Dunmer had dressed for cold weather, appearing prepared to rush north of this place, and now found himself stuck here. His dark, grey-blue tunic was topped with a darker blue cape, the gold moon-crescent fastens of which glittered in the southern Skyrim sun, the summers-end heat and his fur-lined boots a mismatch for one another. He seemed to now be searching for something on his person, moving hands over his leather belt, dyed the same color as his cape.

"Hadvar-"

"These are the Guardian Stones, three of the thirteen ancient standing stones that dot Skyrim's landscape. Go ahead, take a look."

"Hadvar," the Dunmer enunciated harshly, the Nord turning to face him, "have you perhaps seen a book lying about somewhere? It would be attached to a belt, it should have been in the evidence chest, but..." He trailed off.

"I don't think so," each word came out slowly, "but I'll keep an eye out, I don't think a book could have gone far." He tried to make the joke, but Wyndrelis remained as grave-faced as before. He turned to the other two, who shrugged their shoulders. None of them would have it. Athenath certainly didn't. The Dunmer tried to appear as though it weren't too important, even as worry etched the corners of his features.

The three stepped up to the stones. Athenath didn't care for the strange structures, the floor of which was covered in vines and forest detritis, but the view...

He gazed out at the water, the glittering surface, the distant mountains, the endless horizon. Tiny, barely-islands dotted parts of the river, a tree or two stubbornly making its perch on the outcroppings. Rocks split up the grasses between them, and further out, the mountains sprawled wide and free.

They looked to Hadvar, who stared at the three expectantly, and shrugged.

"These stones are very nice," Emeros started, examining the one engraved with a Nord warrior carrying a battle axe and shield on its aged surface, "but I'm not sure what we're supposed to... Do, exactly."

"If you touch them, they're said to bless you with whatever powers each stone possesses. I'm not sure I believe it myself," he chuckled, managing a toothy smile, "but that's what I was told growing up, anyways. The mage stone sure never turned me into much of a wizard, as you can tell," he gestured to himself, his sense of humor fumbling its way to the surface.

Athenath looked to the stone they stood before, the engraving of a shadowy figure crouched low catching his eye. They ran their fingers over it. He didn't know what to expect, or to expect anything at all, but the fact nothing happened when his fingers made contact with its surface dragged an unexpected pout down their lips.

He turned, watching as the other two rested their own palms to the stones. Wyndrelis had made a staunch march to the one engraved with a mage in fine robes, and Emeros reluctantly pressed his palm to the one with the warrior. Maybe because it was the only one left. Maybe because he wanted to. Athenath couldn't tell. Hadvar looked to be silently gauging their selections, but he couldn't read the Nord's face either. Everything tumbled together, the day splitting in two, the morning and the present moment like entirely separate islands, or differing landmasses split by the river they followed.

Once Hadvar seemed satisfied, the three followed him down the further sloping path that was perfectly designed to sprain any unprepared ankles. It followed the natural curves of the mountain, a blessing and a curse. They walked a few paces in silence, the thick trees and the chirping birds returning some level of comfort to the group.

"Listen," the soldier began, "as far as I'm concerned, you've already earned your pardon. But until we get that confirmed by General Tullius, just stay clear of other Imperial soldiers and avoid any complications, alright?" A moment's pause, a small smile meeting his features, "anyways, we're almost to Riverwood. I'll introduce you three."

Athenath didn't know whether to believe him or not until a worn, stone gate came into focus, the arch sprawling over the wide pathway that lead through the town. If the elf was seeing things right, then this path was a straight shot through, as they could see the figure of an identical gate at the other end of the town. Hadvar moved swiftly, boyish excitement of the sight of his hometown mismatched with the deadened eyes and injured figure he bore. The three followed behind him with caution, each of their own reasons for being in Skyrim plunging into the background of the day's events.

Wooden houses spilled along the side of the river which undoubtedly gave this town it's name. Athenath examined the soldier more clearly now in the calm, his features sturdy, his lip still bearing a small tremble from the stress of the day's events. They wondered if he understood the strangeness of this moment, escorting three elves through the wilderness and into this small town right after sending them to their deaths. They wondered if he'd ever feel anything about it. Guilt, or something.

Hadvar waved to an older man, blond hair milled with grey, beard kept neat but beaded with sweat from the day's work at the forge. The barrel-chested man caught Hadvar's voice, and turned from where he'd been seated for a small break, rushing to the edge of the porch.

"Hadvar? What are you doing here? Are you... Shor's bones, what happened to you, boy? Are you in some kind of trouble?" He shoved the words through as he stepped closer to the group, examining his nephews exhausted features, the soot still staining his body and his clothes, marks here and there on his face. He was in worse condition than Athenath had previously thought, and looking at their other companions, it seemed they noticed the same thing.

"Shh, uncle. Keep your voice down. I'm fine, but we should go inside to talk," Hadvar cautioned as Alvor's gaze turned to the Mer. The older man seemed to realize something the elves did not, and gestured quickly.

"Hadvar, explain to me what's going on-"

"I will," Hadvar breathed, looking between the three, then his uncle, "these are friends of mine, and I promise you, I will explain everything inside."

"Okay, okay," Alvor relented, pulling open the door. He called something into the small house, and another voice replied, but none of it managed to catch Athenath's ears. He gave curious looks to the three Mer as he welcomed them into his home, but none of them carried disdain. Rather, it seemed he was trying to process the sight before him, the elves and the soldier, all stained with ash and covered in bruises.

The simple home was more than enough for Athenath's shoulders to drop from the tension he'd not realized they'd been holding them to, a dull ache pinching at the muscles around their upper spine. They inhaled the scent of something cooking in the hearth, closing their eyes to let it fully fill their senses. People were speaking, but they didn't want to hear it yet, finding a chair and sitting down and listening as Hadvar and Alvor spoke to one another. Emeros took a seat, Wyndrelis following suit, all crowding the small family table with not enough space for more than a handful of guests.

"Now then, boy," Alvor leaned forward on his large, sturdy arms, speaking lower to his nephew, "what are you doing, looking like you lost a fight with a cave bear?"

Hadvar managed a laugh, and the smaller laugh of a young girl jabbed Athenath's attention. He looked to the figure on the bed, playing with a cloth doll, her own eyes looking quickly from Hadvar to her toy like she was afraid of being caught eavesdropping. Hard not to, in this small house.

"Uncle, I know you may not believe me at first, but... I don't know where to start. I was- I was assigned to General Tullius' guard," Hadvar gingerly wrapped his fingers around a glass as his aunt, Sigrid, brought over a silver pitcher of water. She poured a glass and sat down at the table herself, taking the final chair.

"You wrote to us about this," Sigrid commented, "you said there was something important that General Tullius was planning, but you couldn't tell us the details. Do these... Elves have anything to do with it?" She asked, arching a brow as she looked around the table.

Athenath shrunk back into their chair awkwardly. Hadvar laughed, waving the question away.

"No, auntie, but these three have done a great favor. They saved my life when Helgen was attacked-"

"Attacked?" Exclaimed Alvor, gripping the arms of his chair. "Those damned Stormcloaks-"

"Those damned Stormcloaks," the girl repeated to her doll with a giggle. Sigrid shot her a look, but the girl didn't notice, continuing on with her eavesdropping as she played on the nearby bed.

"It wasn't the Stormcloaks this time."

"It wasn't?" The girl piped up, her doll drooping in her hands as she gave her cousin a ruffled brow and a confused downturn of her lip.

"Not this time, no. This time, Helgen was attacked by a dragon."

Alvor's eyes shot wide open, watching Hadvar as the soldier sipped from the glass when his tense shoulders told everyone he wanted to chug it and the full pitcher, too. His uncle leaned back. "A dragon? That's... ridiculous. You aren't drunk, are you, boy?" He quirked his brow at his nephew, who waved his hand.

"No, uncle, I swear to you. These three could tell you, too!"

Alvor turned his attention to the strange elves, all appearing to be shouldering their own levels of confusion and weariness of the day's events. "Is this true? Did you four really see a dragon?"

"I believe so, yes," Emeros replied calmly, "it certainly looked like the legends I've heard, though I'd never think they still existed. Didn't dragons die out in the Merethic era?"

"Does it matter?" Wyndrelis massaged his temples. He didn't appear annoyed, his voice was level, but the words still came out harshly against his teeth. A silence fell over the table, disrupted momentarily by Sigrid rising, grabbing some wooden bowls and spoons, and beginning to slowly fill the bowls from the pot over the fire.

"I guess dragons didn't die out if we saw one," Athenath finally added, "but I think that'd be the best way to describe it. Sure sounds like the other people there thought it was."

"This dragon flew over and just wrecked the whole place. Mass confusion. I don't know if anyone else got out alive. I doubt I'd have made it out if not for my friends here." Hadvar gestured to the three with a small motion of his palm, before gingerly taking a warm bowl from Sigrid's offering hands, thanking her in a quiet voice as he turned back to his uncle. "All I know is that I need to get back to Solitude. I need to tell them what happened, and let General Tullius know I got out. For now, though, I thought you could help us out. Food, supplies, a place to stay."

Just before Athenath and Emeros could try to protest, Wyndrelis motioned his hand, lowering it down slow in the air. They bit their tongues.

"Any friends of Hadvar's are friends of mine, but we need something of you in return," Alvor leaned closer on his elbows, gaze darting between each of the faces at the table. The last of the bowls set on the table, and Sigrid rejoined the group, giving her husband a curious look. "I need your help, we need your help, not just us, but Riverwood. The Jarl needs to know there's a dragon on the loose. Riverwood is defenseless... We need to get word to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever soldiers he can. If you'll do that for me, I'll be in your debt."

After far much longer being silent than she could take, the girl piped up again, excitement sprawling over her face. "Hadvar, did you really see a dragon? What did it look like? Did it have big teeth?" Her questions bounced forth.

"Hush, Dorthe. Don't pester your cousin." Sigrid turned back to the group, looking to her nephew, subduing her still-apparent disbelief.

As the six at the table ate, visible relaxation settled on the trio's shoulders. A good, warm stew can do that, it seemed, with the taste of smooth meat and leeks melting off much of the tension that had accumulated between the former prisoners. The sounds of wind outside, quiet and tempered, the late-summer air, the chance for calm. The chance to process what had happened.

Alvor finally broke the silence, rising from the table and stretching his back. "Well, I better get back to work. You all can make yourselves at home." He finished the last bite of stew and placed the bowl in a basin seated near the hearth, giving Sigrid a kiss on the cheek and his daughter a ruffle of her hair before heading back outside, the sunlight no longer feeling so harsh.

"It's nice to be back in a friendly spot, huh?" Hadvar chuckled and took the cloth Sigrid had laid next to his place at the table, pouring some water from the pitcher onto it and gently wiping at the ash still staining his face and arms. "Listen, I'm going to lay up here for awhile. I recommend heading to Whiterun, just down the road from here. From there you can take a carriage to Solitude."

"If not by carriage, then how do we get to Whiterun?" Wyndrelis asked, pushing his glasses further up his nose. Aside from his eyes, there was nothing too out of place about him. His glasses were thin lenses in full circles, cupped by small gold rims. As with all Dunmer, his ears were level with his eyes, pointing straight back with the slightest tilt upwards.

"Just head north on the road out of town. You can't miss it, just follow the road leading to Dragonsreach," Hadvar replied lightly, before continuing, "Whiterun is the biggest and best of all nine holds in Skyrim, but see for yourself."

"And just who were those other prisoners, exactly?" Emeros questioned this time, unwrapping his cowl and tugging it from his shoulders, bundling it up and placing it in his knapsack. In the stillness of the moment, Athenath finally focused in on the gleaming, golden earrings adorning his ears. On his right ear, two thin, gold cuffs cupped at his upper helix, a delicate chain attached to one and down to a hoop which circled his lobe, the chain dangling down to a thin star. A simple gold stud rested in the lobe of that ear. His left ear was much simpler, with one, thinner gold cuff at his upper helix, and a gold stud in his lobe. Athenath didn't even want to think about how many septims the jewelry cost.

Shock tinged Hadvar's features as he replied in a hush. "You didn't know? That was Ulfric Stormcloak and his top lieutenants."

"By Mara, who is Ulfric Stormcloak?" Athenath finally let the question on his mind since the execution leave his lips, exasperated. If all of this mess was because of this Ulfric man, then Athenath had already made up their mind that they'd rather keep a very, very large distance between himself and the other.

"He's the leader of the Stormcloaks. They claim to be fighting for Skyrim's freedom, but the war is really all about Ulfric wanting to be High King of Skyrim."

"What war?" Athenath questioned, knitting their brow. While the stew helped life return to their features, it still didn't fix the confusion that coated every word that left their mouth.

Hadvar paused, rolling the other's questions over in his mind. Astonishment lowered his brow and his voice both. "You haven't heard of the civil war in Skyrim?"

Athenath shook their head.

"It's pretty simple. Ulfric founded the Stormcloaks years ago, as a sort of private army to advance his ambitions. He's always used the ban on the worship of Talos to stir people up against the Empire. He never succeeded in getting much support, so a few months ago he murdered the High King! That got the Empire's attention."

"Gods," Emeros muttered. "How'd you manage to capture a man like that?"

At this, Hadvar brightened. "A masterstroke by General Tullius! He's only been in charge here for a few months, but he's turned things around for the Empire. We've been trying to catch Ulfric since the war started, but he always seemed to slip through our fingers, like he knew we were coming. This time, the General turned the tables on him. Ulfric rode right into our ambush with only a few bodyguards. He surrendered pretty meekly, too. So much for his death-or-glory reputation." He scoffed. "I thought we were taking Ulfric back to Cyrodiil, but I guess the General changed his mind. You know the rest."

The meal, mostly, went quietly onwards, with Hadvar imploring the three to join the Legion. Everything he said tumbled in one ear and out the other for Athenath, the Altmer trying to keep everything straight in their mind. So, Ulfric had founded his own private army. Then, murdered someone called the High King. Then, started a war. Then, on some unfortunate morning in some unfortunate strip of land between Skyrim and Cyrodiil, Athenath and the other two elves had been walking without knowing it, and found themselves in the middle of an ambush, then in a prison cart, then nearly executed.

Great.

"Why should we join the Legion? General Tullius is the one who ordered our execution for the mere crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, why would we ever work under someone like that?" Emeros finally protested, his voice level, but the edge of a blade tilted in his words, cutting beneath the niceties of the moment.

"I don't blame you for being angry about it. I would be, too, in your shoes. But you understand it was all a mistake," Hadvar looked between the three, who each gave him their own brands of quizzical looks - Wyndrelis with the faintest ghost of an expression, Athenath with an arch of a brow and slight downward curl of their lip, and Emeros with the furrow of his brow and the straightening of his mouth - trying to make them understand the situation that the three had lived all too well. "None of you were supposed to be on that cart, gods know it was a terrible misunderstanding. But you were there. You saw the dragon. You know that now, we need your help more than ever, because now there's a dragon out there, and Ulfric is back on the loose."