Cycle of the Serpent

Thick, impenetrable night slid through the cracks of the inns walls, cool air and occasional passes of torch flame from outside bringing slivers of light into the otherwise dim hall. In the rented upstairs room, the flickers from the hall found their way in, bathing it in a bronze hue. Sleep, the elusive beast, sometimes captured and sometimes wild and far away, had wrestled itself from Athenath's grasp minutes ago. So now, he lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the heavy wooden beams, the aged surfaces revealing previously unseen shapes as his mind tried making sense of the dark.

There were promises to keep, come tomorrow. Whispers from under the balcony flew up through the wooden floors, the conversations of some patrons up well into the night. The constant hiss of syllables against teeth, the sharp, whistle sounds of them, made the Altmer want to grab the pillow and shove it over their ears and clutch it until his hands forced themselves loose from aching. But he couldn't do that, and he definitely didn't want to wake his friends, so they lay there, chest tight at the agitation.

The shuffle of blankets rose up to end the quiet. Just Emeros, turning over in his sleep. They glanced at him and then returned their stare to the ceiling, brow knit, the sound of whispers softly fading. Finally. A sigh of relief had nearly left their mouth, but they stifled it, his focus again on the two Mer beside them. He didn't want to wake them. They'd both earned the rest. Athenath could hear the faint sounds of Wyndrelis breathing, but aside from the rise and fall of his side when he did, he resembled more a corpse, entirely still and curled into himself. Emeros, meanwhile, had his forearm tucked under the pillow, his other arm around himself, blankets tight to himself.

The bronze light dimmed. A torch blown out. The night must be deep into itself, somewhere in the latest hours before morning would come and wake everyone up with its crowing. Athenath had blamed his sleeplessness on the whispering below the bed, but it was as though that had simply been the catalyst, and now he was truly awake and alone, and unable to creep out of the bed if he even wanted to. At this rate, they'd look like a draugr in the morning, shambling up to Dragonsreach and barely forming the words to tell the Jarl of what happened to Helgen, what happened to them.

He shut his eyes tight. Gods, they didn't want to think about that day. But it still found a way to invade their thoughts, even when they were making all the effort in the world to go back to sleep. Their mind ignored every attempt to shove the fires aside, Athenath's arms wrapping tight around their middle as he stubbornly tried to push his mind to something else. What about the nights in Anvil, walking the salt-scented paths through town? And the dares to go up and knock on the old haunted mansion? What about the laughter of their old friends, and the house they grew up in? What about the shopkeep with the strange necklace, and the strangers in town in their black coats, and...

Athenath's eyes shot open. The dark was still the dark. The same thing he'd closed off. But now, it seemed to wrap around them, tighter than they could bear. They fixed their gaze on the ceiling and thought of poems he'd memorized on the road with troubadours from High Rock, or the songs that they'd thought about writing down and quickly forgot, or the bards who sent them on this damn journey in the first place, but none of it replaced the sinking feeling in his stomach, like he was desperately clinging to a broken raft far out to sea.

"What are you doing up?" Emeros whispered. He didn't need to open his eyes. He knew from jokes shared at the campfire that Athenath never slept on their back, and here they were, and he could feel the way the blankets laid over them and how different it was from when they were truly well asleep. Athenath shot their gaze to him, brow knit.

"Just can't fall back asleep," they whispered back. Emeros cracked an eye open, face half-buried in his pillow, hair tousled along his neck. He pushed a hand through the front strands, a couple small noises leaving his throat as though he were being pulled into the waking world by force.

"Tomorrow, I fear, is going to be dreadfully long. Don't keep yourself awake, or you'll regret it."

"It's not-" Athenath sucked in a breath, stubbornly held it, then exhaled. "I'm not. I know."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I woke up, couldn't fall back asleep, and now I'm just... Up. When I wish I wasn't."

A long pause. Emeros sucked his inner cheek between his teeth on one side, then repeated to the other. "Did you have a nightmare?"

"No." Athenath blinked at the Bosmer, curious. "Did you?"

The alchemist rolled slowly over onto his back, palm draping over his eyes, other hand still firmly beneath the pillow. He inhaled, moved his hand down his face, before his arm came to rest over his middle. "I suppose one could say that fire has never been my favorite thing." The bard didn't reply, laying there, watching him as well as they could. He sucked in his cheek, then exhaled, peering at Athenath out the corner of his eye and the smallest turn of his head. "It'll be morning before you know it. Try not to keep yourself awake." The smallest fringe of concern at the edge of his words caught the Altmer off-guard, who only continued to watch him quietly. Emeros' gaze shifted. "You too, Wyndrelis. I know you're listening in."

Wyndrelis snorted. "How did you guess?"

At this, Emeros merely grinned, rolled over, and said, "I saw you move."

The baths were attached to the inn, and washing soaps were cheap. The three took turns bathing and bundled their dirty laundry into woven wicker baskets, dressing themselves in light, cotton undertunics and trousers. If they were going to see the Jarl, then a bath and clean clothes was mandatory. Besides, they had earned it.

Athenath mournfully pulled themself away from the hot water and wrung their hair out, carefully running the strands through with their ivory comb before dressing, Emeros busy with his own basin. "You got the right soaps?" The Altmer asked, tying their hair high up with a scarlet ribbon. The other nodded, one hand clutching the handle of a jug filled with recently-boiled water.

"I checked twice," he affirmed, "so I do believe we've got the right kind."

"Never hurts to be sure," they laughed, "one time I used the wrong soaps, and my vest didn't feel right for a whole week. It was awful."

Washing soaps came in two varieties: laundry soap, and bathing soaps. The key difference was the inclusion of lye, solely used in laundry soap due to some mishaps in the development of both back in the Second Era. Otherwise, it worked well, and the most common kind in Skyrim was made with goats milk, soapwort, and plant oils, though more luxurious varieties could be found in Cyrodiil containing dyes, more extravagant scents, and even portions of rare and strange plants, provided one could pay the egregious amount of septims for such a thing. Rumor was, in Shimmerene, they used soaps made with gold and tiny chips of gemstones.

Athenath had picked out some rosemary soap. The scent wafted off their figure as he knelt, his hair carrying it heaviest of all. The plan had been for the three to go in order of age, eldest to youngest, but Wyndrelis had waffled on about taking a long time in the baths, and insisted on being the last in. This meant Athenath had plenty of time to ask the other what he thought of their fellow traveler.

"So do you think he's like, a powerful mage?" They asked, shooting a glance at the empty basin that would house Wyndrelis' own washing in a while. Emeros didn't reply for a moment, working the scentless bar of soap he'd picked against the grater and watching slivers dissolve.

"I'm not certain, really, but if he's seeking out Winterhold instead of the Synod or the College of Whispers, that shows he's well dedicated to his pursuit. We should take that quite seriously, I believe." The pause held tight between them as Athenath murmured to himself about a stubborn spot on their vest, hands clasping the material tight. "Forgive my curiosity, but where in Cyrodiil are you from?"

"Leyawiin," he stopped his furious scrubbing, let out a silent plea to their patron as he stared up at the ceiling, then returned to dunking the material deep into the soapy water, "well, okay, I was born in Leyawiin. Grew up in Anvil, though, so that's home to me."

"Really?" Emeros moved his soapy clothing to the kettle the three had set aside for rinsing, water giving off a healthy amount of steam. A long, wooden stick leaned against the lip of the vessel, the kettle itself well-used and well-beaten from the ages, the bottom reflective from years over fires.

"Yeah, though I wasn't really allowed to play on the beach. Parents thought it was too dangerous, y'know." Athenath took their bar of laundry soap and pressed it directly to the spot they'd been working, scrubbing the hard item into the smooth fabric, nose scrunched in the effort. After a moment, he heaved a sigh, figuring it'd come out later. "You?"

"I grew up on the outskirts of Greenheart," he answered. Then, as though recalling an old and fond joke, he gave a breathy chuckle, "though, I wouldn't say I felt at home there. Granted, I dearly miss it, and it was magnificent in a way that I have not seen since I left. But with my family not following the Green Pact..."

Athenath gave up on the spot that had tormented him so, moving their laundry to the rinsing kettle before pouring the dirty water down the drain in the center of the floor. He'd heard of the Green Pact plenty of times, his father regaling them with tales of his visits to Valenwood to see his semi-distant family, how he often felt like every animal and tree and bird and bug was watching him, suspicious of a Mer who'd taken up logging as his career choice. That, or their father was paranoid.

They watched the soap-whitened water as it descended a foot or so through the grate. Turning his attention again to the alchemist, Emeros heaved the kettle with some exertion to the large, sturdy spit over a low fire. He gave it a good few stirs before he left it alone, keeping a close eye on it. Athenath leaned his back to the humid stone wall, head turned to face the kettle. They silently prayed Emeros wouldn't boil all their clothes half to death.

The moment Wyndrelis emerged, all eyes landed on him as he carried his clothes in a bundle in his arms. He set them inside his own basin, smelling strongly of some sort of herbal tea, bergamot at the surface of it all, a clean and vibrant scent. He poured boiling water into the basin and grated his laundry soap quickly, hands working the water carefully into his clothes as Athenath's eyes lit up.

"Oh! Wyndrelis," they chirped, "we were just talking about you! Well, not really- not for a moment, at least- oh! No, not in a bad way, just..." they groaned, pinched their nose, and started over, "okay, we were talking about places we're from-"

"And?" Wyndrelis' glasses had fogged over, the Dunmer already giving up on wiping them off for the moment. At least through said foggy lenses, he couldn't see Emeros shaking his face in his palms.

"I'm from Leyawiin, kind of, mostly Anvil. And Emeros is from Greenheart, so where did you grow up?"

Wyndrelis' attention made quick turns from Emeros, to Athenath, and back and forth. "Oh," the small noise escaped his throat, like he'd wondered how any of this was worth Athenath stumbling over their words. "If you must know, I grew up in a town called Oststern. It's more of an outpost, towards the Morrowind border." Brow low, eyes narrowed, he pursed his mouth in one direction, then the other, giving a thoughtful rub at his jaw. "I think it was south of Cheydinhal, in the mountains, there," he uttered before moving his clothes to the rinsing kettle, blue hues joining the greens, creams, and garnet. He took them out much sooner than the others and strode out the door to dry his clothes on the line, his pace quick and easy as he carried the wet bundle in his wicker basket. Athenath and Emeros separated their garments and followed suit, the early morning sun an oppressive, undiluted light on the plains of Whiterun.

The pathway up to Dragonsreach lead them through the market square, around the barren Gildergreen, past the priest of Talos whose shrieks and caws filled the air, and up the long, winding stairs to the wooden bridge. Clothes dry and noon sun high above them, it was time to fulfill their promise to Alvor. Surely, rumor had done the work for them, but at the very least, they could tell the blacksmith that they'd fulfilled the promise they made to him.

The imposing doors parted with heavy groans and lead them through to the main hall of the great castle, where a hearth puffed smoke up to the vaulted ceilings. The windows above them illuminated the plumes, servants and guards handling their daily duties with nonchalance, only giving one or two curious looks the way of the trio. Across the room, seated on a throne, sat the Jarl, currently engaged in conversation with two figures on either side of him.

"I only council caution. We cannot afford to act rashly in times like these," came the worried voice of an Imperial at the Jarl's right, features weathered by the years.

"What would you have me do, then? Nothing?"

"My lord, please. This is no time for rash action. I just think we need more information before we act. I just..."

As he trailed off, the Jarl's eyes met the figures of the trio cautiously approaching, their boots making small thuds along the ancient castle floors. He knit his brow, his hand stroking at his thick, blond beard. The three Mer inched closer, emboldened by his gaze, though still shouldering the uneasiness of a child caught sneaking out of a long and exceedingly dull family dinner. He raised a large hand, acknowledgement of their presence now turning more attention their way.

"Who's this, then?"

The uneasy stillness came to an abrupt end when the Jarl's housecarl marched briskly to the three, her hand wrapped around the hilt of a dagger, ruby eyes scanning the figures that dared invade the conversation with their mere existence. "What's the meaning of this, then? Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving any visitors," her voice was as sharp as her blade and just as to the point, her imposing figure held high and narrow gaze locked on the three, the hall coming to a stand-still with her approach.

"Um- Alvor sent us, Riverwood's in danger," Athenath managed out as he toed closer.

"It is my duty to deal with all dangers that threaten the Jarl or his people. So, you have my attention. Now, explain yourselves." Her grasp on the dagger lightened as she swatted her gaze between the three, a focus in particular on the other Dunmer who stood half a step behind his friends, jaw set, discomfort in every breath he drew.

"Look, we were told just to give the message directly to the Jarl, so I..."

"Whatever you have to say to the Jarl, you can say to me," her keen focus locked on the Altmer who'd had the nerve to speak up. "You know, I'm starting to think-"

"It's alright, Irileth," came Jarl Balgruuf's voice, all too late for the liking of the three travelers. He held up a hand again and added, "I want to hear whatever they have to say."

Irileth sheathed her dagger, returning to Balgruuf's side with a level of trepidation, her steps even, measured, but uneasy. She clearly did not like the trio invading the calm of the castle. Perhaps her mistrust was for a reason, but Athenath wasn't going to ask about it any time soon.

Jarl Balgruuf took in the sight of them as they stood before his throne. His words did not come quickly, observing the travelers, their postures, their faces. "What's this about Riverwood in danger?" He finally asked, attention hitched on that one statement, his posture straightening from his usual easy recline. Athenath took in the sight of him, from his traditional finery to the way he wore his slowly-greying hair. He must be in his mid-fifties or thereabouts, his eyes cornered with lines, his hand scarred and weathered from incidents many years ago, the faintest lines lit up by the flickering hearth.

Clearing his throat, Emeros righted his own posture as he began his best explanation of events. "I'm certain you've heard by now of the dragon that destroyed Helgen. Alvor of Riverwood is afraid that his town is next, sir." The Jarl raised a brow, ice-blue eyes glinting in the light. He leaned forward, hands clutching at the edge of the throne's arm rests.

"The smith? Reliable fellow, not prone to flights of fancy..." his advisor's feet shuffled awkwardly, the Imperial clearly realizing something the Mer did not as Balgruuf's eyes landed hard on him. He then turned his gaze back to the trio, once again intrigued by the travelers and their message. "So, how do you know of the dragon?"

"We were at Helgen, sir. We saw it." Emeros let the words etch against the still air, reading the shock that found its unique ways into the features of the three before them. The advisor's eyes widened. Irileth, through all her scrutinous calm, looked as though she were suppressing some sort of grin.

"You saw the dragon? With your own eyes?" The Jarl interrogated, breathless at the admission from the Bosmer.

Wyndrelis nodded as a bony, grey finger pushed his glasses up his nose. "The dragon destroyed the town. Last we were aware, it was heading this way."

Balgruuf's knuckles whitened. He leaned back, subduing the horror that nearly spilt into his features. His gaze found the Imperial's shape once again, a determination in the Nord's eyes as though he were thinking about taking on the dragon himself. "Irileth was right. What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls against a dragon?" His nostrils flared as he spoke, Irileth facing him now, her hand back on her dagger.

"My lord, we should send troops to Riverwood at once. Alvor is right, it's in the most immediate danger. If that dragon is lurking in the mountains-"

Proventus gestured wildly as he finally spoke up. "The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation! He'll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him! We should not-"

"Enough!"

Jarl Balgruuf's voice cut through the hall with such a ferocity that it cut down any conversations in the nearby rooms, all straining to hear what was happening. Guards, servants, and other residents went motionless, the Jarl rising to his feet to get the word out before he fell back into his throne, his temper threatening to show on his face, something he appeared to be reigning in. He rubbed his brow with the crook of his thumb and gathered his thoughts before he spoke again. "I will not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people. Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once."

"Yes, my Jarl." The command gave Irileth something to do, a restlessness like a guard dog finally finding purpose, and by the smug glint in her eye, it seemed she'd been planning to do this very thing the moment she had a chance, and already had specific guards in mind to send out that way. Proventus, visibly on edge, drew his mouth in a tight line as he drew in a breath.

"If you'll excuse me, I'll return to my duties."

"That would be best," Jarl Balgruuf dismissed curtly before he turned his attention back onto the trio. "Well done. You three sought me out on your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it." Stroking his beard thoughtfully, the Jarl's intent found an open doorway to his left, his mind igniting now with a possibility. Athenath shared uneasy glances with the other two Mer, who were also trying to discern the meaning of the Jarl's expression.

"There is another thing you can do for me. Suitable for a group of your particular talents, perhaps," he slowly rose, waving the three to join him. "Come, let's go find Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons, and rumors of dragons."