A recurring sensation crept down Athenath's arms. That sadistic, serpentine looping of leather that tied their hands together so that they could not fight back against the soldiers that scoffed at his fear, or worse, relished in it. He could scrub his arms red and raw in the baths or wear a million bracelets of the heaviest gold, and they would still feel them when they thought too long of the outpost a little ways from Pale Pass.

  No matter what they did, he still felt the restraints.

  The story told to Phoebe was a short one: none of them knew why they were on the prison cart, they got out, went to Whiterun, and came to Solitude because Athenath wanted to be a bard. The three elves explained that splitting up one at a time, at their long-sought destinations, would be safest. No mentions of Rorikstead or the Alik'r Warriors, none of the book which weighed Athenath's pack down, nor the corpses Wyndrelis had given purpose. Just the easy-to-swallow medicine given to the Altmer when he was a sickly infant. A truth, halved the way one did a fruit.

  The night air wrapped around him like a shawl. The last hours of Last Seed faded into the background of midnight hums, blanketed new in the birth of Hearthfire. The sea swaddled the sky, stars nothing but jewels cusped in silver. The endless rush of noise beneath the city from the sewers that ran deep into the land bridge rattled under his feet as they stood outside the doors of the Bard's College. Stained glass and filigree. Shapes of flowers, Dibellan imagery laid bare. Deep, purple hues mingling with the sweetest azure, all wrapped the same as hard candies in shades of cream that surrounded them. The place Athenath had fought so hard to find. The foundation that they had longed to touch, himself akin to a priest on a holy pilgrimage.

  This was what he'd wanted. He drew in a breath. Well, wasn't it? The taste on their tongue soured. Admission had, for the past smattering handful of years, meant auditioning before the headmaster, aptitude for the arts acknowledged, spot earned. It had meant doing the work, fruits of their labor bundled in the end of their tunic. It had not meant someone else sealing the deal by recounting the bare bones of Helgen to now to some random scribe who could get them in because she had connections. It had not meant letting someone else do the talking while they sat back and answered whichever questions the scribe could come up with. It had never meant that he should not be a main participant in his own fate, writer of their own scroll, maker of their own history.

  It had never once, in all their years spent toiling over songbook and tambourine and questions bombarding other performers in vain hopes of joining their ranks, meant letting someone else take control and handle it for them while they idly twiddled their thumbs.

  Their cheeks flared hot in the dim light as they made their cautious steps into the courtyard of the college. Their boots seldom made a sound against the stone as he inched forward, all the way to the back wall, to the view of the sea. Resting their chin in the heel of his palm, they watched the waves, reflected moons winking back at them through the thin bands of clouds. Athenath had wanted this more than anything, so why did his stomach twist and sink down like a heavy weight?

  "...The sword was a gift, you see, for fulfilling someone's wishes. It was a bit of a hassle, perhaps, but it's a good sword." The words had left Emeros' lips flippantly, with a meager grin as though it were a little joke. Like he could brush everything under the rug that had been done to acquire Dawnbreaker. The events at Mount Kilkreath had been more than a stumbling block on the trio's way back to Solitude. It was a fucking nightmare to get through that temple, and the Altmer still shuddered when they reflected on the voice of the Daedric Prince who pulled them into the sky and out of their body to command him to her will. The events that glowed ice-hot in their mind had given Athenath a glimpse of something they'd never understood, the Princes that people both feared and upheld all at once.

  They didn't feel the nails pricking their palms until the sharp sting became too much to block out. They loosened their balled fists and inhaled, the salt-sea air filling his lungs. Where did this anger come from? They turned their back on the waters and leaned against the wall, sliding down to the smooth stone. Why did it wriggle its way into his head? It writhed like worms through grave dirt with the wrath of the dead at its heel. The Altmer raked their fingers through his curls, dark eyes rummaging the landscape for some sort of focus. A house, or maybe a business, sat across the street with the strong scent of lavender tinting the breeze, their senses focused on the sprigs as they swayed in the wind. The bard sat there a while, letting it perfume the world around them, the sweetness of it plucking away the anger until it melted into a foreign exhaustion. He'd been wide awake mere moments ago, or so he thought. Yet the cool air, the slosh of the waves, and the smell of lavender fresh and sweet lulled them to the need for rest.

  On weary legs, the bard rose and dusted himself off, setting their way back to the Winking Skeever with meandering footsteps. The door budged open with their shoulder, and he looked about, though his eyelids grew heavy every second he spent standing. Some patrons drank themselves into sleep at a couple of the tables, and the innkeeper's son had the task of trying to rouse them. Athenath crossed the room and watched from near the stairwell a while, the noises of awkward intakes of breath, some startling, then complaints that this was the best sleep they've gotten in a while. Why'd Sorex have to wake them up? The man would sigh, mutter words of understanding, and ask them to either rent a room or go home. Then, they'd either pay or not. Some would struggle up onto their feet and wander the long streets home, or shuffle by Athenath with the man leading the way to each room.

  Once the room had cleared of unfamiliar faces, the bard looked to Corpulus, busy now cleaning the tables, the weight of their eyelids threatening to send them to the floor. As alert as he could keep himself, he leaned against a pillar and commented, "guess the war's toyed with everyone's sleep lately."

  Corpulus paused, brow furrowed until it made little lines above his nose. Athenath thought he was going to reply, but after a moment of this silence, he went back to cleaning, piling mugs and tankards into his arms to bring to the counter. "You should try to get some rest, too," he said, not looking their way, "it's probably past one in the morning. I'm only up because people were still down here."

  They shrugged into their weary shoulders. He scanned the other, as if searching desperately for something to say. Then, the Altmer darted their gaze to the door, then to Corpulus. Circles thick under his eyes, the innkeeper left Sorex the task of handling the dishes. Athenath observed the pair a while, receding into the shadows as they chatted quietly to one another. The allure of sleep crept through the Mer, and soon they found the stairs beneath himself, trudging up with weak limbs.

  The door to the trio's room creaked open, and Athenath muttered curses under their breath at the hinges, bitter mixture of a grimace and a smile on his mouth. He shut and locked the door, relief slacking their joints when they saw that the other two hadn't awoken. They slid into their bedclothes, tossed their usual traveling garments onto a chair haphazardly, and found the quickest way under the covers. Crawling slowly up the mattress between their companions, he peeled the blanket back at a meticulous pace, enough room that they could tuck their legs up to himself and set the material back down, stretching, fingers pulling his hair from under his shoulder.

  Emeros rolled over, his restless, half-lidded gaze set on the Altmer. "Either we'll have to reassign sleeping arrangements, or you'll have to plan your night walks for before bed," he whispered, his words slouched in his mouth as if arranged on a shelf to lean against one another due to far too much space.

  At the sight of his face in the dim, the writhing in Athenath's gut threatened to boil over, the anger from their walk bright and hot in their chest before being snuffed out the same way they did the candles that evening. It was as if the wrath had never been there at all, instead replaced with a null space in their abdomen, an undisturbed quiet, lifeless soil. Tension he hadn't even known he was carrying fled out of their muscles, an ache snaking its way up their body.

  "Mm, we'll work on it," Athenath dismissed in a hush, raising a hand from under the covers to wave it in a little gesture in the air. A smirk crept up his mouth as he spoke, the Bosmer rolling his eyes before turning back over. There hadn't been a single hint of annoyance in him when he'd spoken, something that troubled Athenath more than if they'd been scolded in the harshest tongues. He knew how to take that. He didn't know how to handle this.

  He rolled over onto his back and watched the ceiling sway as dreams coiled around their consciousness, eyes closed, falling backwards into the dark like an open crypt.

  The college rose beautiful and swan-like before the trio, Athenath's neck craned to drink in the sheer magnitude of the architecture in the daylight. The land bridge offered little in outward space, and so the Bard's College - and the rest of the city, for that fact - had built upwards. The stained glass, so beautiful at night, now shone in all its brilliance. He swore that if he stared at it long enough, he could find so many more intricacies, a dozen little details in equal beauty.

  The morning had been breakfast and laundry, anticipation building in the Altmer's chest. They shoveled down mouthfuls of porridge with honey drizzled over the top, catching the curiosity in both of his companions eyes. This did not hinder the younger Mer's excitement. Instead, they sprinted through the meal and spun from their seat to stand, a seemingly out-of-place urgency forming the bulk of their actions as he washed up and combed through their hair with the small, dwindling container of rosemary oil, the curls forming into the soft ringlets and waves they spiraled into as he dragged the ivory teeth through the lengths. He had to look presentable. This was the rest of his life, no matter how short. To be a bard whose opportunities opened up like flowering honeysuckle on the vine. He would find himself in palaces and kingdoms and cities from one end of the continent to the other, the possibilities spread like open arms to welcome him, eternal and endless.

  But that was later, a future worlds apart from his present. A woman whose blonde hair was held back by ornate pins waved the trio inside, shoulder and foot propping the door open. She looked them up and down before she opened her mouth, lips painted with a mixture of pigment extracted from flowers and wax. "My sister sent word that there would be some last-minute applicants," she greeted as her long sleeve billowed with the motions of her arm. "If you'd come with me, I'll show you around."

  The tiles, polished just as well as the floor of the Blue Palace, reflected the colors of the stained glass. Some sections were plain and see-through, though warbled or misty, the sky outside distorted through these pieces and towering with high billows that sometimes foretold rain. Athenath stepped through the threshold, half-breathless at every detail. As he looked around, he couldn't squash the feeling that it was as though he'd stepped into another world, one built of marble and tile and the faint smell of woody, floral perfumes, the walls above the trio fortress-like as his friends looked around with a measure of uncertainty. If the tapestries in the Blue Palace were grand, then the tapestries here were just as, if not more so. The colors, fresh and bright and rich, shone off the materials they were embroidered into, each tapestry in its place against the walls or hanging from the ceiling. He looked to the large, stone statue of Dibella stood near the stairwell, fresh flowers tossed at her feet. Shifting his attentions, they found the displays of instruments from all across Tamriel which sat along the room, plaques detailing the histories of both the items and those who'd held them once before. There, too, were ancient tomes encased in locked displays, parted pages revealing only fragments of the story within. On the walls near the stairwell, too, were paintings strung high in intricate frames from artists across the continent. The whole room enchanted the soul in the daylight, and the Altmer could not shake the sensation that this was where he was meant to be, even if it meant abandoning the world outside for an eternity-and-more.

  The woman introduced herself as Corinne, easy steps keeping pace before the trio, her gown bright shades of daffodil and saffron while her vest was embroidered in warm reds and oranges and hints of blue. She carried herself tall, in a way that almost made it hard for Athenath to believe she was Phoebe's sister, were it not for the shocks of resemblence. The same, square cheekbones, the thin mouth, the chin carved to a fine angle. She, too, held the slight point in the ears, though hers was more pronounced, and her earrings decorated them heavily. As she navigated the halls with all the familiarity of one who'd spent a lifetime among them, she gestured with a flat palm towards displays, explaining what they were and not to touch them, that the new students were to familiarize themselves with their names and histories. "If you fail one of Giraud's tests, I shan't say he'll be unwilling to let you retake it, but I would advise getting it right first or second try. He takes great pains to ensure his students understand the subject, and no bard worth their gold forgets history so easily."

  Athenath swallowed hard, their stride slowing as every display seemed to leer at him while he passed. Memorizing details from merely reading a subject had always been difficult, amplified when under pressure, an unfortunate fact he'd discovered while learning from the priests of Mara. Gaps would crop up from nowhere in their recollections, their head dizzy with the loss of important information even mere hours after it had been taught. He looked back to Corinne, who now led the group down another corridor. She moved her eyes to two stacks of papers, and pulled three sheets from each, passing them into the waiting grasps of the three elves.

  "You will need to look these over. Viarmo may have some work for you in order to officiate your admission, but aside from that, I believe we're all set. First term students have set schedules, for the most part, of required courses. Instructors make the final say, and there is some breathing room to take more."

  "Which ones would those be? The required ones, I mean." Emeros quirked a brow, scanning the information before him, clutching the paper that held writing tight. Athenath looked over at the sheet in his hand, then to the identical one in their own. The next one was blank, with space for a name and room to write down what the student would be doing here at the college.

  "Giraud's history courses, sign language, and at least one instrument, though it will be expected of you to give all the instruments offered a go. You will also be required to memorize poems, songs, recite the Edda, and perhaps perform plays. That is, if we're able to put them on this year."

  "Right, I've heard of the Burning of King Olaf," Emeros replied, examining the list again and again. Athenath turned to him, confusion riddled on his face.

  "Wait, you know about that?" They asked. The Bosmer nodded, while Wyndrelis raised a nervous hand.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  "Do we get to choose which instrument we learn first?" the Dunmer asked. Corinne gave a nod of affirmation.

  "Yes, of course. But be forewarned, they are not easy undertakings. You will be expected to learn the history of, care of, and playing of every instrument we offer. As for the first one you learn, that is your choice."

  Athenath's eyes lit up. Even though the history and care daunted him, the chance to hold a lute in their arms was far too exciting to hide the way that it thrilled them. "So I could learn the lute first?"

  "Yes, but you will be expected to understand and summarize its history, as well as the proper care techniques for it," Corinne stressed. "Most students won't begin to so much as purchase their lute until around two weeks into the classes, if not further, as we place no strict time limits on one's studies. And we expect prospective bards to care for their instrument, not simply archive this knowledge in the backs of their minds. Several aspiring bards' instruments, and their careers, have suffered due to negligence."

  Athenath's shoulders slumped. They had understood all of this innately, but time was a fickle beast, and it often took him more than the usual hours allotted to understand things like Corinne described. How long would it be until he was playing the lute, finally named the bard he'd worked so hard to be? A cold air of defeatism passed over him like a warm blanket snatched off his shoulders, but they ignored the sensation, pushed it down deep, and instead gave a feeble smile.

  Corinne's eyes scanned from one Mer to another, before saying, "if that's all in the way of questions, I'll show you to the dorms. You'll meet our headmaster, Viarmo, later this evening when the bards take supper."

  The dorms of the Bard's College were more like over-glorified closets, in terms of size. The beds were sturdy but set on ancient wooden frames, with mattresses depressed from years of other eager young performers sleeping on them. Each dorm contained a desk with its own quill and inkpot, a chair, and a small bookshelf near the door. A couple of candles in silver holders rested on the squat dresser next to the bed, and the bottoms of the doorways themselves were an inch or so off the ground so as to allow the warmth of the central hearth to trickle in during Skyrim's frigid nights. Right now, the fire in the common area burned to a mellow pitch, the long corridor kept from both chill and overbearing heat by the diligence of the staff. Corinne pointed out several rooms that were already taken, and offered to jot down which rooms the three elves chose.

  While the three had their pick of any room they liked, and the dormitory stretched to accommodate plenty of students - with a hall that led to a lower level, Corinne explained as she pointed to it - the trio could not help the force of habit. When they looked to one another, Athenath knew that what he was thinking, the other two already agreed with, no words exchanged between them. They picked out three rooms right next door to one another, and Corinne noted the positioning down on a scroll she carried at her hip in her long-fingered hands. Afterwards, the tall woman left the elves alone, heading up the stairs to the main hall of the college.

  Athenath stood in the doorway of the new room. The knowledge that he could set his belongings down, that they wouldn't have to carry their life on their back, stung with an uncomfortable sensation through him. Years of travel had given way to nomadic habits, but now they could rest without worry of paying for a room, put their clothes in the chest at the foot of the bed for longer than one night, and leave his tambourine safely alone.

  Stranger still, he wouldn't be sharing a bed with the other two anymore - likely never again, depending on if the other two wanted to stay after this term or leave for their own destinations. Athenath looked to the neatly-made bed and the thick, extra blankets piled on the foot of it, and breathed in the scent of the rushes strewn about and their clean smell. They plopped down into the chair, the wooden frame creaking under the sudden impact. After a moment of ensuring that the chair would not fall to pieces from the lightest bit of pressure applied, he pulled the papers Corinne had handed him into view, examining the words. There was no requirement on how many courses must be taken, or when, but that some were absolute requirements, and some were not.

  Athenath picked up the quill, some of the feathers missing or worn down from years of use, and dipped it in the inkpot. Quickly, he set the blank sheet of paper onto the desk next to the one full of writing, and penned his name and the classes that he'd be attending. The list, its paper more so, looked old, and they wondered how many hands it had passed through before landing into his. He rested his chin in the heel of their palm, twisting their mouth from one side to the other, glancing back and forth from the paper to the doorway. "Hey, you two still there?" Wyndrelis popped his head in first, then Emeros. Both of them were clutching their own papers. Athenath held up theirs. "What classes are you two going to attend?"

  Wyndrelis tittered. "We were about to ask you the same."

  Seated together in Athenath's closet-sized dorm, they compared the papers, before finding ways to arrange it so they'd have at least one or two together. They jotted down the course names, times, and days, and gathered them together, matching grins on their faces. Perhaps it would be good to spend time apart, but for now, it would be a great ease on their minds to have a few classes together throughout the weeks.

  Emeros cleared his throat. "If that will be all, then we should find Corinne and hand these off to her."

  "Or Viarmo, when he gets here," Athenath suggested, "I mean, he's the headmaster."

  "We shouldn't disturb the headmaster," Wyndrelis objected, shaking his head. "Besides, we know Corinne. It would be easier, I think, to speak with her."

  "You're just shy," Athenath joked with a big smirk, "come on, it'll be fine. When did she say he'd be back?"

  "In the evening." Emeros looked to the doorway, then to his companions with an arched brow. "Are you certain that's a good idea? Truly?"

  "Why not?" Athenath leaned back in their chair, the question light on their lips. "In the meantime, I want to go look at those displays." When Emeros shot them a suspicious look, he huffed. "Not like that." A tilt of the Bosmer's head in the other's direction, a harsh arch of his brow, and a firm frown. "You really think I'd do that? Come on, too obvious. But seriously, if we're gonna be made to memorize the information, we should get a head start, y'know?"

  Emeros relaxed, a grin on his lips. "I suppose that's fair," he breathed, attentions moved to Wyndrelis. "Does that sound agreeable to you?"

  Wyndrelis rose, running his fingers through his hair. "Perhaps I can be dragged along," he joked, as if pretending he wasn't eager to leave the tiny, cramped room and explore more of the college. Athenath's own determination to know every square inch of the ancient building thrummed through them as they stood, ready to bound out the door and up the stairs the moment the other two were ready.

  The manuscripts on display were the first Athenath led the other two to look over. Peering down at the glass that kept them safely contained, Athenath leaned forward, trying to digest every ounce of information they could from the plaques and the pages themselves. Some of them were old poems and epics, some were histories, all against cushioning, dark velvet. Two pages of entire worlds contained. The beauty of the calligraphy didn't slip the bard's mind, either. Every stroke of a quill in deep, vivid inks, faded only by the ravages of time, still left an impression on the Altmer as they examined the artful detailing of the letters. There, in one, an indrik portrayed in thin hues, and a poem to match its beauty.

  They looked up from the manuscripts, their eyes falling on a tapestry above the stairwell. A plaque sat against the wall, and with apprehensive steps, he inched to it, eyes scanning the text.

  'Wolf Queen of Solitude'

  He narrowed his gaze, reading the title over and over, along with the name attached. He looked back up to the tapestry, the deep emerald and azure hues of the background twisting into the image of an old woman, ghostly in a way which set him on edge, pale and small in the background, with a wolf making up the rest, ice-white eyes watching over all who passed under the stairwell. The weaving of it was masterful in its own right, probably taking up weeks, months, or even years of careful consideration over the colors and the pattern, of the style and the technique. Every move seemed deliberate, every choice imbued with purpose.

  They turned, his friends already examining other works, with Emeros taking time to painstakingly read the faded correspondences on display, and Wyndrelis pouring his attentions into a painting, the details so fine that it was as though one could step right in. Sometimes, the Altmer would swear he saw the tree within it move. Athenath watched them for a moment, before speaking up. "Do either of you know who the 'wolf queen' is?"

  Emeros straightened, rubbing at his eyes. "She was a ruler in Skyrim, was she not?" He asked, carding his fingers through his chestnut hair. "If I recall, she had something to do with a siege of Solitude, but it's been quite some time since I've heard the name."

  "That would be Queen Potema," came a voice, carried on brisk footsteps from another hall. The trio turned, their attentions fixated on the Breton coming into view, his chin held high and a smile pushing the lines finely into his warm, square face. "She was the wife of King Mantiarco, who ruled Solitude up until the one-hundredth year of the third era." He continued, bringing his hands together in front of him, elbows wide apart, his posture high and keen like a preening bird. He turned his gaze from one to the other, the elves still and quiet before him. "I assume you three are applicants to the college?"

  A smile plastered itself onto Athenath's mouth, eyes brightened as they replied with a rapid nod, raking fingers through a section of their curls. "Yes, we're hoping to join the Bard's College this term," he answered, calming the excitement that rambled like a river under his voice. "We've completed our course selections, where do we need to...?"

  "Oh! If that's the case, I'll take them up to Viarmo's office," he extended a large, calloused hand. Emeros cleared his throat and tapped the papers into an even order before stepping over, passing them into the waiting palm of the Breton. Their handwritten responses on top, the list on the bottom.

  "And who might you be, if I may ask?" Emeros arched a brow, the quizzical look on his face not tamping down on the Breton's grin. Athenath thought about elbowing him in the ribs, that same, wraith-like agitation that they'd hoped had been snuffed out sparking for one quick moment, before again becoming nothingness at all. A numbness, even.

  The man laughed, adjusting the cap on his head. Dark and flat leather bent down one side, white fur surrounding the brim as two periwinkle feathers bounced from their position at the back with every movement. "Apologies, I should introduce myself. I am Giraud Gemane, the Dean of History here at the Bard's College. You will be taking classes with me sooner or later, though I'd suggest sooner, as we've a lot to cover in my course."

  Emeros extended a hand, and Giraud shook it. He extended his own to Athenath, who took it firmly, enthusiasm in their grasp. When he extended out towards Wyndrelis' direction, the Dunmer shrunk back and waved a hand. Giraud didn't seem offended by this, shrugging as he straightened out the papers in his palm.

  "Well, I'll see that Viarmo gets these," he turned towards the stairs, his fur-lined boots making great thuds against the tile, "and I hope I'll be seeing your faces in my course very soon."

  With that, Giraud ascended the stairs, his steps echoing after him.

  Athenath stared at the ceiling. He seemed to do a lot of that these days. Ankle crossed over bent knee, hands folded behind their head and foot swaying up and down in the air, the more time he spent in the small room, the more warmly they looked upon it. Dinner at the Bard's College was not too dissimilar to eating at an inn aside from no gold changing hands, snagging what one wanted and sitting in the dining area on the same level as the dorms. Several students flitted in and out, Athenath not catching the names of many of them. From what Corinne explained, these were the all-year students, who chose to dedicate their lives to the arts and to become as skilled as they possibly could.

  Up until a few weeks ago, Athenath would be rushing to join their ranks. Now, he wasn't so sure.

  The shadows played on the ceiling, running after one another in shapes of licking flame, those little threads of another world he could never decipher. Up until recently, it had been Athenath's plan to join the college and remain. To kiss the world of traveling and impermanence goodbye, at least for a few years. To dive headfirst through those doors and swim through the endless hours of dedicated practice and study, to strum the lute until their fingers bled and then play some more until the beads of red ran down the carved surface, meat tender and cut down to the bone...

  The grisly image shuddered through them, the bard squeezing his eyes tight for a moment. They turned their cautious gaze to the ceiling after a few moments, heart drummed against quickly by some unseen hand of panic. As it subsided, they fixed their mind back to the focus of the moment.

  Up until that damned cart, Athenath had anticipated a life in these doors until they had exhausted every instructors ability to teach and every patron at the inn's ability to listen, then to run out into the world fully actualized. As if these walls had the power to change them, to transform them beyond natural means.

  But now, against all his own wishing, he wasn't so sure.

  What had changed? Had Helgen really drawn their vision so dark that they couldn't want the light he'd carved out for himself? Had the events at the Western Watchtower and the summons of the Greybeards tainted his longing? Was there still some piece of him that longed to go up those steps, to see High Hrothgar? To see for himself what the mountain could mean?

  Another thought bloomed in his mind, that maybe it was his compatriots he wanted to stay beside, and he knew they would leave for their own destinations the moment this term came to a close. After all, this wasn't their area of expertise. This wasn't their realm, their interests. And neither of them seemed particularly passionate about it, either. But did that really change Athenath's entire perspective on being here? Did that really affect how he wanted to spend his own time in this world, or live his own life?

  Did they even have the final say in his own decisions?

  Athenath bolted upright, the hard knocks at his door pulling him from their thoughts. "Come in," they called, stretching and straightening out his tunic.

  Wyndrelis twisted the handle, then slowly poked his head through the door. "You're awake."

  "Yeah, we seem to have this conversation a lot." the other grinned, loose curls draped over their shoulders.

  The taller elf chuckled, sliding into the room and pushing the door shut behind him. With a patient motion, he sat down in the chair near their desk, pulling it around so as to face the other. "I suppose we do."

  "What's on your mind?" the bard asked, pressing their elbow onto a bent leg, chin in the heel of his palm. Wyndrelis hesitated, looking to the door, then to the Altmer, his brow gravely drawn.

  "I worry what Phoebe is going to do with the story we told her." The calm measure of his voice conveyed he'd been thinking about this for a while now, his words level and cold. He pushed his fingers through his feathery, dark hair, adding, "and I'm not sure it was a good idea to tell her anything in the first place."

  The hearth outside spat up a small flicker, and Wyndrelis winced. The shadows drew heavy on his figure in the room, spindly and dressed in the same dark blue garments he'd worn the entire time he'd been in Skyrim, as long as Athenath had known him. He watched the Altmer, who in turn watched him, the heat of the hearth to the door's side of the room.

  "I know," a tinge of discomfort ached at his voice as he spoke, "I don't... I don't know what Emeros was thinking, really. Gods know it wasn't... Well, it got us in, so, I know I should be grateful, but like, we don't know Phoebe or Corinne or anyone in this city, and I don't know what to, well, y'know. It's too late now. It's not like we can, well, no, it's..." Athenath trailed off, groaning and pressing their face into their hands. "Gods. You know."

  "I do." Wyndrelis gave an affirming nod. "I understand."

  The silence slid through the room like a blade through tallow, Athenath shifting eyes from Wyndrelis to the desk to the door, but never his face, never acknowledging their heart in their throat as the words he'd spoken rang out in his head. Did Emeros deserve blame for just trying to help? Did anyone? And did Athenath have any room to object to it? Emeros had helped them get in by having the trio recount their experiences to Phoebe, and even though it was the barest ghost of a narrative in terms of fullness, to the scribe it was a corpse dredged up heavy and wet from an ocean. The closest thing she would get to the truth. And did Athenath have any room to judge anyone for wanting that, or for providing, as long as the ends were reached?

  Wyndrelis never moved, just watched the flames dance in the candle on the other's dresser. "I'm going to bed."

  "Alright," Athenath replied, sucking in a breath, pulling their legs up to their chest, "me too, I think."

  "Goodnight." The Dunmer took time to rise, every creak of the chair and crackle of the hearth spinning his anxieties into his face.

  "Goodnight."

  When the door shut behind him, Athenath flopped back on their bed, and continued to stare at the ceiling, a nervous sort of nausea burrowing into his stomach like an animal from the winter chill. The worry amplified in their mind, but the room around them was proof that what Emeros had agreed to did work in the trio's favor, for better or for worse.