The next morning came into being with a familiar haze, the way that dreams formed a thick slurry of colors, sounds and creaks as they struggled to reconcile themselves with reality. He could return to himself in these moments, no gazes upon him and no questions demanding answers, just his form under the blankets. He breathed in and rested his palm on the pillow, linen slightly coarse beneath the heel, the pads of his fingers, his cheek. He dragged his hand through his chestnut hair and sighed, unable to dwell too long in the warmth of the bed. When his eyes finally cracked open, he noted the letter which had been passed under his door, cream paper on the stone. Groggy from the restless state he'd found himself in since arriving in Solitude, he slipped his legs off the bed, made the couple of paces to where it lay, and plucked the note off the floor, blanket still slung around his shoulders. It bore a red wax seal, bearing a lute shaped into a V, or perhaps a V shaped into a lute? Emeros didn't let it trouble him too long before he seated himself on his bed, prying it up until he could read the curled script.

  The letter, in short, was a summons from Viarmo up to his office in the high tower of the college. He scanned the inky words over and over again. The lack of detail twisted in his gut. Up to his office? For what? What would the headmaster want with him? He could sense a sickness wafting over him at the nerves it provoked. He set it aside and let his lungs fill with air. It said that all three should come at their nearest convenience, but he'd done this dance all too often, and knew it meant immediately. He fished his trousers out of the pile he'd set his clothes in and tugged them on, trying not to rush himself, tunic, vest, and belt following. He arranged himself to be presentable, and checked his reflection in the silver platter all dorms seemed to come with in lieu of real mirrors. He'd scrub his teeth after breakfast and shave, but he couldn't ignore the gnawing in his stomach of both hunger and worry.

  Emeros pushed open the door to his dorm, only surprised for a single moment to see Athenath and Wyndrelis waiting for him outside, voices shushing as they held up their own letters.

  "Well, we knew it couldn't just be for the two of us," Athenath snorted, a grin on their carmine mouth, but worry in their round eyes. His tunic hung off their tired frame, no vest to add shape to the garment. Wyndrelis, on the other hand, was fully dressed for the day, capelet and boots included. He looked between the pair and their differences, and stifled a yawn behind his hand.

  "I would certainly hope not," Emeros replied, half-sluggish, pulling shut the door to his room behind himself and locking it. "Shall we go now, or do you two have plans first?"

  Wyndrelis gestured with a jab of his thumb towards the kitchens. Silent, but understood by the other two. Breakfast first, wake up a while and talk it over, then go. Whether it was nervous apprehension or simply wanting to be awake a bit longer before presenting oneself to the headmaster of the Bard's College, Emeros didn't care. He needed time to think this over. In his short time in Skyrim, he'd met two Jarls and two dragons, crossed from one end of the province to the other, handled a Daedric Prince's bidding, and earned the title thane in one Hold. Of all these things, being summoned to Headmaster Viarmo's office sent the most dread to tighten around his throat. He'd never been able to access a formal academic institution; his tutoring had been through private instructors back home, and even when he'd begun to learn alchemy, much of it was done on his own while making best use of whatever materials he had on hand. The notion that in the short span of time the trio had been in this building, they may have already made a grave move against the college... He had to swallow down his nerves. He knew that there had to be not only a logical explanation for this, but one that was less harrowing than whatever half-baked ideas flashed through his mind. He mostly wondered now, with all three of their trio summoned, if this had to do with their courses or with their pardon. Perhaps those once considered criminals in the Empire's half-blind eyes were seen through a more-than-skeptical lens, especially considering the priceless artifacts housed within these walls and protected by its dozens of watchful tapestries.

  Bendt was in his usual mood. There was a mutter, a snide comment of congratulations to the three for finding the kitchens, and Emeros watched as Athenath scrunched up their nose in an attempt not to say anything, whereas Wyndrelis hovered in awkward steps in the doorway for a moment until the Bosmer waved him inside. This must be why most bards took their meals at the inn, Emeros thought as he pulled a plate to himself, filling it with fresh slices of rye and cuts of seasoned elk. A Nord sat at one table, one white-blond braid at the side of his head, tending to the drum cradled in his arm, a bowl of troll fat to his side. He used a cloth to diligently rub the fat into the wood and the animal skin, a method of preserving his instrument. When the Nord noticed the Bosmer staring at him, he flashed a small smile.

  "Good to see new faces," he remarked, his face paint a greyish color as it drew across his eyes and his upper nose like a cloth blind.

  Emeros gave a quick, curt nod. "You've been here a while, then?" He asked, arching a brow. The Nord's small laugh was a refreshing sound as he went back to his work, his light irises focused on the object in his strong arms.

  "I have been here for several years, yes. I'm close to graduating, and were it not for the Burning of King Olaf festival being on... Indefinite hold, shall we say, then I would be inducted as a formal bard and graduate."

  Athenath looked up, having been in the midst of his intense, silent selection between the fruits and a boiled creme treat, their eyes latching to the Nord. "It's on hold?"

  "Yes, until we can get it settled with Jarl Elisif... Well, I don't foresee the festival being put back on any time soon." He blew a breath that curled his upper lip with its exit, and looked to the bowl of troll fat, scrunching up his nose for a moment. "Can you believe there is no way to make it smell any better?" After a moment spent peering into the grease he'd been using on his drum, the Nord flit his hand as if batting the thought away, before looking to the three. "I am Jorn, and you are...?"

  "Emeros," the Bosmer plucked a bundle of small, ripe berries from a platter, half-leaned over the Altmer. Soon, fruits like these would be mostly found in dried form as the harvest seasons ended and winter began, but for now, it was nice to have the fresh, juicy versions of them on hand, especially when on the road. An extra source of water was always welcome, no matter how meager, and on the road as he'd been so many times, it was vital to keep water in one's body. He brushed the thought away. He had no intentions of being on the road any time soon, gods willing. He'd seen enough of Skyrim's landscape for a while.

  Jorn looked to the other two elves, one brow cocked. "And you two are...?"

  "Wyndrelis," the Dunmer replied flatly, gesturing to the shorter figure, busy at the moment with filling the trio's tankards with coffee, the brew made early that morning in a large container that, because so few bards ate here, Emeros surmised, didn't often empty. "And that one is Athenath."

  "Well, I welcome you to the Bard's College. It's a lovely place, even if you're missing out on our main festival."

  With that, the Nord went back to tending his drum, troll fat on the rag giving off a noxious scent to anyone too close. Emeros moved to a table a good few feet away from the Nord so as not to breathe it in, able to tell from the sunlight slant he noticed at the stairwell that it was likely nine in the morning - a solid three hours past when he normally climbed out of bed. He wasn't used to waking up so late. He'd always been an early riser, what had gotten into him? Exhaustion, perhaps, he dismissed as he bit into his breakfast.

  "So," Athenath spoke up after a while, the three attempting to fully pry themselves from any dreams and good sleep they'd had into the waking world. The Altmer seemed to be having a time of it, his hair still unbrushed and his belt probably laying somewhere on the floor of his room. "Viarmo. What do you think he wants?"

  Wyndrelis poked and prodded the filet of slaughterfish with his fork, lip curled downward, digging a deep dent into the side of his mouth. "I hope it's nothing important."

  "He's probably incensed that we've become students without auditions," Emeros joked with a chuckle, sipping at his coffee. "With our luck, he's demanding we audition in his office so he can glare at us with utmost contempt for our bypassing of the usual admission process."

  "I don't think that's it," Wyndrelis hummed, "but if it is, then you and I are out of luck."

  Emeros stifled a laugh, shifting his gaze to Athenath, who stared down at their plate with a distant gaze. With his grin still on his mouth, but a concerned narrow of his brow, the Bosmer nudged them gingerly with his elbow. "Chin up, you'll do perfectly fine if that is the case."

  Athenath looked to the other two, eyes darting between them, a nervousness now evident in the knit of their expression. "You think?"

  "Well, you're certainly not getting kicked out," Wyndrelis replied. Then, after a silence, asked, "do you really think that's it?"

  The Altmer pulled a length of their curls over their shoulder, raking his fingers through them, biting the inner edge of their lip, gaze firmly on the table. "I don't know. I have to wonder, y'know, what he could want with us in his office."

  "Oh, relax," Emeros waved away. "I'm certain that's not it. However, I do have to wonder what compelled him to send us letters, instead of simply summoning us later in the day. Not to mention, saying that he needed us there as soon as possible..." he trailed off, rubbing his chin with the crook of his thumb. "Well, we shouldn't focus too hard on it right now. Let's just wake up and see what he wants when we get the chance."

  Even though he outwardly dismissed all worry about Viarmo's summons, the alchemist couldn't help the gnarling bramble of nerves turning over in his abdomen. Sharp and poisonous, he had to wonder what the headmaster could want with three of the new students, what matters he could bring to their attention, what sort of problem he could possibly have with people who had not even begun attending classes yet. He didn't see anyone else with the letters, but perhaps this was something he did here and there to check on new people. For all he knew, the headmaster could have summoned Jorn the same way on his first few days at the college. What did it matter, anyhow? If the trio were in real trouble, he had to imagine that they'd be alerted by far more than a polite letter under the door. The idea pecked at Emeros' mind, even as he made attempts to lift the spirits of his companions with discussion of the town itself. Solitude was a gorgeous city, and it wasn't hard to pick out details to bring up, from the stone walkways carefully laid to the buildings constructed of sturdy stone and surrounded by blooms of various flowers, but still, the cormorant bird of warning called in his mind, that this city was more than its opulence, and more than its histories. It was alive in a way that unsettled him.

  He and Athenath had taken a bit of time to get ready and make themselves more presentable, but that only served to heighten their worries, taking time away from when they could be getting answers rather than washing up. Then again, he would rather not barge into the headmaster's office even the slightest bit disheveled. He'd combed his hair and washed up and draped his cowl over his shoulders, and when both he and the Altmer were ready - the younger elf taking a bit more time on his hair, dropping the smallest bits of rosemary oil through the curls and combing it through - the three set out in the direction of the headmaster's office.

  The march lead them through the ground floor of the Bard's College, asking for directions from Giraud, who pointed them the right direction. Then, several flights of stairs and a cramped tower's well, then a knock on a grand door. A call by a gravel-voiced man lead to Emeros pushing open the entry, his friends behind him, the floors carpeted with scarlet.

  "Ah, there's our newest students," came the voice, summoned from the throat of a sharp-faced Altmer, whose beard jutted out from his chin into a point. His blond hair was tucked underneath a grandly feathered cap, and every stretch of material on him bore shades of gold and teal. Expensive materials, and well kept, too, as there was not an out of place stitch or mended tear on them as far as the Bosmer could see, and with how rich the dyes were, he had to imagine they had been fashioned by some of the most skilled clothiers money could buy. He looked to Athenath, who fiddled with their hands, then to Wyndrelis, who shuffled his feet. The older Altmer spoke again. "I take it you got my letter, then? Good, Arteus is a great messenger, but he tends to be a bit absent-minded at times."

  "Forgive my forwardness-" Emeros began, cut off by Athenath, who took a few steps until they were a pace ahead of the taller Mer.

  "Can we ask what this is about? I didn't see anyone else with letters." They kept their eyes focused on Viarmo, but something tense caught in their voice, Emeros' gaze snagged on the edge of their shoulder. Viarmo leaned back in his chair, his barrel-form's elaborate dress complete with his darker teal, velvet cloak covering his shoulders, slits in its side making holes for his arms to move through. The headmaster didn't speak for a while, merely touched the tip of his tongue to the inside of his cheek, and Emeros' mind flooded with the worry that his friend had just made a grave mistake.

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  He didn't voice this concern, however, as before he could put word to it, Viarmo laced his fingers together over his middle and smiled. In a low voice, as though sharing a secret with the trio, he said, "I hear you three were at Helgen. What's more, Phoebe tells me that you played a crucial role in the taking down of that dragon in Whiterun. Is this true?"

  The trio looked between one another, sharing glances understood in the tiniest shreds of expression. To recount it all again would to bring unnecessary exhaustion onto themselves, and it would certainly leave them all in a foul mood if made to discuss too many of the visceral details. A sinking dread wound its way through Emeros' senses as he turned to the other two, and Athenath answered, "yes, sir. We, uh, didn't expect to... Encounter dragons, but we did."

  Viarmo leaned forward, resting his clasped hands on his well-polished, mahogany desk. It was definitely imported from Alinor, Emeros thought as he drank in the details, his gaze taking long looks over each and everything of note, from the frond-like shapes in the legs of the desk along with its multiple drawers, to its mother-of-pearl adornments, its strong stature. Each carving was the pinnacle of Aldmeri wealth and pride, and he almost deigned to think of what it cost before dragging himself from such speculation. Whatever it amounted to was enough to dizzy him. Either Viarmo was a very celebrated bard in both the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion, or he had friends in high places, and he didn't find himself in the mood to question which one it was.

  "You do realize what this means, don't you?" Viarmo pressed after a long moment, as though giving the question much more thought, himself. "The return of the dragons, that is."

  "We figure it's probably something very, uh, historically important, that's for sure," Athenath replied quickly, managing to bubble out a small, uncomfortable laugh. "Sir, can I ask what this is about? I know we didn't audition, but-"

  "Oh, never mind that," Viarmo sat upright and waved the thought with a heavy hand away, "we've barely got enough students to justify our building right now. Yes, normally, we'd have you three audition and then carry out tasks for the college, but right now, well, it's a complex situation, you see. And what's more, with the war going on... I'm not surprised more bards are choosing to stay in their home cities or just flat out go to other provinces that aren't Skyrim." Athenath's shoulders relaxed as the headmaster spoke. The blond Altmer shifted his posture, rummaging around for extra paper and a quill, drenching the end in thick, good-quality ink. "Now, tell me about the dragons. What were they like?"

  It wasn't hard to sum up the dragons themselves: large, threatening, gigantic teeth, and they could shout men to pieces with voices-not-like-voices. They set fire with a single word in a language as dead as their bones should be, and they swept across the land like a great shadow, chaos in its wake. Viarmo furiously wrote down every detail with the quill striking in heavy, flourishing curls, asking a question here or there to clarify details - he had to get everything accurate, it seemed. When the trio finished giving their account, he looked up with a clever grin.

  "You know, as Giraud would tell you, history is nine parts truth, and one part fiction. Your factual accounts of the dragons are invaluable to future generations of bards who may never get to see the beasts themselves, and the college thanks you for it." As he set the paper aside to dry, he flattened a palm in the direction of the door. "If you don't have any questions for me, then you're more than free to go. Classes begin on the sixth of Hearthfire, so do be sure you have all your books and supplies. Your instructors will tell you what you need."

  That's all? He wanted to say something, to ask what the point in this was, to dredge out every detail until the other had to put himself through a tale as horrific as what the trio had gone through, but he knew that there was no point. Emeros balled his fists behind his back, folding his hands together there in a posture that simply looked straightened and polite. He looked to the other two and wondered if they were also in the midst of their own confusion, the same way that he was, as he tried to swallow down the bitter potion of what had just occurred.

  Athenath gave a small nod, turning to the door, Emeros and Wyndrelis following close behind the younger Altmer. Dismissed and clearly having no questions, the trio made their way back down the squared, winding stairwell, to the ground floor where instruments crowded the walls on display and the voices of other bards were more audible. Several students were making their way around the main area, up and down the stairs to the dorms and kitchens, the large, museum-like lobby housing the instruments filled with more presences than the previous day. This would become routine, it seemed, for the next few days, as only meager amounts of people from all corners of Tamriel filtered into the building and made themselves at home.

  His attentions fumbled themselves to the Altmer, whose unusually resolute face caught him off-guard. He'd not known them to be so forward, to take the conversation's reigns, and while part of him wanted to be a bit relieved and even praise them for this, his concerns again pricked him inside and out, that if Athenath had made one verbal misstep, all could be thrown into ruin or uncertainty. So long as Athenath did not speak for all of them often, then perhaps Emeros could take the brunt of questions and handle the interrogatory nature of these bards who would, given the knowledge of who they were, swarm them with insatiable hunger for details. He looked to Wyndrelis, who did not react to this, simply shrugging off the conversation as well as he could, and muttering to himself here and there about not wanting to deal with any more dragons or discussions of dragons. Emeros couldn't help but agree with the sentiment.

  Evening fell faster than he'd anticipated, and the streets were either a mingle of patrons making the walk to the Winking Skeever, or back to their homes, and the quiet that draped over the city helped him take in a deep breath. The alchemist slid his knapsack from his spine, and set it on the cobblestone beneath him. His experiments had begun to ruin, their results marred by the length of time between his arrival to Skyrim and now, and there was no way that they would prove anything to Nurelion whatsoever. Some were starting to look strange in hue and there was an odor coming off of one, which indicated to him that he'd need to reevaluate the process of that one thoroughly before he continued onwards to the White Phial. He uncorked a bottle, and poured it down a hole in the sewer grate. He watched the once-vibrant liquid, now a dull shade of green, disappear into the sewers. Then, he set the empty glass bottle aside, and pried another open. This one, he scrunched his nose at the stench, must be the source of the musky and half-rotten odor. He poured it down as well. Then another, until he had four glass bottles lined up at his side. He had tried all new things with these, and while they had been both powerful and ready to be examined at the start of this journey, the changing in temperatures, the agitation, the battles, the shifting of them around at all hours of the day surely must play some part in why they had not remained as fresh and potent as they had once been, and Emeros already held some ideas as to how he could improve.

  Once he found himself satisfied at the rushing waters below carrying the results of his work out and away from the city, he cradled the bottles into his arms and headed back to the college. He put a great amount of effort into his footsteps, ensuring that his stride was confident and slow as he budged open the door with his shoulder. He couldn't risk dropping them on the ground, he already had ideas for how to reuse the bottles for now.

  He made a steady descent down into the kitchens and, when the room was empty, snatched a pot and began to warm a solution of water and vinegar, careful to ensure that it did not come to a boil. He had some unpleasant memories of his first attempts at this, the vapors caustic and causing him to fall into terrible coughing fits, the image of his younger self tearing the pot off the hearth with watery eyes to send the mixture flying outside into the grass a wince-inducing moment in his history. Since then, he had learnt quite a lot about how to clean out vessels for his work, and was lucky to have experienced this lesson early. With a great deal of care, he used tongs to pull the warm mixture in and out of the bottles, emptying them into a spare pot off to the side. He set them upside-down on a cloth at a long table and emptied the cookware, cleaning it thoroughly with a hard brush and vinegar. Soon, he would gather some ingredients and make more potions that would prove their use to he and his friends, but now, he had clean glass bottles and time.

  He'd come here for a shop that, to the alchemist and his current circumstance, may as well be another plane of Oblivion altogether. The legends of Nurelion's genius had long outstretched their hands to the far reaches of Tamriel, the multitude of figures in his life who'd recognized the name and told him as much a whirlwind recollection, his longing to learn from the elderly alchemist planted decades ago. He still remembered that abnormally cold night in Bruma where, despite the summer, the weather chilled him without his cowl. He'd spent the evening in the busy, loud inn, checking and rechecking his experiments until he was satisfied with their progress. A mixture of larkspur and nirnroot here, another of a strange fungi he'd found on the side of a ruin and more traditional ingredients there, the things he'd put together through rigorous hours of study and effort. He'd had several ideas for what the potions could do and had tested them plenty of times, finding that they were capable of changing properties of other ingredients, or shifting the results of other potions in his possession, the things which he could beam with pride over in front of anyone. He'd worked night and day for months to come up with the perfect balance, the exact measurements, every ounce of the powders and roots and liquids scrutinized to Aetherius and back. His notes, too, had been exact. And he'd been ready on that cold morning to get through Pale Pass, to head up and find a carriage in the first settlement he came to, and go straight to Windhelm. Yes, he knew of the Civil War through whispers that frankly annoyed him at most, but what had that mattered to him?

  Now, it mattered more than he cared to admit. This province was torn asunder by the bloodshed, and who's to say the path to Windhelm would have been a smooth one? He knew now he would have come across a neutral territory first, and that brought up the question as to whether the carriages - for their own safety, or out of respect to Whiterun's neutrality - would so much as step foot in Eastmarch. And since meeting Ulfric in that cart, he half-mused whether or not he would have enjoyed his time there, in one of the oldest settlements Skyrim had to offer, under rule of a rebellious Jarl. He'd not learnt much about the man, but at this point in time, Emeros could say with confidence he didn't want to know much more until it was necessary knowledge.

  He'd set the cleaned glass in a neat row on his desk, and was waiting to dry the insides of the bottles, condensation forming inside the thin necks and dripping down onto the cloth beneath them as a knock rattled his senses, coming from outside his dormitory door. He thought about not answering, merely dismissing whoever it was so that he could focus on his work, already plotting out the ingredients he'd purchase for the potions he intended to create next. He wanted to be more practical about this, and lugging around experimental mixtures had taken up vital room in his knapsack. He looked to the entry as a knock echoed out again, and called, "who is it?"

  Wyndrelis' voice piped up, "can I come in?"

  He paused. "Certainly."

  When the door opened, Wyndrelis' bashful figure shuffled himself inside, already pulling the knob until it closed behind him. Emeros cocked a brow, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. "Is everything alright?"

  "Can we not talk about dragons for a while?"

  Emeros touched the tip of his tongue to his left canine, then his right, mulling over the question. Then, he exhaled a long, weary breath, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Gods, I would like that very much, as well."

  Wyndrelis' relief was immediate, shoulders dropping as a long sigh left his mouth. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes caught on the floor, as though something intriguing were beneath his feet. "Good, good."

  "I can't stop people from asking us about them," Emeros joked, "but it would be lovely if they did not come up anymore."

  "I just-" the mage sucked in a breath, bit down whatever he'd been thinking to say, then sighed. "I am just very sick of them. As a topic. As anything, in fact."

  "I think we all are."

  There was a delicate silence between the pair, ragged and uncomfortable, before Wyndrelis sought to break it with his words staccato in his throat. "I have to wonder if it weighs on all of us the same."

  He knew what the other meant. How did all three of them handle this? A burden made of scales and teeth and burning flesh. Of crushed forts and watchtowers and settlements. Of words in a language they inexplicably understood, without the ability to explain it or what it meant, and the shouts... The Bosmer could see how this would lay heavy on all of them, but in what ways? Was it the existential possibility, the idea of Dragonborns and of those who carried prophecy on their shoulders? Was it the destruction that dragons brought, the terrible flights that would blot out the sky, the horror witnessed in the heat of battle with these beasts of legend?

  "I wonder, as well. You're right, let's try to... Well, if anyone asks us about them, I'd prefer not to lie, if we can avoid it. But we should, all three of us, come up with something to say in return. To make it evident we're not here to... I don't know what it is," he pushed a breath between his teeth, raking his fingers through his chestnut hair. "Whatever we say, I should like to cut conversations about dragons short with anyone who asks us."

  Wyndrelis gave a solemn nod in agreement. He turned his attentions to the glass bottles, and pointed lightly to one. "I didn't see you leave for the market."

  "Oh," Emeros snorted, "no, these are... Well, were my experiments for Nurelion. But, as we're not heading that way for quite some time, and some had unfortunately expired, though I've really no idea how, it was time for me to dispose of them. I'll simply replicate them when I know for certain we're heading to Windhelm, and when I can reexamine my process."

  "I see." The Dunmer stood at the door, fidgeting with his hands. "Were they... Important?"

  "No, not really. I've got my notes, and I could easily remake them, should I have the proper ingredients and time, and of course, better resources than a lab made out of a room at an inn."

  The pair spoke about the details for a while, but the day had taken its toll. Discussion of dragons had a tendency to drain all their energy, the images of fire, of burning corpses, the stench of death clouding all other thought. The only thing which drained them more was trying to explain the dragons to people who had never seen them. Between the trio, it was an understood terror, shared in silent glances and weary shoulders. So, when Emeros made an idle comment about having to dry the bottles, Wyndrelis took it as his opportunity to leave, and when he shut the door behind himself, Emeros grabbed a cloth and began to dry out the glass containers and think of what it would mean, to one day go to Windhelm, to one day be taken on as Nurelion's apprentice.

  He knew that he could daydream about this notion for hours, but it was a fickle one when more pressing matters held themselves over his head. He had to worry about dragons, and the whims of Jarls and the military governor of Skyrim, and besides, he was soon to become a student at the Bard's College. What a strange twisting in the knots of fate.