Noon shone in excess, stretching its palms higher into the heavens, sinking its rays of sun into the earth like a pair of well-cleaned fangs. Emeros cracked jokes with Hulda and Saadia, asking after a while with a hint of concern if anyone had found Belethor's missing book. When they confirmed no one had, he frowned, shifting his gaze momentarily away. From the stairs, Athenath eyed him, curls tumbling down their collarbone in shaggy lengths. Emeros caught the sprawling of an impish grin on his carmine mouth, the arms over his chest, the heel of their boot against the wall. He knit his brow and pursed his lip, and when Athenath pushed themself from the surface and made a slow stride up the stairs, he thought of following.

A quick apology flitted off his lip as he turned back to Hulda - Saadia busy with keeping Mikael from reciting some of his more lackluster pieces, to say the least - observing as the innkeeper called something out to one of the Battle-Borns. Emeros turned back to the stairs and the empty space the Altmer had been occupying, before he decided to follow after them.

"What is it?" He asked, watching as the Altmer swayed their steps in easy pace through the room, half-dancing, that smirk placed on their lips never fading.

"Well, I figured we should get our things put away," he said as he stepped back over to the Bosmer, nudging him with a sharp elbow in a playful manner. "After all, if you're gonna be flirting all night, don't want your bag holding you back."

Emeros rolled his eyes, tugging the straps off his shoulders with a huff. "For your information, I'm not flirting, I'm being friendly. There's a marked difference between the two."

"Yeah," Athenath snorted, a mischievous glint in their eyes, waving an absent hand as though brushing through spiderwebs, "alright, sure, whatever you say."

The alchemist stretched, spine eager for an evening without the weight of the pine-green leather between his shoulder blades. It would be a good idea to set it aside. He quite liked talking to the patrons and the women that ran the inn. Hearing about the local tales and the bits of history and the updates on the town's situation with the war was no doubt beneficial, but all important news was slow-going, so he often settled for casual gossip and talking about surrounding communities like Riverwood. Wyndrelis had sat at the table for a while, tugging out the group's map and examining it in the warm light of their shared room. He looked up, about to start questioning his friends on where they should go once they left Whiterun, routes to take, the roads and possibilities, when he watched Athenath dive a hand into Emeros' bag. Before the Bosmer could protest, they retrieved a leather-bound tome, gleaming Imperial insignia catching the light.

"Besides," Athenath held it up, "we should probably leave this here for now."

Emeros' stomach dropped. The sight of the tome, the flashing memory of Belethor's nerve-shackled features earlier that day, the sound of his voice still clear in his head. The sign with the tip of his finger. He inhaled through his nose. Once, twice.

A beat passed. Silence heavier than stone.

"You didn't," he hissed, brow lowered at the Altmer who clamored onto the bed, propping the book up against their long legs, garnet material of their trousers still carrying the faint scent of rosemary. Wyndrelis watched, scrunching his nose like he'd smelled a particularly strong brandy, the rolling images in his mind of the prior night only serving to sour his tongue. The shrug out the door. The grin. Their eyes, so focused on the tome that it seemed the entire world fell away for that one moment when Belethor told them what it was. That it was valuable, that it was pertaining to the Dragonborn.

Suspicions confirmed.

The bard thumbed through the book's worn pages in an idle motion, reclined against the pillows. "Look," he started, Emeros locking the doors to the balcony and shooting a dangerous glare back at the other Mer, "I think we need this more than some Thalmor Justiciar who's probably gonna burn it anyways."

"But you-" Emeros fumbled against his mind for words that never seemed to merge, latching and unlatching against his thoughts. After several bouts of helpless sputterings, he let out an exasperated groan, forehead cradled in the crux of his thumb. "Fine," he spat, "but the moment we're done gleaning any relevant information from it, you are marching right to Belethor's shop and handing it over to him and apologizing. And you'll be lucky if he doesn't call the guards on you, and don't expect us to step in."

"Why should I?" Athenath bolted upright, the book lurching against their lap, pages slapped around unceremoniously like fronds in a strong wind. "Like I said, that Thalmor agent's just gonna burn it the moment they get their hands on it-"

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"This war is hard on everyone," Emeros interrupted in a low, solid tone. Wyndrelis shrunk down in his seat at the table, wishing quietly to disappear into the wall, half contemplating a spell to do just that. "The Thalmor pay quite a lot of gold for items such as the one you've stolen. He could easily pay any local taxes, tariffs-"

"And?" Athenath rolled their eyes in a wide arc, edge of their mouth pushing up against one side of their nose, sneering, "did we meet the same Belethor? The man said he'd sell his own sister if he had one!"

"That may be! Don't misconstrue my words as defending him, Athenath, I'm defending his livelihood. Do you know how hard it is to keep afloat amidst this turmoil?" The words coated his tongue, acidic, his voice breathy as he struggled to keep his tone level. "Gods, do you even know what the Thalmor may do to him if they don't get what they want?"

"Why should I give a single shit about a man who'd shake hands with a Justiciar?"

Emeros steepled his hands along the bridge of his nose. He drew in a long, apprehensive breath. His stomach tightened. How could he explain to them that Dominion gold was worth more than any honest septim? That they paid well, the kind of wages that could keep a whole family afloat, all for information. With this, Belethor would almost certainly have Thalmor hired mercenaries at his back should the book not reach it's destination. That the Thalmor spared no one, especially those who made false promises or anyone who'd long outlived their usefulness. How could he explain all of this to the bard, born after the Great War, whose eyes burned pinprick holes into him as he attempted to string a response together? Dominion gold could keep Belethors hearth warm all throughout the Civil War, however long that took. He didn't blame the man for taking it. Hard times made anyone desperate, shame took the back burner...

The back of Emeros' throat burned as he opened his mouth once more, hands joining together neatly before him.

"Athenath," he sharpened the name on his tongue in a way that made the Altmer flinch. In a low voice, he leaned closer from his chair, his brow shadowing his dark eyes as he spoke. "Do you honestly, truly believe that I, being from Valenwood, don't have any understanding of your position?" He paused, letting the words soak into the Altmer's skin as he formed his next sentence. "And, with me being from Valenwood, do you think that perhaps I've an idea as to what position you've put this man in?"

Wyndrelis watched the exchange, fidgeting with his fingers, picking at his nails, anything to avoid being seen. He watched Athenath's cheeks flush, the distinct feeling of restraint in their expression, their teeth crushed so tight together in his jaw that the Dunmer almost worried he'd snap a tooth. He pushed his glasses up his nose and swallowed hard, unsure of how to cut away the tension. It thickened around them in phantom tendrils, an atmosphere that swept away the trio like swirling eddies in the sea.

Mikael distantly strummed at his lute, the rattles of laughter from beneath them filtering into the room. Saadia and Hulda spoke about the inn and its future. Idolaf told Mikael to learn some different songs. Mikael made some half-sarcastic reply, muffled to the ears of the three Mer. The room beneath them bellowed with amusement and jeering both.

Wyndrelis, moving slow as though attempting not to alert a half-starved mountain lion, retrieved parchment, a quill, and some ink from his bag. "If we're not keeping this book, we should transcribe it instead of leaving information up to memory."

"Good idea." Emeros didn't make eye contact, simply plucked the tome from Athenath's hands and placed it firmly on the table. The Altmer didn't pout, didn't move, didn't speak. A firm ball of guilt flexed like a fist in their throat.

They set the old tome on the table, Wyndrelis pushing the parchment under his palms so that it remained still. He readied his quill.

"Many people have heard the term 'Dragonborn' - we are of course ruled by the 'Dragonborn Emperors' - but the true meaning of the term is not commonly understood. For those of us in the Order of Talos, this is a subject near and dear to our hearts, and in this book I will attempt to illuminate the history and significance of those known as Dragonborn down through the ages."

Wyndrelis copied it down dutifully as Emeros read the passages aloud, resting the tome on his arm, turning the pages with a delicate hand befitting of an archivist. The mage jotted every word with ease, setting aside used papers to dry. Stretching his fingers once Emeros wrapped up his reading, he looked to the other Mer, whose dry, droning voice had filtered through the air around them, sweeping up as much of the tension as he was capable.

Once the group had the entire book transcribed, the Dunmer leaned back against his chair. He pushed his fingers through his dark hair, turning his torso in time to watch Athenath buckle their armor and grab their sword, dragging it from where it had rested against the wall. Wyndrelis furrowing his brow, alarm blinding his vision for a moment, settling into curiosity as the Altmer trudged to the door.

Emeros turned his stern gaze on Athenath, already violently unlocking the door and standing in its frame with tight shoulders. "Where are you-"

For all the anger in their body, for all the frustrations at the situation that reverberated around in their skull like a voice in a hollow cavern, they did not reach a hand out and grab the handle and slam the door so hard it would rattle the establishment. Athenath steadied themself. They couldn't do that. So, he shut the door quietly behind himself, leaving the two in the silence of an answer unspoken, the gold sconce light passing under the frame as his shadow shifted away from it.

Anywhere Emeros and Wyndrelis were not, it seemed, is where Athenath would go.