Night.

Wyndrelis became acutely aware that it was night.

The flicker of torches passing by the windows of the inn marked long stretches of orange along the stone walls, pawing like a cat along a rug. He could feel the claws digging in, deeper, pinprick needles of the dark surrounding the three in the small room. What were they doing last? What had they done?

He closed his eyes.

He wished he hadn't.

Roggvir. That's right. The execution. He jolted, making desperate attempts to keep the image of the man's corpse from his mind. He could still see the spray of blood, the spinal column severed by the axe, the way his skull lulled off the stage-

Oh, gods. Wyndrelis' stomach churned. He cupped a palm over his lips and leaned forward, off the bed - bed, he was sitting on a bed - and hoped only that he would-

Easy motions, a palm circling between his shoulder blades. All his thoughts ceased. He would, under normal circumstances, be pushing whoever was touching him away with all his might, but right now he couldn't muster the energy. He shuddered and winced and silently wished the world would stop, squeezing his eyes shut as the nausea passed, as something was presented to him, a scent he couldn't place wafting under his nose. Then, a cold rag on his forehead, pressed and held there until he fumbled a shaking hand to take the other's place. He swallowed down hard. As though through water, a voice said, "you'll be fine, you need to lie on your side and breathe slowly."

Emeros.

He nodded and crawled up into the bed, lying down as instructed, allowing the waves of nausea to pass him by, to sweep over him like the hand of a lethargic breeze. The room came back to his senses, piece by piece. Washed ashore in his mind. The bed, the inn. He turned his gaze to the end of the mattress and saw Athenath, staring straight ahead, unmoving. Athenath was never not moving. The Altmer always rocked in their seat or bounced his leg or did a hundred other little things, and now, unmoving, staring to the wall. Arms folded over their middle.

Soon, Emeros was guiding them to the middle of the bed with whispers similar to the ones given to Wyndrelis. His hand brushed the Altmer's forehead, stray curls tickling their nose, making the Mer grimace. A sign that they were still aware of the world, at least. Then, he blew out the candles, and climbed into the blankets, his eyes finding a wall and laying there. Wyndrelis could feel the pressure of other bodies next to him, the one closest to him that of the bard, who said nothing and moved not at all. The young Mer laid there, stare against the ceiling, watching torchlight pass through the window as a mere tangerine-hued shine from the street below. Emeros on one side, Wyndrelis on the other, the Dunmer's head pounding.

How long had he laid there? He tried to count the flicker of torchlight, but it did nothing to give a sense of time. He sat, body hesitant to move in the silence, fingers still tremoring as he unbuttoned his cape and draped it aside. The metal of his belt buckle gave even louder disturbances, the jingling of it as loud as a bell in his ears as he unbuckled it and set it on the floor gingerly. Every action, every twitch of his fingers or tug of his hand, performed in mechanical motion like a clockwork machine.

He leaned slightly off the bed, giving a harsh tug down on the fur-lined lip of his boots, the articles colliding with the floor with a loud thud. The sound alarmed Athenath, a tiny gasp leaving their mouth, Emeros pushing himself up on his arm to assess the situation, to scout out danger. "Sorry," Wyndrelis whispered into the dark, the Dunmer's white irises landing on the other two. Emeros lowered himself slowly back into the bed, Athenath staring at the mage for a moment with wide, dark eyes, before shifting again to watch the shadows congeal against the ceiling.

The trio found themselves in the bed, warm, but not comfortable. Safe, but feeling far from it. Every noise downstairs was an intrusion poking through them like needles stitching up an autopsied corpse. Every sound outside battered their senses.

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Wyndrelis tried to close his eyes and sleep, and when he did eventually drift off, he dreamt twice of fires.

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None of them wanted to eat. But the gnawing in their stomachs compelled them, so they grabbed bowls of leftover soup from the previous night, thick slices of fresh bread, and fruits reaching that tedious peak where ripeness dipped into softening, which would eventually slide into decay.

Wyndrelis looked to Athenath, who moved their spoon absently through the thick soup, jaw cradled in the heel of his palm, brown curls uncombed. He traced his gaze over the cracks in the tables surface and the worn rings where mugs of ale had left their permanent marks to Emeros, the Bosmer eating slowly and keeping his mind on the meal at hand, from the looks of it. He rested his chin inside a curled, talon-like hand, elbow on the wooden table, every action idle as he attempted to pull himself to the reality of the situation.

Wyndrelis sipped coffee. Ate little. Did his best to recall yesterday.

They had wandered into Solitude on a bright noon, sun glistening off the Sea of Ghosts. Every green tree and every bounce of the light off the stones and the grass, every palm of the wind along their backs and sound of Athenath's tambourine, all of it swirled into the vibrant hues of a painter's brush. The birds dove and felt the breath of Kyne along their wings. It had been morbidly picturesque, a moving landscape of a perfect journey. To get into Solitude, to get their official Imperial pardons. To join the Bard's College, and maybe spend a few months learning from them before heading back on the road. The kinds of things that made sense, that formed coherent images in Wyndrelis' mind.

The gates opened. Then, the shouting. Then, the crowd and the Nord up on the block, instantaneous, nothing they could do, crowd cheering and dispersing and the world pouring out the damnable reminders of war. There was no peace. Skyrim was a leviathan, spines rising from the seas of calm as a reminder that this land was fed in blood.

Athenath cupped their fingers over their mouth. Emeros stood, still, balling his fists. Wyndrelis didn't remember anything much further. He slid down the city wall. He felt grass beneath his palms. Sweat on his brow. Tremors.

Helgen.

He smelled it still. Burnt flesh and homes destroyed. Ash stained his clothes if he thought on it too long, creeping back just when he'd been able to push it from his mind, even when he'd scrubbed all the remaining evidence of Helgen off his person and his belongings, he swore it still clung to him.

Emeros had made an absent motion. The other two followed him closely, Athenath fidgeting with his hands, Wyndrelis' gaze focused on the ground. The Bosmer paid for a room at the inn. The laughter at the tables and the songs of a student bard gave the Dunmer a headache.

Had they eaten? Had they anything to drink since they'd stepped foot into the inn - the Winking Skeever - up until now? The bitter gnawing of his stomach and the sandy weight of his tongue when he'd awoken told him no, they hadn't. He sipped water slowly. Athenath had made a small dent into their soup, the bread serving this effort well. Every bite took more strength than the last. Wyndrelis held his gaze on his own meal. Half-consumed. Barely tasted. The linger of salt on his tongue.

"I don't think we're doing much of anything for a few days," Emeros commented, attempting a light tone, "so if neither of you have any immediate plans, we should..." trailing off, he caught sight of Wyndrelis, the furrow of his dark brow, then the look on Athenath's face, neutral aside from the circles under their eyes, and he sighed, "...gods. Let's... Take a few days. To collect ourselves, I suppose. We're no good to anyone, not even ourselves, if we're in this state."

Athenath rubbed their eyes furiously on the back of his sleeve. "No," he breathed, "I want that Imperial pardon, and I'm going to look into classes at the College, and I'm..."

"You're going to behave as though we didn't just watch-"

"I know what we saw," Athenath interrupted, Emeros' words dying mid-air, "but I don't... Fuck, I just don't wanna wallow in bed over some stranger's execution. I'm gonna get ready to head out."

With that, they downed the rest of the now-cold soup and took a large bite of bread, chewing it uncomfortably in their mouth. Athenath rose, strode up the stairs, and disappeared from view.

Wyndrelis turned to Emeros.

"Are you alright?" He asked slowly. Emeros nodded, scoffing. Wyndrelis frowned. Emeros didn't catch the expression.

"As well as I can be." The Bosmer turned his amber eyes to Wyndrelis, knitting his brow. "And of yourself? You were drenched in a cold sweat, I worried for a moment that you'd come down with a fever."

Wyndrelis gave a bitter chuckle. "I'm well enough."

How could he be well? There was only so much he could say about the state of things that wouldn't already be known by the other two. It was not as though he had not seen his fair share of violence, of pain. The days would turn onwards like a waterwheel. This would be nothing to him one day, one foot in front of the other, but right now, all it did was make him sick to think on too long.

Glancing around, Wyndrelis rose, stretching. "Athenath is right. Let's go try to get our pardon."