Athenath expected to be at the Bard's College by now.
The road wound beneath them like the arched back of a sea serpent, the path which lead to Castle Dour slanting from the mountains and down towards the port city. The smooth stones under their boots shone like scales and carried the trio back to the grand city of Solitude, the idea of return sour in the back of his throat. He'd gone through the border crossing at Bruma one frigid morning not very long ago, their fingers around a map which they lost in the scuffle down the way from Pale Pass. The giddiness in every tremor of their body before the ambush, the sense of adventure like a wildfire burning in their mind, snuffed out with whatever had knocked them unconscious. The knowledge that he was closer and closer with each step to a carriage that would take him to those hallowed halls, all of it had bitten through them and tore out any reservations he'd normally have about such a journey, reservations that they should have heeded in hindsight. He'd dreamt of the instruments on display - or the stories of these instruments - with their gilded plaques detailing the noble works of the bards and their histories. The tales of the immortal brazier, the courtyard where performances echoed over the sea, the theatre, a semicircle of stone with rows of carved seats, and the festival that took place every year, all of it had perfumed every ounce of sleep the night before entering Skyrim, and soaked into the reality of what such a trip could entail.
Solitude had been nothing like he'd anticipated so far.
It was wrong, he could chastise himself, but Athenath wished to put Roggvir's execution and the Civil War out of mind. He didn't want the bloodshed. He didn't need to think on it, this was not his war and not their place, and held nothing but terror if they let it linger too long. After they'd gotten their wits about himself the morning after the execution, he'd stretched longing looks to the roads that lead past the market stalls and shops, down a slope, and rounded to his destination. The maps they'd studied and the one the group had in their possession whispered to them the exact turns, where he'd need to go if he could just go there, but he couldn't. Pangs of want rattled them when he thought of how close he was to the place he'd chased dreams of for the past several years, the knowledge that they were mere minutes from its door eating away at their resolve to do anything else.
The path to Mount Kilkreath faced him with scrutinous, scoffing stones. This was where he would go for now.
The beacon in their arms radiated a warmth, like the ever-present body heat of a small animal. Unsettling as it was, he found the voice that accompanied it far more disturbing. They looked down at the stone and furrowed their brow, curling their lip to the side as he studied it. He couldn't see any obvious ways for it to contain warmth; no glass door like a lantern, no gleam like a soul gem, no flames nor fire salts. Despite this, the heat shuffled against their chest until it brushed soft hands over their heart, urgency imbued in their pulse, that Mount Kilkreath be the only thing that they think about and to chase all other thoughts from his mind and keep the path.
He thought of tossing it to Wyndrelis or Emeros. The idea would come and strangle itself every time he remembered the bitterness between them. Whether one-sided or not, there was a clear rift, and he was in no mood to chance making it worse. Was it even worth it, to get in the middle of this guttural silence? For all the Altmer's big grins and sweeping gestures when in the middle of a good joke or a lively song, he was more than aware of what suspicion looked like, and how the dagger of a liar's betrayal could plunge deep.
Betrayal, he almost scoffed out loud. Wyndrelis hadn't ever told them he wasn't a necromancer, right? So what was there to say when it came to betrayal? Still, Emeros had made his position clear by not speaking at all. That was more than enough for Athenath to keep the objections that swirled around in his mind from dripping down to his tongue.
The sour expression on the taller Mer's face coated his features like syrupy medicine. The edges of the Bosmer's eyes were lined with a skepticism towards Wyndrelis and every move he made, his bone-deep leeriness running up like a hand between his shoulder blades, hitching them higher in every shared glance between himself and the mage.
This wasn't a problem Athenath had the means to fix.
The beacon went high above him as he tossed it up, and caught it again in their arms. For such a large stone, it was relatively light, and caught the suns light with glee as its white surface refracted every color across its surface. He tossed it, caught it again, and pulled it to himself. The winds wound through his curls, mussed from the half-assed attempt at combing it this morning. They'd raked their fingers through it and coaxed apart stubborn tangles and left the rest alone. It made sense, to them, since all their hard work would be undone if he found anything skulking in the shadows of the temple.
He knew, in basics, what necromancy was, and that it was dangerous, but he'd never been close enough with any mages to question further. He snorted quietly as the thoughts rummaged through their mind like a hand in the dark. He'd stolen from more mages than he'd befriended, gods knew. Sometimes, in taverns across Cyrodiil, they would overhear the ardent conversations of those scholars and wizards in debate over the smallest things - properties of ingredients, ways to properly cast certain spells, the sort of things that, frankly, bored Athenath. It was easy, in these moments, to slip by unnoticed or to pretend to trip, feigning drunkenness and giggling at a stupid joke or a snide derision made by one of them, before making their escape with whatever he'd pilfered off the often robe-clad figures. Gems, rings, amulets, items small enough to slip into their pockets were all too common, things that would likely be missed. It didn't matter. They'd learnt how to distinguish the two mage groups in Cyrodiil by their clothing and their possessions: Synod mages had more money, College of Whispers mages had more valuable items. Especially those who bragged about their time in Ayleid ruins, doing Mara knows what. Athenath would take whatever he could get, and sell it off to a guild fence, and live off the gold for as far as it took them.
The more they thought about this, the more it came to mind, what business did they have giving a shit about what kind of magic someone used? Mara was compassion, did that not extend to the strangest among them?
"Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red..." Athenath sang in sprightly tones, Emeros' eyes drawn far from either of his companions, his figure at the back of their odd procession. The Altmer could feel the other's personal twistings of mental acrobatics, but exactly on what, he was unable to discern, the melody they were only recently familiar with on their lips as he observed the other two. Something, a fleeting thought, a flighty moment of a grimace as though coming to terms with an idea would fling itself across the Bosmer's face, only to be snuffed out with a shake of his head and a glance towards the woods, the way the trees swayed in the winds and the birds swerving between them.
They gave a quick look to Wyndrelis, who forced the tiniest grin, like a dog submitting to whatever fate lay before him. Athenath heard of the dangers of necromancy well enough from the stories people liked to pass around the fires in encampments and caravans and inns. Liches in Ayleid ruins were something he got stern lectures about from an older relative, the kind that fed his nightmares for years. This was, of course, not the intended effect, but it kept him from letting curiosity overwhelm their common sense. Later, he would make a joke about it, and a man would bellow with laughter at the idea of a lich being anywhere close enough to the doors of a ruin for him to risk running into it. "Aye, that's a good one," he could hear the older man's voice in his ears, "Kyne's skies, you're more likely to run into traps and bandits than any lich."
Still, the whispers in seedy taverns slipped forward, their listening ear caught on the strangers who came in bearing the stench of dirt, and who kept to themselves. The warnings and worries and the hurried, shushed conversations.
If a necromancer would raise the dead as a weapon, it was wrong, but what if that weapon was used to save other's lives? What if it was the greatest tool of compassion for the dead, to give them purpose, or to preserve the life of another in a desperate situation? Briefly, they considered suggesting the idea aloud and their mouth was parted to do so, but found himself stopping and closing their lips again. More discontent and more conflict could spell trouble for all three of the elves at the moment. Emeros' anger still ran raw and red, and he wasn't going to douse more oil of malcontent into his fires.
All Athenath could say he knew for certain was that the sun shone against the sea somewhere not far from view, glittering like beetle's wings off the gown of a Bosmeri aristocrat, complete in its shades of iridescent blues and greens. The heat of the sun on his back through their tunic and vest, under their hair and down their neck, formed beads of sweat as they kept to the path. Combined with the beacon in their arms, all he could find himself thinking about was tossing his day clothes aside and diving head-first into the waters, deeper and deeper towards the sand, plucking shells off the floor and sorting them on the beach. He'd turn them over for signs of life, for molluscs and hermit crabs, while the spadetails swam in the cool waters. These were the kinds of games he'd get to play on his rare visits to the beach outside of Anvil, finding rocks and shells in the water and sorting them by size, type, color, while his old friends splashed around and the scent of salty, wet fur became a comfort, a haze of nostalgia that would turn even the smallest things to the fondest. They could practically hear their old friends calling his name down the mountain, humming and hawing and beckoning the bard down the shoreline, old nickname thick on their tongues.
This line of comfort plunged into muddy depths far from view as Wyndrelis spoke up. "We'll be at Mount Kilkreath shortly," he uttered as he skimmed the map, the route Emeros had outlined guiding their steps.
"Grand," the alchemist droned, "then perhaps we can finally go our separate ways."
Athenath's stomach clenched.
The tension in the Bosmer's voice wasn't lost on him, neither did it appear to pass the notice of Wyndrelis. Still, it clasped dread firmly in the Altmer's body like a tight fist, the kind that stole from him the desire to keep the peace. Once this was over, he resolved, they would have a firm talk with their friends. He looked back to the Dunmer, who returned the struggling look that carried with it a grave acceptance. If this was the way things would be from now on, the mage made it clear he would rather split up than carry the brunt of Emeros' disdain.
"Hey," Athenath slowed their pace until Wyndrelis was at their side, before extending the beacon out to him. "Touch this."
Wyndrelis' brow drew into tight lines of confusion as he extended a hand towards the beacon. As it rested atop the stone, Athenath watched him carefully, the mage eventually dropping his hand to his side and shrugging. "What about it?"
Stolen novel; please report.
"Weird, right?" Athenath breathed. Wyndrelis cocked his head.
"What's weird?"
"You don't feel it?"
Wyndrelis' face grew more baffled by the moment, gaze narrowing behind his circular spectacles. "Feel what?"
"We should keep moving," Emeros grunted as he passed the other two. "We're nearly there. Once this is over, I expect we'll be able to put all of this to rest."
Athenath observed him carefully, the chestnut-haired Bosmer marching forward, chin high, the single star that hung from his ear swinging along its thin chain. They furrowed their brow, concern sketching its way along the corners of their eyes. Their boots thudded lightly along the stones. He thought of passing the stone to him, but held it closer to their chest, instead, and watched as Wyndrelis avoided Emeros' gaze, the Bosmer doing the same. If things were going to be like this from now on, he did not know, nor want to know, what the future would look like. The three had become so comfortable with one another, had spent so many evenings in pleasant silence or light conversation, to think it could shatter apart from the usage of some apparently-taboo magic pitted holes into Athenath's nerves.
The Altmers arms wrapped tighter around the beacon, until the warmth became as close to him as their own skin.
----------------------------------------
Mount Kilkreath. As the sight of the large statue, marble dais, and sloping pathways came into full view, the trio's weariness sloughed off their bones, replaced now with an eager desire that came from in and outside of them, an unnatural force to push them the last stretch of the walk. If they could return this stone and clear out whatever the voice from nowhere told them to, then it would all be over, and they could get back and get their pardon and not split up, and-
"Get down," Emeros' sharp hiss cut through the Altmer's ears as the other curled a fist into the edge of his tunic, pulling them beside himself and Wyndrelis. Athenath half-landed, half-crouched, breath bent from their lungs. Wyndrelis straightened his clothes. Emeros had pulled him down, too.
"What th-"
"Shhhh!" The eldest pressed a finger to his lips. Narrowed gaze locked on the younger elf, he pointed a long, lithe finger in the direction of the dais. Athenath craned their neck to peer in the direction, spying a couple of figures in identical garb stood at the steps, speaking with one another. Weapons hugged their sides, and they appeared to be guarding something. He waited moments, then minutes, the three frozen in the bushes. Athenath flinched as the older elf spoke up, the silence shattered by his sturdy voice, still in a hush.
"We don't know who they are, or what they want," Emeros noted, as if this weren't obvious to the other two, "we should proceed with caution."
Athenath turned back to the figures as Emeros rose slowly, his figure wolf-like in the care he took to make as little noise as possible, before pushing through the thicket he'd pulled his compatriots into. He did not wield a weapon as he approached, hands up as if surrendering. As he neared full height, he whispered back, "wait for my signal."
Emeros put a smile on his lips and asked, "excuse me, you two wouldn't happen to know what this place is, would you?" His words dripped faux-friendliness, like a performer in a particularly suspenseful play, deceptive of the two figures whose hands now reached for their weapons in slow, measured motions.
One of the figures, a Breton woman, scoffed. "Mount Kilkreath."
"Yes, but, what is all of..." he pointed to the statue of a winged woman at the end of the dais, "...that? I'm afraid I'm not a local, and I'm sort of lost, you see."
Another figure, a young Dunmer, rolled their ruby eyes. "This is the temple of Meridia, where Daedra worshippers come to make offerings. You're no Daedra worshiper, are you?"
"Good gods, no," Emeros forced a humorous chuckle, "I was simply wondering." He paused a moment, as if to let the information sink in as he asked, "are you... Daedra worshipers, then?"
"Mercy, no." The Dunmer snapped. "We are the Vigilants of Stendarr, and we're here to prevent any who defile this world with their works from being able to make it into this foul temple."
Emeros hummed a thoughtful note, clutching his chin in the crux of his thumb. From the bushes, Athenath could see his posture, his other hand coming to rest on his hip. "And what would you do if a Daedra Worshipper were here? I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with the concept of your order."
The Breton, intrigued, spoke. "You truly aren't local, then. Yes, our order was created in the shadow of the Oblivion Crisis, to make sure that none who worship these scourge could cause similar events. As for what we do... We ask them questions."
Wyndrelis sucked in a breath, sending fearful glances to Athenath, his eyes shifting from the beacon in their arms to their face. The Altmer gave a slow nod, and looked again to Emeros. This was going to be dangerous if the Vigilants saw him with this thing. What was Emeros even doing? The Bosmer stood there and shared words with the Vigilants, asking about their order, their situation, why they were here and so on.
It dawned on Athenath, as he clutched the beacon tighter to their chest, that he was disarming them, at least in mind, if not in body. If they were expecting Daedra worshippers, they got a curious elf who merely wanted a chat. He continued on, words and a couple of laughs, before stepping back to the bushes. He shifted his ankle against the foliage, Athenath watching as the Bosmer gave him sharp looks in his periphery, as if to say, go.
He leapt from the brush, his feet propelling them forward faster than they expected, flying past the two perplexed Vigilants and throwing the beacon to the statue. No time for the strangers to react to the Altmer, the stone flung into the sky, held aloft above the statues hands. It was the sensation of being swallowed up by the ground and sky as Athenath neared the winged figure, one foot in front of the other, the altar illuminated by the sun. As the Vigilants' eyes grew wide, and revelation dawned their wrath-twisted faces, the world hummed a silent note in the form of a ringing in their ears. Stones turned to mud, the skies fractals and fuzzy shapes of sunlight. Senses dulled, Athenath swam for consciousness, groping at the air for something to hold onto and finding nothing but the ground that turned to a distant sensation.
The Vigilants reeled back, shouting and cursing, the Dunmer's spell rising to her hand, shrieks of light in her palm as she attempted to shoot the beacon down. Her spell only gashed the air with electricity, the beacon unmoved, the statue unmarked.
The contents of their stomach threatened to spill out as he blinked away tears, eyes stinging, head pulsating with the shockwave of heat that burst from the beacon. The flurry of words and combat reverberated behind their head, vision blurred until shapes became lights became waves of motion and sound and the sky fell out, the ground with it, as if diving down and floating upwards all at once.
When he managed to blink away the stinging edges of their vision, he looked up. Was he standing? He swore he was on the ground, but here they stood, and before them, a tiny sun. It twisted and rolled into crystalline colors and light, every edge circled in rainbow refractions, gleaming and iridescent, center brighter than the hole Magnus made in the heavens to flee this world. The light before him spoke in a familiar voice, bitterness treading every word.
"It is time for my splendor to return to Skyrim." Her words, enunciated and cold, came as though from within the Altmer, in between his ears and all around them.
The rest of the world was silent.
"But the token of my truth lies buried in the ruins of my once great temple, now tainted by a profane darkness skittering within. The necromancer, Malkoran, defiles my shrine with vile corruptions, trapping lost souls left in the wake of this war to do his bidding. Worse still, he uses the power stored within my own token to fuel his foul deeds."
The sneer at every syllable, the disdain in every sound, it set Athenath on edge in ways he would never learn to describe, other than to articulate it as harrowing, as the kind of anger he would never in the rest of their life desire to incur.
They swallowed thickly, and denied themself the urge to look down. "Wh- um- where..."
As though not hearing him, or ignoring them outright, she continued. "I have brought you and your companions here, mortal, to be my champion. You will enter my temple, retrieve my artifact, and destroy the defiler. Guide my light through the temple to open the inner sanctum, and destroy the defiler."
He cleared his throat. "That's a- um, lot more- that's a lot more than I signed up for."
The words sputtered and stammered their terrible way from his mouth, well before they could stop it. Unfazed, the light before them gave a low exhale, as though rubbing her brow at the Altmer's comment. "A single candle can banish the darkness of the entire void. If not you, then someone else. My beacon is sure to attract a worthy soul. But if you are wise, you will heed my bidding."
"But- what do I even- who even are you?!" Their voice cracked at the edges, terror setting alight the feeling of weightlessness beneath him, fully aware now that there was no ground under his feet and the world had not, somehow, become much smaller below their form.
"You have your instructions, mortal."
The deafening silence that followed filled their senses with nausea. Then, the high, loud ringing. He looked down, but all he saw was trees, mountains, the sea, the sky, not a sign of life beneath. The world was no more than a rug in a noble's home, and this figure before him was the candle of a watchman. The gleaming, twisting fractals of light entranced him, the warmth spilling over their form, whatever form they took up here. He didn't even check to see if he was himself, deciding against looking down. They inhaled, filling their lungs with the crisp air, smelling nothing, feeling nothing.
Athenath, with one nod of his head, agreed.
A satisfied hum left the sun. "Malkoran has forced the doors shut. But this is my temple, and it responds to my decree. I will send down a ray of light. Guide this light through my temple and its doors will open."
----------------------------------------
The world plunged into one, united light, enough to send shockwaves of pain through the Altmer's skull, splitting the dark that had once been there. He couldn't tell if he screamed, or if they made any noise at all, but all the warmth surrendered to cool, mountain air, and a heaviness in their body that broke the energy they'd had earlier in the morning like the spine of a hare. Nirn reformed under him, a new world, the same, what did it matter? It swayed under his buckled knees, the skies congealed, sticky and melting candy hues. The clouds brandished heavy lights into their weary eyes, the ground still swinging like he were a fish caught in a net, tossed aboard a ship.
Details came back one piece at a time, blinking hard against the pounding in the back of their head. A faint, high humming thrilled the air, nerves spiked. He stared at the backs of their hands on the ground, unsure if they were their hands until he moved his fingers. Their knees dug into the small rocks, all their sensations dull until they turned to the direction of the faint chiming.
Wyndrelis stood at their side, funneling a healing spell into them with one hand, a ward supported with the other, spells of the Vigilants bouncing off the magical shield. Sweat poured down his brow, and it was clear that he wouldn't be able to do both for long. He would have to drop one or the other. Athenath stumbled to their feet, the sky still spinning. He spotted Emeros near the dais, driving his sword towards one of the Vigilants, who met it ferociously with her shield.
"Are you alright?" He called the moment he saw the Altmer on their own feet. Athenath's bleary gaze followed his movements, momentum back under their feet.
"I'm fine!" They hollered back in return, managing the words to sound easy despite dry swallowings of air, steadying himself. He ignored the voices, the sounds of battle, eyes lurching to the statue. Emeros knocked the Vigilant before him down, Wyndrelis rushing to the fight, destruction spells readied as he aimed at the Breton.
Athenath locked eyes with the Bosmer, whose focus flitted from the other elf to the rocky descent at the side of the dais. An unspoken message.
This was their chance.
The bard hurried to the dais, up to the statue, and down from its footing. Wyndrelis' lightning spell ricocheted off a ward, slamming into the ground. The sounds of battle picked up as the Altmer dropped himself down the cliffside, hopping from stone to stone carefully, landing with thud and a roll at the door. The high-pitched whine caught their ears, as did the light which beamed into the temple.
He pressed a firm hand to the doors, and offered up a silent prayer to Mara for her guidance, and that she would look down upon this devotee not with revulsion for aiding a Daedric Prince, but with her warmth. With love. With knowing how being backed into a corner meant choices were a liberty he was not afforded.
The light of Meridia burned bright, the shadows split aside, and with the sounds of battle above them, he began his descent.