His sister had been a weaver. She still was, Wyndrelis figured, the image of her deft hands tugging the strings together of varying colors clear in his mind. Why would she not be? It gave her plenty of spare coin. She had woven ornate rugs and tapestries and clothing, all to sell them to traveling merchants. If not to trade away for gold or other items, then she would fill their home with her crafts, her handiwork on the floor or on the wall or on their bodies. Wyndrelis would sit for many hours while the older girl told him about their family. Morrowind, too. A land none of them had seen. Muvayni sought feverishly for any information about the cities their ancestors were rumored to hail from, and then she taught him. She would soon teach their younger siblings when they arrived. But for a long time, he alone would watch her pull the threads together of vibrant saffron and deepest indigo and create intricate depictions of moons, stars, of patterns, even depictions of plants, of cities. She would talk endlessly of these things, and as he walked the streets of Solitude, he could only imagine how she would have thrived in the court of the Blue Palace, or even in the Bard's College. She had a skill.
Wyndrelis, too, had a skill.
Built upon a natural arch over the sea, the palatial city carried on its back the center of power in Skyrim like spines of a great beast. The Blue Palace ruled the lands beyond its walls with iron hands all the way to Stormcloak territory - wherever that might be, as Wyndrelis did not know the specifics - and the many shops and older homes rose high towards the heavens to make up for not being able to expand out across the land. The arched windows framed within stone shone in the dark with stars like raindrops. The way that the sly moons carressed the edges of the sea beneath gave way to thoughts of the legends of this city, all of its histories unknown to him, and why the light seemed to settle a little different in its corners.
He recalled the mountain scene and the battle, the hammering into his magicka reserves with no mercy for the purpose of survival, eyes on the younger Mer of the group. Athenath dove into the temple like a cliff racer down a gorge. Wyndrelis countered the attacks of the Dunmer Vigilant, Emeros fighting the other with his blade, the Breton blocking skillfully with metal gauntlets concealed under their robes, making calculated but hasty slashes with a dagger. The pair of elves battled against Stendarr's zealots who saw them as under the same entanglement as all Daedra worshippers, caught in the cold glow of Meridia, that even if they explained, they would be scrutinized mercilessly, no use to their words.
He remembered the steely feel of his ward in his palm, a chill racing up his spine as his magicka reserves drained into keeping it up against the constant, flashing barrages of the other's lightning. As though moving through water, he toed his way closer to the Vigilant. They locked eyes, Wyndrelis' teeth grit tight in his jaw to the point of aching, brow lowered hard in concentration of keeping just this one ward up against each strike that bounced off it, the force shoving violently into him, each step taken cautiously, cold sweat pouring down the back of his neck from the clammy feeling that overcame him, the pulsating, dark edges of his vision, the ringing in his ears louder, louder, louder, louder-
The Dunmer Vigilant darted her gaze with a hard gasp, her hands pointed now to the Bosmer who had made the final, decisive strike, the Breton collapsing on the dais as Emeros slit her throat.
This was what he needed.
Wyndrelis dropped his ward only for the moment, and in a quick motion, he bashed her skull with the dull end of his mace, hard thud knocking the Vigilant to the ground. He peered over her for a second, and as he heard the Bosmer moving, he struck with the mace, sickening crack slamming through the air as the blood split against his weapon. Emeros rose from the dais, mouth agape.
"Good Daedric lords, man!" The Bosmer wiped his knees. "They were unconscious! You could have-"
"She would have come into the temple after us," Wyndrelis exclaimed breathily through a bewildered quirk of his brow and a tight-toothed ghost of a sneer. He looked to the body at Emeros' feet, then to the one at his own. He could see the clean cut through the jugular, and the display of skill that gave it. Had this body merely been unconscious, then? Who was Emeros to object to what he'd done? Turning back to the Vigilant at his feet, Wyndrelis moved his palm above the corpse, summons of violet, luminary curls to swim over the still-warm remains. The glow circled thickly as the figure lifted from their place on the ground, her feet finding purchase in the stone, shuffling in the way of a sleeper in Muvayni's stories to Wyndrelis' side as the Dunmer did the same motion over the second corpse.
The mage had half-expected the other Mer to protest loudly, to make his opinion known, to tell Wyndrelis he was nothing but a bastard who toyed with the dead like puppets. When no words came, when Emeros merely gave him a hardened glare and marched in the direction of the temple's entrance, Wyndrelis shrunk back. This had been the worse of two options, and it had been one he'd not anticipated for all his foresight. He could handle the sound of another's voice raised in anger. Even the sound of someone's fury, pounded against the air like hard winds, did not perturb him. The silence, dead and limp, was the same he'd known in those last icy days in his parents' home. The same silence that swung above his head like an executioner's axe.
The only unifier was that someone they considered a friend was in danger, and if the pair did not get through the chambers fast enough, gods knew what fate awaited.
The image of Emeros' snarling lip at the waves of Wyndrelis' hand did not leave him just as much as the Dunmer thought to the purple magicka pooling under his skin, into the air, weaving in and out until the two Vigilant's corpses rose in stuttered steps. The look in the Bosmer's eyes was the ice that could break beneath his feet. Would it matter so much if he and Emeros had not fought side-by-side before? Spent so much time at one another's side? Would he care so much if the Bosmer was not one of the few in this world that the Dunmer respected?
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
This was the shaky ground he still found himself on as he wandered the cobblestone pathways through the twisting, narrow city. Emeros did not understand and Wyndrelis would not try to explain. How do you put into words the things he'd learned so long ago? How do you convey the messages of the cutthroat College of Whispers, the attention of an instructor whose guidance still anchored his spellwork much like the loom in Muvayni's room, even if he'd long buried as many memories of him as possible? That magic, alchemy, enchanting, all of it had its place, and necromancy was simply a branch conjoining the roots of many schools to one another, until one could not tell the difference between them. Necromancy was a branch he perched upon once, doddling between many others like a raven. A skill like any other. Should shame come with his education?
He'd hurried through the temple with the other at his side. Maybe Emeros meant well by his objections and his questions, but all it did was make the raven-haired elf grow bitter with every step. What did he want, for Wyndrelis to divulge every little bit of information about his time at the College of Whispers? Gods knew he hadn't even brought up the fact he'd gone there in the first place. Maybe it would explain everything, or maybe it would relay nothing. It was, after all, secretive. Many knew of their experiments being less than orthodox. Surely Emeros had his own conceptions of what a place like that entailed, could Wyndrelis bear to mention its name? Could the alchemist understand the strangeness of the work? Surely, the other must have broken a few rules of his own in his past for researches sake. If he told Emeros of all that he'd been before - or told both of his friends, for that matter - it would mean pulling out from the crevice of memory the things he did not want to relive. The dinners with his mentor and some hand-picked students, strangers shaking their hands and smiling politely while they whispered in the older mage's ear. The conversations that strung themselves in and out of his ears. The offer his mentor had sworn up and down that he would regret refusing. The slamming door. Packing his things. A solemn night at the nearby inn.
He rubbed at his left shoulder, reaching to press the spot on the back of it. He exhaled and inhaled. The night birds and the calls of animals and the trudges of guards were all he heard. The lavender sprigs blowing in the breeze carried their scent with them. He let himself breathe it in as he held his hands before him, examining his palms. He imagined himself knitting white threads together, back against the side of a stone building. He pictured the lengths of material bringing themselves together, and watched as magicka glowed against his fingers. He could feel it, soft and soothing, the formation of shapeless energy cupped in his hands.
The tiny glimmer of mage light, cold and warm all at once, alerted the attention and sharp glare of a nearby guard. Wyndrelis muttered a sharp apology as he dismissed the spell, and the guard drew their eyes narrow for a moment in suspicion before trudging off at last. Wyndrelis watched as the figure disappeared, and looked out to the sea. It was late. Far too late to be out on a night where the clouds stubbornly swayed past the moons. And he needed rest, a meal, anything more than the ache in his legs, shoulders, just about everywhere. He looked to the street, and though a nervousness like ice bristled up his arms, he made his way back to the other two survivors of the day.
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He'd not realized the ache in his legs until he found himself back at the entry of the Winking Skeever. He'd been marching the streets in a daze, the days events still burdening themselves on his shoulders. He wrenched open the door and gave a nod to a couple of patrons, the heat of the central hearth slamming into his face and warming him to his core the more time he spent in it. He'd not realized how cold his hands were for such a summer's night. He looked to Sorex and Corpulus, giving a meek wave before he trudged up the stairs, each step throwing him more and more past the point of exhaustion. He looked to the rugs sprawled out on the floor and wondered if his sister would have something to say about it, whether tutting her tongue disapprovingly or a long, silent nod of adoration to the skill. She'd tried to teach him quality weaving from quickly-rushed, cheap work, but he had not listened to a word. What about this could interest him, when his brother offered him tomes he'd collected in Cheydinhal that gave idle hands something much more interesting to do?
He wrapped a grey hand around the door handle to the room he shared with the other two. He paused, the idea of simply departing into the night planting fruit in his mind. For all he knew, Emeros could have turned Athenath against him by way of his eloquence and the burden of his experiences, whatever those may be. For all he knew, the other two could be gone, long before he'd had the idea, abandoning him in this place. The sound of laughter from the other side plunged him into the waters of reality, and he pressed his ear to the door to listen. While no word was distinct, he was able to piece together that the pair were in the midst of some story, and while his chest panged with the want to be a part of the conversation, he knew he'd arrived far too late.
He stood up straight and tightened his fingers around the door handle, pulling it open, apprehension overtaking him as he thought back on how Emeros had been looking at him, like he were some sort of corrupted creature, like an abomination, like a monster.
"You're back," Emeros noted pleasantly without looking up from the table, his fingers wrapped around a steaming mug, "we made tea, yours is by your belongings."
The warmth of the chandelier slipped its hands over Wyndrelis' cheeks, the golden light of the flames cast over everything, bathing the room in brilliant hues. Athenath reclined on the bed, tambourine against his chest as they tapped and thumped it quietly, the tiny rattles shimmering against the air. A mug of tea sat beside them, half-empty.
"How was your walk? The architecture catch your eye?" Athenath asked with a grin. Wyndrelis shifted his gaze between the pair. He'd forgotten that had been his excuse. The architecture.
"Yes. It was interesting, I suppose." He pushed the door shut behind himself, Emeros standing from his chair. For a moment, Wyndrelis wondered if the other was trying to get away from him, until Emeros gingerly passed the mug into his hands. The heat of the tea inside curled life back into his palms, the Bosmer gesturing to the small table in their room. Fresh soup, some slices of bread, and a few steamed leeks rested on a plate, silverware laid out for the Dunmer.
"You haven't eaten a bloody thing since this morning," Emeros noted as he thumbed through a book, sitting back into his chair, "and gods know you shouldn't go to bed with an empty stomach."
Wyndrelis stood, grasping the handle in one hand, the other to the side of the vessel. The tea, a pleasant, purple-brown hue, filled his senses with the fragrance of bergamot and something fruity. He pulled it tighter, taking a seat at the table. He didn't know what Emeros thought of him, nor what Athenath's opinions may be, but they had set a place for him and made him something to drink and welcomed him back, and that may be enough, even if just for now.