Mid-morning nestled uncertainly atop the high mountains at the edge of Solitude. The sun had peaked its curious head out hours ago, the dawn colors taking it as their sign to curl over the sea like dancers among the sprawl of High Rocks' illustrious kingdoms. The shimmer of light across the waters spelt patterns into the rocks and bottoms of boats and against the panels of wooden shack houses near the port, a chill in the air as Last Seed came to its end.
A constant breeze trailed off the waves, multicolored flags strung between buildings swaying on their ropes, high above the trios heads as they made the brisk march to Castle Dour. The constant exchanging of sun for shade between buildings rivaled that of coin for goods in the nearby market, and the eternally-present sounds of the blacksmith and his apprentice at work pushed their feet further towards the grand doors. Emeros' chin held high, despite the hammering in his chest like metal to anvil.
He'd woken up later than usual, a first in a very long time, and that fact alone had done its best to unravel his senses for the dawning minutes of his day. Breakfast had been a brief affair. While Athenath looked pleased to be done with all of this and finally make their way to the Bard's College, Wyndrelis shared in the Bosmer's uncertainty, glances of cloud-white iris marred by the ink black of his wide pupils. Would Tullius really let them go, just like that? Would he sign off on their pardon and consider them free in Imperial-controlled Holds?
Did it matter? They'd done what they'd set out to do. He should expect the General to hold his end of the bargain. If he didn't pardon them...
Emeros tried not to think too far into the future, the duty of such divinations belonging to those far more skilled in such than himself. Take it one step at a time, one seagull's call after another.
The doors parted with the same, loud announcement of their entry in the creak of the hinges. Emeros kept his chin aloft to peer down his nose at the figures of soldiers. General Tullius and Legate Rikke, as though time-frozen in their same places, already spent their mornings engaged in some sort of disagreement over the shining pins stuck deep into an old, frayed map. Tullius took his bent posture with his large hands firmly against the table, studying its every fleck of ink, each trailing of pathways and roads and borders. As the Mer approached, Emeros got a look at the layout, the little pegs shifted since the last time the trio had been in this room. Some of these movements were made in a bright blue, and closer to the red ones than it seemed the General liked.
Legate Rikke stood near Tullius with furrowed brow, her stray hairs catching the light, concern plain on her lined and weathered face. She pressed a finger against a section of the map and uttered something to the General, who waved a hand as though dismissing her suggestion. When Emeros cleared his throat, she looked up, surprise overtaking her features for one vital moment before settling into a small grin, the calm approval, the sturdy folding of her arms over her chest.
"Welcome back. You lived."
"Your fort is cleared. If you would like it to remain that way, then I would suggest sending troops at once," Emeros stated, the stern edge to his voice accentuated by the way he appeared to be peering downward at the General's bent posture, or the Legate's short and broad form. If one were to see through the Bosmer's vision for a moment, they would find he was instead staring at the corner of the table. Too much risk in eyeing the individuals directly. They might catch the fleck of worry in his gaze.
"Excellent," Legate Rikke motioned for a couple of nearby soldiers, speaking to them quickly, the shuffle of their feet out the door a weighty sound in the air. She prodded the tip of her tongue to the inside of her cheek, thoughts scuffling about behind her blade-sharp eyes. "You know, I'm impressed."
"That's very flattering of you, but as previously discussed, we're here to acquire an Imperial pardon, nothing more." Emeros maintained the calm in his voice, but his patience waned thin. He understood which gears turned in her head, the same damned urge to bring them into the fold of the Legion she'd joined more than thirty years ago. Loyalty to the Empire had solidified like the cement which bound cobblestones into smoothed paths in the Imperial City, and Emeros would make it clear he shared no such loyalty. This was not his home - not Skyrim, not the Empire, none of it. They had done all of this to save themselves from the possibility of another false imprisonment. Fort Hraggstad had been nothing more than a means to an end. He watched the Legate bite the inside of her cheek, running a hand over her head. Perhaps she was thinking of something else now. She shifted her stocky frame to face the table fully, her hands plucking another red pin and sticking it into the map, marking something important, the very piece of debate which had left she and Tullius unaware of the trio's presences until the alchemist made a sound.
Tullius rose at last, straightening his posture. The Bosmer found himself surprised not to hear stiff pops and cracks which onset with the age and experience of a soldier bearing his rank. Maybe some portion of his mind half-anticipated that the General solely hunched there through every day and night, a statue on guard. As he turned, Emeros noted the weariness in his eyes. A man who was visibly running on less sleep than advisable - especially clutching dozens of lives in his hands and bearing even more on his shoulders - is a volatile thing. The elf swallowed down his questions, instead opting for the arch of a brow as the General took stock of the three, his focus landing on Athenath's new sword for a second. As though accepting the glowing oddity, he grunted a small noise before he shifted his eyes to Emeros.
"You know, I've sent troops to that fort before." He moved his weight side to side, one foot, then the other, his bulky arms folded over his barrel chest, which gave way to the wriggling thought that maybe Legate Rikke's own posture was habit formed from so long in his presence. Perhaps the Empire had sent him to handle the Civil War for his intimidating appearance alone, or perhaps Skyrim was an isolated post used to give disgraced soldiers another chance. In either case, he added, "do you want to know what happened to them, mister Nightlock?" A pause as if awaiting an answer that refused to come. Emeros did not long to try the friendly, responsive approach. "They would come back wounded. Some, not at all. But you three strangers took it for the Legion. And from what I can see"-he looked the three up and down-"not a scratch on you."
"Riveting," Emeros droned. "And what does this have to do with our pardon?"
"Don't you get it?" Tullius pushed. "You survived Helgen, took Fort Hraggstad, and killed a dragon in Whiterun! Stories get around, mister Nightlock, we know about the Western Watchtower and what you three did there." He gestured a hand to the map behind him, Rikke taking her chance to go, already following some other soldiers out of the antechamber. On her way to lead a garrison to the now-empty fortress, Emeros figured. In a lower tone, the General continued. "This war is taking its toll. We're hardly a year into it, and yet it's taken many of our men. The Empire is straining its resources, and Skyrim and all its people are suffering for it. Anyone who can turn the tides against Ulfric and win this Civil War will be-"
"A hero." Emeros' patience threatened to snap. The words caught at his incisors. He crossed his arms firmly over his chest. "I'm well aware of the rewards of heroism. A nice home in the Cyrodilic countryside may appeal to you, General, but we've no time for such fantasies. Should we continue to traverse the Empire-controlled portions of Skyrim, we run the risk of being captured by your Legion as criminals for, need I remind you, a case of mistaken identity. I understand your desperation, really, I do, but I do not intend to drag myself nor my compatriots into such conflicts."
The room dropped into a cold silence. Eye-to-eye, Emeros and Tullius stared one another down, the Bosmer's jaw grit tight, nostrils flaring. Athenath stood back with Wyndrelis, both of them appearing to have decided long ago that it was best that the alchemist handle this situation. The General flicked his gaze to them, then inched it from one face to another, from Emeros, to Wyndrelis, to Athenath, before giving an audible sigh and pressing the crook of his thumb to his forehead, massaging the stress-lined skin.
"Very well. You may have your pardon," he reached for a letter, the ink dry, already written and signed for the three elves, "but you'll need to take it by the Blue Palace yourselves."
Emeros narrowed his eyes. "Why is that necessary, may I ask?"
"We send word to the other Holds on our own. However, since you're already here in Solitude, you get the honor of doing the leg work. Take it by the Blue Palace and give it to the scribe, Phoebe. She'll get the Jarl to officiate it." The General passed the paper gingerly to Emeros, the stamp of the Empire glaring back at the elf as he clutched it tight. He pried lightly up at the lip of the letter, until the wax seal only budged, not broke. He unfolded the rest rapidly, eyes scanning the letter as the General gruffed, "I'm sure that you'll find it's all in order."
"Yes, I'm sure," Emeros replied sourly, not looking up once from the paper. He read and re-read the words over and over, let them settle into the pit in his stomach, by the orders of General Tullius, Military Governor of Skyrim...
After one final read-through, Emeros looked up and gave a curt nod. "Thank you for your time, General Tullius. Best of luck." He folded the letter along its preexisting creases, turning on his heel. The sound of his boots echoed through the chamber, the other two Mer exchanging a look of mild confusion before they followed suit, Athenath giving the General an awkward half-wave as they walked behind Emeros, eagerness in every step the three took.
Whether this meant the end of their troubles or the beginning of new ones was a mystery, obfuscated by the mid-morning sun and the glint of metal as soldiers trained for battle in the courtyard. Emeros clutched the letter tightly in a talon grasp, and prayed through the poundings of a stress headache to gods he strained to believe in that this would be over.
The Blue Palace shone in opulent hues, stone of pale, well-polished grey making up the floor, furniture of sturdy oak set about, the strength of the city itself captured in every piece. Even the waiting area was beyond anything the trio expected, with the tables carved in intricate patterns giving abstract representation of ancient Nord tales, and benches lined with heavily embroidered cushions which bore long tassels from the corners. It should make sense that the city that housed the Bard's College not only bore a reputable museum of art, but filled its palace with commissioned works so fine that they could turn any noble of a dozen cities red with jealousy, with paintings and tapestries strung on the walls and from the ceiling telling of victories won, of heroes and the foes they defeated, of battles and sieges and war. Some were more direct, with depictions of recent kings and queens through history, faces woven in a myriad of colors against backdrops of red. Others were more abstract, taking the approach of depicting animals, of wolves and moths, of gods that had long outlived their relevance since the Empire swallowed Skyrim down its greedy maw.
The beautifully woven rug under their feet did little to muffle the trio's footsteps, presences watched from every corner by servants, guards, and the dozens of faces in the tapestries. The elves were lead by a bulky man up the stairs that wound their way to the seat of power in Skyrim, the court busy with several thanes seated on one side, a red-haired girl at a desk to the other, and still, more guards.
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There, on a throne as ancient as the palace itself, sat Elisif. Many long nights had left permanent circles under her wolfish blue eyes, her face marred with the stress of the past year. She looked far too young to be so old, with the circlet weighing heavy on her coppery hair, already springing the smallest hints of grey. On either side of her were servants and thanes, each busy in their own tasks as the former queen consort rested her gaze on the trio of elves approaching her, caution in their steps. "Oh," the small sound left her lips as though she'd not stopped it in time, a breath like surprise. "If you need anything, speak with my steward, Falk Firebeard."
At the sound of his name, a Nord to her right looked up, his gaze stumbling to the three elves. He took note of the paper in Emeros' hand, and the way the seal seemed to flop instead of press the contents together, and rose. His smile, while placid as a still lake, gave the distinct impression of a man under immense pressures. The edges of his cheeks crumpled, and he'd not shaved in several days.
"Is there anything I can help you with?"
Athenath looked to the steward, forcing up their lips a smile which matched that of the Nord, polite and uncomfortable all at once. "Couldn't we speak with the Jarl?"
"The Jarl is not to be disturbed with common affairs of court. You direct those concerns to me." His expression, while still pleasant, burdened itself with caution as he kept his voice friendly but stern, dragging his eyes across the three. "Is this a letter from the General?"
Emeros lifted it slightly, a gesture of confirmation, brow knit. "Yes, were you expecting anything from him?"
"Tullius is always sending us updates on the war. We need to be prepared, I'm sure you understand," he gave a light chuckle as he drew the paper into his hands. As the steward scanned the writing, he frowned, brow narrowing, looking back to Emeros. He checked the letter over again, then looked to the other two, then drew in a breath. "Well, then. A pardon is not something we often get, so apologies if I seemed a bit surprised, mister... Nightlock, is it?"
The scribe looked up quickly, her eyes boring holes into the back of the steward's head. Falk turned to face Elisif, who now appeared wide awake, staring intently at the trio. While she did not speak, the intensity of her wonder at something different for once spelled out her want to talk with the strange elves. Her attentions immediately dragged themselves away as one of her thanes made a comment in a low breath muffled by a half-cough, and she shot him a look.
Falk turned back to the Mer, folding the letter neatly and stepping to the desk near the throne, passing it into the hands of the young scribe. Her hat, flat and plumed with a pair of feathers - one azure, one scarlet - sat atop her mousy red hair. She took the letter into a half-opened hand, but never stole her eyes from the trio, freckled cheeks shadowed by the brim of her cap.
"Well, if that's it, Phoebe will set everything in order." Falk clasped his hands in front of himself, over his torso, the gesture of a man ready to be done with this whole ordeal. Emeros looked to the scribe. He'd expected her to pass the letter back to the man, but instead the woman set the letter into a corner of her desk. Likely to be officiated later, he supposed. He again looked to the Jarl - who was busy now talking to one of the many servants in the Blue Palace - then to the thanes, and stood tall as he spoke.
"That will be all, yes. Thank you for your time."
The pressure in the air loosened, as though the whole palace had been waiting for the elves to be on their way. Wyndrelis knit his brow, a frown decorating his mouth as he looked to the thane who'd made the muffled comment, but said nothing. When the thane's eyes met Wyndrelis', he gave a small, mocking wave.
With their recent travels, the three had managed to acquire many things that none of them needed. The plan was to sell them off, to keep the weight on their backs light, to get enough gold for future travels. The shopkeeper, a woman named Sayma, gave them a great price for the Whiterun armor. She had explained to the three that her husband was the local blacksmith. That she would recognize Eorlund Gray-Mane's handiwork anywhere, and she knew her husband would be beyond thrilled to see three new examples of it. "He's a legend," she had exclaimed while Emeros stood at the counter, the other two elves looking over the trinkets in display cases, "all blacksmiths in Skyrim hope to be able to acquire some of his pieces in their time."
Pockets full and the day ahead of them, the three had wandered the city, Emeros keeping his eyes sharpened for anything of interest. Mostly, the trio discovered, Solitude was quiet. It was the heart of the Empire's control in Skyrim, and it carried this weight with pride. There were stories of a couple - the Emperor's cousin making up one half, no less - marrying soon in youthful hopes for peace. Emeros stood at one of the stalls in the market square talking such details over, allowing curiosity to keep him planted as his friends listened to the same. Athenath would ask for more details, and Wyndrelis stood beside, quiet as he, too, drank in the tales of the city. Emeros had to wonder if he did want to know more, but questions died on his tongue, or if he was simply passing the time with the other two. He could still feel a twinge of the tensions between them, and only hoped that he and the mage had come to an agreement, a truce of sorts. What the truce entailed, neither could know.
When the sun began to dip into the sea - the waters dyed deep blues and greens, the city itself cast in a shade of lapis - the Mer sat at a table in a quiet corner of the Winking Skeever, plucking at their meals idly. None of them had much of an appetite. In some manner, Emeros found himself grateful that the Blue Palace had been so fast to dismiss them, so terse in their dealings. It showed him just how things worked around here: quiet, quick, and with as little room for distraction as possible. He twisted the metal prongs of his fork into the flesh of a freshly caught fish, the skin and scales pulled off and the meat white under his digging, mind elsewhere. He could seldom focus on the room around him when the look on Falk's face returned again and again. That flicker of surprise. That look of unease, or even distrust, behind a stone-smooth smile. What had the other thought of he and his friends in that moment? That they were deceitful, sided with an enemy Emeros could not define nor care to define? That they had committed some grave misstep, and this pardon was a temporary reprieve before more charges could be brought against them? He swallowed down a bite of his dinner and, though he had his suspicions, did hope that their troubles were over for now.
The door to the inn budged open, a figure speaking with the innkeeper for a moment in a hush. Uncertain footsteps moved through the room, stopped on the stone floors behind Emeros. Athenath looked up, knitting their brow and twisting their mouth as the young Altmer cleared their throat.
"You're the scribe, right?"
Emeros turned around in a slow move, the woman from the Palace standing half a foot behind him. She still wore well-tailored, expensive clothing, but not nearly as over-the-top as what she'd worn at her post. The feathers were gone from her cap, and her highly embroidered, decorated gown replaced by plain, dark breeches and a tunic bearing much simpler patterns. Her thick capelet still bore the same flamboyance of one in a high position of the court, but she tucked her chin to her neck, as though attempting to hide inside of all the decoration.
"May we help you?" Emeros asked, arching a brow. Wyndrelis sipped his tea, an Imperial blend with bergamot as a main flavor, his hands warmed by the tankard. The woman pulled over another chair, and was silent for a moment. As Emeros opened his mouth to speak again, she interrupted, placing her hands neatly in her lap.
"The Western Watchtower was your doing, was it not?"
All three elves looked between one another, unsure on how to answer the question. "What, you think we sent the dragon there?" Athenath half-joked. The woman shook her head.
"I mean, the slaying of it. The dragon. That was your doing, yes?"
"Pardon me, ma'am, but I've no idea why you have such an interest in this, or how you know... Well, anything about that." Emeros kept his expression neutral, fingers folded together in front of his form, but the subtle rise of his shoulders, the tension building in the back of his head, all of it gave the impression of a man who had much less interest in said events than she did.
"My name is Phoebe," she removed her cap, the slight points at the ends of her ears suggesting she was a Breton, "word tends to get around to the bards and the merchants of news as tremendous and worrisome as that, and the Greybeards' summon, well, we all felt it," she finished in a quiet manner, Wyndrelis examining her carefully. He pushed his glasses up his nose and leaned back in his chair.
"What do you know about the Greybeards?" The Dunmer asked, sipping his tea. Phoebe shrugged.
"Both my mother and father are instructors at the Bard's College. My siblings and I grew up surrounded by the stories, you see."
Athenath's face brightened, hands pressing to the surface of the table. A smile shocked itself into place with wide, dark eyes gleaming at the chance to grab information. While Emeros expected them to pile questions onto Phoebe, he didn't expect a breathless, giddy, "bullshit!"
Phoebe laughed, resting her forehead into an open palm. "No, not at all."
"So, how do we even apply to the College?" Athenath pressed. The scribe looked up, thinking over her answer carefully.
"Applications are technically closed, as initiation is on the sixth..." before Athenath could visibly deflate, she jumped to add, "but if you tell me everything, from Helgen to now," she pointed down at Dawnbreaker, still at the Altmer's hip as though wishing for details of the blade's acquisition to be part of the story, "then I'll put in a word with my mother. She's one of the most respected members of the College, and the dean of signs."
"Is this whole bloody city run on deals?" Emeros groaned, rubbing his temples. Phoebe laughed again.
"I'm afraid so, mister Nightlock."
This was the only way they would get into the College at this rate. He knew it, and he prayed that the other two also understood such. With trepidation in their breaths and discomfort building into their bodies, they told her. Only the facts, the easiest of them. Helgen, how none of them meant to wind up there, then Riverwood and Whiterun and the Western Watchtower. The road to Solitude, coming to the city the day of Roggvir's execution, then the pardon letter. The amount of details they omitted would be shameful in the minds of biographers and historians. All personal squabbles, moments of doubt and distrust, Athenath's thievery and Wyndrelis' necromancy and Emeros' stubborness all pulled like wayward stitching from the tapestry they wove for her. Yet, by the time the tale was finished, she seemed satisfied. Leaning back in her chair, Phoebe mulled the narrative over, before speaking again.
"Do you think the Greybeards will let you three go?"
It was a question none of them had considered in all its depth. Emeros had hoped so, that by ignoring them, they'd get the message. That they were not interested in this Dragonborn business. That it was nothing worth concerning themselves over. "I'm not sure," he finally replied, "but we have to hope that we'll be allowed time."
Phoebe rose, smiling broadly as she placed her cap back on her head. "I'll speak with my mother. The schedules are not yet finalized, and they're actually very short on students, so I'm certain they'll find room for you."
She ducked out the door shortly after, plucking a dried fig from a bowl of one of the bards on a short break, the pair exchanging quick jokes and laughter before she left. Old friends, he had to figure, with the way the two winked conspiratorially at one another. Emeros' shoulders drooped, pushing his plate aside. Every time he thought of the dragons, of Helgen, the Western Watchtower, the execution of Roggvir, the fort and the temple... he lost his appetite. The events haunted him, hounding his dreams, caging him in their tight claws. Shall he be forced to tell the barest bones to people who demand these stories for the rest of his life?
He looked across the table at Wyndrelis, who drank the rest of his tea and finished his meal in the quiet. He didn't appear outwardly perturbed, but there was something to his posture that betrayed a discomfort. A tightness in the way he moved, a gritting of the jaw. He looked to Athenath, who despite the excitement at the chance to get into the very place they'd come to this war-torn province for, wouldn't look anywhere but the plate before them. The Altmer's hair ran in dark curls down their shoulders, and he tucked a measure behind his ear, the only motion their hands dared to make. With a gentle, apprehensive shove, he pushed his half-finished meal it to the side, and rested their jaw in balled fists. They looked into the middle distance of the wood grain, and dared not touch their drink nor meal for the rest of the evening.
Emeros managed down two last forkfuls of fish before he rose. He did not say a word, turning in the direction of the trio's room. He knew their footsteps were behind him, the pair matching his weary gait. He would open the door to allow his friends into the room, shut it behind all of them, and make the gargantuan effort to prepare for bed. Tidy the room, check over gold and supplies, wash up, crawl into the blankets.
Sleep eluded the three that night.
