"Of Past Lives"

The antelucan swell of stars took up the sky above them. Crowding their visions were the thick, black trees, which bowed like acolytes deep in prayer. In the heavens, the constellations took their shapes. If one stopped for a moment and configured them together, they might be able to spot specifics, but the clouds winnowed through the air with the leisurely stroll of a storm not quite ready to brew yet. The grass trod under their boots like lonesome horses hooves. They'd thought of taking a carriage for the journey, in fact, and could imagine in the waning light of the lantern the procurement of passage down the dark roads, and the gold changing hands, and the hours passed, able to sleep.

The road wore down hard on their bodies. It had a tendency to do that, these days. The Dunmer lead the way, lantern in hand, his shoulders tight as if he were resisting the urge to bunch them up to his ears. Winter had come and gone, and spring was on its way out the door, with summer ghosting the faint breeze. It was hard to believe it had nearly been one year since they'd arrived in this land, one year since they'd come to the horrid, tangible possibility of death in that inferno. The thought alone could make the trio shiver, a shared abhorrence for the very thing which set them on this journey in the first place.

"We should make camp," Emeros finally suggested. Athenath gave out a breathy, overly theatrical sigh of relief, shoulders lumping down like clay thrown onto a wheel.

"Thank the fucking gods," they breathed. The night air carried a chill with it, and humidity didn't make it feel much better. Wyndrelis looked back at the other two, whose faces shone with varied gilded hues in the lantern light. They were on their way back to Riverwood to speak with Delphine, and coming from the direction of the Reach meant they'd pass through Falkreath when day broke.

This meant that they took the path which lead them in the direction of Helgen.

The trio found an opening in the thick trees, shoving brush aside and gathering tinder. Wyndrelis set the lantern down to his side as he watched Emeros start the fire, his hands hurrying the flint against steel as he muttered to himself. Nocturnal things of thousands of names hummed and kept the woods alive at this moment, with dawn to approach in a handful of hours. They'd been walking in the dark, to make sure that if they did pass the ashen remains of what used to be a town, it would not be something they'd notice.

It seemed, however, that this was a flawed plan. They would have to face it come morning, and hope that months shy of a year's difference did them good.

Athenath pulled their knapsack into their lap, digging through their supplies until they tugged cloth-wrapped portions of cheese and dried fruits into their lap. Emeros and Wyndrelis soon followed suit, the desire for a meal and some rest growing with every growl of their stomachs and droop of their eyelids. Someone would have to keep watch, and there would likely be a small fight about who it would be, but it would get decided all the same.

"How do we know that we can trust the Greybeards?"

It was an innocuous question, sane as any, but Wyndrelis' shattering of silence had the other two's eyes on him. He shrunk back. "I mean, I suppose we should, but..." He trailed off, unable to find anything else to say on the matter. Athenath bit down on a slice of bread which was going hard in their pack, and thought it over as they chewed slowly.

"I think they're kind of our only hope." Athenath swallowed and replied, sipping from their waterskin. The image of the sages atop the Throat of the World had been a strange one, but none of them should have expected any young people among them with a title such as that. Arngeir had done his best to greet them well, though it seemed he were a tad uncomfortable with speaking to strangers. Perhaps this came from the isolation at the top of the world, away from everything which concerned all those who lived in its valley. The mountain was like a great finger flung upwards at the gods, and whether accusatory or crude was anyones guess.

"I don't mean to sow distrust of them, but I'm not certain I believe, or perhaps, want to believe what they claim." Emeros waved his hand in little motions, wrist atop a bent knee, bone parallel to his chest while the other curved under it, ankle against the grass tapping as though he were attempting to bounce his foot. The Bosmer had never been one to outwardly show his own anxieties, rather he preferred to keep them to himself. This didn't stop the briefest glimpses of his worry from poking out the way jagged teeth might emerge from a jaw. Especially with the absence of the horn. They'd gone through all that trouble for nothing, just a note and directions to meet some stranger in Riverwood.

"Well, whatever they think of us," Athenath scrunched their nose, wrapping their own arms over their legs and tugging them up to his chest, "we still don't have the horn."

"Perhaps we'll get information from Delphine. Whoever took it is boarding there, after all. And," Emeros said. "It would do us some good, to get a proper rest at a real inn."

Wyndrelis snorted. "What, you don't like sleeping under the stars?"

Emeros laughed, pushing a hand through his hair. "I'm afraid not, unless there's the option of actual beds in our future. I've had my share of camping, and I'd like to do less of it, one day."

The fire continued to flicker and lick the humid air. There must be a body of water nearby, the bugs enough of an indicator of this. Athenath pulled their bedroll from where it was buckled and tied to the bottom of their bag, and began to lay it out on the ground. Soon, the trio had all set their sleeping places near the fire, and decided on Emeros keeping first watch. He was more awake than the other two, or he insisted as much, and besides, he needed a while alone. This was good enough reason for Wyndrelis, who sunk into his bedroll and set his glasses atop his knapsack.

The Altmer took a while longer to settle in. They unlaced their boots in slow motions, before tugging them off with a couple of grunts of effort and placing them aside. Then, their vest, which they rested on their own bag, and their belt, which held their sword, attached by leather loop. Every sound seemed to disturb the quiet which was wanted, the little noises grasping their ears. Once he'd set it all aside and crawled slowly into his bedroll, he looked up at the trees, and the way that they, too, appeared golden in the light of the fire.

And Emeros, his form statuesque as he kept his eyes open, watched the world around the three with a calm alertness, not unlike a hawk on the search for a mouse. The dim of the moons cast strange light on the world when they were out, but the clouds would soon amble over them, and the shade would return again.

Did Emeros notice the passage of the hour? The way it slunk by without much to do with anyone? How it faded into history, never to return? It was a boring, dull hour of the loudness of Falkreath Hold's nature, and the chill in the air and overcast sky which seemed to haunt the place like a spectre. Athenath would shut their eyes, but they couldn't slip into sleep. Something gnawed at them, out of his grasp and out of his mind, and when they looked to Emeros, they wondered if he even intended to go to bed after first watch.

He didn't show it much, but Athenath and Wyndrelis both knew he was not handling any of this as well as he portrayed.

When the trio had arrived in Skyrim on that day, before they'd known one another, before names could be exchanged and interests expanded upon and fields of study - since they all had their own - discussed, Emeros had looked a strangely imposing figure. He was not strong to the point of rivaling many of the mill workers of Skyrim, nor did he bear the many scars of a soldier. He had the same leanness many Bosmer bore, imbued further with the height and sharpness of his father. Among these things had been strength gained from many years a traveler, a hunter, an alchemist, an archer and skinner. But it wasn't these traits which had made him so imposing, it was his expression, his posture, the silence in the face of death. He'd given his name to Hadvar in such a stoic tone, it would alarm Athenath when they looked back on it. He'd cleared his throat to keep the other two from objecting to where their remains would be sent. He'd walked behind a handful of the Stormcloaks with dignity, and helped escape from the fort with a leadership that the other two elves envied.

Yet in the firelight, he looked so gods damned tired. Athenath had been unable to fall asleep, instead spending the next hour watching him, his shaven jaw marked with the blueish hue which indicated needing a finer blade for the job, and he'd likely procure one in Riverwood, if it were something he had on his mind. And the circles under his eyes seemed to drag his features down, his jaw tense as if he were gritting his teeth, his body wound up too tight like a music box which resisted more twisting. Athenath could see that his head, here and there, would nod until he would jerk it up, shake his hands furiously to get the blood moving, before dragging a cupped palm down his face and getting back to his watch.

"You deserve some rest."

His voice was quiet, but it shot through Athenath like an arrow. The Altmer bolted upright, then settled, elbow digging into the space above their knee as they rested his jaw in a cradled hand. "I should tell you the same thing. I think it's time for my watch."

Emeros waved a hand absently. "I'm far too awake. Another hour'll be fine."

Athenath frowned. "No, it won't. You look like you're halfway off to bed just sitting there."

The older elf opened his mouth to protest, then finally faced the other, his brow knit. "Athenath, please. It's a long day tomorrow, you've got to-"

"Which is the exact reason I'm telling you to go to bed." They interjected. They watched him cautiously for a moment, before he sighed, and rubbed his face again. An idea began to form in their head, and they leaned their head in a slight bend. "Are you thinking about something?" When the Bosmer nodded, they leaned further. "What?"

"Whom, not what," Emeros corrected in a hush. A long pause later, and he exhaled heavily as he admitted, "my parents. And, well, my aunt and uncle, and I suppose my home, too. Perhaps I'm a tad homesick, after all this time away."

Athenath furrowed his brow, combing their fingers through his long, dark curls. "You've mentioned them before. What's got them on your mind?"

The other took a moment to react, to where Athenath nearly repeated himself. The taller of the pair reached to his side, and gingerly reached to his belt and pulled out his father's hunting knife, the intricately carved, ivory handle catching the light. Athenath watched him handle the blade with reverence, before Emeros spoke up. "I think of my father every time that I use this blade, and sometimes, I suppose, it's harder to pull my mind away."

Athenath looked him up and down. The alchemists' father was half Altmer, if the bard understood correctly. And his mother had been from Valenwood, and apparently very beautiful, and a very talented tracker. She'd been beloved for her ability in this, they'd once heard Emeros say. That she could and would probably track an animal through all of Valenwood just to prove a point. He had known Emeros to remark that he appeared most like his father. And, in many ways, his mother, but he was only told this when his aunt and uncle were upset with him. But he had no idea what either of them looked like with any clarity.

Thinking in the cacophany of late-dark, the Altmer looked to the grass, then to his friend again. Maybe they spoke up to fill the silence, or to relay the many passages of thought going through their head, but the words momentarily caused the other to pause as Athenath said, "my mother and I don't look a thing alike."

Emeros chuckled. "Really?"

"No," Athenath shook their head, a grin toeing the edges of their lips, "she's much taller than I am. And her hair's almost white. And her eyes are blue."

"Your mother?" Emeros repeated.

"I only got her face, and her hands, I think. I got my dad's hair and eyes, and all the rest."

"Ah, and your height," Emeros clicked. Athenath rolled their eyes in a wide, high arch, stifling a laugh.

"Gods, you gotta bring that up every time?"

"I'm afraid so."

Athenath sighed, and raked their hands through their curls, the lengths shaggy from being trimmed up recently with a blade. He looked to Wyndrelis, who still appeared to be sleeping, but the other two would heavily doubt it. Still, they spoke to one another, and figured that if he were awake, he'd join in when he wished to. "Anyways, do you remember what your father was like?"

Emeros peered down at the blade, and breathed a long, mournful breath. "He was great fun to be around. I always remember him laughing, or trying to, whenever possible. And a bloody good cook. And he loved our home, he'd come back from Alinor because he knew Valenwood was where he wished to be. He wouldn't have met my mother, I wouldn't have been born, otherwise." Emeros turned over the blade in his hands, and let the warmth of hazy memories drape over him like a cloak freshly laundered, still bearing the sun's heat and the clean smell. "I'd like to believe that I got much of his talent in some areas. Tanning, namely. And beading. Gods, he loved beading, my aunt would always tell me that she had no idea what we were going to do with all his projects that survived." A bitter, weary chuckle left his lips. "Of course, I was only a child, I'd no idea what she was upset over. I'd think his family would be grateful to have some of his belongings still in tact after the fire."

"You would think," Athenath replied in a tired, nervous chuckle. They bit down on their lip, and stroked the lengths of hair with more speed now, dragging fingers along the oakish strands. Finally, they said, "I think the only thing I actually got from my mother was her anger."

Emeros waited a moment, tucking the hunting knife away in his belongings, before turning his body to fully face them. "Is that so?"

"Yeah," they nodded, shrugging into their shoulders. "I don't think I'm an angry person...? At least, I hope not. But my mother... She tried not to be. But it was after the war, and work was difficult to find. And my father was gone a lot, with his own work requiring him to leave for days at a time, so she was just..." Athenath sighed heavily, and rubbed their temples, and bent forward over their arched legs. "I don't know."

The Bosmer didn't move, instead opting to watch the other as they pulled their arms around their knees and buried their chin in the divide. The other looked as if they were nearing the need for sleep, but he didn't suggest it again, not yet. Instead, he watched the way that they curled into themself, and tightened their arms over their legs, and kept quiet. The pair let the fire do most of the speaking, the crackle of it and the puffs of smoke rising to the air the best hope for something like calm. Emeros pulled more sticks from a pile near himself, and tossed them into the campfire, and watched the flames brighten. As he stoked it with the end of his sword, he spoke up again.

"In truth, I think my aunt wanted to believe her brother wasn't dead."

Athenath looked up through their brow, facing him. "I understand that."

"He was her only family, aside from myself, so I suppose that played a more-than-small role in it."

The Altmer's features knit. "What about your grandparents?"

At this, Emeros shook his head with a low, tired chuckle. "She'd cut them off years ago. Still got plenty of their wealth when they passed, but with my father the result of an affair, she'd not wanted anything to do with her parents."

"Your mother's side? Couldn't they have taken you in?"

The alchemist paused, before lowering the hilt of his sword to the ground, and rubbing his forehead in the crux of his thumb. He seemed to be mulling the idea over, letting it run until ragged in his mind until he found the words to sum it up. "I've not had contact with them since I was young."

"Oh." The word fell, more like a breath, from the bard's lips. Emeros didn't say anything else, just continued to stoke at the flames and carry that distant look in his eyes, something of grief for a life which had been taken from him, or a connection he'd never had. Athenath's chest tightened, a fear in them that he'd made a grave misstep. Athenath could not know of the figures which had come to visit many times in the early days of Emeros' childhood, of the ones who'd tried to continue visiting well after, of many being turned away and the Bosmer himself, smaller then, peering out at figures whom looked as though they were pleading with his aunt. Of the way the woman would brush them off, of the way that he watched them go with defeat in their shoulders. It was a nagging sensation that the alchemist had known someone was fighting for at least the chance to know him as he grew, but the more bitter feeling in him knew that they'd been turned away precisely for this reason.

"If it makes you feel any better," Athenath breathed, "I spent most of the time with my friends' parents."

"Is that how you learned Ta'agra?" Emeros asked. They nodded. "And your amulet?"

Athenath slowly tugged the amulet of Mara from beneath their shirt. In the early days of traveling together, there'd been conversation over it, the Dunmer and Bosmer both being curious of the inscription on the back. The bard examined it, the edges catching the brightness of the campfire. The crudely done markings on the back had been made by their dearest friend, and it had been with him since he'd departed Bravil. 'From your loves, to your love.'

"Yeah."

The Altmer swallowed and sighed, and set the amulet back in its place under their tunic. The bedroll next to him stirred, alarming them as they watched Wyndrelis slowly rise, rubbing his eyes. "You know, we should be trying to sleep," he cracked with a grin. Athenath laughed, Emeros rolling his eyes with a smirk playing at his lips.

"Ah, eavesdropping, are we?" He asked as he wagged his brow, Wyndrelis pulling his glasses on. The Dunmer shrugged.

"Not hard to do, considering."

Athenath shrugged, stretching their legs back out into the bedroll, their hands pressed into the grass. "Mhm. What about you, Wyndrelis?"

The mage knit his brow, confusion tugging at him. "What do you mean?"

"Your family. Y'know."

A moment slid by as Wyndrelis adjusted himself in his bedroll, raking his fingers through his dark hair, his white irises locking on the campfire, then the sky high above them. He watched the stars a while, and the thick trees which attempted to conceal them like fingers over a pair of eyes. The Dunmer twisted his mouth to one side, then the other, then, without removing his gaze from the heavens above, he replied. "My mother and father never want to see me again. And my grandmother gave me the family spellbook, since I'm the only one alive in our bloodline who can use magic."

Emeros leaned his weight onto an elbow, stretching out as though preparing to sleep. He propped his head up with a hand, earrings glinting ever golden. "Is there a reason your parents disowned you?" When Wyndrelis nodded, Emeros thought of asking why, but let the idea die on his tongue. Instead, he asked, "what about any other relatives? Cousins, siblings...?"

"I had an older sister, and a younger brother. Gods, I think my younger brother is a grown man now," he chuckled bitterly, and added, "and I had an older brother, and a younger sister, but they're gone."

"By Mara," Athenath breathed softly, then added, "I'm sorry to hear that."

Wyndrelis waved his hand. "It was many years ago." When the Dunmer looked across the fire, he saw Emeros studying him, the Bosmer's face deep in a concentration that he couldn't parse. The way the alchemist seemed to be digesting the story of the other's past made Wyndrelis shrug into himself, and clear his throat. "Anyways, we should sleep, should we not?"

"I suppose you've got a point," Emeros sighed, and leaned back into his bedroll. "Athenath, would you keep watch, and wake Wyndrelis in an hour?"

The sun was already beginning to taint the horizon a medium azure, but the trio hadn't slept in a day, and Athenath had a feeling the three elves would spend well into the noon asleep. They nodded. When the other two crawled back down into their bedrolls, and looked to be drifting off to sleep, he leaned back and watched the sky, and listened to the night animals and the beginning of bird calls, and thought of home, and places long gone from them.

The walk to Riverwood took a full day more, but they'd made it. Past the ash heap that used to be Helgen, and the bandit-occupied bridge, and the tiresome reminders of what had been their first days in Skyrim. Still, a caution bloomed in the air between the three. Someone was waiting for them, and whether this were a good or bad thing, none of them cared to think too hard on it.

Emeros budged open the door to the Sleeping Giant, and Orgnar perked up at the sight of them. It'd been nearly a year since he'd seen the trio, and the changes were subtle, but clear. New, well-made armor and a sturdiness in their steps, and weapons which must have either cost a fortune in gold or been gifted by someone who could afford to depart with them. Maybe the life of an adventurer could be prosperous, but that matter didn't settle well. Instead, he called for Delphine, who'd been busy with something in the cellar. When she caught sight of them, she took it in, and folded her arms over her chest.

"Well, well," she smirked, "it looks like the three of you have done pretty well for yourselves. Word is, you were named Thanes of Whiterun."

Wyndrelis shrugged into his shoulders. Emeros nodded. "That's correct, but really, we're not much use in court," he laughed lightly, before he asked, "do you, perhaps, have an attic room which we could rent?"

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