The unusual, silken heat of the Hearthfire morning coated their arms as the Altmer kept pace with his friends, his uncertainty plain on his face. They thought of Bruma, that northernmost town in Cyrodiil that carried a perpetual chill in the breeze, and wondered if the first inklings of morning frost had drifted up the mountains, or whether it was too early for such a thing. They returned their focus to the sound of footsteps, to the noise of the market and the practicing bards, the music which began to fade the further they drifted from the college. Viarmo had enlisted the help of these five students for his own reasons, and while Athenath would normally have liked to make himself useful to the college if at all possible, this wasn't exactly a task that he was prepared for. The icy reception that the trio had received the first time they stepped foot into the Blue Palace did nothing to soothe his nerves, flashes of memory and the way in which the entire court regarded them with suspicion still fresh in their mind.

  The Burning of King Olaf. Athenath had read about it once or twice, and certainly spoken with a handful of bards who had attended the festival itself - some even being members of the Bard's College, that lucky few. They knew that it had its ties far back into Skyrim's history, and Solitude's economy partially owed itself to the travelers who would come from across the province, even from other parts of Tamriel, to attend. With the scattered and half-inaudible mutterings of Headmaster Viarmo about Giraud attempting to find some lost verse or other, and this being the next best bet, the younger Mer couldn't help the gnawing unease that made him question whether this was worth another go. Couldn't they wait until next year?

  He looked to Emeros, then to Wyndrelis, and figured that the other two were having the same thought, in some form or another.

  With two large hands, Viarmo pushed open the door to the Blue Palace, the hinges creaking as he carried himself, chin held high, into the waiting area. His attitude told the students that this could not fail, yet Athenath had his doubts. The gaggle of bards-to-be kept close behind their headmaster the same way ducklings followed behind the mother, and when they were to be seated and wait for their summons, they did so quietly. Athenath turned their gaze to Jorn and Ataf, the way that they spoke to one another with reassurances and hopes that this time, Jarl Elisif would listen. Yet, judging from Ataf's slumped posture, elbow digging into his knee with half-interest in Jorn's honey-warm words, the Altmer came to doubt the other carried the same optimism as his friend. Still, their chest clenched sympathetically at the idea. Disappointment, whatever form it took, was a heavy burden. Even if their own had come in the form of dragons and prophecies, that didn't mean that he couldn't be disappointed in the banning of a festival, too.

  A man's weary voice which carried down the winding stairwell had been peaceful at first. The sounds of muffled conversation, a slight, desperate tinge to his words which seemed to get him nowhere, and now, it rose to near-hysterics. His pleading in speech half-disfigured by the acoustics of the room and positioning of the court managed to edge a measure of discomfort into those below as he begged, "I swear to you! Unnatural magics are coming from that cave! There are strange noises, and- and lights, and we of Dragon Bridge desperately need someone to investigate before it-"

  "Your Eminence, my scrying has suggested nothing in the area. Dragon Bridge is under imperial control. This is likely superstitious nonsense," a woman's cool voice interrupted. Entirely dismissive, and utterly uninterested in whatever mystery might be plaguing him so. She sounded like she'd heard this all before, or she'd already made her mind up before the man had even stepped foot into the Blue Palace. With the mention of scrying, perhaps she had.

  Wyndrelis shot a glance. First, to Emeros, then to Athenath. The Altmer straightened his posture, a chill arching down his spine on the oddly warm day.

  Falk Firebeard, then Jarl Elisif, then the man, all their voices lowered as though they'd become acutely keen of the echo they produced. It was an awareness Athenath silently cursed, as now only fragments of the entire portrait of their discussion were known to him, and hardly even that. The entire court set them on edge on a good day - whatever a good day looked like in the Blue Palace, which, to be blunt, they were not entirely sure they'd ever witnessed - and yet, they had become to some degree at ease, old habit of eavesdropping so easy to slip into in times as this. The seat of power in Solitude with its high, vaulted ceilings, its dismissive nature encountered by himself and his friends, its air of mourning, and yet clearly it still acted as a place of petition for the Jarl. And petitions meant, once wading through all the petty squabbles of most people's day-to-day lives, moments of intrigue.

  Viarmo rose, gesturing for his students to do the same as Falk Firebeard greeted them, his steps barely making a sound down the winding staircase. The man whose petitions had fallen limp to the wayside trudged down the other portion of stair, and Athenath caught the merest glimpse of his face as he disappeared through the doors and out into the streets of Solitude. "Now then," Viarmo said, clearing his throat, "come with me."

  For the next several minutes, Athenath stood close to his companions as Viarmo rambled on and on about tradition, about the spirit of Solitude, history, all things which fell onto uncaring ears. Phoebe, behind her desk and under her plumed cap, gave the trio a sheepish smile while she listened and recorded the words spoken among the courtiers and the headmaster, her hands a flurry across the scroll which seemed near-neverending in her lap. Athenath would occasionally glance to Emeros or Wyndrelis, and do their best to keep their posture tall instead of shrinking into themself.

  "Jarl Elisif, you know as well as I do that the Burning of King Olaf is tradition in Solitude. What's a city in the midst of war without its traditions to keep its residents in good spirits?"

  "Viarmo," Elisif breathed as she rested her head in the crook of her thumb, rubbing gingerly at the ridge of her brow, "we have had this discussion before. It's simply too inappropriate with the death of my husband to reinstate the festival now."

  "Your Grace,"-Viarmo gestured a sweeping hand to the students lined at his side, in such a neat row it could almost be taken for part of a performance-"I merely implore you to think about the prospective bards in the situation. Not only has this festival been held since time immemorial, but the bards that this festival exists for inducting as full-fledged members of the college are unable to take part in their rightful festivities. These three," he moved his hand, bringing to sweep along the air where Emeros, Athenath, and Wyndrelis stood, "are brand new to the college, and taking part in the festival is a rite of passage to the new students! And as you know, Ataf," he moved to gesture to the plume-hatted man, who gave a nervous wave of his fingers, "was set to be inducted as a fully-recognized bard! And Jorn," he gestured to the Nord, who puffed out his chest with pride, "was in charge of this year's effigy! That's a prestigious honor, and we at the College would implore you to reconsider."

  "Headmaster Viarmo," Falk hardened his words in his throat, words enunciated with a sharpness of warning, "we understand your wishes to reinstate the festival, we truly do. Not only is it most innapropriate during the period of our Lady's grieving, but in such times of war as this, you would have us let our guard down for one night?"

  The room clenched in silence, the air tight and hard to gather into full breaths. Athenath's gaze struggled to find a focus, slipping quick from the visages of fellow bards to the members of the court, his hands lightly taken by tremor. Breathe, deep and slow, they pushed and pulled air like waves as Viarmo scoffed.

  "There are plenty of guards who would still keep our city safe, so our residents could rest a moment at ease. This could even serve to boost morale, if you'd let it."

  "Enough," Jarl Elisif's word left Viarmo scrambling for something else to say, her voice hinting at the drain this conversation put on her as the edges of her speech drooped and wilted like dying flowers. "I understand how much this festival means to you, Viarmo, but High King Torygg-"

  "Was an enormous supporter of the arts, a continuous and reliable patron of our College, and friend to myself and several other members. Would it not be an insult to his memory to push away the very festival he cherished so?"

  Athenath swallowed tightly as Elisif's weary gaze flitted between the faces of the students, then to Viarmo.

  "Headmaster, I believe it's time you go. I will give it some thought. You are right in this regard, my husband was always thrilled at the festival's occurance every year, but this is not the time to be discussing such matters."

  Viarmo floundered for more to say, his brow tight and lowered, his hand raised as though he were attempting to point at some spectre behind the Jarl, but at the measured pace of her housecarl who inched closer in his heavy armor, Viarmo blew a breath out between loose lips and scrubbed his face with his palm.

  "Thank you for your time, Your Grace."

  He gave a flourishing bow, the feather in his cap bending with the motion, velvet cape pouring over his shoulders like a velvet waterfall. As he rose, he turned on his heel, gesturing for his students to follow him. Emeros looked down at Athenath and arched a brow, the Altmer shrugging as he turned to Wyndrelis, who similarly wore a look of subdued confusion at the rapid change in the headmaster's attitude. One moment he was ready to stand up for the festival, and all it represented, and the next...

  The moment the group had exited the Blue Palace, Viarmo gave a long and heavy, near-dramatic sigh. "Well, we'll just have to see what Giraud comes up with. Great work, everyone, perhaps she will give it some thought with having seen you all there."

  Athenath had his doubts. How could just laying eyes upon some of the students make the Jarl change her mind? They raked their long fingers through their curls, shedding more glances to the uncomfortably grimacing faces of the other students. Clearly, this had gone even worse than anyone anticipated, and Viarmo's disappointment visibly scurried itself up his shoulders. Normally so high and poised, his body slumped in on itself as he lead the way back to the ancient college.

  "Fear not," he turned to face his students, who stopped in their tracks, "while we may not be able to put on the Burning of King Olaf yet, that does not mean our sacred festival is doomed to obscurity. We'll simply have to be patient. Ataf, Jorn, I apologize if your induction will be later than usual."

  Ataf waved a hand, his face still bearing the hallmarks of his own discomfort, a twitched and upwards-curled lip and furrowed brow, eyes never quite meeting anyone else's face. "I'm not too worried. It just means I can spend more time on my studies."

  Viarmo gave a nod of agreement. Maybe he truly did believe the excuse, but Athenath knew that sort of phrasing anywhere; something he'd used himself in different times, a brushing off of concerns just to placate whoever stood before them. Either way, the older Altmer said that they should head back to the college, and he'd work on his next appeal in a week or two. Whether this would include him marching the students back to the Blue Palace, Athenath didn't know, and he sincerely hoped it would exclude them this time.

  "Well, that was certainly most interesting."

  Emeros sat at his desk, the trio crowded into his dorm. All of his belongings were tidy and put into their places, the Bosmer taking great care to make his living space as neat as possible. It always struck Athenath as strange, his need to keep his space so spotless, even when the three had been on the road together. In Whiterun, in Rorikstead, in the Winking Skeever, here; always, he would try to either keep his items in his pack, or put them in the chests or dressers provided. Athenath much preferred their own method: whatever worked, worked. Whether this was storing their things in plain view, or strewing them about the room in their own sort of organized chaos, or in a chest or dresser. It didn't matter, just whatever would work for the length of time they planned to stay in any place.

  The Bosmer rested his forehead in the heel of his palm, and ran his fingers up through the fringe of his dark hair, his words dripped in sardonicism while Wyndrelis leaned himself against the wall next to the door, blotting away the sparest amount of sweat on his forehead with a small square of cloth. The humidity and heat outside had been slightly overwhelming for the woolen-clad Dunmer, who had misjudged the day's weather based on the previous couple of days. None of this was, certainly, the least bit helped by the hearth which burned brightly in the kitchens.

  "What is with this festival? I wouldn't think a simple celebration would have this level of importance," the Dunmer mused. Athenath, seated on the edge of the bed, leaned back, hands pressed into the blankets to support their relaxed posture.

  "Well, it's more than just a simple celebration," they remarked. "It's uh, a fairly big deal. I mean, aside from being a festival where bards get inducted as college members and leave being a student behind, it's also what draws a lot of merchants to the city. Especially because, since people are coming to the festival for, well, festivities, they can sell more wares. And I mean, the college puts on huge performances, with plays, music, you name it."

  "I suppose it makes a tad more sense, when put like that, why Viarmo's so bloody determined to reinstate the whole thing," Emeros exhaled, pulling one of his assigned books from his flute class from a pile on his desk, flipping through the pages. He rested his cheek against a folded fist, skimming the text for a moment before speaking up again, "I can't help but wonder if, perhaps, Viarmo thinks he can tug on us for favors whenever he pleases, since he allowed us to skip the regular admissions process."

  It was a thought that they'd all had, at some point or another, and hearing it said out loud made Athenath's stomach churn in venomous motion. Nobody would want this to be true, but how could it not be? Especially considering that the trio were the three who'd fought off the dragon in Whiterun. Maybe Viarmo had gotten the wrong impression of the group, that they were easy to ask favors of, or that they just didn't have any issue with him using them as part of his appeals. Their ears burned at the idea, the sinister whispering of the chance he'd fallen into someone's whims and not seen the path for what it was echoing in his ears. As the ideas mulled over in their mind, the Dunmer made a motion with his hands to draw the other two's attention over to him, severing whatever spell his own broiling anger had placed upon him and replacing it once more with that cold, empty pit.

  "I know that we've finally settled in," he started, not looking his friends in the eye, "but if we can, we should find out more about that man who spoke of strange lights in a cave."

  "Thank the gods, I was about to ask if you two wanted to go looking for him," Athenath responded, voice lingering with a touch of weariness, leaning forward now with his hands on his knees.

  Emeros made a thoughtful hum, his forefinger rested above his chin. "He mentioned something about Dragon Bridge, right? Is that what I heard?"

  "Yeah, I heard that, too." Athenath rose from the bed, stretching and straightening his clothes, his mind already swirling with the winds of possibility. What could he mean by lights in a cave outside the town? What could any of that have to do with Solitude? Even better, what was making the noises he reported? Sure, this city was the seat of power in the Hold, and sure, going to the Jarl for protection was the best course of action, but protection from what? If people hurried to their Jarls over every odd noise and light they saw, then the Jarls would never sleep. What made this so notable, then? The image of the man's face urged itself to the surface of their mind, with the bags under his eyes and his slumped form, the tension in his shoulders as he moved, the way he seemed in such a hurry to leave the Blue Palace...

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  As Athenath opened the door to Emeros' dorm, he almost found himself bumping right into Jorn, whose hand stood poised to knock. The Nord grinned playfully, and looked at the two other Mer, whose faces bore equal amounts of surprise to see him there as Athenath's.

  "Ah, good to see you all! I was going to ask, would you three perhaps be interested in getting drinks at the inn? Ataf and I are going to head there this evening, around dinner time, and we'd like you to join us."

  The three Mer shared glances between one another, and a grin crept up to Athenath's lips. Now, here was an opportunity for information, if he'd ever seen one.

  Evening arrived with little fanfare, with lessons finished for the day and dinner served in the Bard's College. The three elves navigated the rolling, stone-paved streets of Solitude towards the direction of the market, then past the last few barterings of shopkeepers and merchants with their patrons, into the door of the Winking Skeever, where a silvery-haired bard plucked her lute and sang of heroes from distant time's passed. Jorn, spotting the new students, made the offer to purchase the first round of mead at the table as the Mer seated themselves around the table. Corpulus worked at the bar while Sorex passed through the room, checking in on patrons occasionally, and chatting with his father and younger sister all the meanwhile.

  Ataf ran a hand over his closely cropped hair, seated next to Jorn. "It's nice to have new students," he commented with a grin, "after all, I'm afraid classes might get a bit lonely once we leave, especially since the war's... Well, you know."

  "Y'know, to be honest," Athenath began, "I was expected to see... well, more students. A lot more, actually."

  "And you would be right! Normally, the college receives dozens of auditions, and keeps many of those students for years to come! But with everything going on right now, and with the Burning of King Olaf postponed..."

  "Don't sound so sour." Jorn placed down full tankards onto the table, the thick thuds on the wooden surface and the sloshing of liquid just audible over the songs and other patrons of the inn. He sat down in the last empty chair, his bear cape clasped with heavy brass pins to his clothes. "Next year, you and I will get inducted, and Illdi and Aia won't be far behind."

  Ataf's face warmed, tips of his ears reddening as he rubbed the back of his neck. "I hope Illdi'll be inducted at all. Gods know Lady Ateia's hard on her."

  "Wait, is Illdi the one in the dark dress, short hair, nervous when you talk to her?" Athenath questioned with a small smile. He'd met Illdi in one of his classes, a course led by a tall and highly-respected woman he'd known as Lady Ateia. How she'd earned her title, he didn't care to guess. He'd seen Illdi many times tense up when called upon, despite clearly knowing the words to the well-known songs of the region.

  At this, Ataf groaned, burying his face in his hands. "She's a very good bard," he replied, scrubbing at his face, "but she's so nervous when called upon, I worry one of these days she's going to fall over her own feet when Lady Ateia needs her to sing, and she'll say that this is what ended her career."

  Athenath watched as Emeros glanced between the figures at the table, occasionally sending looks around the room as though searching for the stranger from the Blue Palace. He then turned his attention to Ataf and asked, "I presume you and Illdi are good friends, then?"

  The question prompted a snicker from Jorn, and a playful elbowing to his friends ribs. "You can say that they're acquainted," he teased.

  Ataf swatted the other bard's shoulder as if to tell him to back off, embarrassment tinging his cheeks as he downed another mouthful from his tankard. "Jorn," he groaned through a nervous grin, "by the eight."

  "I'm just saying that you two are acquainted. I don't see the big deal." Jorn's grin only grew, creasing the edges of his eyes like a cat who knew he'd gotten into enough mischief to last him several lifetimes. The pair squabbled jokingly at the table, a friendship built through the years evident on every word and solidified by every motion. Every objection the young Redguard made was left with the Nord bouncing off it to only embolden his own humor, leaving Ataf scrubbing his face with his hands and trying to change the subject more and more. Athenath laughed and would, on occasion, toss their own mirthful comments into the conversation, even as their eyes drifted across the inn. Their ears tuned to the bards before him, he continued to search the room as nonchalantly as possible as Sorex flitted about, talking with patrons he'd become friends with over the years, welcoming in other customers, and keeping the atmosphere light. The noises all around the Altmer were a cacophony he couldn't escape, no matter how hard he tried, so they merely waited until his gaze came to land on one figure seated alone at the far end of the room, head in one hand, other fingers curled around the handle of a tankard.

  The bagged eyes, the weary shoulders, the arch of his nose and the slope of his brow. A clear view, at last.

  Athenath nudged Wyndrelis with their elbow as far under the table as they could manage so as not to draw anyone's attention. The mage, surprised by the act, lurched his gaze to the other Mer, then followed the direction of where Athenath was looking, his pale irises drawing in on the form seated alone in a dim portion of the room. Emeros locked eyes with Athenath, the taller Bosmer knitting his brow subtly, then doing the same, all three now recognizing the man for the pleading petitioner.

  Emeros rose without saying a word to his friends about his actions, which set Athenath's nerves alight. "I'll be back in a moment, I should really ask about dinner options this evening." He dismissed himself as he adjusted his cowl, the draped green material along his shoulders pinned tight in place by the golden clasp. Athenath pressed their palms to the table, a flash of something gnarled and rotten through their stomach, dissipating as soon as it appeared. Still, it hung in their sharp gaze as they faced the other.

  "And I'm going to see if I can't get the bard to play something else," they ground out as pleasantly as possible, the tinge of their annoyance still brushing through their words. "Wyndrelis, would you...?"

  The Dunmer waved a hand. "I'll stay here."

  A nod, and Athenath crossed the room two steps at a time, Emeros keeping up at a brisk pace.

  "What are you-?" Emeros whispered with his face wearing vague confusion, cut off by the other.

  "I want to handle this, too, you know."

  By the time the Bosmer had stopped as if to ask them something, Athenath slid into the chair opposite the strange man, who lifted his head to face the shorter Mer. Athenath's arm rested on the wooden surface of the table, Emeros finding a seat next to them. He could feel Emeros' sharp gaze burning into them as if trying to decipher every movement, but to no avail as they began to speak.

  "Not to pry, but were you at the Blue Palace earlier?" Athenath asked, using the same, bright tone they often did when performing for inns. The same, friendly voice which earned them so much trust in such short spans of time over the years, gold pleasant in their pockets for many days after. The man looked to be examining their faces for some sort of answer, then darted his eyes around the room. If Athenath had to hazard a guess, he was trying to find anyone from the Blue Palace, as if maybe he thought they were here to question him on the court's behalf. Solitude was, Athenath had been coming to learn, a city of secrets. The man's meager scowl on his lips revealed he was still defensive, but finding none of the figures he was looking for, he drummed his fingers on the surface of the tankard and spoke.

  "Yes, is there a reason you're asking me?" He looked to Emeros, whose arms folded over his chest as he leaned back in his chair, appearance casual as though they were simply making light conversation.

  "We're with the Bard's College," he explained, before the man could speak again. "We were there earlier, and happened to overhear what you were telling Jarl Elisif. If it's not too much trouble, may we ask what it was you were so concerned about?"

  The man scoffed, peering down into the dark pool of his drink. He ran a hand over his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose, then scratched the back of his ear. Athenath kept their gaze narrowed to him as he stared into the dark, amber liquid, taking a long swig from the tankard before clearing his throat and nodding.

  "I have reasons to be worried about something outside of Dragon Bridge. But," he sucked in a breath, held it, and let it out in a long shove from his mouth, "I've already told the court in the Blue Palace the majority of it. If you really want to help? Then talk to Falk Firebeard. He'll... He's got the details."

  "Does it, perhaps, have anything to do with how terribly tired you look?" Emeros cocked a brow, asking the question with a slight downward turn of his lip. Just as Athenath opened his mouth to snap at the Bosmer, the man nodded bleakly.

  "Aye, that would be... An understatement, actually." Licking his lips, he leaned slightly forward so that the elves were the only ones to overhear as he spoke in a hush, "I don't know what is going on in Wolfskull Cave, but it's not natural. I know it's got a history, but I can't imagine anyone would be foolish enough to go in for the reasons one could suspect."

  A boisterous rumble of laughter from the trio's table, Ataf regaling Wyndrelis with some story or other, the Dunmer's amusement coming in the form of a half-smile and a lean back, arms folded over his chest while Jorn seemed to be filling in the details.

  "Those reasons being...?" Emeros rotated his wrist, the gesture a clear motion to get the other to disclose more information to the pair. The Altmer merely sat, his chest tight with tension, head buzzing with the same anger which often snuffed itself out not long after, an inside-outside sensation, partially from them and yet fanned by something greater, something worse, they couldn't say, but gods, it burned. They'd come here to help get the information, and gods knew he had his own questions, and if Emeros didn't finally shut up and let them speak-

  "Well, there's stories, you see."

  "What stories?" Athenath prodded instantly, chin against the ball of his heel. The man furrowed his brow.

  "You don't know? Surely bards would be aware of the Wolf Queen Potema."

  The Altmer shook their head. "I'm not."

  "The Wolf Queen was, well, as her name suggests, the queen of Solitude for a while, and- well," he flit his hand, "you have a library, and a historian, right? You should search for answers there." He rubbed the circles under his eyes with his forefinger and thumb, moving the digits back and forth against the soft skin as he sipped his mead. Emeros quirked his brow momentarily, gesturing with a quick lean of his head for Athenath to follow him. All this served to do was amplify the hot iron burning under his sternum.

  "Come on, I fear what mischief Wyndrelis may have dragged our new friends into," Emeros grinned as the words slid from his mouth, but something uneasy in his eyes turned Athenath's stomach raw with how concerned he appeared to be. How worried. They would scowl if it wouldn't be obvious. Concern? For what? For someone who could take care of himself? For someone who had their own questions to ask? What, did he think his line of questioning was the only conclusive one? The only path? The only answers?

  Athenath stifled down the sensation and rose from the chair, striding back over to the table with Wyndrelis - who was now listening eagerly to Ataf and Jorn's stories of their first years at the Bard's College - and pulled their chair out with a loud scrape against the floors. The Altmer plopped down, Emeros taking a moment to gather something for the group to eat, platter in hand as he returned to the table in the tail end of one of the wild narratives spun by their new friends.

  "-And then, gods," Jorn guffawed, face ruddy with intense amusement - or perhaps with drink, as his tankard bore less and less mead by the half-hour. "Lady Ateia tore into us for that one, gods-"

  "She was furious," Ataf finished with a smirk, taking a sip and elbowing Jorn lightly, "but it's alright. We got the flute back, and Vashani was none the wiser."

  He needed some air. The heat of the hearth, the warmth of the mead inside them, and the noise all together meant that Athenath needed a few moments to drink in the cool night breeze, pressing their back to the stone wall outside the Winking Skeever. They wrapped their arms around himself, hands above elbows, hair mussed and frizzy from the humidity. When the moons were absent some nights, he remembered his old friend snickering about Jone and Jode having "other duties", much to the chagrin of the young Khajiit's brother and sister, who would make faux-gagging noises. Now, however, the moons were out, even if the clouds would brush by them with faint hands.

  They closed their eyes, breathing slow through his nose. The waves splashing the stones well beneath the city was a pleasant melody to get lost in, to draw silence back like a curtain. Insects, too, played in the harmonies, as did animals in the woods and mountains which made up Haafingar Hold. If, given the twist of fate to meet again, if he and his old friends caught one another's eye across a crowded street or busy inn or quiet temple, would they recognize one another? He thought he'd changed a lot in the past nine years since they'd left Bravil. He was sure they had, as well. Mara only knew what any of them were up to these days.

  He tried to narrow his attention back to the present, to the stranger whose name he forgot to ask, to the "strange things" in the cave.

  Given the minute to reflect, he let the words drape over their thoughts, the concepts they contained. A cave and a queen and the city and its history, all interwoven with one another. What stories could have possibly ruined the stranger's sleep? What sort of things was he seeing? Was he not telling them the full story? The image of the balled fists he'd clenched tight as he stormed from the Blue Palace rose in Athenath's mind, the sight of someone so troubled that they would raise their voice in front of the entire court of the city... Well, okay, the raising of a voice wasn't unusual, they corrected themself, but still, his behavior had been so strange that it almost warranted investigation as much as the cave.

  The door pushed open, the sounds of music and conversation flooding every thought, washing them away. Someone stumbled down the road, back to their house, drunken song on their lips. A guard patrolled the streets, sounds of his armor clear in the evening.

  Athenath, at last, opened their eyes. They looked to the stage where Roggvir had been executed. It stared at them a while.

  Jorn was a bit of a group effort to get back to the college, his stumbling and swaying off the support of his friends feeling more and more like an attempt to hoist himself off their shoulders and down to the stone, laughter bubbling off his lips. Emeros on one side, Ataf on the other, listening to the Nord ramble on and on about his drumming lessons and what a great soldier he'll be once he's graduated the college. Athenath had seen plenty of people go far beyond their usual limits, and he and Ataf made their best attempts to keep Jorn talking so as to surmise his current state. Right now, he was giddy, and keeping him that way would be the best bet at coaxing him into bed once they passed through the college doors. Wyndrelis led the little procession, himself quiet save for an idle comment.

  As though he were leading thralls, the thought poured in before he could stop it. As though they were just his dead puppets under command of his skilled magic. What if Emeros had been right to begin with? What if these flares of anger came not for Emeros, but for the fact that he may be right, that Wyndrelis were nothing more than a necromancer who'd found himself easy marionettes? Athenath had definitely fallen into trusting the Dunmer much too fast, but he could say the same about the alchemist, but all the same...

  He swallowed the flurry of questions down as the group meandered into the common area of the Bard's College, working to carefully bring Jorn down the stairs, catching the sight of Illdi who offered her assistance. She'd laughed a bit and cursed under her breath and joked with Jorn about him overdoing it, and Jorn cracked a few comments back. She and Ataf helped him to his room, thanking the others before disappearing behind doors for the evening, the noises of their conversation giving way to the quiet. Athenath watched them go, fingers raking through his dark hair. They twirled a length around his finger, the ringlet wide and circling the digit, anything to distract from how their head pounded with need for sleep and answers both. If the day had not been so long, then they would be in the library, books stacked and skimming every mention of a wolf or queen or Wolf Queen. Against these wishes, his feet dragged him to his dorm, bidding quick goodnights to his friends with the faintest smile on his mouth.

  Did any of this matter? They toyed with the idea as they kicked off their boots, door shut and locked behind him. So what if there were strange lights in a cave. Skyrim was a strange place. He tore off his dayclothes and tugged on a nightshirt and peeled up the blankets, sliding in beneath them with a strange amount of caution. The ideas of what lay ahead remained in his mind, even as he tried to get comfortable in the bed. Was this worth it, to investigate this rumor? For all he knew, the man never slept right, and it had simply made his thoughts strange and garbled and sent him to demand answers. In that case, would he not seek a healer instead of the Jarl? Suppose that, should his lack of sleep be a common problem for him, then maybe they wouldn't head to the right person for answers because they couldn't think clearly enough to do so. But what did it matter? Was he just mad?

  Athenath turned over in their bed. Every question rumbled like a thunderstorm beneath him. They came from him, in their own voice, but something slithered beyond, as though they were phantom projections of something or someone else's mind. Bitterly, they wondered if Wyndrelis had anything to do with it - mages can manipulate much, can't they? Or what if Emeros had something to do with it, using potions to dampen their capacity to think clearly? The Altmer frowned and scrunched their nose. These ideas, too, flew in from somewhere, like a cormorant with its serpentine neck leading the way. The moonlight had been a fickle thing, coveted for the brief moments the clouds didn't spurn its light, dark shapes snaking through the sky and veiling the stars. Words formed in him, but were not from them. He would close his eyes and curl close to their pillow, but he took no comfort that his usually vivid dreams would be peaceful ones tonight.