Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The morning where Etho’s life turns upside-down begins in a shockingly mundane manner.

He wakes up at sunrise exactly, despite him not having to be at work until early in the evening. The coffee machine sputters to life and drips out his coffee in the loudest way possible, rumbling the kitchen counter and spitting liquid all over the mug.

There is a calmness in routine, Etho has grown to realize. Every morning, he eats the same breakfast: two eggs—scrambled, of course—and a piece of toast cut in half. Bacon, if he remembers to buy it, and a protein shake if the coffee machine decides not to work.

Unfortunately, today is a bacon-less day, and Etho closes his eyes to mourn his loss as he slips bread into the toaster. When he opens his fridge to retrieve the eggs, however, Etho realizes that perhaps he might have to grieve for more than just the bacon.

The refrigerator is almost empty, save for a few condiments and some leftover takeout that he’ll have for dinner tonight, and Etho checks his phone to see if there are any grocery stores open this early.

Bless the twenty four hour Safeway, he thinks to himself with a grin, and slips on his mask before heading out the door. I don’t think I need my vest to go to Safeway.

To many people, it might look ridiculous to see someone wearing a shirt where the neck basically turns into a mask, covering everything below the ears, but Etho doesn’t mind the occasional strange look he might get. Most people are polite enough to only give him a passing glance, which he greatly appreciates.

Just as Etho finishes locking his door, he hears a loud shout of his name.

“Etho!”

The shout comes from none other than Grian, also known as Etho’s only friend, and quite possibly the strangest oddball in Toronto.

Today, he seems to be dressed as some sort of cosplayer, perhaps from Dungeons and Dragons? Etho isn’t too familiar on that sort of thing, but the outfit seems to suit Grian, what with his reddish brown tunic and leather… padding? Armor? Belts and pockets crisscross the chest both diagonal and horizontal, and his fancy schmancy ruby necklace dangles on top of it all.

“Hey, Grian!” Etho greets his friend with a smile under his mask.

Grian is unlike anyone Etho has ever met before, and he means that in a mostly positive way. He’s eccentric, constantly bouncing from topic to topic, and restless, too, always moving. Always dressed like a medieval peasant or wearing strange outfits, Grian wears sweaters that are a few sizes too big and constantly complains about the sleeves draping.

Etho only ever sees Grian about once a week, despite the man living just a few doors down from him in the same apartment complex, and he doesn’t have a phone. Seriously, what type of person doesn’t own even a flip phone?

Sometimes, if he catches him at the right hour, Grian will get lunch with Etho, although he never pays. That’s fine, though, as his company is plenty entertaining, especially to a man as lonely as Etho.

Right now, however, Grian seems to be in a hurry, his eyes wide and frantic, panting heavily. “Hey, are you alright?” Etho asks.

Grian is normally so excited and bouncy, that seeing him so viscerally upset is, well, upsetting, for lack of a better word. “There’s an emergency, Etho,” he says, voice more serious than he’s ever heard it before.

Immediately, alarm bells ring in Etho’s head, and he goes straight into security mode. “Are you in danger?” he presses, examining Grian for any injuries or wounds.

There seems to be dirt smeared on his cosplay outfit, and his hair is messy, but Grian doesn’t seem to be hurt anywhere, which is good. Is there an intruder in his apartment?

Grian seems to hesitate before he answers. “Yes? No? Sort of? We’re all in danger, see, and—”

“I’ll be right back—don’t move—to help you.”

Before Grian can open his mouth to protest, Etho runs back into his apartment, slipping on his green vest and clipping his gun holster to his belt. He’s gone the past eight years in this job only using his gun when training, but he doesn’t want to take any risks for his friend.

Etho does a mental checklist of all the items in his vest pockets, both inside and out. Bandage rolls, pepper spray, taser, bullets, wallet, breath mints—wait, what—and handcuffs.

Quickly, he runs back into the hallway, gun in hand, and sees that Grian is no longer there. “Grian?!” he calls out, worry making his heart race.

None of the dangerous situations he’s been in have had anything to do with a friend. Nobody ever told him how protecting a friend is a thousand times scarier than tasing a couple guys in an underground fighting ring!

“Grian?” he tries again, creeping closer to his neighbor’s door.

As a friend, Etho knows that he probably shouldn’t go inside of his neighbor’s door. It’s an invasion of privacy and, under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t even be thinking about breaking in.

However, having your only friend dressed as a medieval adventurer tell you “There’s an emergency” and that he might be in danger, only to suddenly disappear, is not what Etho would call a normal circumstance.

“Grian, if you don’t answer in three seconds, I am going to break down this door,” Etho forces the shakiness out of his voice as he calls through the door, “three… two…”

One.

With a grunt, Etho slams the full force of his body into the old door, feeling the wood splinter at the hinges with a satisfying crack. The door swings open, completely broken now, and Etho quickly surveys the apartment.

It’s… completely empty.

Not a single trinket lies on any of the walls, the stove seems to be collecting dust, and the floors show no signs of life. Even a ghost couldn’t live here, what with the empty, soulless skeleton of an apartment. Grian isn’t like this at all, Etho thinks with a frown, until he hears a loud crash from the bedroom area.

Now that is like his silly friend.

Etho likes to pride himself on not being easily surprised. Being in the business of a less-than-legal security guard, he's done some nasty things and seen even nastier.

Seeing a giant, glowing portal in the middle of his neighbor’s bedroom seems to do the trick, as his jaw drops and he blinks a few times at the portal.

 Was he drugged?

Is Grian some crazy crackpot who’s really good at pretending he’s sober?

Etho lowers his gun in shock and uses his free hand to rub at his eyes. Am I seeing this right? A giant, glowing purple portal in the middle of my neighbor’s room?

This definitely counts as an emergency, just not one that Etho is equipped to handle in any way, shape, or form.

“Think, Etho, think!” he hisses to himself under his breath, gripping at his hair with his free arm. There is a ninety percent chance that Grian is trapped inside of this portal right now, and who knows what could be happening to him inside!

Poor Grian probably just wanted to cosplay, and now he’s trapped inside of horrors beyond human comprehension.

If I don’t save Grian, Etho holds a hand out towards the portal, entranced by the way the purple light swirls and reaches out as if to grab him, who will?

“Hold on, Grian,” Etho grits his teeth and cocks his gun, “I’m on my way.”

If Etho had to compare the feeling of stepping into this portal, he supposes he would compare it to walking onto an elevator that immediately starts shooting off into the atmosphere.

The portal swallows his entire body in one big gulp, his skin feeling like it’s being ripped apart into a thousand little pieces and slowly pieced back together. The process continues to repeat over and over, and Etho tries to grasp onto something, anything to hold, to get a semblance of normalcy inside of this whirlwind of colors and lights and every atom in his body splitting apart.

His face seems to melt and freeze at the same time, the scar running from his forehead all the way down through his lip and chin shatters into pieces and burns up, and yet he can’t move his body at all.

Finally, after an eternity (five seconds) of agony, Etho can feel the hard ground underneath him, but he’s much too exhausted to even lift his head up.

Vaguely, in the back of his mind as gentle birds lull him to unconsciousness with their soft song, Etho realizes that he doesn’t live anywhere near a forest.

-

“How are you not cold?”

Etho and Grian sit across from each other in a dinky old diner, watching the snow glide onto the ground outside the frosted windows. Etho has just shrugged off his parka and gloves, while Grian simply sits in the same red sweater, no gloves or anything.

Grian shrugs, hiding a grin behind the mug of coffee that was just set in front of him. “I grew up in a cold climate,” he answers vaguely.

Etho raises his eyebrows as Grian orders an absurdly enormous breakfast meal, including six whole pancakes. “Colder than Canada?” he jokes. “Where’d you grow up, the North Pole?”

“They call it the coldest country in Tamr—ah, in the world.”

Etho scoffs and quietly orders an egg and toast platter. “Sure, man,” he mumbles, dodging the sugar packet that Grian has expertly catapulted towards him.

The next few minutes are spent in companionable silence, with Grian draining three refills of coffee before the food gets set out. They have to maneuver everything around the table so all of Grian’s food can fit.

Etho lowers his mask to take a bite of his toast, pointedly ignoring the soft gasp that Grian fails to hide. “Your scar, it’s—”

“Enormous?” Etho suggests with a tiny smirk.

Grian mimics the gesture with a Cheshire grin of his own. “I was going to say it’s amazing, but that works, too. How’d you get it?”

“What do you do for a living?” Etho counters, and Grian wisely shuts up with a “touché” gesture, scarfing down two of his pancakes lightning-fast.

Etho regards the speed at which Grian shovels down his food in what he hopes is less judgmental and more concerned. “Are you eating enough at home?” he asks, cautious of the territory he’s walking on.

Grian can get antsy and flighty when asked about… well, any sort of personal question that isn’t “what’s your favorite color” or “what food do you like”.

Luckily, Grian just puts an even bigger piece of pancake into his mouth. “Plenty to eat, but I’m an awful cook,” he says through a mouthful of food, “nothing quite like the food here, right?”

Etho thinks that the food here is fairly mediocre, but food is subjective, so he just tips his head in acknowledgement. “You’re an interesting man, Grian,” he says with a soft smile.

Grian drains his fifth cup of coffee, and his eyes seem to sparkle. “More than you’ll ever know,” he replies, watching the snow fall outside with a wistful look.

-

Etho has slept in some pretty rough cars before in his life. He’s been curled up in the back of a janky van, hiding out in the back of a truck, and sprawled out on the roof of a golf cart, but he’s never quite felt a sensation like this.

There are wheels moving, he can hear the squeaky creaks, but his body seems to jerk around with every single movement. Before he opens his eyes, Etho takes a mental checklist of what his surroundings might be.

Etho concludes that there must be trees nearby, judging from the birds calling out to each other, and he can hear the soft murmurs of people nearby, as well. With the noises and roughness of the ride, a crazier Etho might think he would be in a carriage, but the thought is ridiculous.

That is, ridiculous until he hears the snort of a horse.

Etho’s eyes snap open at the sound, and he tries to grab his gun, but alarm bells ring in his head when he realizes that his wrists are bound. With a start, his head shoots up, and his eyes widen at the sights around him.

The carriage is wooden, with two other carriages next to it, the horses driven by helmet-wearing guards who look like they’re about to attend the world’s most intense renaissance fair. Three other people are in his carriage, with one of them seeming to be asleep, and another gagged.

It seems the gagged one notices that Etho is awake first, and his green eyes crinkle. Around the gag, the man does the most pathetic attempt at a smile, sweet and innocent.

Well, as sweet as one can seem while tied up and gagged, anyways.

Long, brown hair is tied into a neat braid that pours over one of his shoulders. A dark green cloak sits neatly on top of his shoulders with the hood flipped back, and Etho can just barely get a peek of a ridiculously fancy green outfit underneath it.

The strangest part about this man are the scars all across his face—Etho can count at least seven—of all different shapes and sizes. Some are white from age, with the exception of a pinkish one on his jawline, and yet none of the scars take away from this man’s bizarre, almost ethereal beauty.

“Where am I?” Etho demands, voice rough and dry from jumping into a crazy magical portal.

The gagged man tries to answer, his words muffled from behind the gag, and he shrugs good-naturedly with a teasing roll of his eyes. Honestly, how someone can be so nonchalant in such a situation is beyond Etho.

Thankfully, the fourth person on the carriage finally seems to notice Etho’s presence. Despite being dressed like a medieval peasant in a simple belted tunic and messenger bag, he still looks to be the most normal one of the bunch.

“Hey, you!” he greets him, voice quivering from fear or maybe the cobbled roads, “You’re finally awake!”

Chapter Text

“You’re finally awake!”

Etho blinks at the man across from him, with round brown eyes and blonde hair. “Oh, right, yes, you asked where we are! We’re going to Helgen, where I am to be wrongfully murdered for delivering a letter and accidentally walking into a battlefield!”

What?

Murdered?

“This isn’t funny,” Etho hisses, “seriously, what’s going on?”

The blonde frowns and tilts his head in a similar way to a puppy. He’s weirdly adorable, in a pathetic sort of way. “This is serious, I’m afraid. We found you passed out on the side of the road, and… well, I don’t think the guards are going to kill you, but it was more of a safety precaution.”

Right, Etho isn’t going to get anywhere with these LARPers. Maybe he just has to play along with their roleplay for a little bit, and then in exchange they can help him find Grian. Or at least tell him where he is.

“I’m Jimmy, by the way!” the blonde says cheerfully. “Fastest courier in all of Tamriel—er, well, I suppose just Skyrim. For a small price, I can deliver a letter from Riften to Solitude in just a weeks’ time!”

Tamriel? Skyrim? Riften? None of these words make any sense, but Etho nods and pretends like the gun in his pocket couldn’t end this renaissance fair in two seconds flat. “Etho,” he introduces himself shortly, “look, I don’t have time for this, okay? I’m looking for someone important to me, and I need to find him fast.”

Jimmy sighs solemnly while the gagged man sends him a sympathetic glance. “Even if I wasn’t tied up, I don’t think just the three of us could take down these guards,” he bemoans, casting a shaky glance up at the cloudy sky, “all I can do now is hope I was a good enough man for Sovngarde.”

Aw, good grief.

Etho can see the stone walls of what appears to be a “ye olden days” village in front of the carriages, and he must commend the dedication of these cosplayers. “If I could somehow get you two out of here,” Etho begins, warily glancing at the guards before dropping his voice to a whisper, “will you help me find someone?”

Jimmy and the gagged man both bob their heads instantly, and Etho mentally sighs in relief. The carriages slow down to a stop, and the guards start lining up the prisoners like cattle. It’s a freaky sight, Etho must admit, and just as Etho stumbles onto the ground, a loud roar sounds from above.

Bile rises up in Etho’s throat when he sees the space in front of him—a block and a basket, with blood splattered all around. Judging from the rotten smell coming from the area…

These aren’t regular LARPers, are they?

Panic grabs at Etho’s heart and twists it around. No, this is fine. It’s just like one of his jobs, like that one glow-in-the-dark party where he had to restrain a naked man covered in black lights and glowing paint. Strange, terrifying, but not impossible to get out of.

Another roar rumbles the carriages and stone, and the guards look around in confusion. “What’s happening?” Etho asks Jimmy, whose brows are furrowed in thought.

“Well, if I didn’t want to seem batty, I’d think it was a dragon,” he murmurs back, “but dragons are extinct now. I mean, nobody’s seen one since—”

“DRAGON!”

Etho is about to roll his eyes at the shriek from one of the other prisoners, but then a giant mass lands on top of the stone wall, its eyes the size of Etho’s whole head, and his whole world turns upside down.

This isn’t a costume.

This isn’t CGI.

This is a real, living, breathing dragon. Covered in spikes with tiny holes in its wings (surely that can’t be aerodynamic, Etho will think to himself at a calmer time), the dragon shrieks an ear-splitting tune and roars a wall of fire onto one of the guards, burning him to a crisp.

The gun in Etho’s holster suddenly feels useless, and yet somehow Etho manages to blink into awareness faster than the others.

Get to safety, he thinks, focusing in on a stone tower nearby. Perfect. Just as he’s about to start running away, Etho notices both Jimmy and the gagged man still staring slack-jawed at the dragon, who currently has a guard in its mouth and oh that’s disgusting.

I can’t believe I’m doing this for two strangers, he thinks to himself, and then he nudges Jimmy with his shoulder. Jimmy’s watery brown eyes look almost diluted, and his bound hands are trembling. “D-d-dra—”

“Yes, dragon,” Etho hisses, “would you rather get eaten by a dragon, get your head chopped off by a guard, or escape?”

Maybe later, he’ll feel guilty for the tone of voice he’s using, but right now he’s in full security guard mode. “Get to that stone tower, we can get to the top and try and pinpoint an escape route. Go!”

Etho isn’t used to running without the use of his hands, but after almost tripping a few times, he seems to get the hang of it. Jimmy is even faster than him, but the gagged man seems to be lagging behind, tripping over the burning debris that falls from the wooden parts of people’s houses.

Falling behind to help him out as best he can, Etho and the gagged man finally reach the stone tower, where Jimmy is using his shoulder to hold open the door.

Every few seconds, the screams and shattering of houses gets to Etho’s head, bellowing out a crescendo of the most haunting symphony he’s ever heard, but he takes a deep breath and it all quiets down into a soft yet tense rising action.

“Helgen Keep has a cave underneath it,” Jimmy says after a moment, face pale as a ghost, “if we can somehow get past the dragon and the guards… the cave leads right outside, a few miles from Riverwood. I had to take a letter once to—oh, it doesn’t matter.”

A cave? That doesn’t sound like the safest option, but neither does getting eaten by a dragon, so Etho nods.

A loud cracking noise sounds from above, and a giant pile of stones fall down in front of the door, and Jimmy shrieks in fear. “How are we going to get out?” he asks, looking to Etho for guidance.

How the heck am I supposed to know? Before he can say those words out loud, however, the gagged man clears his throat, muffled a bit, and jerks his head towards the window halfway up the stairs.

Jimmy somehow seems to pale even further, but Etho climbs up the stairs and looks out the window. The entire village is in flames, with bodies being thrown around and both people and guards alike screaming in fear and pain.

It’s a nightmare, one that would never happen in Toronto, and Etho clenches his fists from where they’re bound. Magical portal taking me to a fantasy universe with dragons… oh, Grian, you’d better be so thankful when I rescue you.

Right under the window is the loft of a house, with the roof completely burned off. It’ll be a bit risky, but Etho figures if he just tucks and rolls at the right time, it shouldn’t injure him besides a few bruises or burns. “Don’t tell me you’re jumping,” Jimmy says in horror.

“We’re jumping,” Etho corrects him helpfully, before he realizes that most normal people probably don’t have years’ worth of training in things like high-speed chases and parkour, “look, I know it’s scary, but this is the only way we’re getting out of here alive. Right before you hit the ground, I need you to tuck your body and roll—if you can’t roll forward, that’s fine, just roll to your side. It’ll soften the fall—here, watch.”

Ignoring the fact that it’s been at least a month since parkour training, Etho takes a deep breath before launching himself out of the window.

He’s done this a few times, mostly in training with mats and safe buildings, and only a few times has he actually had to parkour to restrain someone, but it’s never been like this. This is a job for people who do legal things, like law enforcement, not “security guards” who stop underground operations from going awry.

The flames from the roof reach out to touch him, to kiss their torture onto his body, but he’s too fast, and he quickly tucks his body before softly rolling onto the wood floor, using the momentum to spring back up on his feet.

Etho glances back up to the window and tries to smile, not that the others can see it under his mask. “See? I’m fine,” he lies because there will definitely be a bruise on his back after this.

The gagged man only seems to hesitate for a brief moment before shrugging smoothly. He doesn’t jump out of the window so much as steps off, his braid flapping in the wind as he crouches and rolls—a bit clumsy, but successful.

It takes the gagged man a little bit to stand up, what with his hands being tied behind his back, but he finally crawls over to a non-burning wall and shuffles up.

“Come on, Jimmy, we don’t have much time!” Etho calls out, wincing as the dragon roars fiercely somewhere above, “don’t think, just jump!”

Jimmy wails in despair and jumps, screaming the entire way down. When Etho realizes that the man isn’t going to tuck his body, he jumps into the way, taking on the full force of Jimmy’s falling body, which is surprisingly light.

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh,” Jimmy whimpers, his whole body trembling and shaking, “I just did that!”

The gagged man raises his eyebrows good-naturedly as Jimmy gets back on his feet. “Alright, see that other giant stone building? That’s Helgen Keep, and we need to get through there… but there’ll probably be a lot of guards.”

“I can take care of them,” Etho assures Jimmy, getting a doubtful look from the gagged man, “just lead the way.”

The mad dash through the fiery buildings, roaring dragon, and bloodstained streets is enough to be burned into Etho’s brain forever, but nothing too terrible seems to happen until they burst through the weak, moldy wooden door.

Now, none of Etho’s years of training ever said anything about how to deal with a real-life version of “Dungeons & Dragons”, nor how to… take care of five guards wielding various metal weapons, but Etho has always prided himself on being quick on his feet.

One of the guards turns around, wielding a nasty, two-handed sword, and Etho’s heart drops into his stomach. Use your environment, he thinks, don’t panic.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Jimmy says, taking a nervous step forward.

A different guard with a mace sneers, and Etho quietly notices that all of their helmets have long since been abandoned.

 “You’ve already got yourself in trouble, haven’t you?” he snarls in a thick accent. “I suggest you go back to the dragon, unless you want to deal with us.”

When nobody makes a move to leave, the giant sword man lunges forward with a battle cry that could bring a grown man to his knees.

Thankfully, he also seems to be a complete idiot, as Etho easily sidesteps the man, watching amusedly as he stabs right between the stones in the wall.

“Hey, buddy, I think your sword’s stuck,” Etho teases, and helpfully uses his foot to ram the guard’s head into the butt of his own sword.

The first guard immediately crumples like paper, and Etho no longer has time to be funny. The lack of any usable arms is a little (read: very) annoying, but he tries to make do as best as he can.

He slams his foot into the guard’s stomach, causing the man to crash into his buddy and end up in a dazed pile, which two guards left.

The gagged man calmly walks up to one of them, who is reaching for an arrow to nock into his bow, and aggressively thunks his head into the other man’s, green eyes sparkling as the guard collapses. Through the gag, Etho can hear a muffled groan of pain, and he winces sympathetically.

Jimmy turns to the other guard and pathetically attempts a glare. “You want what they’re having?” he asks in a voice that is… not very menacing.

The guard, thank all divine beings, doesn’t know that Jimmy was almost crying a few minutes beforehand, and he turns tail and runs out the door, back into the chaos outside.

Etho sighs in relief and slumps onto the wall, eyeing the beds that the guards presumably slept in with envy. “We have to get the ropes off,” he says, wiping off sweat from his forehead.

Every step feels like he’s walking up a mountain as Etho makes his way over to the sword still stuck in the wall. “Are you about to…?” Jimmy trails off as he watches Etho.

His movements are incredibly awkward as he shuffles his bound wrists back and forth onto the sword, and after an extremely uncomfortable three or so minutes, the ropes fall to the ground. As soon as his wrists are free, Etho begins rubbing some feeling back into them.

“Here, let me get that gag off,” Etho says, pulling down the gag until it falls around the man’s throat like a tragic necklace.

“Oh, phew!” the man’s voice is deep and smooth, like velvety chocolate, and once Etho frees his wrists, he massages his jaw and moves it around with a lighthearted chuckle. “Here I was thinking I’d never speak again!”

Etho had expected someone gruff, brooding and mysterious, but this guy seems to be the complete opposite, with glittering eyes and a dashing smile.

“I’m Scar, by the way,” he introduces himself, clasping Etho’s hand in both of his and shaking it, “are you a former Dark Brotherhood age—oh, wait, no, you wouldn’t be able to tell me or else you’d kill me—or maybe you’re a former guard?”

Etho ponders how to answer the question as he frees Jimmy’s wrists. “I… something like that,” he eventually responds.

“Mysterious, are we?” Scar clasps his hand as the keep rumbles again. “Well, gosh, this is just wonderful! All of us on an adventure together…”

Etho quickly decides to stop the cheerful cloak-wearer in his tracks. “Woah, now, who said anything about an adventure together? Don’t you have somewhere to be? A family to go to?”

Scar’s mouth quirks up into a tiny smirk. “How else will you be able to find your friend?” the man asks innocently.

He then leans forward until his face is just inches away from Etho’s own, Jimmy’s wide eyes darting back and forth behind them. “After all, it’s hard to navigate Skyrim if you’re not from here.”

Etho’s heart stutters for a moment, and he reaches a hand towards the gun in its holster. With two shots, Scar and Jimmy won’t be problems anymore.

“Jimmy, once we get out of here, can you lead us to Riverwood? I’m afraid it’s been,” Scar interrupts himself to chuckle, “well, it’s been a while since I left Winterhold.”

Jimmy gasps loudly, brown eyes shining bright in the dim, damp light of the keep. “You’re a mage,” he breathes out, and of course magic would be real here, “at the College of Winterhold, no less! That’s fantastic!”

Scar flicks his wrist downward in an “aw, shucks” manner. “Oh, it’s not that great, really—let me just get my staff, and we’ll be on our merry way to Riverwood!” he exclaims.

Maybe when he said I’m not from here, he just meant this country. There are other countries here, right? Etho’s hand relaxes its hold on the gun as he thinks about it. Yeah, he probably just thinks I’m a foreigner.

Aw, snappers, he’s going to have to make up a fake origin story, isn’t he?

Scar holds out his hand expectantly, while Jimmy waits, completely starstruck. Are mages rare here? Or is Jimmy just really in awe of Scar?

Something flies through the door at top speed, landing in Scar’s hand perfectly, and it takes Etho a minute to realize it’s a magical staff, because of course it is. It doesn’t look too fancy, just some nice brown wood crawling up towards a swirling green crystal, but it seems… powerful.

“Alright, let’s roll!” Scar chirps, twirling the staff between his fingers.

Pretending like he isn’t terrified of what might come out of the staff, Etho leads the way through the stone hallway, heading down a few flights of stairs before the air gets colder and damper.

Eventually, the hallway begins to bear resemblance to a tunnel, with moss dripping onto the ground and echoing noises coming from far away. “Bit creepy, isn’t it?” Jimmy whispers.

“Oi, Scar, do you know how to make light with that staff of yours?” Jimmy asks while Etho pulls out his gun.

Scar frowns and runs a finger absently along the crystal on his staff. “I never managed to get my hands on a magelight spell tome,” he tells Jimmy, “besides, that was more of my rival’s thing, anyway.”

Jimmy hangs onto every one of Scar’s words as he talks about some goofy rival in his magic school or whatever. Etho, however, has more important tasks to do, such as survey the paths that he’s walking.

The tunnels in this cave system seem to get tighter and tighter with every step, until eventually they have to walk in a single-file line to fit. “It should open up soon, if I remember correctly,” Jimmy informs the group.

As though the god of comedic timing is laughing down at them, the tunnel drops down into an enormous cave, illuminated only by small holes in the ceilings. One such sunray is sitting beautifully on top of a sleeping bear.

“We’ll have to sneak past the bear,” Etho mutters, dropping down into a crouch, “unless one of you has a better idea.”

Scar perks up at that before scowling. It’s the look of someone who has an idea but is either too afraid to execute it or too worried it will fail—Etho knows that look better than anyone, he sees it in his reflection almost every day.

“Do you know how the school of illusion works?” Scar finally asks, looking everywhere except for his two acquaintances.

Not really.

 “A bit,” Etho lies.

Scar presses his lips into a thin white line, similar to the scars all around his face, and casts a wary glance towards the snoozing bear. “It’s the manipulation of minds—man and beast. It’s a dangerous school, and I’m thankful that I am not one of the mages whose minds are lost—”

I’m not so sure about that one.

“—from the psychological turmoil this magic area puts one through. I don’t normally tell people I’m on the illusion track, as there are certain stereotypes, but… well, this isn’t what we’d call ‘normal’, is it?”

Etho raises his eyebrows. As skeptical as he is about all this magic stuff, the nerdy part of his brain that’s buried under years of training is a bit curious. “So, you’re going to Jedi mind-trick the bear into letting us pass?” he questions.

Scar’s brows furrow. “I’m not sure what that means, but… yes? Here, watch my staff.”

As his hands leave the staff, it stays floating in mid-air by an invisible force, and Etho has to try not to gawk at it (and fail miserably). With a surprising amount of noise and clumsiness, Scar blunders over to the still sleeping bear and takes a deep breath.

Scar’s eyes slip shut as he holds up his hands, and Jimmy lets out a soft gasp from Etho’s left. Little glowing lines of pale green light emerge from Scar’s palms and dance between his fingers, growing stronger with each passing moment, bouncing around his hands as though they are laughing.

Almost like he’s channeling lightning, Scar slowly opens his eyes—are they glowing—and points two fingers at the bear’s rising and falling pelt.

Etho feels almost mesmerized by the way the little green lines burrow inside of the bear, who yawns loudly, and blinks open its eyes.

Immediately, Etho raises his gun with both hands, but then he realizes that the bear is simply blinking calmly at Scar, faint wisps of green escaping its nose. The bear regards Scar with a shocking amount of apathy before slumping back into his peaceful slumber, leaving a flabbergasted Etho and Jimmy to simply gawk.

“It’s rude to stare with your mouths open,” Scar teases with a hesitant smile, striding back over to the others and grabbing ahold of his staff.

A rumble from above causes the cave to echo and groan, dirt and a few pebbles falling from the ceiling. “We need to get out of here, like, yesterday!” Jimmy squeaks, narrowly avoiding a falling stone.

The exit is plainly visible from where he’s at, and so Etho decides to do one last push and breaks into a sprint towards the light spilling out from the hole carved out of the stones.

Jimmy is ahead of him, light-footed and speedy, and Scar is behind, seeming to be a bit faster with his staff. What does he use the staff for, if he doesn’t use it to do his weird mind control? Etho only has a moment to wonder this before he’s finally outside, shielding his eyes from the bright lights.

Once his eyes have adjusted to the bright sky ahead, Etho’s jaw drops, the gun falling from his hands and clattering onto the uneven dirt path.

I’m really stuck here, aren’t I?

“Welcome,” Scar’s voice projects from behind him as though he is showcasing a new house, voice dripping with velvet and honey, “to Skyrim.”

Chapter Text

Trees line the dirt pathway, thinning and thickening out as the roads wind up and down the hills. A few meters before him is a drop, where he can see countless rivers and lakes and tiny dots that must be houses.

Mountains stretch their hands up towards the sun in an attempt to reach the horizon as the largest ones break through the clouds and breathe in the beautiful sky. Despite the mostly blue sky and the sun warming Etho’s back, the air itself is chilly from such a high altitude.

How is this grass so green in this cold? Etho wonders, his Canadian brain confused and in awe.

“If we hurry, we should make it to Riverwood before sundown,” Jimmy muses, patting his messenger bag, “then… well, I suppose we could make our way to Whiterun to inform the Jarl of the dragon attack.”

Blinking the wonder out of his eyes (focus, Etho, you’re here to save your friend), Etho picks up his gun and slides it back into its holster on his belt. “Is the Jarl the leader?” he asks.

The three of them begin ambling down the winding mountain paths, Etho stopping every few minutes to turn around in a circle at the natural beauty of the world around him.

Foxes dart across the road to catch little white rabbits that streak past, butterflies carefully land on top of flowers to pollinate, and the occasional bird flies around, cooing to its friends.

It’s peaceful and serene, so different from the fast-paced urban lifestyle of Toronto. Even with smoke billowing up from the town behind them, it feels oddly quiet. No cars rushing by, no screaming cats getting into fights in the alleys… just the world and its creations.

After about a half mile of walking, the three adventurers happen upon a new path, this time made of well-trodden stone. A wooden post stands tall and proud, three signs pointing in different directions hanging off it.

Falkreath, on the bottom, pointing left. Riverwood, in the middle, pointing to the right, and finally Helgen, also pointing to the left.

Convenient, Etho thinks dryly, considering the fact that he has no idea what any of these words mean. Scar, however, seems absolutely delighted. “Falkreath!” he exclaims excitedly. “You know, the Jarl of Whiterun spent a few years in Falkreath when she was younger. A few rumors popped out about her having some sort of business arrangement with the Dark Brotherhood… I’m sure they aren’t true!”

The way you’re saying it makes me think it’s true, Etho decides not to say. Why is he so grouchy today? He usually doesn’t get so frustrated by silly things like this—in fact, Etho would consider himself a fairly easygoing guy all in all!

A loud grumble of his stomach interrupts the peaceful afternoon walk, and Etho’s ears turn pink with embarrassment. “Sorry,” he mumbles out awkwardly.

“Was that your stomach or a bear?” Scar jokes in reply, and Etho hesitantly smiles under his mask. “Let’s see if we can find some berries to snack on before we reach Riverwood—ooh, you know what, Jimmy?”

Jimmy hums in acknowledgement and turns his head. “Yeah?”

“Is that little hunter’s spot across from Anise’s cabin still there? I haven’t been around here in years, but if we hunker down there for the night and get some food and rest, we could make it all the way to Whiterun before tomorrow afternoon!”

At this point, Etho has no idea what Scar is on about, but thankfully Jimmy does, as the man grins brightly. “Brilliant idea, Scar! That should be just down the hill from the standing stones, too. We’re practically there now!”

“Yes, and then we—oh, wow, that’s beautiful.”

Etho turns to look at what Scar and Jimmy are staring at, and once he finally sees, he suddenly feels like Toronto may not be up to his standards anymore. The afternoon sun begins to bleed a pink hue onto the horizon, and Etho has to stifle a gasp as the road curves once more.

To the right of the road is a river, clear as day. The river flows towards a small waterfall, but against the current are two rivers that converge into a lake, with a small island in the middle.

“This is my favorite place in Skyrim,” Jimmy says with pride, “isn’t it beautiful?”

Scar seems to be equally as in awe as Etho is, but not for the rivers and lakes and trees. In fact, Scar is making his way to three pillars made of wood and stone, each facing each other with a soft, almost sad smile.

They each have what seem to be constellations on them, but none that Etho is familiar. That isn’t saying much, though, seeing as how he knows maybe two constellations if he’s being generous.

Anthropologists would probably start foaming at the mouth if they got their hands on these, Etho thinks to himself with a bemused smile. Do anthropologists even exist in a world like this?

“These are the standing stones,” Scar explains with an elaborate hand gesture, “there are thirteen of them in Skyrim, but these three are the easiest journey to make for most. Only someone that the stars deem worthy can receive their blessing, and only one can choose you.”

Etho wonders why Scar’s smile seems so wistful, almost envious. “Are you not, uh, blessed?” he asks awkwardly.

Scar scoffs and crosses his arms. “I am perfectly worthy of being blessed by a standing stone,” he replies, miffed, “they just haven’t realized it yet.”

“I’ve got a standing stone blessing!” Jimmy pipes up with a grin, somehow already behind both Scar and Etho.

“You do?!” Scar splutters, unable to contain his shock.

Either Jimmy is too oblivious or willfully ignorant to Scar’s tone, because the courier just puffs out his chest with pride. “I’m blessed under the Steed! It makes my job a lot easier, too.”

A single-celled organism could probably see the envy in Scar’s eyes, but the mage just smiles and rubs the top of his staff. “Well, Etho?” he asks, setting his chin on top of his staff expectantly.

“Well, what?”

“Don’t you want to see if you’re special?”

Judging by Scar’s grin and raised eyebrows, he knows something isn’t right with Etho being here, and it’s unnecessarily unnerving.

Etho’s gut reaction is to say no, because he doesn’t really care if he’s special or not. He’s Etho, illegal security guard who won’t hesitate to shoot someone’s arm but also helps old ladies cross the street. Why would he want to be special?

I don’t want to be special. It’s what I’ve told myself my whole life—I don’t need to be important. Plenty of other people can be that.

“Which stones are these?” he asks instead.

Jimmy seems more than happy to answer, while Scar just tilts his head. “These are the most common ones—thief, mage, and warrior. Usually, you feel some sort of calling to one, like it’s whispering to you.”

“Yeah, I don’t really feel any whispering,” Etho answers with a wrinkle of his nose under the mask. None of the stones seem to be glowing or whispering to him, and there isn’t any magical breeze that shoves him towards one.

Nothing wrong with trying, is there? Etho isn’t entirely sure which one is which, so he just places his hand on a random one. The wood is smooth and cool, and he resists the urge to yank his hand back when the dots on it start to glow.

Jimmy squeals giddily as the lines between the stars glow white too, until they’re almost too bright to look at, and then fade back into nothing.

That was… anticlimactic.

“The Warrior stone,” Jimmy breaths out, starstruck, “of course! That makes so much sense, what with your fighting earlier!”

That’s hard work, not magic, Etho politely decides not to bite back.

“Let’s not waste daylight, hm?” Scar butts in with a forced smile, pointing his staff towards the river’s shore.

Etho silently agrees and heads down the hill, where he sees two small tents made of animal pelts and wood around a burned-out fire. Someone seems to have been kind enough as to leave a pile of wood next to the fire, and a chest sits innocently next to the fire.

“Hunters are typically nomadic,” Scar explains to Etho, “shelters like these are all over Skyrim, although they’re more common in the south.”

It’s oddly sweet, in a way, being nomadic and lonely yet knowing there are people just like you somewhere else. It brings a smile to Etho’s masked face.

Jimmy digs through the chest and pulls out two oval-shaped loaves of bread with a triumphant “yes!”.

“Hopefully this’ll tide us over until tomorrow,” he says, tossing one loaf to Etho and the other to Scar, who accidentally drops it on the ground.

Scar immediately digs into his own loaf, tearing into it like he hasn’t had food in days and letting out concerning noises as he eats, but Etho glances at Jimmy in concern.

“Why aren’t you eating any?” he asks.

Jimmy pauses from where he’s trying (and failing) to start a fire. “The Steed stone’s blessing gives me increased stamina! I can go longer than the average joe without eating—and thank goodness for that, too, it’s saved my hide more times than I can count!”

Etho pointedly decides not to think about the horrible things that would happen in his world if an entire army got ahold of that blessing, and instead he rips his loaf of bread in half and hands it over to Jimmy.

“Regardless of whether you need to or not, food is still fuel,” he rationalizes, while Jimmy just stares at him like he’s hung the stars around his neck.

After finishing the last crumb of his bread, Scar picks up his staff and points it at the inactive fire, furrowing his brows in concentration.

A small shower of purple sparks rain onto the wood, falling continuously until a tiny flame finally flickers up, and Scar sets down his staff once more. Etho pretends not to notice Scar subtly wiping sweat from his brow, focusing instead on the slowly growing fire.

“What, no magical fire?” Jimmy teases as he sets down his messenger bag.

The tips of Scar’s ears turn pink, and he glances away. “Destruction magic is… not my strong suit,” he admits, as though it physically hurts him to say he’s bad at anything.

“Magic in general isn’t mine,” Etho reassures Scar, who casts him a grateful glance. “You two get some sleep, I’ll keep watch.”

Jimmy opens his mouth to protest, but Etho raises his hand. “No offense, Jimmy, but I don’t think you’ll be of much help if we get attacked,” he says firmly, and Jimmy pouts but relents.

It doesn’t take long for the two exhausted men to slide into their bedrolls and immediately fall asleep, but Etho has never felt more awake.

All of this mess, what with the portal and the magical world and dragons… it’s a lot. Probably something that people daydream about on the regular, but to have it actually happen? To smell the fresh air and let magical stars breathe the unknown into your skin? It’s more than a little bizarre.

Etho takes a bite of his bread and stares up at the stars. On a normal clear night in Toronto, he can only see a few stars, but right now the entire night sky is covered in them, twinkling and laughing merrily down at him.

The bread is stale, but oddly delicious, and Etho finds himself finishing it at a speed that would probably be considered unhealthy. He’s still hungry, but the roaring monster in his stomach has been temporarily sated, so he’ll call it a win.

Astronomers would probably jump at the chance to study these stars, what with the deep purples and greens painting the sky and giving the stars a strangely magical hue. And also…

Is the moon bigger?

It certainly seems bigger than the one back home, lazily floating in the sky in faded color.

The fire warms Etho’s gloved hands and bare fingers, casting a warm glow onto the rocks around it. Something about being someplace this wild, this free… it feels peaceful.

Even with the looming threat of dragons, and bears, and countless other wild beasts that will probably explode Etho’s head to look at, it feels serene, untouched by the greed of the modern man.

I hope you’re safe, Grian, wherever you are, Etho thinks solemnly, a dampener put on his mood. It comforts him a fraction, however, to know that at least he and Grian are looking up at the same stars right now. Knowing Grian, he’s probably scared out of his wits right now, so he’ll have to find him and take him home soon.

And then maybe interrogate him on why he didn’t say “there’s a magical glowing portal in my apartment” instead of “there’s an emergency”. Typical Grian, always trying to downplay things he screws up.

Etho wonders if there’s something wrong with him, how he hasn’t freaked out or started sobbing yet out of fear of this new, terrifying, and unfamiliar place. Is he messed up somehow? Is it not strange that he feels more comfortable and relaxed walking these dangerous paths than he ever did in urban Toronto?

Casting a quick glance over to Jimmy and Scar’s sleeping forms, Etho feels a warmth in his gut that he’s only ever felt towards Grian before. Perhaps, when they eventually part ways, they can be his friends.

Sure, Scar is strange, being obnoxiously confident and cheery in one moment and then embarrassed and quietly envious the next, but he’s an enigma of a mage that Etho is more than happy to take the time and solve.

Jimmy is… pathetic, in a way, yet also endearing, what with his brown puppy eyes and quick movements, cheerful and stubborn to a fault.

Yeah, Etho realizes, pulling down his mask and smiling up at the stars, I think I’d like us to be friends.

After a few hours of staring at the stars and even dipping his hands in the cold water of the river, Jimmy rises up into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes with a loud yawn.

“Get some sleep, mate,” he murmurs blearily, shuffling like a zombie towards the river and splashing his face with the cold water.

Etho opens his mouth to remind Jimmy of what he said earlier, but Jimmy just glares at him with a dripping wet face, pieces of his blonde hair turned brown with the water. “You’ll be even more useless than me if you’re exhausted,” Jimmy reasons.

Sure enough, just as he says it, Etho feels his body get a thousand times heavier. The rumpled bedroll looks even more enticing than Etho’s comfortable bed in his apartment, and Jimmy smiles tiredly at him.

“Don’t worry, mate, I’ll wake you up if something happens,” he promises, and Etho wonders if he’s gone soft when he realizes he believes it.

Too tired to thank him, Etho just dips his head in what he hopes is a thankful gesture, shimmying into the bedroll.

This whole area would be a vegan’s worst nightmare, but even Etho can’t help but wonder how on earth simple animal pelts sewn together could be so cozy.

Before he can even rationalize all that’s happened today, sleep gently whisks Etho away, and he’s out like a light.

I hope Grian is okay, Etho struggles to think before he falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Etho wakes up to the sun shining through the tent and a distinct realization that no, yesterday was not a dream, and he is in a fantasy magical universe.

Once again, it doesn’t make him freak out.

Instead, Etho sits up in his bedroll and stretches, cracking his joints one by one until his body is running as smooth as a river.

Outside the tent, he can hear the quiet whispers of his companions, and he shuffles out of the bedroll and tent to see Scar putting out the fire.

“Well, hello there, Etho!” Scar greets him with a winning smile. His hair is no longer in its braid, instead it is wet and in a simple ponytail, darker than its normal color from the water.

“Care for a swim?” Jimmy asks, and—woah! Half-naked guy alert!

Jimmy’s head pokes out of the river, only in his underwear, and Etho shields his eyes for modesty purposes.

 “Nothing beats a good, scented healing potion, but a dip in the river comes pretty close,” the courier comments with a cheery smile.

“Do I smell bad?” Etho mumbles to himself, turning his head to take a whiff and—yeah, he stinks.

Jimmy clambers out of the river and takes his clothes, which look strangely fresher than yesterday, from Scar. “If you’re worried about the mask, we’ll just turn around,” says Scar with a cheeky wink.

Etho rolls his eyes and takes off his vest, making sure to lay all his items in a little pile next to it. “Did you wash Jimmy’s clothes or something?” he asks in lieu of a proper response.

“Sure did! It’s a trick I learned from an old teacher,” Scar replies happily, “a simple wind spell that doesn’t take too much effort. Want me to wash yours, too?”

Etho thinks about the trauma that the recent sniff gave him and nods without a moment’s hesitation. He can’t help but smile as both Jimmy and Scar turn around, and Etho places his clothes in a pile before finding a spot behind a rock in the river.

Saying that the water is cold is the understatement of the century.

It’s freezing, instantly waking him up and sinking into his bones.

Etho’s teeth chatter as he slowly sinks into the river, and while he does miss his lavender oatmilk soaps he got from the farmer’s market, this still feels clean.

Etho methodically washes the blood, soot, and other various grimy substances off his hair and body, until he’s certain that there isn’t a single speck of gray or brown in his white hair, and his body is squeaky clean.

“Clothes are washed and dried!” Scar’s voice calls over the trickling of water.

Etho heaves himself up onto the rock and lies on his back for a brief moment. As though out of nowhere, laughter bubbles up in his throat and escapes through his mouth, a soft chuckle that evolves into a fit of giggles.

How did he end up here, almost naked on a rock in a magical universe? And all to rescue his friend, too?

“You alright over there?” Jimmy shouts.

Etho smiles and pulls himself off the rock, slipping on his cold but dry clothes that Scar left in a messy pile. “All good!” he responds with a sprinkle of mirth still in his voice.

Methodically, he puts each one of his items back into the inside pockets of his vest and straps his gun holster to his belt.

“Felt good, didn’t it?” Jimmy asks, turning around just as Etho lifts his mask the rest of the way.

Instead of replying, Etho just sighs, and both Jimmy and Scar break into peals of laughter.

“Alright, Mr. No-Longer-Smelly,” Scar teases, “Jimmy here says we’ll get to Whiterun by lunch if we hurry, and, I don’t know about you, but I am famished!”

Etho has to agree with that one, as the bread in his stomach has long since vanished. “Lead the way, Jimmy!” he says with a lingering smile, eyes crinkling above the mask.

The walk is pleasant enough, although there are a few more clouds in the sky today than last night. Etho will never get over the amount of wildlife trailing these paths, from foxes darting playfully between rocks to butterflies peeking behind flowers.

And, alright, he supposes the company isn’t that bad.

Scar hums a song about roses and goblins while Jimmy points out the different plants and flowers to Etho (after figuring out that Etho is “foreign”, Jimmy has put it upon himself to be the unofficial tour guide for Skyrim).

“This one’s a blue mountain flower,” Jimmy explains as they descend a rocky hill, plucking the stem from the grass, “if you don’t have a healing potion on hand, these are good as a temporary healing salve if spit up and placed on a wound.”

Etho startles at all the information. “You’re good with ingredients,” he notices, and Jimmy both beams and blushes at the same time.

“Oh, well, I wanted to be an alchemist when I was younger,” the courier admits with a bashful smile, running a finger along the edge of its petals, “I used to read all about ingredients in the library.”

Scar smiles from where he’s walking, his shoes just barely poking out from underneath his dark green cloak. “Where are you from, anyways?” the mage asks.

Jimmy’s peaceful smile falters, and one of the flower petals leaks a dark blue liquid out onto his fingers.

“Riften,” he answers shortly.

Scar’s eyes practically bulge out of his head—even his staff seems skeptical. “Riften? You?! The most crime-riddled city in Skyrim? Why, I never even…”

Scar then readjusts himself and spins the staff in his hand. “What am I saying—don’t judge a book by its cover, right?” he jokes.

Jimmy sends him a grateful smile, but Etho is still left in the dark. It’s starting to become a recurring thing, he fears. “What’s Riften?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound like an idiot.

“City in the southeastern region,” Jimmy replies easily, no longer on-edge or guarded, “it has a… bad reputation, what with it being home of the Thieves’ Guild and a whole bunch of crime.”

So… like New York City? Etho wonders to himself, tapping the part of his mask that covers his chin.

A rustle in the nearby bushes is enough to snap him out of his thoughts, and his hand ghosts over his holster.

This isn’t the rustling of a fox or rabbit he’s learned over the past day, but something distinctly human.

Jimmy and Scar pause and give Etho a concerned look, but he just holds up a finger. The bushes rustle once more, and then a blur of a person leaps out from them—no, from all the bushes!

As quickly as he noticed, the three are suddenly surrounded by four people, all wearing hide armor and brandishing nasty looking weapons.

“We’re just passing through,” Scar says placatingly, holding up both of his hands while the staff stays afloat, “from Helgen.”

Just as one of the people steps towards Etho, he pulls out his gun in a flash, flicking off the safety and pointing it steadily at the man’s head.

“What’s that shiny thing you’ve got?” the man sneers, dirt-stained fingers wrapped around his sword like it’s a prize.

Bandits, Jimmy mouths to Etho.

Low, petty criminals, then, Etho assumes.

“It’s a gun,” he replies flatly, “want to see what it does?”

The bandit facing him nods eagerly, and Etho shoots him right in his exposed leg. The bullet goes straight into muscle, which means that it’s going to hurt.

The bandit shrieks in pain and drops his sword, collapsing to the ground and grabbing at his leg while blood gushes onto his hands.

This seems to spur the other bandits into action, as one of them charges at Etho with a giant club. Without thinking, Etho grabs the sword with his free hand and stabs it into the bandit’s stomach, resisting a gag at the wet squelching noise it makes.

Scar is handling one of them by smashing his face in with his staff—a signature move, it seems, judging by the maniacal grin on his face—and Jimmy is holding up a small dagger and trembling.

The last one’s war axe is just inches away from Jimmy’s skull when a bullet lodges itself into his throat. Etho turns away from the bloody mess that he will become, and feels an unwelcome pit open up in his stomach, greedy and hungry.

“I killed him,” Etho realizes out loud, clicking the safety back on and pocketing his gun.

Blood oozes out onto the dirt-stained cobblestone while an eerie breeze rifles through the adventurers’ hair.

“Bandits kill hundreds of innocent people without remorse,” Scar reasons calmly, wiping blood off his chin, “it’s better them than you, I promise.”

The way Jimmy nods in agreement, the casual tone of Scar’s voice, feels as though murder is a regular occurrence.

The thought sends a shiver down Etho’s spine and bile crawling up his throat, but he quickly swallows it down.

This is his life for now.

Until he gets out of here, he needs to get used to this—and fast. Bloodthirsty bandits, murderous bears, strange mages… he just has to deal with it for now.

The gnawing darkness in Etho’s gut feels quelled, emptied out by that realization.

Walking feels quieter now, almost haunting, with the clouds swallowing up the sun and an overcast gray casting everything in shadow.

How can someone so casually slaughter someone without a second thought? Sure, Etho has bruised and injured hundreds of people in his line of work, but never killed a man. He’s watched people die, but never has his own hand been the cause of it.

It feels almost…

No, it feels terrible, Etho reassures himself, biting his tongue in hopes that it will tell his brain to shut up.

Etho feels himself getting lost in not thinking at all, but he finally gets wrenched from his unsettled mind when Jimmy nudges him in the side.

In front of them is… well, a village might be putting it nicely.

It’s only one street, paved of the same stone that runs through the hills, and about twelve different buildings line it up, six on each side, give or take.

A lumber mill sits on the river’s edge, churning out logs with some old-timey machinery that Etho might find interesting when he doesn’t have a friend to save.

Most people seem to have retreated indoors due to the overcast sky, but a few chickens peck at scraps on the stone path. It seems nice, homey, something that Etho would probably daydream about to try and get a good night’s sleep.

“Is this Riverwood?” he asks stupidly, because yes, of course this is Riverwood. It’s on a river, and all of the houses are made of wood.

Probably a safety hazard from that giant dragon that’s disappeared, though.

Scar hums out a quiet “yes” and walks over to the riverbank. The water ripples under his staff until it slowly rises towards the crystal at the top, shivering and shaking as though it is resisting the magic itself.

Suddenly, the water sprays into Scar’s face, sending him stumbling back.

The staff bonks him on top of his head, and Scar mumbles out something under his breath with a lighthearted chuckle. “Water is quite tricky to manipulate,” he tells Etho, shooting the river a mean glare.

“We should be able to make it to Whiterun before dinner if we’re fast!” Jimmy pipes up with a cheerful smile despite the cloudy day.

Thankfully, the rest of the walk is free of any violent interruptions, and Etho finds his body becoming less and less tense the more he walks.

As they continue down the stone paths, he realizes that the grass is turning more yellow, and the trees are becoming sparse, less dense forestry. Now, Etho is no geographer, but he can guess that they’re in some sort of plains, and it is beautiful.

Mountains seem to surround the plains from far away, enormous even from this distance, snow capping the tops of them like it’s been spat out of some nature documentary.

An enormous wildcat that looks to be a mix between the fellow from Ice Age and a lion tears through the plains from a distance, ripping its teeth into a wild elk, and Etho is certain that nature photographers would be foaming at the mouth to get their hands on this land.

The ground becomes less of a slope and flatter, and, from here, he can see an enormous keep, looking like twelve different houses piled into one, all mixed with some sort of mansion. Gorgeous and wooden, he can’t see too much of it from here, but it looks breathtaking.

“That’s Dragonsreach,” Jimmy explains, “the keep of Whiterun, crown jewel of Skyrim! It’s even bigger up close. Legend says that people once trapped dragons in its courtyard.”

Etho bobs his head in a half-listening nod, smelling the telltale signs of a horse stable nearby—manure, hay, who knows what else.

Sure enough, a stable comes into view, with a man leaning casually on the side of the stables. Two brown horses slowly chew on hay, muscular and beautiful in sight. Etho has only ever seen a horse this close a few times before, and he can’t help but marvel at their beauty.

“No touchin’ unless you’re buyin’,” the stable keeper grunts, taking a bite of some mystery meat. Etho puts his hands in his pockets to make sure the man knows he won’t be “touchin’” the horses.

The road steadily goes uphill until Etho finds himself standing before a massive set of doors surrounded by the stone wall, two guards in front of him.

These guards look different from the other ones—their helmets obstruct their faces, and they have yellow shields with a horse symbol on them. Fitting, Etho thinks with a smile.

“Gates are closed,” the guard on the left says, raising his hand, “official business only, I’m afraid.”

Jimmy sighs and pulls a small handful of gold coins from his messenger bag, holding them out to the guard on the left with a thinly veiled scowl on his face.

Both Scar and the guard look wildly offended at this action, and the guard even goes so far as to slap the money out of Jimmy’s hands, the gold clattering onto the ground.

“Wha—d’you think you can just bribe me?!” The guard splutters out in offense.

The second guard slowly reaches for his sword while Etho does the same with his gun. Scar, sensing a bloodbath, quickly holds up his hands in a placating gesture, his staff diving behind his back to hide.

“We need to speak to the Jarl,” he says with that honeyed tone of his, “we have news from Helgen, about the dragon attack.”

The left guard scoffs and puts his hands on his hips. “Like I’ll believe that story,” he retorts.

Scar puts his hands behind his back and sighs dramatically. “Looks like we’re at an impasse,” he notes whimsically while Jimmy groans in annoyance.

“Looks like it,” The guard agrees smugly.

Etho is about to start shooting things when he sees the dancing turquoise lines whispering between Scar’s hands, bouncing from finger to finger like playing children. Scar clenches his fists together, unseen by the guards and Jimmy, and the lines grow stronger.

Scar taps his foot and releases his fist, stretching out his fingers from behind his back towards the two guards at a very awkward angle.

A faint, pale green glow hisses inside of their helmets. “We need to speak to the Jarl about the dragon attack,” Scar repeats, voice kind as ever, “it’s urgent.”

“Right away,” left guard says, voice shockingly normal and not at all sounding hypnotized or manipulated or whatever it is Scar does, “stay here, mate, I’ll go with this lot, make sure they don’t cause any trouble.”

The guard pushes open the doors to reveal a surprisingly domestic city that seems to glow with a radiant energy even on such a cloudy day.

Little kids chase each other through the winding streets, laughing and squealing with delight, moving so fast that they become blurs to Etho.

A woman is selling armor to his right, shouting about new discounts on iron armor (too clunky, Etho thinks). Merchants can be heard shouting prices to each other further down, while other citizens are simply on a stroll through the narrow streets, humming and whistling unknown tunes.

“How’s it going, Joel?” one of the merchants asks the guard, grinning behind a stall full of cabbage and tomatoes.

The guard, Joel, apparently, nods his head at the merchant.

“Taking people to the Jarl,” he replies in a much kinder voice than the one he gave Jimmy, “they have news about the dragon attack.”

“It was a dragon!” someone from another stall shouts.

A murmur of concern quells the previously happy townspeople, everyone nudging each other and whispering in worry to each other about whether or not the dragon will hit them next.

Joel pushes past these people respectfully yet authoritatively, an air of well-earned superiority pushing off him in waves. They pass by a barren tree, its branches stretching out towards the sky, and a shouting priest clad in yellow in front of an impressive statue.

In front of Etho lies a few flights of stairs, leading all the way up to the keep, which, yeah, it’s enormous. Sprawling and massive with an aura of power, it stands strong through the winds and wilds. Whoever this Jarl is, they seem to be doing a fantastic job at keeping this city safe.

“Ooh, a temple of Kynareth!” Scar exclaims, gasping in wonder at a building to the left with warm tinted windows. “I’ll meet you at Dragonsreach! I want to see if the priests have any tips on restoration magic.”

Without even waiting for an answer, Scar dashes away to the temple, leaving Jimmy and Etho alone with Joel.

As they ascend the steps, Joel lays down some ground rules for Dragonsreach to the two adventurers. “Before we go in, let me set a few things straight,” he begins, back to business, “first—respect the Jarl at all times. She has been keeping this city and hold safe for five years now, so, believe me, she knows what’s best for you. Second, speak when spoken to, and only then. Third, and finally,”

Joel opens the doors to Dragonsreach with a dramatic flourish.

“Good luck.”

Chapter Text

As far as interior design goes, Dragonsreach feels… powerful.

The ceilings are high, the entire entrance is empty save for a giant rug, and towards the end of the room are two long tables and a throne a little ways away from them.

Sitting poised and proper on the throne is a woman dressed in silky purple fabrics and furs that probably should clash but somehow don’t. Pink hair rests just above her shoulders, blue eyes instantly snap to the people walking inside, and a crown rests comfortably on her head.

Etho could probably point her out in the middle of a crowded city with how ethereal she looks, like she was born on a throne and has never left it since.

Once they approach her throne, Joel is quick to take off his helmet and kneel on one knee.

He seems like a guy Etho could see in his everyday life, aside from a single strand of green her amongst the brown. His round face and kind brown eyes look so different from the barking voice from earlier…

Etho is unsure of whether or not he should kneel or not, since Jimmy isn’t, when the woman—the Jarl, he presumes—laughs, a musical and twinkling sound.

“Joel, what have I said about the kneeling?” she teases him with a voice void of anything but kindness.

Joel quickly scrambles up to stand, ears and cheeks burning red. “Apologies, my Jarl,” he says, eyes downcast towards the wooden floor.

“Jarl Lizzie, these people approached the gates with urgent news,” Joel gestures towards Jimmy and Etho, who does an awkward wave, “they say they came from Helgen.”

“Jimmy!”

Etho startles when he hears a shout from the Jarl—Lizzie—as she leaps off the throne and tackles Jimmy into a tight hug, spinning him around in a circle with sparkling eyes.

 “Jimmy, it’s been years! How are you? How is courier business? How is your family?” Lizzie asks a million questions at once, smiling all the while.

The only person who looks more surprised than Etho is Joel, who looks like he can’t decide whether to be horrified or enraged, instead settling on a constipated facial expression. “My Jarl, do you know this man?” he asks, voice tight and strained.

Lizzie beams and releases Jimmy from the embrace. “Why, of course! Jimmy is—”

“A friend!” Jimmy interrupts with a smile before turning to Lizzie. “Afraid I’m not here for pleasantries, Lizzie. I was in Helgen yesterday with Etho and Scar.”

Lizzie quickly straightens up and presses her lips together in a thin white line. “Let’s discuss this somewhere else,” she murmurs tersely, regarding the handful of nobles milling about on the tables.

She gestures towards a set of stairs, where Jimmy and Etho begin following her. “Joel!” Lizzie calls out, and the guard turns to face her with wide eyes.

“You want to be captain soon, yes?” she asks with a raise of her eyebrows.

Joel nods mutely in response, and she smiles tightly before jerking her head towards the stairs. “Oh! Yes, right away, my Jarl!” Joel exclaims, scurrying to follow in a way that looks almost pathetic.

The first room upstairs is a large, papyrus map of the entirety of what Etho presumes to be Skyrim. It looks big, although not quite Canada-sized, with countless towns and cities and other things that make his head swim.

“Is it true?” Lizzie asks, blue eyes steely while everyone else gathers around the map. “Dragons have returned to Skyrim?”

Jimmy exchanges a glance with Etho—why is he looking at me? Can’t he just answer it himself—and nods somberly. “It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen, Lizzie,” he mutters, “it reeked of death.”

Lizzie makes contact with Etho then, tilting her head with an unreadable expression. “And who are you?” she inquires, although not unkindly.

“This is Etho,” Jimmy says, saving Etho from a really awkward introduction, “he saved my life at Helgen. Took down a dozen guards with his hands tied behind his back!”

Why is he exaggerating this?! Etho panics for a moment before chuckling and rubbing a hand on his neck. “It wasn’t that many,” he admits, “I’m not from here. Just looking for someone, and I got wrapped up in this mess.”

Lizzie shakes his hand with an iron grip and a curious glint in her eyes. “A friend of Jimmy’s is a friend of mine,” she tells him, and Etho mentally sighs in relief.

He’s not sure if he would survive a fight with her, and he’s convinced that she’s hiding at least three knives in her enormous robes.

“There are multiple dragons being spotted,” Lizzie informs the group gravely, putting a finger on a castle drawing near Whiterun, “one only an hour ago, circling western watchtower. If it gets any closer, it will put Whiterun in peril, and I can’t have that.”

She then turns to face Joel, who immediately straightens up with a tense jaw. “Joel, if your captain doesn’t keel over from old age, tell him I ordered a relocation of guard sect C to Riverwood, and guard sect E to Rorikstead. We need the extra security on the other towns in the hold.”

“Yes, my Jarl,” Joel says with a bow, making his way to the stairs.

“Oh, and Joel?”

The guard turns around expectantly.

“When you’re finished, gather up any guards who volunteer to kill a dragon.”

Joel nods dutifully, his loud footsteps echoing down the stairs, and Lizzie splays her hands out onto the map, slumping down.

Her crown goes crooked with the action, and she looks exhausted. “How do we even kill a dragon?” she asks no one in particular.

Then, Lizzie turns to face Jimmy with a tired sigh. “Jimmy, how quickly can you get a letter to all the holds?” she asks.

Jimmy startles, as though he’s just remembered something, and digs out a wax-sealed letter from his messenger bag, the outside stained with soot and blood. An odd handprint symbol sits in the middle of the dripping wax, and Etho tilts his head. Weird symbol for a city, he thinks with a shrug.

“Almost forgot!” he exclaims with a smile, waving the letter. “You have a letter from Falkreath. Looks pretty—”

Lizzie snatches the letter out of Jimmy’s hands at lightning speed, so fast that it ruffles his hair, and Etho raises his eyebrows, impressed. With uncharacteristic desperation, she tears open the letter, holding its contents close to her face as she scans over the words.

A look passes over her face so quickly that Etho wonders if it was a trick of the light. Just as quickly as it shows up, she schools her face into determination, and she slips the letter into her pocket.

“Thank you, Jimmy,” she says curtly, “as a favor, would you mind taking a letter back to Falkreath for me? I’ll pay double whatever they paid.”

Lizzie gets an inkpot, quill, and paper from a nearby shelf and starts writing in loopy handwriting, indecipherable from where Etho can see it (yeah, he’s a little nosy, so what?). She halfheartedly folds up the letter and offers it to Jimmy with a hopeful expression.

“You don’t have to pay me anything,” Jimmy promises her, “I’ll get this to Falkreath as soon as possible. Good luck with the dragon!”

Etho’s head spins with the furiously fast chain of events. “Wait, you’re leaving?” he asks, his voice slightly whinier than what he was intending.

Pull yourself together, Etho! You’re a battle-hardened security guard, not a clingy best friend! He chides himself and grits his teeth.

Luckily, Jimmy just smiles and dives onto Etho, wrapping him up in a tight hug. “Aw, Etho, I’ll never forget you, don’t worry!” he assures him with a sappy smile.

Oh?

He barely registers the warmth around his body as he holds his hands in the air awkwardly.

Oh.

Etho can’t remember the last time someone hugged him, and it takes him a moment before he can make his arms tentatively hug Jimmy back.

“As a thank-you for saving my life,” Jimmy says, pulling out a silver charm with a sword and shield engraved onto it, “take this. If any Jarl or hold guards try to give you trouble, just show it to them.”

“Wait—”

Jimmy bounces on his feet and gives Etho a cheeky salute. “Be seeing you soon, yeah?” he jokes, turning on his heel and making a beeline for the stairs.

As soon as he had crash-landed into Etho’s life, Jimmy is gone, dashing out of Dragonsreach with an echoing “toodles!”.

“You’re not from here, are you?” Lizzie asks, snapping Etho out of his stupor.

Etho shakes his head minutely, and Lizzie smiles. “I know it might seem abrupt, but it’s fairly common here in Skyrinm,” she says cryptically, “people coming and going. The people here are restless, always going from place to place. Friends come into your life, illuminate your world, and disappear.”

A pang of sadness tugs at Etho’s gut as he thinks about a short man with a mischievous smile and a red turtleneck.

“However, the divines do seem to have a funny way of bringing old friends back together,” Lizzie continues, “so I imagine that won’t be the last you’ll see of Jimmy.”

Etho smiles gratefully at Lizzie, realizes she can’t see through his mask, and dips his head graciously. “I hope not,” he replies in lieu of a thank-you.

Just as he’s worried about an awkward silence, Etho’s stomach growls again, annoyed that all it got yesterday was a pathetic piece of stale bread. He chuckles awkwardly, ready to apologize, but Lizzie just gasps, putting a hand over her mouth.

“How rude of me, to not even invite you for a meal!” she scolds herself. “You must be famished, Etho. There should still be some food on the table, help yourself to anything.”

As the two of them descend the stairs and sit at one of the tables, Etho finds that he doesn’t mind Lizzie’s company too much. She’s a little intimidating, staring at him with a scrutinizing expression as though she’s trying to crack open his head for secrets, but she doesn’t seem cruel.

A plate of meat, bread, and vegetables is set out in front of him, and even though he has no idea what the meat is, he digs in anyways, pulling down his mask to eat.

The food is heavenly.

The vegetables are seared perfectly, the bread is soft and warm, and the meat seems to melt in his mouth. Etho becomes so transfixed on eating that it isn’t until he’s almost finished eating that he remembers he’s sitting with someone.

“Is that scar why you wear the mask?” Lizzie questions, looking at the ugly red scar that runs from his forehead, through his eye and lip, and all the way down to his jaw.

Etho nods as he swallows the last piece of meat. “It scares little kids,” he lies.

In reality, he just… doesn’t like looking at it. The bottom part is uglier than the top, ripping into his lips and leaving red skin at his jaw, but he doesn’t mind the fact that it’s ugly.

It reminds him of his past mistakes, of hesitation and failure, of being marred by bitter and lonely days, blinded by his own misery until it very nearly cost him his life.

Humility is a much better answer to the question. Most children would probably gasp in awe at his scar and call it cool, which makes him guilty to no end.

“I’m not sure how it works where you’re from,” Lizzie says, swiping the last of his meat off his plate and eating it with a mischievous grin that painfully reminds him of someone else, “but here? We wear our scars with pride.”

Pride in his own foolishness… Etho stifles a snort at the ridiculousness. Perhaps, if his scar had been earned for something more noble, he might have agreed.

Etho is about to ask for another piece of that delicious bread when the doors swing open, revealing Scar in all his cloaked glory, the braid from yesterday back in his hair.

“Miss me?”

Etho rolls his eyes but gestures towards Scar for Lizzie’s sake. “This is Scar, a mage at the, uh…” his mind blanks out on what the school was called again, but thankfully, Scar smoothly butts in.

“College of Winterhold,” Scar sweeps into a low bow, “It’s an honor to meet you, Jarl Lizzie of Whiterun.”

Lizzie smiles politely and tips her head to the side. “You’re quite far from Winterhold,” she notes amusedly, “were you also at the attack in Helgen?”

Scar nods. “It was crazy! The dragon, the fire, the fighting… it made me feel like a real fighter!” he poses dramatically with his staff, an invisible wind flowing through his braid, and Lizzie laughs.

“Well, Scar, how would you feel about slaying a dragon?” Lizzie asks, back to business, and Etho quickly scowls.

Killing a dragon? Seriously?

If all the other dragons look anything like the one from Helgen, Etho doubts that even an army will be able to kill it, let alone a handful of guards and a ragtag team of idiots who just barely escaped Helgen by the skin of their teeth.

Scar, however, doesn’t share the same common sense as Etho, because he immediately breaks out into a huge smile. “Oh, would I!” he exclaims, bouncing up and down. “That sounds a-may-zin’! I’ll be the best mage at school if I can—yes!”

Lizzie tries and fails to match Scar’s smile before turning to face Etho. “You’re looking for someone, yes?” she inquires, voice impressively neutral.

Etho nods and wrings his hands together nervously. “Yeah, um… his name’s Grian—short, light brown hair, mischievous…?” he trails off hopefully, praying that Lizzie might recognize his description, but she simply bows her head.

“Once we deal with this dragon, I will send word to everyone I know to look for this person,” she promises.

But?

There’s always a catch, even with the nicest people, Etho has come to realize, and he can only hope that it isn’t him having to help kill this dragon. “I need your help in slaying the dragon.”

Aw, snappers.

Pros to this situation: he’ll hopefully get some clues as to where Grian is, and he can get him home faster.

Cons: the dragon might eat him alive.

As easily adaptable as Etho might seem, he does not, in fact, want to be eaten by a giant dragon.

“I have connections,” Lizzie begins, “to… other places. If the dragon situation gets too dire, I can call on them, but it will destroy my reputation. I’ll never be able to rule again, and I will be cast out like a stone.”

So… I’m her second-to-last resort?

Etho has made an enormous mistake in looking at Lizzie’s wide, hopeful eyes, brimming with both grit and something akin to fear. “Jimmy says you’re skilled in battle,” she says, crossing her arms, “more than anyone he’s seen before.”

Flattery makes Etho extremely uncomfortable, so for his own sake, he raises his hand. It’s… the least he can do, he supposes, for welcoming him into her city (even though Scar totally mind-controlled Joel into letting them in) and giving him a warm meal.

“Okay,” he says, sealing his own fate with a handshake and a firm nod, “I’ll help you.”

Chapter Text

All things considered, Etho thinks that this is a bit of a dramatic time and place for a dragon to show up, especially considering the setting.

The sun is slowly beginning to set on the horizon, splashing pinks and yellows into the sky, casting a heavenly glow on Lizzie’s pale skin.

“My Jarl,” Joel says from where he’s keeping watch at the tower, about a mile away from the walls of Whiterun, “What are you doing here? You must return to Dragonsreach!”

Lizzie scowls and wraps her fingers around the hilt of her greatsword. “If I can’t protect my own hold,” she begins, unsheathing the weapon with all the grace of a trained warrior, “what sort of Jarl would that make me?”

“A Jarl who is keeping herself safe,” Joel argues, flinching when the roar of the dragon echoes somewhere up above.

The other guards around tense up while Scar seems to be having a heated conversation with his staff. He even wags his finger at the staff, as though he’s telling it off.

Lizzie lifts both her chin and the sword into the air, and Etho’s breath is stolen from him. The greatsword is enormous, heavy in both of her hands, and a beautiful blue color. Some sort of blue glass, Etho figures, and yet it doesn’t look fragile at all.

Maybe I’ll take some stuff back with me. Couldn’t hurt, right?

“That would make me a coward, Joel,” Lizzie snaps, crown glowing in the sunset, “tell me, do I look like a coward to you?”

Joel sighs and relents in his argument. Just as he opens his mouth to apologize, the dragon roars once more, and Etho can actually see it this time.

No, it’s certainly not the dragon from Helgen, that much is obvious. This one is gray, with spikes lining its back, and wings stained with the blood of its previous meals.

“Mirmulnir,” Scar whispers, his face a ghostly pale.

“Is he having a stroke?” Etho asks.

Joel shrugs and readies his own weapons, a small war axe and shield. “Archers, fire!” he roars, and a sea of arrows volley at the dragon.

Most of the arrows simply plink off its scales, although one or two pierce through them, into the skin underneath, and the dragon shrieks, landing on top of the tower and opening its mouth.

“Move!” Scar bellows, thrusting out his staff in Etho and Joel’s direction. A gust of wind bursts from the staff and sends the two of them flying into the ground just as a column of white-hot flames come out of the dragon’s mouth.

The ground they were just standing on is scorched, all of the grass disintegrated, and Etho finds that perhaps a gun is not the best weapon to fight a dragon with.

Archers continue to launch arrows at the dragon, although they barely seem to do any damage to it. Etho watches in horror as the dragon goes back into the air, scooping up an innocent guard into its mouth.

He tries not to think about how quickly the guard’s screaming is silenced.

“We need to get it onto the ground,” Etho tells Scar, “Do you have any spells for it?”

Scar looks at the dragon, who has just melted a man’s helmet into his skin, and tightens his grip on his staff. “I—maybe? Um, I learned a paralysis spell a while ago, but,” he pauses to chuckle without any mirth, “I’ve never succeeded at it before.”

“Do you need time to prepare?” Etho asks. He doesn’t ask him to do it, no. That would leave room for refusal, and he doesn’t have the time nor resources for that.

Scar seems to understand this well enough if the way he gulps is any indicator. The mage nods, and Etho grits his teeth before running over to Joel.

“We need to distract the dragon,” he says gravely.

Joel raises his eyebrows and gives Etho a once-over. “And you need a weapon,” the guard replies, pointing at the bow of a dead guard and his quiver of arrows.

I’ve never fired a bow before, Etho wants to say, but he thinks that it might not be the best thing to say, so he just slings the quiver across his back and grabs the bow.

It can’t be that hard, right? He’s seen it in movies and shows before, they just… you know, load it and fire. Like a gun!

The bow is simple, a basic carved wood in a long curve, and Etho nocks an arrow into it, pulling back and looking at the dragon. It feels light in his hands, like he’s playing with a toy.

It sort of feels like walking into a test you never studied for and somehow knowing all of the answers anyway. He aims at the dragon and releases the arrow with a satisfying thwick!

Etho watches the arrow sail through the air towards the moving dragon, and then his jaw drops when it stabs directly into the dragon’s eye, causing a bloodcurdling shriek from the beast.

“Nice shot,” Joel compliments him with a wink, while Etho just gawks at the bow in his hand.

Was that a fluke?

It must have been a fluke. Surely.

With a doubtful furrow of his eyebrows, Etho nocks another arrow into the string and pulls back, releasing it once more at the dragon.

This arrow somehow manages to pierce through the little space between scales, right into its skin, and the dragon roars again.

So… not a fluke?

Etho will question his sudden archery expertise later, because right now he seems to have aggravated the dragon enough to garner its attention.

“Scar! Are you ready?!” he shouts, just barely ducking behind a piece of the fallen tower as the dragon spews fire at him.

A response from the mage is quick. “No!”

Etho rolls his eyes and peeks out of the rock to shoot another arrow. This one somehow goes into its mouth, which really seems to get under its skin.

Heh.

Etho jumps away from the rock and watches Scar, who is right below the dragon, grab his staff with two hands. A dark green, snake-like shadow hisses inside of the crystal, and then it whispers poisonously as he lifts the staff into the air.

Paralysis, snake… there is a lot of symbolism in this world.

Nothing could have prepared Etho for the consequence of this spell, and when Scar slams his staff into the ground, the snake hisses at a deafening volume.

A wave of green light shoots around and into the air, and Etho feels all his bones locking up against his limb, causing him to crash onto the ground, unable to do anything except look around.

It’s a terrifying feeling, not having control over any limbs, and Etho has to take shaky breaths to keep himself from freaking out at the feeling.

Everyone else who was near Scar also fall to the ground in whatever stance they were in, including the dragon, which falls to the ground, crushing at least four guards in the process.

Good one, Scar, Etho thinks irritably, but then his irritation quickly morphs into concern when he sees Scar collapse into an unconscious ball. His staff nudges him once, twice, three times, and then lays down next to him in defeat.

Etho is beginning to wonder when the spell will fade when he hears a guttural cry from the top of the tower.

As the rest of the sun finally slips underneath the horizon, giving way to a smattering of constellations in the heavens, Joel’s shadow leaps off the tower, his axe hurtled at the dragon’s exposed underbelly.

The axe pierces through the dragon, who screams but doesn’t move, and then Joel lands, grabbing onto the handle and dragging it all the way down to its tail, blood spewing like a fountain everywhere.

Etho decides he’d rather look at the stars than the intestines of a dragon, but soon he grows too curious for his own good. Is it dead? He wonders, and then his eyes try (and fail) to widen at the sight.

The dragon’s body is disintegrating, burning up into embers and fading away into the sky until all that remains is a single scale and a few of its bones.

“Aw, what the—” Joel glances around at all of the paralyzed people, with Lizzie and a few other guards who weren’t caught in the spell’s snare looking around in confusion, “What happened here?”

“Joel.”

Said guard, who is absolutely drenched in crimson blood, picks up the gray scale and holds it up into the moonlight to examine it further.

“Joel!”

Joel whirls around at Lizzie’s shout. “Yes, my Jarl? Are you alright?” he asks.

Lizzie chuckles in disbelief, sheathing her enormous sword and shaking her head. “Joel, you just killed a dragon!” she exclaims.

“I did, didn’t I?” Joel says, and then he shakes his head like a dog shaking water out of its ears. “I did! I killed a dragon!”

The guards around Joel cheer and holler loudly, patting him on the back and immediately regretting it due to the blood all over him. Then, they shrug and go in to hug him anyways, blood and all, singing loud shanties off-key and throwing him into the air.

Joel sends Lizzie an apologetic (or… something else, maybe?) glance, and she just smiles, smartly deciding not to touch him. “Clean yourself,” she orders, “and then you can celebrate. I’ll take care of these people.”

“Are you sure?”

Lizzie nods, her crown now resting in her hands. “Go and boast, Dragonslayer,” she says, and Joel’s smile turns infectiously wide.

“Didja hear that, folks? Dragonslayer!” he hoots and hollers, the other guards carrying him all the way back to the walls of Whiterun.

A tingling sensation, almost like pins and needles, courses through Etho, and he finds himself once again able to move his arms. With a bit of trouble and a helping hand from Lizzie, he manages to stand up, sighing in relief as the rest of the living guards also gain mobility.

The only living person who hasn’t gotten up yet is Scar, but when Etho leans towards him, the loud snores tell him that he’s just asleep, not injured.

Etho grunts and slings Scar’s sleeping body across his shoulders, the staff following curiously. “Mm… one-up that, Tango…” Scar murmurs before snoring once again.

“Take the mage to the Bannered Mare,” Lizzie instructs, “It’s in the cent—oh, just listen for the music and shouting—and get a good night’s sleep. Meet with me in the morning, and I’ll see what I can do about finding your friend for you.”

Etho nods curtly, but then he finds himself taking Lizzie’s crown from her hands and settling it on top of her pink hair. “You’re a good Jarl,” he tells her, and she smiles gratefully.

“And you’re a good man,” she replies, and Etho begins his walk to Whiterun with an abnormally warm heart.

Has anyone ever told him that before? You’re a good man? He doesn’t believe so. Perhaps an old lady he’s opened the door for, maybe, but nobody he’s had a full conversation with. Not that he’s spoken to many people.

The compliment worms its way into his heart, and Etho readjusts Scar on his shoulder.

Back in Whiterun, it’s easy to find the Bannered Mare, as the partying can be heard from a mile away. The tavern is warm and cozy, with a fire in the center of the room and a small bar tucked into the corner.

“Here to stay the night?” the innkeeper asks. When Etho nods, she smiles tightly and points up the stairs. “Rooms are just upstairs. One night only. And help yourself to some mead, too.”

It’s a bit of a struggle to haul Scar up the stairs, but when he opens the door to the room, he almost sobs in relief. There’s a bed. A real, god-honest bed, big enough to fit both him and Scar, with blankets instead of animal fur. Well, he’s sure the blankets were—

Whatever. A win is a win.

Etho dumps Scar onto the bed and watches amusedly as the staff settles itself on the wall. “Thanks for saving us,” he says, and Scar snores in response.

Not quite ready to sleep just yet, Etho walks downstairs, where people are playing various instruments and talking animatedly to each other about the victory against the dragon.

Sitting at the bar with a semi-clean face and a tankard of dark liquid is Joel, who grins brightly when Etho approaches. “Blummin’ hell, I was wondering when you’d arrive!” he cheers, and then offers a metal tankard to him.

Etho takes it hesitantly and swirls the liquid around. “It’s just mead, mate,” Joel assures him, “from Honningbrew. It’s delicious, try it!”

Etho shrugs and lowers his mask to take a sip, and—wow.

Sweet with a small bite, it feels like he’s drinking spiced honey, and the drink quickly settles warmly into his gut. It’s easily better than anything he could get his hands on in Toronto, and he quickly drains the tankard.

As quickly as his drink is emptied, it gets refilled by a passing barkeep, and Etho takes a smaller sip this time. “That was brave of you, to make an attack like that,” he says after taking another swig.

Joel shrugs nonchalantly, but his smile takes away any apathy he might have on the subject. “Can I be honest with you?” he asks.

When Etho nods, Joel sighs and glances forlornly at the fire. “I’m actually… erm, well, I’m quite selfish. I don’t really do what I do to help people, per se, although that is a lovely bonus.”

Etho drains the rest of his cup and gestures for him to continue. Is he not going to comment on my scar?

“I grew up here. I knew I was going to be a guard, but I was always just… average, you know?” Joel finishes his own tankard, and the mugs get refilled once again.

The warmth in Etho’s gut is spreading through his whole body, making him feel relaxed and light. “One day, a few years ago, we got a new Jarl, all the way from Falkreath. The townsfolk weren’t too pleased at first, but once they saw her at work, they quickly accepted her as one of our own.”

“What did you think of her?” Etho asks as he finishes yet another tankard.

Joel’s entire face flushes red and he takes a swig of mead for bravery. “I saw the most beautiful woman in the world turn this city from good to great,” he confesses into his drink, and Etho’s marred lips part in surprise.

“I thought it was some silly little crush at first, that I’d get over it,” Joel pauses and smiles a lovesick grin up at the ceiling, “but I never did. I trained harder, fought better, worked my way up to the top of the ranks just to see her more often.

“I know it’s hopeless, and it might seem ridiculous, but one day I want to impress her enough to make her see me. Really see me. As a man, not just a guard. I want to ask her out on a real date, as two townsfolk, not as a Jarl and her guard. I want to kiss her under the sun and moon and stars, and I want to give her the world on a silver platter.”

Etho can’t help but feel a little touched. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone feel as strongly as Joel does about a person, and it’s sweet. Inspiring, in a way, and beautiful.

“Why can’t you ask her out?” he asks, irritated at the way his words slur over each other.

Joel barks out a laugh and slings an arm over Etho’s shoulder, pulling him in like they’re old buddies sharing a drink together.

Etho stiffens at first, but soon relaxes into the other man’s side embrace. “No can do, my friend,” Joel mourns, leaning his head on Etho’s shoulder, “I mean, what do you give the lady who already has everything?”

“Your heart?” Etho offers. It’s a cheesy answer, sure, but an honest one.

Joel shakes with laughter, and it’s so shrieking and infectious that Etho can’t help but double down into peals of laughter as well, under his stomach hurts and his sides ache with it.

“Another round, barkeep!” Joel cries out drunkenly, and Etho shouts unintelligibly in agreement. I can take one night off, he reasons, Grian wouldn’t want me to overexert myself.

Just this one night, he lets himself loosen up, and he finds himself emptying tankard after tankard with Joel, and he realizes that maybe being here might not be so bad.

After all, the company’s nice, and Etho has never really had friends like these before.

He thinks he’d like to keep them.

Chapter Text

Ow.

Ow…

Etho’s head feels like it’s about to split in half, throbbing and aching, but his arms won’t move enough to grip at his skull.

He finds himself tangled in the bed, and his mouth feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton, and it tastes like an animal died in his throat.

Gross.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” Scar singsongs from the door, and Etho groans loudly, clutching at his ears in pain.

His entire body hurts, aching like he just ran a marathon while drunk. “Wha…” Etho squints at Scar’s heavenly figure, “What happened?”

Scar sets a wooden cup of a mysterious blue liquid in Etho’s hands. “I think the question is what didn’t you do, you rapscallion! Rumor has it that you and Joel kept jumping off different roofs for some sort of ridiculous bet, which, judging from the dagger you’ve got on your belt, you won.”

What? Jumping off roofs? Making a bet? Winning said bet?

Etho has zero memory of any of this, and he wrinkles his nose at the foul-smelling liquid in his hands. “And… what about this?” he asks.

Scar ruffles Etho’s hair sympathetically. “That’s my famous hangover cure. It’s, um, gross, but it’ll fix you right up!” he mimes a drinking motion, and Etho brings the wooden cup to his lips.

Yeah, Scar wasn’t joking, this stuff is disgusting. It tastes like rat poison and sour blueberries were blended and spat out by a mutant lizard, and the liquid burns as it goes down Etho’s throat. He’s surprised when he manages to finish it, but just as quickly as the drink burns, it gives his body a cooling sensation.

The ache in his body and head vanishes, and the sharpness of the light dies down significantly. It doesn’t take away the gross taste in his mouth, but he’ll try and figure something out for that later.

“Woah!” he exclaims eloquently.

Scar laughs and helps Etho stand up. “Look alive, drunkard!” the mage teases, “We’re about to be rewarded for our fighting efforts by the Jarl!”

Oh, right! Hopefully Lizzie will have some news about Grian’s whereabouts, and this whole nightmare can be over with soon.

Images of laughter and rushing rivers float into Etho’s mind, and he quickly shoos them away. He needs to go home; he doesn’t belong here.

Scar hands Etho a chunk of bread that he munches on during the trek up to Dragonsreach, which is just as beautiful as always.

It’s also as steep as it always is, and Etho can feel his legs get more tired than usual as he finally pushes through the doors of the keep.

Lizzie is sitting on her throne, perfectly poised, and Joel is standing in front of the throne awkwardly, shuffling from one foot to the other. Upon seeing Etho, however, Joel instantly brightens and waves jovially.

“Look at us! Boat boys, reunited!” he shoots Etho a sly wink at the term, like it’s some sort of inside joke.

How the heck is Etho supposed to respond to that? Hey, I literally don’t remember any of last night because I got blackout drunk and woke up covered in bruises because we allegedly jumped off roofs? No!

Like some sort of divine intervention, Lizzie swoops in to save the day, and she regards Etho with a knowing smile.

“Fun night?” she asks, giggling when Etho struggles to reply.

After dramatically gesturing for a little bit, Etho finally sighs, feeling heat rush up to his ears. “I don’t remember any of last night after having a few drinks,” he admits in a quiet whisper.

Joel bursts into peals of belly laughter, Scar snickers softly, and Lizzie hides a smile with her hand. After Joel finishes his hysterical laughter, he wipes a tear from his eye and pats Etho’s shoulder sympathetically.

“You jumped off a super high roof, I gave you my precious dagger, and we climbed up to the boat on top of Jorrvaskr and pretended like we were actually rowing a boat.”

Well, it’s not the craziest thing I’ve done drunk, Etho thinks with a mental sigh of relief, and he pulls the dagger out of its sheath to examine it closer.

“Do you want the knife back?” he offers up the weapon by the blade to Joel.

Joel shakes his head with a small scoff. “I’m not the type of guy to go back on my word, Etho,” he replies, “Plus, I don’t think you’re going to get very far with that shiny black thing in your pocket.”

Etho feels mild offense on behalf of his precious gun, but he just nods gratefully for the dagger. It’s beautifully crafted, with wings of gold crawling up the silver blade.

“It’s an elven dagger,” Joel boasts with a smirk, “excellent in close-quarters combat. Treat her well, yeah?”

Etho nods, sliding the knife back into its sheath and looking up at Lizzie. “Do you have any word on Grian?” he asks, hoping the desperation isn’t too prominent in his voice.

“I do, actually,” Lizzie says, and Etho’s day is instantly ten times better, “However, I’d like to discuss some other business first.”

Etho pretends to be patient and nods politely. Lizzie stands up, the hesitant Jarl from two days ago long since gone, and she smiles down at the three of them.

“Joel,” she begins, and Joel instantly stiffens nervously, “What you did yesterday could only be described as brave. You’re a fearless warrior, courageous and headstrong. Commander Caius announced his retirement yesterday, and I would like to promote you to captain of the Whiterun guards.”

Lizzie snaps her fingers, and one of the servants brings out a large box, setting it down on the table in front of Joel. “Inside is a new war axe, forged from the bones of the very dragon you slaughtered,” she tells him.

Eyes wide and hands shaking, Joel opens the box to reveal a beautifully crafted weapon. The blade itself looks almost like a tooth, shiny with a yellowed tint. “My Jarl, I…”

I love you, Joel’s eyes say, but he swallows the words down and smiles brightly up at the Jarl. “Thank you,” he says instead, “I will not let this opportunity go to waste.”

“I should hope not,” Lizzie teases with a wink, “Especially not from the guard who called me ‘Dibella’s daughter’ last night from the top of a roof.”

Joel instantly turns beet-red and tries to stammer out an apology, but Lizzie just laughs and flicks her hand. “You’re lucky I like you,” she scolds him.

Joel seems to actually swoon at that, and Etho has to resist a face-palm as Lizzie turns to face Scar, the teasing glint gone from her eyes.

“As… eccentric as you are,” she says, keeping her tone neutral as Scar smiles innocently at her, “I do want to thank you. Your spell, as inconvenient as it was for the surrounding guards, ended up saving our lives, and I offer you a free room to stay in here whenever you’d like.”

Scar beams at that. “Aw, thank you! I’ll be sure to visit all the time! You know, one time, I actually—”

Lizzie holds a hand up, somehow effectively silencing Scar. Etho wonders if maybe Lizzie has magic, with how effortless that was. “I did, however, receive a letter today, from the College of Winterhold.”

“Uh oh.”

Lizzie raises a brow perfectly and fishes a letter out of her pocket. “The college does not take kindly to students leaving with no explanation, Scar,” she reprimands the mage, who shrinks under her withering gaze.

“You ran away?!” Etho hisses, sending Scar a shocked look.

Running away from things doesn’t really seem like something Scar would do, even for something as terrifying and haunting as college.

“It’s not what it looks like!” Scar argues, raising his hands in surrender. Even his staff looks a little guilty. “I was just…”

Scar’s face flushes with embarrassment and he glances down at the ground. “I was just trying to one-up my rival,” he mutters, grabbing his staff and clutching it with a white-knuckled grip.

Oddly enough, that checks out, in Etho’s opinion. He’s seen plenty of people practically rip themselves apart to get an edge on another person, and it doesn’t surprise him that Scar would have a magical rival.

“I should probably return, though,” Scar admits, “Not that they’ll believe any of the things I did are true, but I don’t think I’m meant for a life of adventure.”

Lizzie opens her mouth to say something, but Etho swiftly cuts in. “That’s not true!” he blurts out, shocking everyone in the room, including himself, with the abrupt interruption.

“Scar, you saved us so many times out there,” Etho stresses, gesturing out towards the outside, “You saved us, the people of Whiterun, everyone! You paralyzed a dragon, for crying out loud! If you don’t turn out to be an adventurer, it’ll be a waste of your talents.”

Ah, now he’s gone and run his mouth again.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, although it’s much too late for apologies.

Scar turns to face him with watery eyes and the biggest smile he’s ever seen. “Do you mean that?” he asks, and when Etho nods, he squeaks and hops around a few times.

“Oh, Etho, that is just a-may-zing to hear! If you ever need anything, and I mean ever, don’t hesitate to come up to the college, okay?”

Is this how it’s going to go? Etho wonders, watching as Scar and Lizzie make up travel plans, with Joel offering to accompany Scar to keep him safe.

Is everyone just going to leave me at some point?

These have all been some of the nicest people Etho has ever met, and yet they keep disappearing just as quickly as they appear. First it was Jimmy, and now it’s Scar, Joel, and even Lizzie. Why can’t he keep these friends?

When I rescue Grian, Etho thinks, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep them from visibly shaking, what will happen to everyone here? Will I never see them again?

“Hey, Etho.”

Scar’s warm voice tugs Etho out of his daze, and he blinks up at Scar’s imposing form. He’s about an inch or two shorter than Etho, but the way he carries himself makes him seem taller.

Does he do in on purpose? Etho wonders.

“There are couriers in every town, you know. Just send me a letter whenever you want, yeah?” the suggestion is innocent and kind, as though he is just as sad about leaving Etho as the masked man is about him.

Etho has never felt the urge to cry before.

Why do I feel like crying right now?

Quickly choking down the weird tightness in his gut, Etho bows his head in a nod. “I hope we can see each other again, Scar,” he says truthfully.

Scar’s lips twist into a wry smile, the one he always gives, like he knows something that everyone else doesn’t. It would seem mean if it weren’t, well, Scar.

“I don’t doubt it, Etho,” Scar tells him, and with a spin of his staff, a cloud of dark green smoke appears in his shadow.

It smells sort of gross, like rotten fruits, but once the smoke clears, Scar is nowhere to be seen. Etho grins under his mask—a fitting exit, especially for someone as dramatic as Scar is. No doubt something he would see in a ridiculous movie.

Etho thinks about Scar’s infectious smile, the lines of magic that surge through his fingers, the ease in which he can slip emotions into the minds of others yet never uses it for evil, and his constant stream of strange words that feel almost ridiculous.

He thinks about his roundabout way of explaining things, his endless kindness, the strange jealousy that bubbles up to the surface whenever he seems incompetent at something only to immediately shut it away and laugh it off.

I’m going to miss you, Scar. I hope you’re right. I hope we see each other again, just once before I go home, and we can talk around a fire until the embers vanish into the night sky.

In a way, Etho feels like a piece of his heart has left along with Scar, in a similar fashion to Jimmy’s exit. He feels unsure of himself now, of how he is going to navigate this frightening territory all on his own, especially without the help of magic.

“I have word from someone who knows about your friend,” Lizzie says, quickly snapping Etho’s attention back to her, “His name is Oli, and he’s part of the Bard’s College up in Solitude.”

Jeez, these are some really specific colleges. “Another magic school?” Etho asks.

Lizzie chuckles and adjusts her crown. “I’m afraid not—the Bard’s College is for those wanting a career in the art of entertainment, most commonly music.”

Oh, bards. Like, from Dungeons and Dragons. Those types of LARPers.

“And… what does that have to do with Grian?” Etho presses further, confused as to where this could possibly be going.

“As…” Lizzie pauses to try and find a civil way to word her sentences, “erratic as the bards are, they are the perfect threshold for all the know-how about what’s going on in Skyrim.”

Lizzie takes a small leather coinpurse from the table and walks over to Etho. Her footsteps are so graceful that it looks like she is gliding through the floor rather than simply walking like a mortal. She ties the coinpurse to his belt and smiles tightly.

“I’ll admit, Etho, you’re a bit confusing,” Lizzie begins, setting her hands on his shoulders, “You have no knowledge about Skyrim, you fight in a way I’ve never seen, and your attire is… foreign. I believe there is more to you than what meets the eye.”

Etho’s heart constricts and stutters, and he’s unable to hide the way his eyes widen. Lizzie, however, lifts a hand from his shoulder to silence him. “That does not mean you wish harm upon us,” she finishes, offering a small smile.

Whew, that was a close one.

“I’ve arranged a carriage ride to Solitude for you, which should take about a day of riding. I have also informed the college of your arrival, but…”

“But?” Etho prompts.

Lizzie sighs irritably. “Your informant, Oli, is a skeever in human skin. He will most likely make you perform ridiculous tasks for him to get any information, so don’t accept any surface-level offer he might make.”

“What’ll make him tell me?” Etho asks.

Lizzie’s smile turns menacing then, almost mischievous. “Intimidation,” she replies cryptically, “He’s quite the coward—rough him up a bit and it should do the trick.”

Etho is well-versed in the tactics of intimidation—after all, being a security guard can lead to some nasty interactions and interrogations, and he isn’t above some less-than-empty threats.

For some reason, the thought of doing that to an innocent man here feels strange. Guilty.

I don’t want to hurt someone who doesn’t hurt others, he wants to say.

“I understand.”

However, I am also terrified of Lizzie.

Etho likes his goodbye with Lizzie. It’s brief and professional, a short hug and a kind well-wishing. He wishes more people were like her—kind yet refuses to beat around the bush. She would make an excellent businesswoman, he thinks, or a lawyer!

Toronto could do with more people like her. He doesn’t like going into small restaurants anymore due to people having full conversations with him that he is just not prepared for.

The carriage is sitting right in front of the stables with a kind man sitting at the top. “You’re Etho, yes?” he asks, voice kind with an odd accent he can’t quite place.

Etho nods in lieu of a response, and the man sighs heavily. “Long trip, but there’s bread and dried meat in the satchel. Climb on back and we’ll be off.”

The carriage is much more pleasant now that he isn’t tied up and about to be sent to his execution. A pile of hay sits in the back, uncomfortable but not horrible, and sure enough, there is a satchel with dried mystery meat and a hard loaf of bread.

Etho lies down on his back and stares into the sunny sky, clouds dotting the atmosphere just enough to be entertaining.

Even though he just woke up not too long ago, the rocking of the carriage on the stone paths feels similar to driving a car over a rocky terrain, and it doesn’t take long for Etho’s eyes to slip shut and for sleep to gently whisk him away in her formless arms.

Chapter Text

“Morning, lad!”

Etho wipes the sleep from his eyes and blearily reaches into the satchel for a piece of the stale bread. “How long have I…” he trails off when he sees the views in front of him.

An enormous river spills out into an endless ocean, where a city stands on top of rocky cliffs. The air is colder than Whiterun, but not freezing, and he can hear the hustle and bustle of townsfolk even from the bottom of the hill.

Castles and walls glisten in the morning light, with horses traveling this way and that, and the creaking of the lumber mill a clear sign of bustling life.

“Solitude is a lovely city,” the carriage driver explains, stopping the carriage at the foot of the hill, “Very safe. You’ll enjoy your time here.”

Hopefully I won’t be here long, Etho thinks with gritted teeth, but he nods at the man anyways before hopping off the carriage.

The ground is a little unstable, but Etho feels more awake and refreshed than he has since he got here, so he readies himself easily.

Alright: Bard’s College, speak to the man named Oli. Don’t let him do any swindling or conning. Get the information, get out.

Seems easy enough.

The guards at the giant doors of the city don’t stop him like the ones from Whiterun. They simply give him a stiff nod and open the doors, like they’ve been expecting his arrival or something.

Etho sucks in a breath when he walks into the city. It’s similar to Whiterun in terms of people running to and fro, chatting to one another and selling things loudly, but there’s a strange tension in the air that doesn’t exist in Whiterun.

People seem to be on edge about something, eyeing the leather-clad soldiers with either a thankful or wary eye, depending on the person.

The soldiers themselves are different from the Whiterun guards, less laid-back and more dutiful, barking out orders and walking like well-oiled machines.

Etho doesn’t miss the soldiers giving him odd glances. These are the ones from Helgen, he realizes with stiff shoulders, and he brushes his hand across his belt, making sure the gun and dagger are both still there.

The city seems to be bigger than Whiterun, with lots of streets and shops—it would take a little while to get bored here, he imagines, but he also has no clue where the Bard’s College might be. Or what it looks like. Or who this “Oli” person is.

Or why Lizzie doesn’t seem to like him very much.

He considers asking one of the guards, but he also doesn’t want to be recognized and arrested, so he makes the smart decision not to.

The civilians are all either busy or talking to one another, and his stupid awkward self doesn’t want to interrupt a perfectly good conversation.

Etho is considering just knocking on every single door in the city when someone taps him on the shoulder.

Immediately, Etho whirls around, grabbing his assailant by the arm and throwing him onto the ground with a well-timed shove. He holds the man down onto the ground and scowls, not that the person can see it.

“Woah!”

Beneath Etho’s deadly elbow to the throat is someone who looks… completely harmless.

Short, probably even shorter than Grian, with a shock of dark hair that seems to stand up on its own, dark brown eyes wide with confusion and concern. His getup doesn’t seem dangerous, either, with an outfit full of yellows and browns, along with a giant backpack on his shoulders.

Etho’s grip releases once he realizes that this person isn’t a threat, and the man’s eyes melt from worry to amiable. “Did I scare you?” he asks with a grin.

“A bit, yeah,” Etho admits, politely choosing to help the man stand up and, yeah, he’s short alright.

The man brushes off some invisible dirt from his shoulders and sticks his hand out. “I’m Bdubs! Who are you? I don’t think I’ve seen you before…”

His voice is cheery and dramatic, almost cartoonish in his dialect. For some reason, it puts him at ease.

“I’m looking for the Bard’s College,” Etho replies, peeking over Bdubs’ shoulder to see if maybe it’s one of the buildings behind him, “The Jarl of Whiterun sent me.”

Bdubs instantly brightens, his whole posture straightening up, and his eyes seem to glitter with excitement. “Really?!” he exclaims.

Without any warning, Bdubs grabs Etho’s hand and takes off, running down the confusing streets and just narrowly avoiding crashing into the merchant stalls and little orphan girls carrying flower baskets.

After what feels like hours, but what is probably just a few minutes, Bdubs finally skitters to a halt at a thick, heavy iron door.

 The building itself is large, blending in with all of the other buildings nearby. Nothing about it seems to scream “this is a college!”, which is sort of weird, because Etho is pretty sure that’s what most colleges do.

Bdubs swings open the iron door, and Etho is immediately greeted by a cacophony of noise.

Instruments line the walls and tables, lutes and lyres and other instruments that Etho has never bothered learning about, and there are people holding them, playing so many different melodies that it almost hurts to listen to.

Etho’s hands twitch with the urge to press them to his ears.

As Bdubs pulls him up a set of stairs, the music gets quieter, replaced with the scratching of quills on paper or hushed whispers of students working together. The noise from below is a dull muffle now, and Etho finally feels like he can breathe.

“Welcome to the Bard’s College!” Bdubs shouts, earning him a loud shush from a passing student and glares from even more.

“It’s a pleasure to have you here,” Bdubs continues in a loud whisper.

Etho can’t help but chuckle at the idea of this guy whispering.

“Are you a student here?” he asks, running his hand along the warm stone walls. Do the people here have magical insulation?

Bdubs bobs his head in a nod and puffs out his chest proudly. “Best in my class! Everyone says I’m going to replace Oli as headmaster someday,” he not-so-subtly boasts.

“You seem a bit…” Etho doesn’t really know how to phrase this, what with how young many of the other students seem to be, so he just flails his arms a bit.

“Old?” Bdubs offers, and Etho nods. “Well, I used to design houses, but everyone just wants the same houses nowadays. No fun in that, is there? So, I thought to myself, ‘Bdubs, you’d better do something with your stinkin’ life’, and decided to master the art of music!”

Etho doesn’t feel like contemplating just how psychologically healthy that sentiment is, so he just nods along like it totally makes sense.

“I’m actually here to see Oli,” he says, and before he can even continue, Bdubs is once again pulling him up another set of stairs.

I should probably ask him to stop doing that, Etho thinks, but finds that he isn’t as irritated with it as he imagined.

Bdubs seems happy, which is something he’s noticed in quite a few people here. Yes, Joel is currently pining for the literal Jarl of Whiterun and his boss, but the look of delight on his face after slaughtering the dragon was more than enough to dissipate any unpleasant thoughts.

And, sure, Scar was a bit mysterious, but his smiles almost always seemed genuine, his relaxed mood practically infectious.

Etho thinks about how he feels here versus how he felt in Toronto, and promptly decides to drop this mental subject before he starts thinking about things he shouldn’t.

Now, Bdubs and Etho stand in front of a wooden door, where Bdubs knocks in a funny rhythm. “Knock-knock!” he singsongs.

Something crashes to the ground inside the room, and there’s the telltale noise of something getting shoved inside of a drawer before someone clears their throat. “Come in!”

The inside of the room is an absolute mess. Sheet music is plastered all over the walls and floor, various instruments are scattered all over the giant table in the center, and a jagged dagger sits innocently in the center of it all.

In the middle of the mess is a man who looks… rough.

A wrinkled, puffy-sleeved poet’s shirt with lopsided ruffles hangs off his shoulders, along with a pair of black trousers. A gleaming pin with a lute on it sits proudly on the shirt, and the man himself has messy blonde hair, wild brown eyes, and he looks like he forgot to shave for a couple days.

All in all, he looks exactly like how Lizzie described him.

“Bdubs! What a delight!” he exclaims, clasping his hands together tightly. His eyes narrow upon seeing Etho, and he leans uncomfortably close, taking a big sniff. “And… who’s this smelly bodyguard you’ve brought?”

Etho sniffs at his own arm and frowns. Do I stink again?

“Oh! This is…” Bdubs falters, his head whipping back and forth between Etho and who is probably Oli.

Etho politely pushes Oli’s face away from him and clears his throat. “My name is Etho. I was sent here by Jarl Lizzie of Whiterun—”

“Lizzie!” Oli squeals, collapsing into a chair in a fit of giggles. “I love Lizzie, yes! Lovely lady, smart, too! You’re looking to find someone, riiiiiight?”

He looks up expectantly at Etho.

“Uh, yeah?”

Oli jumps out of his chair and claps once, taking in a deep breath and stretching out his face muscles. “Well, you’ve come to the right place! Your friend is quite difficult to find, but nothing is too challenging for my little ears!”

Oh, I really don’t like this guy.

Scar is a tolerable amount of ridiculous. He’s silly, yes, and overly optimistic, but he’s not uncomfortable. Jimmy was similar—painfully cheery, always ready to look on the bright side, but ultimately overcomes his nerves with a terrified shriek.

Something about Oli’s nervous energy, the way his eyes flit between Bdubs and Etho like he’s trying to piece together an unknown puzzle… it’s unnerving, to say the least.

Bdubs might be energetic, but this man is wild.

“Now, because you seem like a nice young man, and Bdubs has taken a liking to you, I won’t charge money for this information.”

“You won’t?” Etho’s hand is already halfway to the coin pouch Lizzie gave him.

Oli shakes his head, some of his hair falling around his face. “Nope! All I ask from you is just a teensy-weensy, itty-bitty favor!” his smile turns wolfish, like he’s got something up his sleeve.

Etho narrows his eyes, Lizzie’s words ringing through his head. “What’s the favor?” he asks with crossed arms.

“Oh, it’s practically nothing, really! I mean, in the grand scheme of things, it won’t take but a day! Or an hour! Unless you’re of the belief that time is subjective, to which I would—”

Oli’s voice breaks off in a squeak as Etho twirls Joel’s dagger between his fingers. How do I even know how to do this?

Oli coughs nervously, casting glances to the knife every few seconds. “I’d like you to retrieve the Lyre of Longing from an ancient crypt, just a few miles outside of here,” he finally says, voice slightly subdued.

Coward.

As soon as Etho slides the dagger back into its sheath, Oli is back to his insanity, grabbing Bdubs by his shoulders and dragging the confused man to a mirror.

Two pairs of brown eyes—one confused and nervous, the other’s true intentions hidden underneath a layer of mirth and madness—stare at their reflections.

“You know about the Lyre of Longing, don’t you?” he purrs, angling Bdubs’ face to stare directly into the mirror. “If you tag along with this Etho here, I’ll let you have the lyre all to yourself.”

Bdubs sucks in a breath of air. “Really? You’d let me? Gosh, I don’t even—”

“All to yourself, yes!” Oli interrupts him, resting his head on the man’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Can you taste it? The magic of the lyre pouring your emotions onto crowds until the people are spilling your name from their mouths?”

Bdubs’ brows are furrowed, but he still nods anyways. “Don’t waste any time, then, prodigy! Pack!” Oli barks, and Bdubs quickly hurries out of the room.

Something about that seemed odd, but nothing Etho can quite put his finger on. Bdubs acted almost subdued while in here. Maybe it’s the fact that Oli’s an authority figure?

“I hope you don’t go back on your word,” Etho says mildly, trying to look at Oli in the least judgmental way possible.

Oli gives him a Cheshire cat grin and pushes him out the door. “Why would I do that? If you come back, I’ll tell you exactly where your little friend is right now.”

Etho mentally sighs in relief at the thought of seeing Grian right now. He must be at his wit’s end by now. Who knows what’s happened to him? Or where he ended up? Etho’s just thankful that he hasn’t been eaten by a dragon or killed by bandits by now.

Perhaps Grian is in a similar situation to Etho. Maybe he accidentally got wrapped up in a whole bunch of adventures with crazy people, and once this is all over, they can sit back and relax on Etho’s couch, eating bad takeout and watching all the movies that Grian’s never seen before.

Almost unwarranted, the image of him and Grian eating takeout is warped, and now he’s with Grian, Jimmy, Scar, Joel, and Lizzie, and they’re all drinking mead and staring at the stars.

Etho shakes his head to rid himself of these ridiculous thoughts just as Oli finishes pushing him out the door. He then swiftly slams the door shut behind Etho. Alright, Bdubs doesn’t seem too incompetent, so hopefully this’ll just be a—

Wait.

What did Oli mean by “if” he comes back?

Chapter Text

I should have just stabbed Oli.

The entrance to the cave is small, a strange haunting echo whispering warnings from the inside. Etho’s never been particularly scared of small spaces before, and he’s never been in a cave, but all of this is creeping him out just a little bit.

“It’s normal to be scared,” Bdubs comments, flaming torch in one hand and a map in the other.

Etho politely resists a scoff and peers into the entrance. Wind howls from inside through little gaps, and damp water drips loudly onto the ground.

“I’m not scared,” Etho mutters, affronted.

Bdubs grins and walks through the entrance. “Aw, he’s scared! Big bad fighting man is scared of an itty-bitty cave!” he singsongs.

The teasing should feel demeaning. It should hurt, just like any other biting comment does, just like the occasional client who got a bit too big for their britches. It should hurt, and Etho should take the high ground and ignore it.

It doesn’t hurt, though.

Bdubs’ tone, the sparkle in his dark eyes, illuminated by the torch’s fire, it’s all light and fun, like he’s just playing around for the sake of lightening the mood. Etho’s mind briefly flashes to a movie from not too long ago, where a little dog befriends the reluctant adventurer.

Did I just compare Bdubs to a dog?

 Upon stepping through the entrance, Etho is immediately engulfed by a wave of darkness, and he has to blink a few times for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The ground is damp and cold, just like the air, and everything is filled with a tense silence, like strings pulled taut.

“How long do you think this’ll take?” Etho asks, shuddering when a drop of cold water lands on his forehead.

Bdubs holds the torch ahead of him, standing up on his tiptoes for some ridiculous reason, a thoughtful frown on his face. “Aw, where’s the fun in guessing that?” he jokes with a grin.

Etho easily hides a matching smile under his mask and pushes ahead—it’d be best not to let Oli’s colleague get killed somehow, lest he refuse to give Etho the information he wanted.

The cave tunnels into a downward slope, packed with dirt and stone. There are faint echoes from other parts of the cave system, but they’re quiet enough that Etho doesn’t feel the need to worry (yet).

If it were up to Etho, he wouldn’t talk at all during this escapade, preferring to just keep his mouth shut and get this done as quickly as possible. Not necessarily in a rude way, but just in a fast and efficient way. Why are so many people upset by this? Sometimes I just want to get things done…

Bdubs, however, looks like he’s about to explode in five seconds if he doesn’t start talking. Even his face has gone a little red, and he’s bouncing from foot to foot, the torch wavering in his loose grasp.

I guess I’d better put this poor guy out of his misery.

“Uh… is there something you need?” Etho asks, careful to keep his voice down in case someone (or something) is listening.

Bdubs immediately heaves out a loud breath of air, all the tension leaving his tiny body at once.

“Who are you looking for? How does Oli know about him? Why were you with the Jarl of Whiterun? Where are you from? Why do you wear that mask? What’s with the weird getup? Do you like pheasant? What’s your favorite city? How—”

Etho holds a hand up, a little surprised at how quickly Bdubs’ mouth snaps shut. “Slow down, slow down!” he exclaims with a warm chuckle.

Where does he even start? He can’t answer some of these questions due to looking like an idiot, but if he doesn’t answer any, then he’s a jerk.

“I’m looking for a friend of mine. He’s very important to me, and the other day, he told me there was an emergency and then just… disappeared.”

Bdubs’ eyes widen in both shock and pity, but he doesn’t interject. Instead, he just patiently waits for Etho to continue as they walk, footsteps tapping softly on the stone floor.

“I don’t know how Oli knows about him. I was with the Jarl of Whiterun because I was at Helgen when the dragons attacked—”

“You what?!” Bdubs shouts in disbelief, fumbling with his torch.

Etho smiles and raises his eyebrows. “Sorry, continue,” Bdubs mutters with a small chuckle.

“I travelled with a couple survivors to Whiterun so we could warn the Jarl. We, uh, ended up running into another dragon there, killed it—”

“You killed a dragon?!”

Etho puts a finger on his lips—er, mask—and Bdubs zips his mouth shut. “I’m from somewhere very far away, and I’m not answering the other questions,” Etho finishes.

Bdubs bobs his head in a nod, hopping from one stone crack to another just for the heck of it. “That’s cool! Sorry, you’re just…” he scratches his head to try and think of what to say next. “I’ve never met anyone that looks like you before! You’re so cool! And you have a weird shiny thing in your not-pocket!”

That is a gun, Etho thinks with a barely noticeable wince.

Bdubs continues waxing poetry about Etho, a guy he’s just met, and Etho can’t help but shake his head. When was the last time he met someone like Bdubs? Someone so enthusiastic and kind, silly and absurd but never straying from his morals. Kind of like Grian?

Well, without the “straying from his morals” part.

Etho decides not to think about Grian anymore, and instead just listens to Bdubs’ insane ramblings about who-knows-what. He sounds a little like a cantankerous old man, in a way.

“And then the horker actually spoke—oh.”

The tunnel widens out into what looks like a room full of… oh, gosh.

Decrepit, rotted corpses lie peacefully inside little crevices in the wall, each one resting on a slab of stone above or below another. Half of their skulls are rotted, while the other is gaunt, gray skin stretching unnaturally through shut eyes.

Etho chokes down the bile that rises in his throat. It’s normal for bodies to look like that. All the bodies in coffins in the graveyards probably look like that.

“Careful with these guys!” Bdubs singsongs, tiptoeing around one of the corpses.

Etho furrows his brow. “Why? They’re dead…”

“They could wake up,” Bdubs replies, speaking as though Etho is an idiot.

Etho’s jaw drops, causing his mask to slip a little bit, and he quickly readjusts it while running a hand through his hair. “Zombies are real?” he hisses incredulously.

Bdubs has a pinched, concerned look on his face. “What’s a zombie?”

“Whatever those things are!”

Bdubs chuckles like Etho isn’t literally freaking out over the prospect of zombies. “Oh, do you not have Draugr where you’re from?”

That sounds like a dog disease, Etho thinks with a wrinkle of his nose. Instead of voicing this, he just shakes his head in hopes that he conveys the fact that corpses waking up is not normal!

“Are you a good fighter?” Bdubs asks.

Am I?

Etho thinks about his years of training, as well as the mysterious glowing rock from a few days ago, and gives Bdubs an affirming nod.

Bdubs then proceeds to pick up a pebble from the ground and toss it full speed at the corpse.

Etho’s hand freezes on its way to the dagger.

The corpse’s eyes shoot open, revealing a horrifyingly unnatural blue color. It clicks and groans as it mechanically climbs its way out of the “bed” before its eyes meet Etho’s own terrified ones.

“Why would you do that?!” Etho hisses, taking a step back as the hideous ugly creature—uh, Draugr—creeps towards him with loud, slapping steps.

Ew.

Bdubs grins at first, but as the Draugr gets closer to him and Etho, his smile falters. Well, well, if it isn’t the consequences of your own actions, Etho thinks with a scowl.

A rusted war axe sits in its hand, and as it raises into the air, alarm bells ring off in Etho’s head. Why am I just standing here?!

As though his body has a mind of its own, Etho grabs the head of the draugr with both of his hands and kicks it as hard as he can in the stomach to try and get it to stumble for a moment.

A loud, wet ripping sound tears through the tense air, and Etho finds himself holding the head of the draugr.

Just the head.

Perhaps Etho went a little overboard, and possibly underestimated his own strength.

“Oh, gross!” Bdubs gags, staring at the headless body of the draugr. The blue light has faded from its haunted, bulging eyes.

Bdubs pokes the corpse (er, corpse-squared) with his shoe once or twice, seemingly satisfied that it’s fully dead by now. “Any more nearby?” he asks.

Etho wrinkles his nose. “How would I know?” he shoots back.

“Maybe you’re secretly an alteration mage!” Bdubs exclaims with a grin, wiggling his fingers in a pathetic attempt at what mages do.

If Scar were here, he’d probably be very offended by that. Etho briefly wonders if Scar has made it back to his college yet. He hopes he’s alright.

Bdubs is about to walk through a set of iron doors when Etho holds his hand out. “Hang on,” he says, crouching down to examine a strange circle cut out of the floor, an odd swirling symbol under it.

“Is this some sort of mechanism?” Etho mutters to himself, pressing his ear to the floor to try and hear some sort of gears.

What he gets is a nice load of nothing, and Bdubs snickers at the goofy sight of Etho flattened on the floor.

“Oh, ha, ha,” Etho grouches, shooting Bdubs a half-hearted glare. The small man just snickers and sticks out his tongue because he’s very mature.

Etho’s fingers brush lightly on the swirl, but even though he gave it just the barest of touches, it still sinks down, and he barely has a moment to process it before a loud thwick sound whistles through the air.

The arrow pierces into his shoulder before he can even get a chance to react, and a painful warmth blooms out of his shoulder.

“Etho!” Bdubs cries out, holding out his hands like he wants to help but isn’t too sure what to do.

Now, Etho isn’t going to lie—it hurts. Blood drips out around the arrow, falling to the ground in delicate little spots.

However, the arrow in his shoulder is also helping the wound from getting any worse, and, judging from its position in his shoulder, shouldn’t be lethal. Yes, it hurts, but it shouldn’t kill him if he’s fast about this mission and gets it patched up soon.

“I’ll be fine,” Etho mutters through gritted teeth, “How much deeper do you think this cave is?”

Bdubs sends a worried glance towards the arrow, and Etho rolls his eyes. What’s with all the concern? They literally just met! Is he worried that nobody’s going to protect him upon getting out?

Yeah, that must be it.

Etho sighs. “Will it make you feel better if I patch up the wound now?” he asks, not at all surprised when Bdubs nods furiously.

A loud rip comes from Bdubs, who is tearing off part of his sleeve, wordlessly handing over the scrap of fabric. I never thought I’d be making tourniquets inside of a cave, Etho thinks to himself dryly.

“Woah, hang on,” Bdubs says, leaning forward to squint at the arrow, “Etho, this arrow looks really new!”

Etho slides the arrow out of his shoulder with a grunt of pain, awkwardly wrapping the fabric under his armpit to get it to stay on, making sure it’s tight enough to hold the blood but not too tight that it’ll restrict the movement.

Judging from how nasty and old this cave is, he’ll probably have to clean it out thoroughly later, but that’s a problem for Future Etho. Present Etho is examining the arrow, thinking about Bdubs’ words. New? Well, I guess it’s not rotting like everything else here.

“See the shape of the arrow?” Bdubs points to the tip of the arrow, carefully avoiding the blood all over it. It’s in a jagged half-moon shape, something that Etho has never seen before. No wonder it hurt so bad, but barely went deep.

“It’s a daedric arrow,” Bdubs explains, whispering the word daedric like it’s a curse, “These are some of the rarest arrows in the world, more useful for style than substance. You know, back when I was an architect, I once had a client ask for daedric…”

Etho lets Bdubs’ eccentric story wash over him as they continue through the tunnels, once again getting narrow and deep. He’s certain they must be hundreds of feet underground by now, which only makes him feel a little claustrophobic.

None of the other creepy corpses seem to be waking up, and a strange feeling crawls up Etho’s back when he wonders if something killed the other draugr.

However, if someone killed all the draugr, wouldn’t that make the lyre long gone by now? Etho swears, if this mission was all for nothing, he’s going to strangle that stupid—

No, no, it’s fine.

The lyre will be there.

The tunnel once again widens out, but this time, instead of a room full of bodies, this room has a wall at the end with three rings of odd symbols. On the ground lies the body of a man, but this one isn’t a draugr.

His death must have been fairly recent, because the stench that fills the room is awful, and a burning hole sits in the middle of his stomach, dripping with bright blue acid.

Somebody melted this man, and Etho’s stomach churns at the idea of someone doing that to a man.

“Bdubs, what—Bdubs?”

The bard has gone pale, jaw slack, words finally leaving him for once. A shaking hand makes its way to his mouth, eyes wide with indescribable horror.

“What’s wrong?” Etho asks, suddenly way out of his depth now.

Bdubs opens his mouth and shuts it a few times. Maybe it’s the horrible smell coming off the body, but Etho’s starting to feel a little lightheaded now, and he finds that his arms feel a little heavier.

“Bdubs, what’s wrong?” Etho repeats, rotating his jaw a bit to get rid of the tingling feeling there.

Bdubs finally manages to tear his eyes away from the body, and when he looks at Etho, his brown eyes are shiny and wet with tears. “I knew him,” he whispers, barely audible.

“His name is—was—Jevin, he did all the work nobody wanted to in the college. A few days ago, he and Oli went to go meet with a client in Morthal.”

Bdubs bites his lip so hard that it almost bleeds, unable to hide his trembling hands. “Everyone just assumed that Jevin got the job,” he whispers, “But why would he be here? What did he do?”

Etho really doesn’t like the picture that’s starting to be painted in his mind about the headmaster, but he keeps his mouth shut in case he’s wrong.

Not really sure how to comfort his companion, and, honestly, feeling a little woozy, the pain from his shoulder flaring up, Etho just dips his head respectfully. “We can ask Oli when we get back,” he tells Bdubs, who looks up at him hopefully, “We’ll get answers.”

The I promise goes unsaid, but Bdubs seems to understand anyways.

Next to Jevin’s acid-melted stomach is a giant hunk of metal in the shape of a dragon’s claw, and Etho picks it up—why does it feel so heavy—carefully.

The images carved into its palm are starting to swim, so he blinks a few times to get a closer look. The pain from his shoulder seems to be radiating outside of it, spreading to his chest and arms, like his blood has been filled with lead weights covered in spikes.

It’s not pleasant, but Etho just scowls and tries to look closer at the images.

Ever the savior, Bdubs takes the claw out of Etho’s hands and looks at it with wide eyes, carefully avoiding looking at Jevin’s body.

“What in the world?” Bdubs murmurs, brows furrowing as he glances between the claw and the door.

Etho chuckles and tries to lean on the wall as subtly as possible, as though he’s just relaxing instead of unsteady on his own two feet. “I think we need to match the images,” he says.

As Bdubs lets out a loud “oh!” and face-palms, Etho feels the pain spread out to his head and legs, his whole body awash with white-hot flames, feeling heavier by the second.

Etho wonders when two Bdubs showed up before he realizes he’s seeing in double vision, and Bdubs turns the last image with a loud hiss of “yes!”.

Bdubs inserts the claw into the door, and the entire room rumbles and shakes as the door slides down in a cloud of dust. Oh, snappers, I have to move now, Etho realizes.

Bdubs leans over Jevin’s body with a frown, whispering something into the corpse’s ear and setting the claw down next to the man.

“He didn’t deserve this,” Bdubs tells Etho, “Jevin is—was—a good man. Real funny, always willing to help out… what did this to him?”

Better yet, who did this to him? Etho decides to keep his mouth shut. Every step feels like he’s running a marathon, and beads of sweat drip down his forehead as it takes every ounce of effort to walk in a steady line over to the bard.

Through the door, Etho lets out a soft gasp as he sees a pillar of light flowing into the room, filling it with a magical air. In the middle of the warm light sits a floating lyre. While simple at first, painted with golden flowers and looking like a strange hybrid between a lyre and a lute, the reddish-brown wood makes it look beautiful.

The pain flares up once more, now pulsing through his body like thorns constricting themselves around his insides, and Etho can’t control it anymore, he can’t, and he finds himself falling onto the cold stone ground, unable to move.

The cold floor feels like heaven on his burning body, and Etho finds that he can’t even curl up anymore, unable to move even his fingers.

Now, it’s not just painful, it’s terrifying, not having any control over his body, and Etho wracks his brain to think of what could be causing this, why he’s so weak and pathetic and stupid and—

“Etho?!”

Bdubs’ frowning face is right in front of him, and Etho tries to convey something, anything, any realization that he hears the man.

With frantic hands, Bdubs unwraps the makeshift bandage and rips open the hole in Etho’s shirt even more. Goodbye, shirt, Etho grieves, may your soul rest in peace.

If he wasn’t paralyzed, Etho would have burst into hysterical giggles by now. How ridiculous is this? He’s dying of unknown causes in the middle of a world full of monsters and magic and dragons, all because he wanted to save the only friend he’s had.

It might be the end for him, and possibly the end for his friend, too—I’m sorry, Grian, I’m so sorry, I promise I tried, please be okay, I’m so sorry I failed you—but that doesn’t mean he has to fail Bdubs.

Bdubs, someone who has been nothing but nice to him, just as Jimmy and Scar and Joel and Lizzie have been. Someone with a huge heart of gold and a soul even kinder, who’s unafraid to laugh and scream and blunder and wears everything on his sleeve.

“No, no,” Bdubs shouts in frustration, “Stay awake, Etho! We made it! Come on!”

It takes all of his strength to open his mouth, but Etho won’t let Bdubs rot in here with him. He doesn’t deserve that fate, he deserves to play music and sing and make houses and make the whole wide world just a little bit happier.

“The lyre,” Etho whispers, although it sounds more like a choke, “Take the lyre, Bdubs.”

“Wha—no! Are you crazy?!” Bdubs exclaims, running his hands through his hair. “One of my friends is dead in the other room and you—you just expect me to let you die, too?!”

Uh… yeah?

As though to prove a point, Bdubs marches up to the column of light, snatches up the lyre in an incredibly anticlimactic gesture, and sits back down, right next to Etho. “There! I got the lyre! Are you happy now?!” he snaps.

Etho tries and fails to smirk under his mask. “I bet you’re not even that good,” he teases weakly, scrabbling for any attempt at normalcy while he feels his life slipping away.

It’s a strange feeling, having your heart start to slow down against your will. There’s a sense of panic, but it’s dulled against the searing pain throbbing throughout his body, like his nerves are weighted down by the wrath of god, or a thousand gods, or a particularly vengeful demon.

“How dare you,” Bdubs retorts, but it’s weakened from his blubbering tears, “I’ll have you know I’m the best that’s ever existed!”

“Oh, yeah?” Etho asks, no longer able to keep his eyes from closing. “Prove it.”

Of all the ways to die, Etho thinks, as Bdubs plucks a beautiful note into the quiet air, stars glittering from the holes in the cave, this isn’t the worst.

Etho finds it ironic, as his eyes slip shut, that the first time he’s ever felt truly content and happy is as he is dying.

Fitting, he thinks, as the world finally slips away from his grasp.

Chapter Text

Etho is ninety-nine percent sure he died earlier.

He’s also fairly certain that the arrow in his shoulder was poisoned.

He is not, however, sure why he feels alive right now, and perfectly fine (if not a bit sore). With less effort than when he first “died”, Etho peels open his eyes.

The ground is completely covered in soft, plush green grass, wildflowers blooming out every few steps. Leaves and vines crawl up the walls and ceiling, complete with even more flowers, and there’s even a little pool of water in corner.

It feels picturesque, especially for the inside of a cave full of rotting, undead corpses. It smells nice, too, like flowers and all things relaxing and dreamy. Etho sits up and rolls the cricks out of his neck, confused at what happened.

This is obviously the same place he was in before, what with the column of light, so he calls out for Bdubs.

The words get stuck in his throat, however, and Etho clears his throat before once again hoarsely calling out for Bdubs. Woozy, but otherwise okay, Etho stands up and examines the hole in his shirt.

The wound is completely gone, not even a scar remaining, and all traces of poison have been wiped out. What in the world healed him? Is Bdubs secretly magical? Did he pluck a silly tune on the lyre that suddenly healed all his wounds?

Etho takes a few steps in the soft, gentle grass, and he pulls down his mask to take a breath of the sweet-smelling air. His eyes survey the scene around him until he notices someone covered in moss and flowers.

Curled up in a ball on a bed of moss and daisies is Bdubs, right under the pillar of light, the golden hues illuminating his peaceful, sleeping face.

Then, Bdubs lets out a loud snore, and any beauty from the situation is lost as Etho snickers. “Hey, Bdubs,” he says quietly, nudging the bard with his hand.

Bdubs snorts and grumbles.

“Bdubs?” Etho tries again to no avail.

As a last resort, Etho plucks a nearby flower from the grass and tickles it under Bdubs’ nose. The bard’s nose twitches once, twice, three times—

“Ah-CHOO!”

Bdubs sneezes himself awake with a start, blinking blearily and wiping at his eyes. First, he looks at the lyre he’s been cradling, then the grass and flowers everywhere, and then he spots Etho, who’s smiling at him.

“Etho! You’re—you’re alive!” Bdubs breaks out into a huge grin and tackles Etho into a hug, both of them tumbling through the grass and flowers, laughing all the while.

I can’t remember the last time I was this happy, Etho thinks once he’s won the little impromptu wrestling match. “What happened?” Etho asks. “One minute I was dying, and the next…”

He vaguely gestures to all of the new additions to the room, and Bdubs squeaks giddily.

“The lyre’s magic, it’s—it’s awesome! One second I was just playing a song for you, and the next, I see all these flowers growing everywhere! Then, I saw the poison was leaving you, so I kept playing and playing and pla—”

Bdubs stops himself with a frown, puffing out his cheeks and concentrating hard. “Well, uh, the last thing I remember was playing, so I must’ve passed out,” he admits, a pinkish hue to his cheeks.

Etho opens his mouth to tell the bard not to be embarrassed, that a feat like that is impressive regardless of how much or little he knows about magic, but he’s interrupted by a gasp from Bdubs.

“What’s wrong?” Etho asks, immediately putting a hand on his gun holster—oh, thank goodness, it’s still here—and glancing around the room in alarm.

Bdubs can’t seem to stop staring at Etho. “Your mask!” he exclaims.

Etho brings his hand up to his face, and, sure enough, the mask is lowered from when he took a deep breath earlier. Normally, he’d just fix it without a problem, but…

“Your scar is so cool,” Bdubs breathes, awestruck by the sight of Etho’s hideous scar.

Now it’s Etho’s turn to go a little red at such a bold lie. “Yeah, okay,” he mumbles, pulling up his mask once again. “Come on, let’s get back to Solitude.”

“Oh, yeah! Oli will be so happy!” Bdubs springs up, pulling down his sleeves, and grins.

As though the divines have decided to bestow good fortune on Etho (for once), the back of the room holds a surprisingly close exit, right out the side of a mountain.

Even though the sky is covered in clouds, Etho still squints when he emerges outside, bringing a hand up to shield his gaze from the cloudy horizon.

He has absolutely no idea where he is, but it’s a little colder than it was when he first descended into the cave.

Thankfully, Bdubs seems to have a pretty good idea, as he points to the cobblestone road nearby with an easy smile. “Two hours walk until we get a hot meal and warm beds!” he says cheerily.

Etho resists the urge to outright groan at the thought. Last time he slept in a bed, he was extremely drunk, and the time before that, he was in Canada.

As they walk through the cold wind and cloudy skies, Bdubs is oddly quiet, glancing at the lyre in his hands every few seconds. It’s unnerving to Etho, who has gotten used to Bdubs’ mindless rambling about this and that, so he decides to try and help.

“Everything okay?” he asks, trying not to be too prying.

Bdubs blinks out of his daze and shoots Etho a forced smile. “Yeah, I’m great!”

Etho stares.

A bead of sweat drips down Bdubs’ temple despite the chilly air.

Etho raises his eyebrows.

“Alright, fine!” Bdubs relents, throwing his hands into the air cartoonishly. “But you can’t call me stupid! Or crazy! Or a moron! Or… gah, you know what I mean!”

Etho smiles under his mask. “I won’t,” he promises.

Bdubs bites his lip worriedly and runs a hand along the side of his new lyre. “The arrow that poisoned you is a daedric arrow,” he says, “Ancient Nords never used daedric weapons—it was sacrilegious!”

Etho isn’t entirely sure where this is going, but he prompts Bdubs to go on.

“And, if Jevin had already been in the crypt,” Bdubs continues, brows furrowing worriedly the more he keeps talking, “How come the draugr was still alive when we came in? Shouldn’t it, you know—”

“A suicide mission.”

Bdubs immediately halts his rambling, stopping his casual stroll to give Etho a shocked look. “W—what?” he whispers, barely audible.

Etho really, really doesn’t like the dots that are starting to connect in his head. “Think about it, Bdubs,” he begins, continuing his walk and stifling a mirthless laugh when Bdubs stumbles to catch up, “You’re Oli’s only competition for headmaster. He sees you as a threat, he sees I’m arriving to get information.”

Bdubs’ eyes widen.

“He kills two birds,” Etho kicks a pebble on the ground, “With one stone.”

Bdubs stops in his tracks.

Etho glances back and turns around. He is not emotionally equipped to deal with a breakdown right now, not when he’s seeing red and imagining strangling Oli with his bare hands. That rat bas—

Deep breaths, Etho.

“But we’re friends,” Bdubs argues weakly, “He wouldn’t kill me!”

Etho clenches his teeth so hard that they’d crack in a cartoon. “Oli doesn’t do things for free,” he snaps, taking up a brisk pace, “Lizzie told me this herself.”

“Yeah, but why kill you?!” Bdubs exclaims, speedwalking to keep up the same pace as his friend.

Etho shrugs, thinking back on all the years he spent training to be a security guard. “Probably saw me as a threat,” he reasons with a shrug.

Smart move, he thinks with a wolfish grin, but tough luck.

Solitude starts to come into view, on the very top of the hill, and Etho’s rage makes him power through the uphill walking without any burning in his calves.

Here’s a little fun fact about Etho: he hates being used. Or tricked. Or manipulated. Or lied to. Or—yeah. He hates it all.

Oli is probably smugly being insane, or something stupid, thinking he probably got rid of two little bugs under his shoes. Convinced that the world revolves around him, that he’s the smartest man in the room just because he’s a little more slippery than the average decent person.

Etho wonders how smug Oli will feel when he’s staring down the barrel of his gun.

“You won’t hurt Oli, though, right?” Bdubs asks as Etho slams open the doors to the city, easily dodging the citizens and guards. “I mean, we don’t even know if he actually did it!”

Who else would do it, Etho wants to bite back, but he just keeps his mouth shut and keeps walking. I wonder if Oli bleeds silver like his tongue, he thinks idly.

Nobody gets away with manipulating Etho, especially not on some death mission, let alone with one of the nicest people Etho has ever had the pleasure of knowing.

The Bard’s College falls silent when Etho slams the doors open, scanning each and every face for that stupid man who dared to attempt to kill him.

“Hello,” he says politely to a woman holding onto a lute, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

The woman opens and closes her mouth a few times.

“Oli told us you two died,” she whispers, taking a step back in fear.

Etho can practically hear Bdubs’ horrified expression—“I can’t believe he would do something like this” or whatever.

Lizzie told him all he needed to know, and now Etho wonders how she’d feel at the little bard’s funeral.

“Did he?” Etho asks in mock-surprise. “Interesting. Would you mind telling me where he is? I’m sure he’d love to see that we got the lyre.”

The woman points behind her, mumbling something about the dining room, but Etho just brushes past her with a quick thanks.

“Etho, really, I don’t think this is a good idea,” Bdubs says hurriedly, running a hand through his hair, “I mean, maybe this was just a misunderstanding!”

It feels a little rude to ignore Bdubs, but Etho is a bit too angry to care, slamming through the doors of the dining hall, where Oli is sat, looking much more cleaned up now. He’s got a pair of glasses on, scribbling something down on parchment while he gnaws on some bread.

Red lining his vision, Etho doesn’t even register throwing the knife until it’s embedded into the wall, just above Oli’s head.

It’s only a split second, but the flash of raw, unfiltered terror that passes through Oli’s wide eyes is the final nail in the coffin to confirm Etho’s theory.

“Eli!” Oli cries out cheerfully, setting down his bread with a shaky smile.

“It’s Etho.”

“Right, Etho,” Oli corrects himself, brushing stray crumbs from his fancy shirt, “What a lovely surprise! I was so worried you wouldn’t return.”

Oli’s eyes narrow just a fraction when he sees Bdubs behind the security guard. “And Bdubs!” he says with a smile. “And… the lyre. What’s with the knife?”

Etho takes a seat diagonal to Oli at the table. “Force of habit,” he lies, “I’d like the information about my friend, now.”

“Right, yes, your friend,” Oli hurries out his words, “What was his name? Grian? Yes, I know where he might be.”

Etho purposefully casts a sidelong glance at the knife in the wall.

Oli gulps nervously, wiping his hands on his shirt. “No need to get violent, now,” he says, never losing that trademark grin, “I know that he’s very much alive!”

Oh, thank goodness. “Where is he?”

Oli laughs and flicks his hand. “Where are any of us, really? I mean, in the grand scheme of things, we’re all just little bugs in the spiderweb of—what’s that?”

Etho pulls out his gun and exaggeratedly examines it.

“Oh, this?” he holds up the gun for Oli to look closer. “It’s my weapon.”

Oli licks his lips and shoots Bdubs a worried look. “Is it dangerous?” he asks.

“Here, I’ll show you,” Etho says, pointing the gun at the window behind him without even looking back.

The resounding shattering sound grates his ears, but he refuses to flinch, even when both Oli and Bdubs do. Someone down below outside lets out a shriek, and Etho mentally winces. Sorry about that, he thinks.

Etho brings the gun back in front of himself and taps the side of it. A single piece of glass hanging desperately to the wall falls to the ground with a plink!

“Look, mate, if you just do me one more favor, I’ll tell you where Grian last was,” Oli says, unable to take his off the forcibly removed window, “Promise.”

Yeah, right, like he’d ever believe that.

“You saw what the bullet did to the window,” Etho says, gesturing with his gun, “Now, imagine what it could do to your skull.”

Etho slowly gets up from the seat, a strange part of him laughing in satisfaction as Oli tries to scoot back in his seat.

He presses the cold barrel of the gun onto Oli’s forehead. “I don’t appreciate being manipulated,” he says coolly, “Now, tell me where Grian is.”

Etho clicks the safety on this time, but Oli doesn’t know that, and he watches as the headmaster flinches.

“I’ll give you to three.”

Oli swallows, going cross-eyed trying to stare at the gun.

“One.”

Bdubs looks like he wants to say something but chooses not to. Etho doesn’t like how afraid the bard looks, clutching onto his lyre for dear life.

“Two.”

Etho surprises himself when he realizes he would shoot. If it meant saving Grian, he would shoot in a heartbeat. Shouldn’t that thought scare him? Why doesn’t it scare me?

“Thr—”

“Pearl!”

Etho frowns. “What?”

“Pearl! Her name is Pearl, she—she’s a member of the Dawnguard, a vampire hunter! She was the last person to see Grian, I promise, I swear, swear it on my life and money and riches and everything I own so please don’t kill me!”

There’s a beat of silence as Etho thinks about it. Tears are streaming down Oli’s face, and Etho doesn’t think they’re the crocodile kind, they look too genuine. His lip is quivering, hands shaking, and Etho puts his gun into its holster.

Oli slumps down in his seat, shakily pressing his hands to his head and mumbling to himself hysterically.

“Where can I find this ‘Pearl’?” Etho asks as he yanks his dagger from the wall.

It takes Oli a moment to regulate his breathing. “Fort Dawnguard, it’s in Dayspring Canyon. Right by Riften! You know Riften, right? Right?”

“Yeah, I do,” Etho sort of lies, because he’s heard Riften mentioned before, but he’s not sure if it counts or not.

He thinks about the Jimmy and his sweet but nervous nature. He’s from Riften, right? Maybe he could… no, that’s ridiculous. Jimmy left.

Etho turns to the door, where Bdubs is staring at him with an expression that seems both afraid, awestruck, and sad. “It was nice to meet you, Bdubs,” Etho says truthfully, “I hope we can see each other again.”

The outside air is fresh and clean, and Etho shoves his hands in his pockets so that nobody can see them shaking. He leaves the city with a brief passing nod to the guards, and he’s pleasantly surprised to see the same carriage driver from before lounging around.

“Where to now, adventurer?” the man teases lightly.

Etho gives him a tight, tired smile under his mask. “Riften,” he answers, handing over a handful of coins from the pouch Lizzie gave him.

He’s just climbed into the back of the carriage when he hears a shout from nearby.

“Etho!”

Bdubs is sprinting at him full-force, red in the face and panting, like he’s run all this way. Etho leans forward over the carriage, pulling down his mask to give Bdubs a smile.

“Heya!” he greets Bdubs.

The hug Bdubs gives him is awkward, seeing as how they’re both several feet apart in height from the carriage, but it’s heartfelt all the same.

Etho’s getting tired of goodbyes.

“That was scary, what you did earlier,” Bdubs admits, “Awesome, but scary. Don’t do it again.”

Etho doesn’t think he wants to. “I won’t,” he agrees.

“You’ll come back, right?”

Etho startles at the question. “What?”

“After you find your friend, Grian. Will you come back? Before you go back to where you came from?”

Etho hasn’t thought about it. If Grian doesn’t mind, then he’d like to say goodbye to all the wonderful people he’s met. For some reason, he doesn’t want to think about all the people he’ll have to say goodbye to.

“I’d like to,” he finally says, and Bdubs hands over a scrap of yellow fabric.

It could be practical, something to patch up the hole in Etho’s shirt where he was shot with an arrow.

It could be emotional, a memento to remember Bdubs by.

Etho takes one last look at Bdubs’ smiling face and decides that it’s not a goodbye, or a memento.

It’s simply a “see you later.”

Chapter Text

Etho is starting to get sick of sleeping on carriages.

His back hurts, his butt hurts, his face hurts.

Pretty much everything except his feet hurts.

Still, the scenery is nice, autumnal colors painting a warm hue over the chilly air. Yellow, orange, and red leaves blow around and attach to all the beautiful trees, whispering promises and threats at the same time. They’re mesmerizing in their movements, and Etho spends an entire hour just staring at them.

He remembers Jimmy and Scar talking about Riften—riddled with crime, unpleasant, nobody wants to live there… but he thinks it’s quite beautiful.

Etho hops out of the carriage with a smile to the driver, setting his sights on the entrance doors. The two guards look bored, even through helmets, lounging on the walls like sharks waiting for prey.

“Pay the entrance fee,” one of the guards says boredly, “One hundred gold.”

Etho’s eyes practically bulge out of his head. “That’s ridiculous!”

The guard on the right just shrugs, uncaring, and Etho is seriously considering murder (again) when he remembers the little pin Jimmy gave him a few days ago.

Only a few days ago? It feels likes years ago.

Etho fishes the pin out of his pocket and shows it to one of the guards. “Does this mean anything to you?” he asks in what he hopes is an authoritative voice.

It’s like night and day—the guards immediately stiffen, practically tripping over one another in an attempt to get the gates open. “We’re so sorry,” one of them apologizes.

“So very sorry,” the other agrees quickly, ushering a confused Etho through the gates.

At first glance, the city of Riften seems lovely.

It’s built on top of a river, wooden bridges and planks crisscrossing the city. Just like in the other cities and towns, merchants stand at their stalls and call for customers, workers march from place to place, and people are leaning against beams and chatting to each other easily.

It doesn’t seem very “crime-riddled”.

Toronto didn’t seem very crime-riddled either, did it?

Etho takes a curious step into the city, marveling at the beautiful wooden houses mixed with the stone and wood paths. It’s a nice day outside, cool but not cold, just enough blue in the sky to light up the area around.

The city is built like two rings of circles, a river down below between two of them. It’s a strange concept, architecturally, and Etho wonders what Bdubs thinks of this city.

“You, sir!”

Etho turns around to see someone leaning against a wooden pole. He’s covered in patchy rags, threads hanging off parts of his scarf and hood, and he holds a large satchel on his back.

The man has long hair, brown with a few flecks of gray and streaks of bright green, and the various trinkets in his pocket jingle and jangle as he readjusts his frame to straighten up.

 “Are you looking for something?” the stranger asks kindly.

Etho regards the man with a hefty amount of suspicion. He doesn’t seem cruel, not at all, but Etho is a little bit wary of people, especially since the incident with Oli yesterday.

Maybe I should stay the night, get some information from the Jarl, and then go to Dayspring Canyon tomorrow. I won’t get anything done if I’m exhausted.

“I’m looking for the Jarl,” Etho finally decides to say, not trusting this guy enough to mention Grian, “I have questions for him.”

The stranger’s lips quirk up into a smile, and he summons a giant wooden staff out of thin air. It’s different from Scar’s, with a curve at the end, and little strings and jewels hang off the curve.

Like all the other strange knickknacks and trinkets that decorate this odd character, the staff feels natural, like an extension to him—similar to Scar’s.

“Not many people who venture here wish to speak to the Jarl,” he says, with a slightly higher pitched than what Etho was expecting.

Uh… is this guy only going to speak in weird riddles and vague phrases?

Etho shrugs nonchalantly and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, well, I have some questions,” he repeats.

“So you say.”

Etho struggles not to roll his eyes. “Are you going to tell me where the Jarl is or not?” he asks irritably.

The stranger chuckles kindly and points his staff towards a large building on the other side of the city center. “Careful, they’ve got lots of security,” he warns.

“Thanks,” Etho says, hovering a hand over his gun holster.

He’s sort of glad to be getting away from this guy, as he’s unsure of the sort of energy he brings. He seems like if Scar was ten times more mysterious.

Still, it was nice of him to point him in the right direction, he’ll give him that. “See you again soon, Etho,” the man calls out.

I don’t know if I want to, Etho thinks, making his way towards the large building. Wait.

How does he know my name?

Etho whirls around, panic grabbing his heart with two hands and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. Bile rises in his throat I don’t know him I don’t know him I don’t know him and his gun is out of the holster in less than a second.

All that remains at the wooden post are footprints.

Etho puts the gun back into its holster and pretends like his hands aren’t shaking.

Who is he?

Etho tries to forget about this train of thought by walking up the steps to the keep. The guards look like they’re about to stop Etho and try to hustle him again, but he’s really not in the mood for that, so he just throws open the fancy doors to the keep.

It’s a lot less fancy than Dragonsreach, although still nice. A square arrangement of tables sit around a fire, and a few steps above is the Jarl’s throne, with a smaller throne nearby.

“By order of the Jarl,” a guard says, holding up a sword towards Etho while all the other guards in the room follow suit, “Stop right there!”

Etho is starting to get sick of law enforcement.

An entire group of guards now has him surrounded in a circle. “I need to speak to the Jarl,” Etho says dryly.

One of the guards sneers and pokes his sword into his back. “The Jarl isn’t taking guests right now,” he snarls, “But, for that pretty little coin pouch, I can make an exception.”

“Are you asking me to bribe you?” Etho asks, incredulous.

A different guard shrugs. “If you’d rather, we can slit your throat right here,” he offers, “I mean, it is a six-on-one fight.”

Etho glares at the guards until something across the room catches his eye.

Even an idiot could tell that this is the Jarl. With skin white as snow and without a single scratch, icy blue eyes, and hair to match, his long and pointed ears twitch. His robes are a dark purple, which doesn’t quite match his features, but it does match the shields of the guards.

His gaze is cool and calculated, completely unreadable as he swirls a goblet in his hand. Blue eyes bore into Etho, and a single blue eyebrow arches up, as though to say “Well? Are you just going to take that?”.

“I like those odds,” Etho replies coolly, gauging the Jarl’s expression all the while.

The Jarl’s face gracefully softens into a small smile, which means Etho must have said the right thing.

In his mind, Etho formulates a plan. Shoot one of the guards in the side, then smash a goblet into another’s head. Throw another into the fire, then—

“Etho!”

At the shout, one of the guards audibly groans, and even the Jarl seems a little disappointed that a fight isn’t going to happen.

From the doorway the Jarl is standing is pops out Jimmy, hair wet and barefoot. “It is you! I thought I heard your voice earlier!” Jimmy rushes across the room, pushing through the guards with their pointy and deadly weapons.

Etho is pulled into a damp hug, and this time, he doesn’t hesitate before hugging back. “Hey, Jimmy!” he greets his friend, surprised at how fond his voice sounds.

Jimmy turns to the guards, who look like they’re unsure of what to do. “Oi, what are you lot doing? Leave him alone!” he barks, and the guards begrudgingly fan out around the room.

Yeah, Etho does not feel comfortable with them staring daggers into his back, but whatever.

“Come sit! We’ve got plenty of food out,” Jimmy says, pulling out a chair for Etho while sitting in one himself.

Etho hesitantly takes a seat next to Jimmy, who looks right at home, pouring out two bottles of wine for them both. “So, what brings you to Riften? Weren’t you looking for someone?” Jimmy’s brown eyes are brimming with curiosity.

“Yeah, what brings you here?”

Etho startles, whirling around to his left to see the Jarl sitting primly in the seat, goblet still in hand. How did he get here so fast? And so quietly? Etho gulps. He needs to keep an eye on this man.

“Lizzie sent me to Solitude, to a man named Oli,” the Jarl scowls at the mention of that man, “He tried to get me killed.”

Jimmy gasps right on cue. “What’d he do?”

“Poisoned arrow to the shoulder,” Etho continues casually, taking a sip of the wine—blech, too dry—with a wry smile, “I had to teach him a lesson.”

Jimmy’s face visibly pales. “Did you kill him?” he whispers conspiratorially.

I would have.

“No,” Etho answers, “I killed his ego, though.”

The Jarl barks out a surprised laugh at that. “Wish I could’ve seen that,” he says, before holding a hand out to Etho, “My name’s Scott, by the way, Jarl of Riften.”

“I’m Etho,” he introduces himself, “How do you know Jimmy?”

Jimmy shoots Scott a fond look, and Etho is surprised to it returned.

“Friends—”

“Husbands—”

“Best fr—”

Both Jimmy and Scott cover their faces with a few moments of laughter, like they’re sharing some inside joke that Etho doesn’t know about.

“We’ve known each other since we were little,” Scott finally answers, “Everyone thinks we’re married now.”

“Are you?”

“Nah,” Jimmy replies this time, taking another sip of wine, “I do technically live here, though. I try to stop by as much as possible.”

Scott crosses one leg over another—how does he look graceful all the time, even with such basic acts—and smiles at Jimmy. “One day, I won’t allow you to enter,” the Jarl jokes.

Jimmy grins cheekily at Scott before turning to look at Etho.

Etho, who is currently tearing into a plate full of meat and vegetables, blinks, a piece of mystery meat falling from his fork. Probably not the best impression.

“Have you found your friend yet?” Jimmy asks, politely ignoring how aggressively Etho was eating. He also hasn’t mentioned the mask going down.

Etho takes a sip, grimacing, of wine, and then pulls his mask back up. “Not yet,” he admits, “I’m worried that this is all just some wild goose chase.”

Jimmy smiles encouragingly and puts a hand on Etho’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Etho,” the courier says warmly, “We’ll help you in any way we can.”

“We?” Scott exclaims, scandalized.

“Yes, we!” Jimmy decides with a firm nod, standing up from his chair. “I, Jimmy the courier of Riften, and Scott S. Major, Jarl of Riften, will do everything in our power to help you find this friend of yours!”

Scott puts his hands in his face and groans loudly.

“Uh, actually, I have a lead, I just don’t know how to get there,” Etho says, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.

Scott raises his eyebrows, and Etho continues hurriedly. “I’m looking for someone named Pearl. In Dayspring Canyon?” he phrases the last bit as a question.

“I… don’t think I know them,” Jimmy says after a moment of thinking, “Scott?”

Scott nods, his face entirely transformed from annoyed yet fond best friend to responsible leader. “She’s a member of the Dawnguard, originally from Cyrodiil. From what I’ve seen, she could easily be the best warrior in Skyrim,” he recites the information he knows like a machine.

Then, Scott stands up, beckoning the others to follow. Etho and Jimmy follow him back through some hallways and into a small room with a bunch of maps.

“Dayspring Canyon is about a three hours’ walk from here. You won’t miss Fort Dawnguard when you see it—it’s one of the biggest castles in Skyrim. Makes me wonder if they’re compensating for something.”

It takes a beat of silence and a wink for Etho to realize that the Jarl is joking. He lets out a small chuckle while Jimmy rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “You can stay here for the night—you look like you need the rest,” Jimmy says sympathetically.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Etho murmurs out his thanks, and Jimmy salutes him. “I’m off to deliver a letter to Windhelm, but it was good to see you!” he gives Etho a quick, fleeting hug.

Then, he leans in to whisper in his ear. “Told you we’d see each other again,” he whispers with a wink, before dashing out the door.

Scott watches the door with a soft smile. “Tireless, that man,” he teases. “Come, take a walk with me.”

No room for refusal, I guess, Etho thinks, walking out a set of doors to the outside, unbothered by the chilly air.

After a few minutes of aimless strolling in comfortable silence, Scott speaks up. “What’s your story, Etho?” he asks.

The man in front of him is not the one whose gaze urged him to fight the guards for his own entertainment—nor is he the childhood best friend who holds nothing but loyalty to those he loves.

The man in front of him is named Scott, and he wants to learn about his new friend.

Oh my goodness, I sound like Bdubs.

Bdubs would want him to tell the truth. Right?

He hasn’t told anyone before, but maybe, just maybe, they might believe him.

“I—”

A curved staff and streaks of green choke Etho from his admission. Leaning on the railing and staring at the water below is the man from earlier, the one who knew Etho’s name—

“You,” Etho snarls, marching up to the man and pretending like the terror isn’t sinking its venomous teeth into his bloodstream.

“Me?”

The stranger is wearing an amused smile, like he expected this reaction. “Hello, Joe,” Scott greets the man with a tip of his head.

“Howdy, Scott! Have you finished ‘The Book of Life and Service’?” The man—Joe—turns to Scott with a friendly smile.

It’s the same smile he gave Etho, and it doesn’t seem cruel, not in the slightest, but how can someone know about me without bad intentions? Is he the one who kidnapped Grian? Does he know how to get back?

Scott nods. “Very eerie, isn’t it?” he says, and Joe quickly nods in agreement.

“A haunting tale, indeed. Tell you what—you can keep it! I doubt anyone here would want to buy it, anyways.”

Scott’s eyes light up, and he thanks Joe profusely.

The anxiety is trying to swallow Etho whole, and he won’t let it win, he won’t. “How did you know my name?” he asks Joe, hoping he sounds less afraid than he feels.

Joe leans on his staff and tilts his head. “I know a lot of things,” he answers vaguely, “I know your existence feels… off. I know your name is Etho, and you’re looking for something, and you don’t have a trace of magic in your blood, save the Warrior Stone. I know you’re not from here.”

Etho’s blood runs cold.

He’s simultaneously relieved that this man doesn’t know the specifics about him, and also terrified that he knows he’s not supposed to be here.

“I’ll leave as soon as I find him,” Etho says, lips pressed together under his mask, “I didn’t mean to stay this long.”

Joe chuckles. “You mistake my words for accusations, Etho,” he tells him, that smile never leaving his face, “I mean no harm to you. My library is always open, and I have an ear to lend.”

Before Etho can question this, Joe has disappeared in a flash of light, and he briefly wonders if every mage purposefully plans ridiculously dramatic exits for fun.

“Well, that was weird,” Scott drawls, before turning a more wary gaze onto Etho. “What did he mean by ‘you’re not from here’? Are you from Cyrodiil?”

Etho stiffens.

It’s only him and Scott outside, everyone else retreating into their homes for the night.

A voice that sounds suspiciously like Bdubs pops into his head for a moment. Would it kill you to be a little vulnerable?

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Etho mutters weakly.

Scott scoffs and throws his hands in the air. “A Jarl in Skyrim is part elf! Weird people who know things about you wander the streets! Dragons have returned!”

He shoots Etho a calculated glare. “None of these things are believable, Etho, and yet they happened. I think we’re a bit past ‘you wouldn’t believe me’.”

Etho can’t help it—he lets out a little chuckle at those words. “Yeah, you’re right,” he whispers softly.

It takes more than a few deep breaths, but Scott is patient, hands folded across his chest and a completely neutral stance, ready to take in any and all words given to him.

“So, there’s this place called Canada…”

The words flow out of Etho like water from a dam, and soon he finds himself unable to stop talking. As he keeps talking, he occasionally glances at Scott’s face to gauge his expression, but it hasn’t changed at all since the moment he opened his mouth.

He talks about his friend, omitting Grian’s name just in case, and how he always seemed a little strange.

He talks about the glowing portal in the apartment and jumping through it with a healthy amount of hesitation.

He talks about waking up as a prisoner with his hands bound, surviving a dragon attack and nonstop moving since.

He talks about adventures and fighting, friends and foes, and he doesn’t stop talking until his voice goes hoarse and he finishes recounting the events leading up to meeting Scott.

When Etho finishes, he’s panting and exhausted from how much breath he’s used.

Scott’s face still hasn’t changed, and Etho weakly gestures to the Jarl. “Well?” he asks. “Do you believe me?”

This seems to be the spark that lights the fuse, because Scott’s face crumples into something that looks like a mix between sympathy and worry.

Instead of saying yes or no, Scott pulls Etho into an unexpected hug.

Scott’s body is colder than the other people he’s hugged, but no less comfortable. His embrace is loose, unlike Bdubs and Jimmy’s tight hugs, but still just as comforting.

“You’ve been holding in a lot, haven’t you?” Scott asks, tucking his chin into Etho’s shoulder.

The laugh that comes from Etho is more watery than he’d like. “I think we both have,” he jokes weakly, and Scott laughs.

Scott never tells Etho if he believes him.

As the Jarl shows Etho to his sleeping quarters and helps tuck him into bed in a way that makes him feel so childish yet safe, unlike anything he’s ever gotten in his life, Etho finds that he doesn’t have to tell him.

“Thank you,” Etho whispers, strangely fragile and vulnerable as Scott blows out a candle.

Scott smiles sadly. “Don’t thank me yet,” he says, shutting the door behind him.

“Don’t thank me until we’ve found your friend.”

As Etho shuts his eyes, quickly being whisked away into sleep, he has one last thought before passing out into slumber’s gentle arms.

He said “we”.

Etho finds that he isn’t at all bothered by it.

Chapter Text

There’s a plate of food on the desk when Etho wakes up.

An apple, some bread, and a few slices of cheese sit on the plate, and Etho cannot wait to eat it. I miss fruit so much; he thinks with a mental groan.

He’d kill a man for some strawberries right about now.

Etho sits up in bed and yawns loudly—it’s the most comfortable thing he’s ever slept in, with the blankets and sheets a mix of furs and silk.

A knock at the door is all Etho gets before it swings open, revealing Scott, who looks just as put-together as always, a small smile on his face.

“I have a place you can go to,” Scott says in lieu of a greeting, sitting down on the foot of Etho’s bed, “It can help with your situation.”

Etho frowns, confused. “I thought I was going to Dayspring Canyon…?”

Scott’s smile twitches. “Right. Er, I don’t really think it would be wise to go to Dayspring Canyon with your… condition,” it’s clear he’s trying to find a good way to word this.

Etho’s confusion only grows, and he tilts his head.

“He’s a mage, practices in healing people like you,” Scott says, and Etho is both parts terrified and excited about the fact that there could be other people from other universes.

“Like me?”

Scott nods stiffly. “Yes, for more, ah, troubled minds. I know it must be hard to live your life the way it is, but I recommend—”

Etho immediately holds a hand up to stop him. Seriously? Scott doesn’t believe him? Is he just doing this out of pity?

“Do you seriously think I made this up?” Etho hisses, getting out of bed and putting on his shoes.

Scott’s face remains calm, but he keeps a fair distance from Etho that he didn’t have last night. He’s leaving enough space between himself and the door. He’s treating Etho like he’s a cornered, wild animal.

Like he’s dangerous.

Well, that part is true.

Scott raises both of his hands and dips his head. “I firmly believe that you think it’s real,” he answers smoothly, like a true diplomat, “However—”

“Scott,” Etho interrupts him, all friendliness struck null and void, “If you try to stop me from going to Dayspring Canyon, I won’t hesitate to hurt you.”

Through the flawless porcelain mask, something cracks, and Scott’s eyes widen a fraction. “That would not be wise,” the Jarl warns ominously.

Etho doesn’t grace his threat with a response. He does, however, slowly place his hand on the handle of his dagger.

“I’m just trying to help you,” Scott reasons, voice calm as ever, without a single hint of his previous fear, “Jimmy seems to like you—I like you—and I want to help you. What will you do when you find that you’ve been chasing after a figment of your imagination this whole time?”

Etho has to physically stop himself from a visceral reaction. How dare he assume that Grian isn’t real? Not when he’s so close, when he’s certain that Grian must be somewhere nearby.

To imply that Grian isn’t real would be to negate part of his life.

“Get out of my way,” Etho growls, “Or I’ll move you myself.”

He doesn’t want to hurt Scott. It’s clear that Scott isn’t doing this out of malice, or any sort of cruelty. He doesn’t seem like someone who would do that—well, not to someone he likes, anyways.

Scott’s eyes turn icy. “You don’t want to do that,” he warns again, holding out a hand.

The room’s temperature seems to plummet unnaturally, and it takes Etho less than a second to realize what’s going on. Oh, no.

He’s just ticked off a mage, hasn’t he?

“There’s no need to fight,” Scott presses, little tidbits of ice floating between his fingers, blue and steaming from the cold.

“You’re right,” Etho agrees, abandoning his knife for something else in the pockets of his vest, “You could just let me go.”

Lightning-fast, Scott grabs onto Etho’s wrist, and his wrist burns from the cold. It burns, it feels like it’s about to melt and shatter into a thousand pieces, it—

It’s numb.

Etho’s left wrist is frozen, all the way down to his fingertips, and he can’t feel it at all. The longer Scott’s hand stays on his wrist, the more the ice seems to spread. “Just stop,” Scott pleads, and is his voice shaking?

“I want to help you,” the Jarl continues, although he looks like he hates freezing Etho as much as Etho hates being frozen.

Etho brushes his finger along the button of his weapon. “Sorry,” he says, watching the way Scott’s eyes reflect the ice particles before pressing his thumb on the button.

He has to lurch with his arm a little to hit Scott properly on the shoulder, but once he does, the electrical buzzing and cracking is impossible to ignore, and Scott’s entire body jolts and twitches, falling to the ground in a heap of purple robes and dissipating magic.

Etho does not envy Scott right now, whose eyes are bugging out of his head. He pockets the taser again and politely steps around Scott. “How do you think Jimmy would feel if I told him you tried to hold me captive?” he wonders aloud.

He grabs the apple and takes a huge bite out of it—a little mealy for his taste, but otherwise delicious—before walking towards the door.

“Wait,” Scott heaves out, still twitching from the shock.

He shouldn’t pause. Scott could have something else up his sleeve, he could kill him with that freaky ice magic, he could bash his head in with a chair leg—

Etho pauses.

“What is that thing?” Scott asks.

Etho pulls out the taser and shows it to the Jarl. “It’s a taser,” he explains, pressing the button.

A little part of him relishes in the way Scott flinches at the sound of it.

He promptly tells that part of him to shut up.

“It’s from my made-up universe,” he spits out, pulling his wallet out of another pocket, “And this? This is a wallet. Also from my delusions. These credit cards? Oh, yeah, I just made them using your weird magic stuff.”

Scott opens his mouth, and then shuts it again. Then, he decides to speak again. “If you heard someone say they were from another universe, would you believe them?” he asks.

“Don’t need to hear it,” Etho retorts, “I can see it for myself.”

Scott looks away. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes weakly.

Etho considers tasing him again for good measure, but then he thinks about wide, watery brown eyes, a confession of “you scared me”, a request of “please don’t do that again”.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he says instead, voice dry as the desert, shutting the door behind him.

Etho reckons he has about five to ten minutes before Scott can move again, so he figures he should better get a move on before the Jarl sends an army of guards after him or something. Sure, he may have sounded apologetic, but Etho doesn’t trust it.

It takes a little bit, but eventually, the blue ice on his arm melts away, leaving it gross and damp and cold.

As he hurries out of the Riften gates, Etho tells himself that he’ll never tell anyone his story, lest he get almost sent to the Skyrim equivalent of a mental institution.

“Well met, traveler,” Etho whirls around to see Joe leaning against the stone wall, looking just as rough and mysterious as ever.

Etho still doesn’t trust this guy, but he dips his head awkwardly anyways.

“Where are you headed?”

Etho scowls under his mask. “Shouldn’t you already know, wise guy?” he snaps irritably.

Joe smiles and shrugs, walking in stride with Etho. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t know everything,” he says easily, and Etho finds himself subconsciously following the man’s footsteps.

“Just most things.” Joe winks at that, and the corners of Etho’s mouth twitch up into a smile, not that Joe can see it.

They walk side by side in silence for a little bit, watching the red and orange leaves quiver in the trees. “Dayspring Canyon,” Etho finds himself saying.

Joe raises his eyebrows. “Seeing the Dawnguard?” he asks, “I can help you get there, if you’d like.”

Etho thinks about the horror and panic he felt when Joe said his name, the way his gut twisted and pulled at his insides until he felt ready to snap or break.

Then, he thinks about Scott, with a guarded kindness and his readiness to help Etho just because he’s friends with Jimmy.

Misunderstandings, he thinks bitterly, are my worst enemy.

Etho nods, and Joe quickly veers to the right on the stone path. Neither of them say a word for a little while, content to simply enjoy the pleasantly cool air and the beautiful trees around them.

“The Dawnguard are good people,” Joe breaks the silence in a jarring manner, almost causing Etho to jump.

Etho tilts his head, not too keen on talking.

“They’re vampire hunters, protecting people from getting used as bloodbags or turned,” Joe keeps talking, taking Etho’s lack of words in stride, “Very skilled fighters. Agile, too, with some of the best reflexes I’ve seen.”

Once again, Joe’s staff appears out of thin air, although he seems to be using it as more of a walking stick with some fancy strings and jewels.

“Who is their leader?” Etho asks.

Joe’s smile grows wider now that Etho is actively contributing to the conversation—albeit barely. “Well, the old leader, Isran, passed away a few months ago. His successor is a woman named Pearl. I don’t know much about her, but from the rumors…”

Joe trails off at the sight of a pretty butterfly, humming a jaunty tune.

“The rumors?” Etho presses, unfortunately trapped into Joe’s strange manner of speaking.

The butterfly settles itself on top of Joe’s staff, and Etho pretends not to be impressed.

“I’ve only heard these through the grapevine, but my little birds tell me she’s dangerous,” Joe’s tone doesn’t change, and yet the air grows more tense, “She shares the same bloodlust—ha, pardon the joke—for vampires that Isran had, but she’s younger, smarter, and more… unpredictable.”

“Unpredictable?” Etho parrots.

“Unpredictable,” Joe agrees.

Etho hums thoughtfully. Unpredictable is scary, but manageable. Hopefully, she’ll be willing to give Etho the information on Grian for free.

Knowing his luck, she’ll probably try and poison him with a ridiculous quest.

“The little birds also tell me she’s kind,” Joe continues as the path starts to climb upwards, “She sings to the dogs and trains the inept.”

Joe casts Etho an indiscernible look. “She also doesn’t like those who lie.”

Etho swallows and looks away, where he notices a large hole in the side of the mountain. “Is this where we’re supposed to go?” he asks, voice unnaturally dry.

He’s dealt with slimy manipulators, a sorcerer Jarl, and dragons. Etho’s pretty sure he can handle a slightly unstable vampire hunter on top of it all.

“Sure is, pal!” Joe says brightly, leaning on the top of his staff. “I’m afraid I can’t go in with you, though. It was nice to chat!”

Etho frowns from where he’s about to duck. “Why aren’t you coming with me?”

When Joe doesn’t respond, Etho turns around to ask again, but the strange man has disappeared. Not even footsteps remain as a sign of his existence, and, not for the first time, Etho wonders if he’s gone mad.

Maybe Scott’s right, he thinks to himself as he steps through the hole in the mountain.

Maybe he’s in a coma right now. Maybe he got hit by a bus on his way to a Safeway and he’s trapped in a nightmare of ridiculous, absurd, yet emotionally taxing adventures in a land full of LARPers.

If I’m actually in a coma, Etho prays to no one in particular, please give me the biggest order of takeout you’ve ever seen, and maybe I’ll forgive you.

The thought of ordering takeout makes Etho’s stomach growl, and he scowls as he finally emerges on the other side of the mountain, shielding his eyes from the bright lights.

Honestly, the way this place switches from dim to bright so fast should be—

Woah.

The canyon is somehow enormous and tiny at the same time, with a clear-cut dirt path winding up a slight incline.

A half-frozen waterfall sprays into a lake, with enormous icicles sparkling in the bright sun. Little patches of snow decorate the paths, standing strong in the gentle chill of the afternoon sun. Birds fly to and fro, little foxes and butterflies roam and fly freely, and, further in the distance, an enormous castle looms ahead.

This castle isn’t like Dragonsreach, or the keep that Scott lives in. It’s a castle, a fort, intimidating and breathtaking and a picturesque moment of history, a snapshot of everything Etho’s universe could never properly preserve.

“You there!”

Perched atop a wooden post is a person dressed head-to-toe in some of the coolest armor Etho has ever seen.

Perhaps he’s much too used to the boring leather armor of city guards, but this person’s armor is a mix of silver and blue, with leather gauntlets and belts.

The mysterious person leans on the railing of the watchpost, helmet obscuring any facial features that Etho could try to discern. “The Dawnguard aren’t expecting any visitors,” they hiss, voice scathing but not necessarily crude.

“I’m not a vampire,” Etho reassures them, holding up his hands in surrender.

The armored person tilts their helmet. “Sounds like something a vampire would say,” they reply.

Etho sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you seriously think I’d be standing in front of you in broad daylight if I was a vampire?” he asks.

“Perhaps you’ve created a genetic mutation!” the stranger accuses, hoisting up a crossbow and pointing it towards Etho.

Yeah… that’ll probably hurt.

Etho pretends like the crossbow doesn’t make him nervous, and instead raises his eyebrows. “You’re awfully paranoid,” he says lightly, a pathetic attempt at humor.

“I’m being realistic,” the armored person bites back, “Besides, what business do you have with us, anyways?”

Etho wants to scream, or maybe kick a rock, or even just throw something around until he can get his frustration out. “I need to speak to Pearl. I’ve been told she has some information about someone I’m looking for.”

The armored person startles, and then lowers their crossbow, attaching it to their back. With the agility and grace of a ninja in armor, they jump from the post, rolling on the ground to negate any injuries from jumping from that height.

It reminds Etho of a burning village and a dragon.

In slow, measured movements, they carefully walk up to Etho and place a hand over his heart, pausing for a few moments to listen.

“What do you want with Pearl?” they ask after a minute of silence, voice quieter but no less suspicious.

Etho keeps his hands raised and as far away from his weapons as possible. “I’m looking for my friend, Grian,” he tells them, “I was told that Pearl could help me find him.”

Much to Etho’s surprise, the armored person takes off their helmet, revealing round blue eyes and long, light brown hair.

“Are you Pearl?” Etho blurts out, even though that’s a ridiculous assumption.

The person’s mouth twitches into the ghost of a smile. “This is she. What do you want with Grian?”

Etho wants to sob and wail and cry that someone finally knows who Grian is, and he isn’t just running in circles at a wild goose chase anymore.

“He’s my best friend. He disappeared about a week ago, and I’ve been looking all over Skyrim for him!”

Pearl’s smile immediately vanishes, her eyes turning stormy. “Don’t lie to me,” she snaps, “I don’t appreciate liars.”

“I’m not lying!” Etho exclaims. “Please, please, if you just tell me where he is, I can have him explain everything to you.”

What will he even explain? Pretty sure I have more questions than you do right now, Pearl.

“You’re lying,” Pearl denies with a curl of her lip, “I know you’re lying, because I’d know if you were Grian’s best friend.”

“How would you know?” Etho argues, exasperated.

Pearl glares at Etho with the force of a thousand suns—or maybe moons, perhaps.

Finally, after a moment of glaring, her eyes seem to soften, and she lets out a weary sigh. “I’m sorry for getting upset,” she says, “It’s been quite hectic recently. Perhaps you do know Grian—after all, we’re not exactly the closest anymore.”

With a curt jerk of her head, Pearl gestures for Etho to follow her. What’s with the sudden mood change? Etho wonders.

“Grian’s become obsessed with these books he found—they spoke of strange universes and dragon kings. I thought he had gone mad at first, disappearing for weeks at a time without a trace.”

Pearl takes a deep breath once the two of them make it to the front of the castle. “Then, I hear rumors of a dragon in Helgen,” she continues, blue eyes exhausted, confused, and possibly even hurt, “I hear whispers of the World-Eater returning dragons from death.”

It’s easier than Etho wants it to be, imagining Grian poring over books and connecting the dots of nothing in particular, mumbling things about dragons and kings and portals.

Oh, Grian, he thinks as Pearl opens the doors to Fort Dawnguard, what have you gotten yourself into?

“A week ago, Grian runs into the castle, looking a breath away from death’s door,” Pearl bites her lip worriedly, “He doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep—just tells me he’s ‘found a solution’. Said he’d found a way to save everyone, but he needs my help finding something.”

The inside of the castle is sparse but not abandoned, people walking this way and that, shooting crossbows at targets and munching on bread. Dogs—large huskies, Etho wants to say—run around this way and that, lounging on chairs or yanking bolts out of targets.

If he weren’t engaged in a serious conversation, Etho would have gone over and started scratching the dogs as soon as he walked inside.

“What was he looking for?” Etho asks.

Pearl shrugs, running a hand over one of the dogs’ pelts. “I told him no,” she replies bluntly, “I said I wouldn’t help him until he got some food and sleep. After that, there was a lot of yelling, and then he stormed off. Said he was going to Falkreath if I changed my mind.”

“Did you?” Etho presses.

Pearl looks confused. “Did I what?”

“Change your mind.”

Pearl snorts and sets her helmet down on a wooden box. “I’m the leader of the best vampire-hunting organization in Tamriel,” she states proudly, “I don’t ‘change my mind’ about anything.”

Etho tips his head, impressed. He can appreciate that in a person—as annoying as stubbornness can be in someone, it’s also a respectable trait.

Pearl continues leading Etho through the halls until they reach a large dining room, a few people scarfing down bowls of soup and ripping into chunks of bread.

“So, you never told me—oh, thank you,” Etho is interrupted by Pearl handing him a bowl of hot soup with… questionable chunks in it, “How do you know Grian?”

Pearl sits down at a random table, feeding a chunk of meat to one of the dogs, who barks appreciatively. “I’m surprised he didn’t tell you,” she says lightly, “Oh, who’s a good boy, you are!”

After she’s finished coddling the dog, she watches Etho carefully as he pulls down his mask to eat the soup.

“Grian’s my brother.”

Etho chokes on his bite of soup, searing hot liquid spewing on the table as he coughs and hacks for a moment before finally regaining control of his breath.

This seems to be the exact reaction Pearl was hoping for, because she chuckles good-naturedly at the sight. “Would you like a drink?” she asks.

Etho immediately nods.

I’m going to need a lot of drinks for this one, he thinks exasperatedly.

Chapter Text

“So…” Etho scowls over his second cup of mead, “Grian isn’t from my u—uh, where I’m from?”

Oddly enough, that doesn’t seem too absurd. It would explain the empty apartment, his random disappearances, and never telling Etho his job.

It doesn’t explain the why, though.

Why is Grian traveling between worlds? Why is he the only person who seems to be able to do this?

…

Why did he choose to befriend Etho, of all people?

Pearl lounges back in a comfortable chair. “I’m not telling you everything about our lives,” she states stubbornlyy, wagging a finger, “Especially when I know next to nothing about you.”

Etho raises his hands in understanding, quickly backing off the subject with an easy chuckle. Despite Joe’s warnings, Etho kind of likes Pearl. She’s strong, independent but not selfish, and she seems to care deeply about what she does.

“I can get you to Falkreath,” Pearl tells him, “I can help you find Grian, because I’m looking for him, too.”

“But…?” Etho has been here long enough, he knows there’s a catch.

Pearl smiles thinly and shuffles, her armor groaning with the motion. “You’re going to help me with a job.”

Etho raises his eyebrows—he can’t help it, he’s a little interested to see what a job for a vampire hunter looks like. “You don’t want me to do it for you?” he offers.

“And miss out on murdering some vampires?” Pearl’s grin turns wolfish, predatory.

Oh, she is cool, Etho realizes with a smile under his mask.

Pearl stands up and cracks some of her joints. “The College of Winterhold contacted me yesterday,” she explains, “An important student of theirs was taken by a group of vampires. They asked us to rescue him, and, in return, they would grant us a black soul gem.”

“Woah,” Etho says, acting shocked because he totally knows what a black soul gem is, “Really?”

Pearl immediately narrows her eyes. “Do you know what a black soul gem is?”

“Nope,” Etho admits.

Pearl laughs, light and musical. “I like you,” she says, blunt and simple, “Come on, let’s go get you a weapon. We’ll leave after you get your weapon, it’s not far.”

The halls of Fort Dawnguard are cold and homely at the same time, an interesting contradiction that puzzles Etho as Pearl winds down the corridors expertly.

“This is where our blacksmith works his magic,” Pearl explains as they approach a set of large doors, “He’s a bit of a character, but I think you’ll like him.”

And you’re not? Etho thinks wryly.

The room is the textbook definition of organized chaos. There are things everywhere, covering just about every inch of the walls, but it all seems to be separated into categories: scraps of metal and resources in one corner, half-built products in another, finished creations somewhere else.

In the center of the room lies a large firepit with burning hot coals—there are anvils, too, and hammers, and there is just so much. It makes Etho’s brain hurt to look at.

Etho is assuming this blacksmith to be a fairly typical one from all the movies and books he’s seen. Enormous and hulking, presumably, extremely muscular and dirty and speaking in grunts. Is that rude, to assume? He’s not sure.

Pearl stomps three times on the ground, and something crashes from underneath the floor.

“Just a minute, please!” a voice calls out from below, posh and sophisticated.

A hatch opens from near the firepit, and somebody climbs out. Black, slick-backed hair, dark eyes, a fancy white shirt with a wine-colored waistcoat and matching slacks.

Vampire, Etho’s brain hisses, and his gun is immediately pulled out before he can think twice.

This person is easily the most stereotypical vampire he’s ever seen in his life, like he came straight out of Dracula. Even the enormous mustache is vampiric.

His eyes widen considerably when he sees the gun, although he looks less scared and more curious. “What is that?” he asks.

He even sounds vampire-y.

“It’s something that will kill you in less than a second,” Etho exaggerated, clicking off the safety, “Pearl, why do you have a vampire in your castle?”

Pearl’s blue eyes flit from the gun, to Etho, to the “blacksmith”, and then back to Etho again, before her face splits into a wide smile and she doubles over with laughter.

It’s the type of laughter that looks like it hurts, clutching to her chest with the inability to breathe, face red and flushed, before she finally regains control of her breathing.

The blacksmith even has the audacity to let out a weak chuckle, although he’s still staring at the gun like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“Sorry,” Pearl gasps out, clutching onto her chest, “I just—Mumbo? A vampire? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!”

The blacksmith, Mumbo, smiles sheepishly and offers his hand out to shake. “Didn’t know I was that pale,” he jokes.

Hesitantly, Etho takes the man’s hand, shaking it a few times. Pearl does have more vampire knowledge than me… so I guess I should trust her word.

Doesn’t mean he has to trust Mumbo, though.

“Vampires wouldn’t make weapons to kill their own kind,” Pearl reasons, giving Mumbo a warm smile, “Besides, he saved my life from a group of vampires a few years back! We’ve been inseparable ever since.”

“Right!” Mumbo agrees quickly. Etho wonders if the bead of sweat dripping from his forehead is from the fire.

With a bright smile (presumably—Etho can barely see the “not vampire’s” mouth under that enormous mustache), Mumbo gestures to his forge. “What sort of weapons do you normally use?” he asks politely.

Etho gestures to his gun, which is still in his hand.

Mumbo’s brown eyes sparkle with curiosity. “Oh! What is that? I’ve never seen such a—may I examine it for a moment?” his hands twitch at his sides as he speaks, as though he’s about to steal it from Etho.

Etho scowls, contemplating. On one hand, he doesn’t want this guy to accidentally break his precious gun, but…

“Sure.”

Mumbo snatches the gun out of his hands with lightning speed, disassembling it at an alarming pace and marveling over the parts on a little table. “This mechanism is—it’s fascinating! The speed at which this…” he glances at Etho for the correct word.

“Bullet.”

“Bullet! The speed at which this bullet releases itself must be catastrophic! It could easily pierce through the robes of a vampire!”

Mumbo snaps on a pair of thick gloves and grabs at the bullet, grabbing little parts here and there to make… yeah, Etho has no clue what he’s making. Hopefully he isn’t damaging his precious gun.

The silence seems to be comfortable for Pearl, who hums to herself and plays with a random hammer in the corner, but Etho feels incredibly awkward, standing stock-still.

“Right! Er… what’s your name?” Mumbo smiles again, but it’s weaker this time. Whether he’s intimidated or irritated, Etho isn’t sure, but he’s fine with either option.

Etho doesn’t trust this “totally, absolutely not a vampire” one bit.

“My name’s Etho,” he finally introduces himself, crossing his arms and glaring at Mumbo to the best of his ability, “And I’m not answering any more questions from you.”

Pearl plops herself down on the floor with a loud, metallic thunk, and Etho follows suit, albeit a bit slower. “Etho is looking for my brother,” she stresses his name on purpose, “He’s going to help us with Redwater Den.”

Mumbo doesn’t pause in his work, sticking a block of silver into the pit of fire with ease. How can someone so scrawny be so strong? And pathetic?

“Redwater Den is a stealth mission,” the not-vampire says, pouring liquid silver into a homemade mold, “You won’t be able to use a weapon this loud.”

Pearl yawns and gives Mumbo a thumbs-down. “Stealth, shmealth,” she scoffs, “I’ve got a much better idea than that.”

The alarmed glance that Mumbo sends their way should have been a red flag for Etho, but, like an idiot, he ignores it and turns to Pearl.

“What’s your idea?” he asks.

Pearl’s grin turns wolfish, and Etho finds himself already regretting his question.

-

“You’re using me as bait?!”

Pearl shushes Etho, fitting her helmet on top of her head. “The vampires are fronting this as a drug den,” she whispers, “Just go in there, take a little bit of the skooma—”

“Are you telling me to do drugs?!”

Pearl sighs and puts her hands on her hips. “It shouldn’t kill you! I just need you to keep the vampires distracted so I can sneak in after you. Then, I’ll block the exits, we kill the vampires, find the mage, rescue him. It’ll be quick and easy.”

Etho raises his eyebrows. “Quick and easy?” he asks in disbelief.

Pearl groans and thunks her helmet against a tree, sending a few birds scattering across the forest.

In front of them lies what looks to be an abandoned, burned-down shack. Etho would think it were just an abandoned building, if not for the menacing guard standing in the middle of the rubble.

“I just need you to… distract them,” Pearl says, voice muffled and tinny through the helmet.

“Distract them,” Etho repeats.

Pearl crosses her arms. “Stop repeating everything I say,” she grumbles, “Makes it sound like it’s a bad idea.”

“Bad id—”

Etho finds himself walking up to the ruined shack with a blooming pain in his shoulder that will most definitely bruise later.

The lookout glares at him, all muscle and dirt. Etho’s dealt with plenty of guys like this in his job, he knows how to get through.

Well, normally he knows how to get through—a nice wad of cash—but he’s keeping Lizzie’s gold pouch safe with him. “Excuse me, sir—”

“It’s down below,” the man grunts, pointing towards a hatch in the ground, “Pull out any weapons and we’ll throw you out faster than you can say ‘skooma’.”

Skooma? That’s a stupid name. Etho wrinkles his nose but nods anyways, swinging himself down into the hatch and climbing down the ladder with fingers that don’t shake at all.

The first thing Etho sees in this little drug den is a burgundy haze in the air, making everything look foggy and tinted. The smell of both copper and honey fills the air, a sickeningly sweet cloud that makes every movement feel lethargic and lazy.

Little crevices are carved into the stone walls, with little wooden booths sitting innocently against the walls. Noblemen and soldiers alike are splayed out on the booths, groaning while purple smoke exhales from half-empty bottles in their hands.

“Good evening, traveler.”

Etho turns to his left to see a fenced-off counter. Standing behind it is a woman with dirt caked behind her fingernails and a thousand years of exhaustion in her drained eyes.

With pursed lips and a brain full of choice words for Pearl, Etho goes to open his coin pouch, but the woman stops him with a rattling cough.

“First one’s on the house,” she rasps out, sliding a small, corked bottle through the fence.

Etho gingerly takes it with a muttered thanks, and sits down in one of the empty crevices. Why can’t we just break in, guns—er, swords—blazing? Why do I have to take the weird liquid drug to rescue some mage from a bunch of vampires?

Grian is going to owe Etho so much takeout after he explains everything.

Etho slips down his mask and pulls the cork out of the bottle with his teeth, immediately hit with the pungent, sickly-sweet smell of rotten fruit and something metallic.

The thought of vampires running a drug den makes him eye the bottle warily. Surely they wouldn’t put blood in these drinks, right?

Right?

This idea seems a little bit ridiculous, even for Pearl. Surely he could have just pretended to drink the skooma. Is there some weird effect he doesn’t know about? Is he going to get kidnapped?

“Bottoms up,” Etho says miserably, and tips the bottle up, chugging the entire thing in five seconds and good grief—

Etho has to take a few shuddering breaths to make sure all of the liquid actually stays in his stomach as it churns in disgust. The liquid feels like it’s taking over his body, flooding every possible sense with a disgustingly rotten and sweet feeling.

Pulling his mask back up, Etho glances around the room, wondering if he’ll be awake when the vampires come in to throw him in a cell. Is Pearl in here somewhere, watching him? Etho can’t tell, everything is too foggy and blurry to get a good grasp of the situation.

A warming sensation pulses through his body in waves, making even the thought of moving seem like a mammoth task. Every bone turns into jelly as Etho slides to lay down, head hanging down in exhaustion. It feels like he’s just chugged an entire bottle of Ny-Quil and then popped some melatonin for fun afterwards.

As warm and comfortable as he feels, the back of Etho’s mind still tingles with warnings, but the longer he sits there, the quieter they get.

In a sick and twisted way, he starts to understand why so many of the people in here are soldiers. Something this potent could keep the nightmares away, most likely.

Against his will, Etho feels his eyes start to slip shut, and it’s only with a momentary panic of what if Pearl doesn’t get me, what if the vampires kill me and use my blood for more skooma, what if I never see Grian again that he realizes the situation he’s put himself in.

Thankfully, he’s out like a light before he can put too much thought into it.

Anyone could see the frustration radiating off the avian from a mile away. His spectacular wings flutter with discontent every few seconds as he storms through the dirt paths of Falkreath, a small man on a mission with no one to stop him.

It isn’t until he reaches the Jarl’s lodge that he seems to relax, slamming open the door and slapping the guards with a flutter of his wings.

The lodge is comforting and cozy, with happy citizens lounging at the tables while a bard plucks a lyre to a nostalgic tune. It might just be his imagination, but he swears there are little plants beginning to grow between the wooden cracks in the floor.

“Jarl Ren,” the avian announces, startling the dinner tables into a quiet murmur.

The man at the head of the table lifts his head, crown lopsided on his head in a way that somehow doesn’t seem sloppy or distasteful, but rather endearing. His face breaks out into a brilliant smile, giving his face a youthful look that casts away the burdens of leadership with ease.

“My old friend,” he greets the avian cheerfully, a regal projection to his voice that screams relaxed authority, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It worked,” the avian hisses, brown eyes blown wide with manic glee, “I found the Dragonslayer, the one destined to kill the king of dragons and bring peace back to Skyrim.”

Jarl Ren raises his eyebrows, dark blue eyes contemplative as he shifts in his throne. Before he can speak, though, a voice to his right pipes up.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffs, tying a headband around his forehead to keep up the shock of blonde hair on his head, “That’s just a stupid prophecy. We’ve much bigger fish to fry than this man’s silly ramblings.”

Jarl Ren looks the avian dead in the eyes, searching for… something. “Even if you found someone from another universe, how do you know he’s capable?” he asks.

“My Jarl,” the right hand man whirls his head around to face the Jarl, “Surely you’re not—”

“I studied dozens, if not hundreds of people in that world,” the avian interrupts with an almost smug air to him, “He is a capable warrior, fiercely loyal, and I haven’t a shadow of a doubt that he is the right man for this.”

“Yeah? Where is he, then?” the blonde jabs, looking around the room exaggeratedly.

A fist slams down on the table, and the bard stops playing his lyre, startling with wide eyes as the whole room becomes captivated in the conversation.

With a stormy expression, the avian takes a deep breath. “I know you’ve heard the rumors, Martyn,” he snaps irritably, “A warrior with hair like the snow and a mask covering the bottom of his face. He was at Helgen when the dragon attacked, and then he helped kill the one in Whiterun.”

“You found the Dragonslayer and… lost him?” Jarl Ren asks, barely concealed amusement twinkling in his voice.

The avian grits his teeth. “I’m trying to find him again,” he replies, “But the trail went cold after Whiterun, and Lizzie wouldn’t tell me where he went.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Martyn mutters under his breath.

“Do you know where he is?” the avian pointedly ignores Martyn’s jab.

Jarl Ren sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose in thought. “I haven’t heard anything since Whiterun,” he admits, “Although…”

“Although?” the avian presses, leaning forward with a glint in his eyes.

“A friend of mine heard whispers of a masked man heading to Fort Dawnguard.”

The avian sighs, tension leaking out of his body and wings. “So he’s with Pearl… at least that means he’s safe.”

With a flutter of his wings, the avian stands up straight. “Right, that’s settled, then.”

“What’s settled?” Martyn asks, bewildered.

“If you see Eth—erm, the masked man—tell him I’m in Markarth, with the court wizard.”

“That crazed lunatic?” Martyn barks out. “Oh, you’ll get along swimmingly.”

The Jarl raises a hand to silence his Thane. “Out of concern for the safety of Skyrim, and out of respect for an old friend,” he says smoothly, smile never leaving his face, “I promise to send him your way if I see him. I’ll also send out a letter to the other Jarls to point him your direction, as well.”

“Oh, thank you, Ren!” the avian cheers, something achingly nostalgic and familiar appearing in his smile.

Before the Jarl can say another word, however, the avian is gone in a flash, leaving behind a single red feather.

“Good riddance,” Martyn snarks, before facing the other people with a strained smile, “Right! Back to your chatter, then! Go on!”

The casual hubbub of the lodge continues once more, all except for one thing. The bard is standing stock-still, his face a few shades paler than it was when he first entered with a cheery smile, lyre clutched in his hands so tight that it might shatter.

“Bard!” Martyn calls, waving his hands around. “You feeling alright?”

The bard startles and glances around the room. “Me? Uh, ha, yeah! I’m great! Fantastic! I, uh, gwu—um, uh—I have to—um, my head’s hurting a little, so I’m just going to, yeah, I’m going to go, sorry. Have a good evening, thank you for having me!”

The bard scurries out of the lodge almost as fast as the avian had, and Martyn turns to Jarl Ren with furrowed brows. “Strange lad, huh?” he asks.

Ren rests his hands on his head, a strangled noise leaving his throat.

“Oh, Grian,” he whispers, something achingly homesick in his voice, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”