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Teldryn was a mer of mystery. This was a certainty Athenath had become all too familiar with, even as they tried over the course of the past year to get to know him. In their experience, however, trying to ask Teldryn about himself and his history and expecting a personal answer was much like banging fists against stone and thinking that surely, this time, their hands would meet sand that sifted and crumbled and gave clear insight. He'd meet their thirst for depths with dry humor and measured calm. He'd listen to their own stories about their life before arriving to Skyrim and he'd offer a tale in return about a former employer, or the time he lived in the Gray Quarter, or adventures across Solstheim, but never were the stories revealing.
Geldis, scrubbing a cloth against a stubborn, sticky spot on the bar, once told Athenath not to take it to heart. Athenath told the Dunmer that it's not like they were trying to pry, just trying to understand. Geldis returned a laugh like he knew something they didn't, the sparkle in his scarlet eyes confirming this notion. This is just how Teldryn is, he explained. He was not one to get attached to his employers - or really, to most people. Don't take it to heart. Athenath's already-weary shoulders slumped further down as he folded his arms over the bar and rested his cheek atop one, the late-night whistle of wind through the ash-buried outpost drifting over the Retching Netch and shivering the lanterns outside.
He knew this, he understood this, he wasn't trying to bother Teldryn or anything. He explained these thoughts at a quiet murmur while Geldis merely shook his head and gave a low chuckle.
"When you've been alive as long as Teldryn and I both, you come to pick the people you speak to very carefully," he said. "My being an innkeeper means people tell me things they wouldn't tell their own alma. Doesn't mean I return the favor."
Even after returning from that particular visit to the island, Athenath couldn't stop turning over the words in their mind. He thought about the months he and Teldryn had traveled together, fighting off bandits, sabre cats, and even the odd spriggan or two, the way they worked in tandem as two members of the small team the Altmer had gathered in their travels. The images of the days spent on the road, or in towns across Skyrim, or cooped up in the museum safehouse while storms battered the city of Solitude, sifted through their fingers as quickly as they came to mind. The first of these stood out: Teldryn had been the one to approach them, that afternoon when Athenath had set foot into Raven Rock. He'd offered his services as a swordsman, and then as a guide when Athenath didn't appear all too convinced of hiring him. Lydia had been wary, as she often was of the mercenaries the group encountered, but Erandur made the point that none of them knew Raven Rock - or Solstheim as a whole, really - and that a guide would be the best thing for them to have at this point.
Athenath handed over the gold, and Teldryn hummed a pleased note under his chitin helm before using the first few pieces of coin to order sujamma.
It only took a couple of weeks for the Altmer to begin to tell their new companion of the strange encounters they'd had since arriving in Skyrim. The dragon that attacked Helgen was one of those stories, which Lydia took great pride in adding that Athenath had been one of the ones at the Western Watchtower to take down the second dragon to appear in this age. At these tales, tall as they may be, Teldryn would fold his arms over his chest and lean against his pack, his gaze focused entirely on the Altmer before him. He'd crack a joke about how he found it hard to believe that Athenath, of all the mer in Tamriel, was one of the ones who took down a dragon. Lydia would affirm, resolute, that this was the truth, and nothing else. Of course, the mercenary would ask the others in the group, and while Lydia had been the only one there to witness this event, they told Teldryn that they would believe it.
Teldryn would only watch, and make a small noise in his throat, like he were processing the information. Athenath shrunk in on himself and curled his dark hair around a finger, winding and unwinding it, changing the subject as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
Teldryn was a mer of mystery. Athenath always had the impression that he knew more than he let on, no matter what was happening, or how events unfolded. Ulkarin said that it gave him the creeps, the way the 'bloke with the bug helm' always kept such a firm eye on everyone, but Athenath tried to wave it off, even if it sent shivers up their own spine. Whenever they dealt with Jarls, Teldryn would stand firmly one step in front of Athenath, and if he gave the younger mer a glance of disapproval, the Altmer would quiet and think over the conversation had between himself and the figures before him. Whenever he would be summoned to the courts of Whiterun or Solitude - he was a thane, after all, and sometimes Jarls had habits of reminding him of such a thing - Teldryn would make it a habit to tell the team afterwards what he thought of the court and its affairs, and reasons he found to distrust the events before them. Athenath made great attempts to think of this as nothing more than the mercenary being perceptive. Observant. Intelligent. Behind all of that bravado and a life spent plying his trade as a swordsman, he was analytical, capable in the courts of Holds.
It was, however, hard to ignore how the climb to High Hrothgar unfolded.
The trek up the mountain had been a feat in of itself - and left the whole team with more questions than answers, at the end of the venture. The seven-thousand steps looming ahead, conditions increasingly frigid, the mountain air thin and strenuous to drag in and out of one's lungs. At some points, the group would set up camp and rest for an evening, or at least find a place for a few minutes to let everyone catch their breath. Ulkarin hissed and complained about his bad leg, some injury he'd gained from years of mercenary work and stupid mistakes made when he was a younger man. Lydia had started the journey excited at the prospect of meeting the Greybeards face-to-face (and, of course, making the pilgrimage up the mountain itself, something which many Nords held as a dream to undertake someday), but as the group navigated the snaking stones and what remained of once-clear steps slick with ice, she'd given more than a few uncertain looks to the Altmer whose summons led them here in the first place.
Erandur complained less, but that didn't mean what he did say wasn't biting - about the journey, about the cold, but not about his companions. He muttered prayers to Mara, and sometimes, Athenath joined him, the two devotees speaking the name of the goddess in both praise and frustration. Ulkarin would join in on the frustrated mutterings, but still clutched the amulet in his pocket tight in his gloved palm. Athenath had heard him whispering prayers to the goddess late at night, when he seemed to think no one else was awake, fingers gingerly twisting at the leather cord of his amulet.
Teldryn would merely keep moving. Like he'd climbed higher mountains, seen worse weather, and endured more terrible beasts than a few frost trolls and ice wraiths. Didn't mean he didn't air his grievances, but he did so in a manner which gave everyone on Athenath's team the impression he wasn't all that concerned about any of this, at the end of the day. Just another check off of a long list of things which needed to be done. He moved like he had worse troubles to deal with, or had dealt with before. Like this was, despite how exhausting, easier to bear.
They'd come down the mountain some time later, and spent another several days resting in the inn before taking carriages back to Solitude. Teldryn had returned quieter than usual, and whatever he had to say, it leant a more dismissive tone than anything. Athenath had tried, again and again, to ask what he thought about the Greybeards, but the response was typically the same: that they were old s'wits whose time at the Throat of the World had clearly whittled away at their minds, as isolation had the habit of doing, and that the group should be wary of them. Especially - he would punctuate, turning to Athenath - their supposed Dragonborn. Whatever that meant.
Night's silence cupped its palms around the museum grounds, guards patrolling throughout its stone halls under the watchful stars above. Auryen had been so kind as to let Athenath and his team take the safehouse as their own dwelling, mainly because it made sense that the relic hunter live near enough that, at a moments notice, they could be summoned to discuss the hunt for yet another artifact that the curator had set his sights upon.
The return from Ivarstead to Solitude had been far, far too long for Athenath's liking, despite the pace being relatively brisk. Some parts of the trip were taken on foot, others by carriage, and the entire time, Athenath could not shake the feeling that Teldryn - as always - knew something that he did not. Sometimes, when the group would set up camp, they would wake in the middle of the night and peek out the thin entry of their tent to see the Dunmer seated by the fire, unmoving, as if his thoughts persisted more like hounds chasing a weary rabbit. They'd never seen him without his armor, though on some rare occasions, the mercenary sat up at night without his goggles, his scarlet eyes and the faint, purple hue of tattoos revealed. They would turn away and try to sleep, guilt like they'd seen something they weren't supposed to gnawing at their gut. They would say nothing, but they swore that they could feel the mercenary's gaze burning holes through the tent and down at the Altmer, who would try desperately to sleep again.
This night, he sat on the stairs leading up to his bedroom, and listened to the creaks and pops of wood as it settled. Sure, they were grateful to be back at the museum, surrounded by familiar faces and no imminent threats of danger, but the talks with the Greybeards and the days spent living in their monastery had left them with less clarity than before. They just wanted to know how, and why, and how again, that the walls scratched in dragon language spoke to them, or how dragons he took down would give their souls to him, or why them, at all. And, if he were being honest, he didn't know whether or not the explanation of being Dragonborn satisfied these questions. He always had the impression there was more that the Greybeards wouldn't tell them, and these questions were the very ones keeping them up at this late hour, long past everyone else retiring to their beds.
He didn't notice when Teldryn sat down beside them on the stairs, but let the Dunmer's presence anchor them. Neither spoke. The crackling from the hearth did enough talking for the both of them, and in his periphery, he could see that Teldryn was still wearing his helm, his goggles, his gauntlets, despite the robe he wore indicating he was ready to sleep.
With Lydia, the pair could talk about the situations they'd faced, Lydia sipping tea or mead while the Altmer ranted and went on, and on, and on until they were done. She'd give advice acquired from the old warriors of Whiterun, or recite lessons learned as a child of Skyrim, and while sometimes the Altmer had trouble making heads or tails of it, he'd try to take it to heart. With Erandur, he could let the portions of his heart that kept him up at night come to the surface, the priest and the Dragonborn speaking of their shared goddess and taking comfort in knowing that she was with them, both put at ease by this knowledge. With Ulkarin, he could bitch and whine and complain and listen to the Reachman as he teased him for it, cracking a joke about the elf's attitude or two, before settling into asking Athenath what he planned to do about it. How he planned to get up and stop groveling. How he planned to move forward. How to plot the next step, one foot in front of the other.
With Teldryn, no words came out. He couldn't tell if the mercenary minded this or not.
"I wouldn't pay it any mind, serjo," Teldryn hummed, breaking the silence. Athenath's brow knit as they looked at him, to which the Dunmer waved a gauntlet-clad hand. "Those old s'wits don't have any idea what they're talking about."
The Altmer looked back to the stone floor, elbow coming to rest atop their knee and cheek planted in their palm. "I don't know," they admitted after a few more moment's silence. "I think... I guess I think that maybe I shouldn't have ignored their summons for so long. Maybe then I'd have more answers by now, or maybe it'd just be easier to deal with."
"Or maybe you'd be more confused than you are now." Teldryn folded his arms over his chest and leaned his shoulder against the wall. "If those monks want to use someone as a pawn for their bidding, then they'd ought to pick someone who wants to be there, not someone who was at the wrong place at the wrong time."
He mulled the words over in the silence, punctuated by the settling wood or the crackling logs. He just considered retrieving the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller the same as any other job, like the ones Auryen gave them, or the ones they'd taken on for regular people across their travels. They hardly considered helping people find items of significance to be the same as being a pawn, but the knife-sharp edge of Teldryn's words carried a warning buried somewhere within them.
Athenath exhaled slowly, and leaned forward as if trying to curl in on themself. Another long, uneasy silence followed, before they broke it with, "I came to Skyrim to escape, y'know? Well, I came here for the Bard's College, but really, it was kind of an escape. From my old life in Cyrodiil, I guess. A chance to start over. Make a name for myself."
"But not in this way, I'm sure."
He scoffed. "Yeah, exactly. I didn't want anything much, just a chance to be a bard. And then the dragon attacked Helgen, and then I helped take one down in Whiterun, and then, well, I was traveling a lot anyhow, so meeting Auryen and finding his relics was sort of just... Something to do. And now I'm here, and now the Greybeards think-"
"Giving power to whatever title they want to give you will only make it worse." Teldryn interjected. "If you ask me, calling on someone like this, and turning their entire life upside down and then not giving a reason as to why is unfair at best."
The cold nature of the other's voice made the Altmer shrink further in on himself. It had been unfair, definitely. Athenath had come to Skyrim to attend the Bard's College, but over a year later and all they could do was listen whistfully as the students played their music, and the stories were told in the inns, while they went off and traveled the furthest expanses of the province to locate items for the museum's collection. He'd ignored the Greybeards until they physically couldn't anymore, until they could feel the ground beneath their feet shake with the rhythm of the word they'd broken through the sky, 'Dovahkiin'. He'd wanted a reason, any reason, but all Arngeir had given was that they were bestowed a gift by the gods, and that whatever that meant was their own to discover.
"You might have a point," Athenath resigned. "I guess when we find the horn, we'll s-"
"Put the horn in the museum. Give it to Auryen. What are they gonna do, come down from High Hrothgar and retrieve it themselves?" He enunciated slowly with a small laugh tethered to the ends of his words, but they still lingered, bitter all the same. Athenath watched him, wary of the way he spoke, the way he postured himself, the way his tone made him sound so determined to forget the entire ordeal altogether. Not just forget, discard it. To toss aside the Greybeards' request and trample on it, too, for good measure. Kick it until it was dead.
Catching the look on Athenath's face, Teldryn heaved a long breath. "You do have a choice in these things, serjo. Obviously, I wouldn't give you my advice if I didn't believe you capable of making the decision for yourself, but I want you to think about this very carefully."
Athenath hitched a small, nervous laugh. "You're taking this way more seriously than I thought you would. I mean, normally, you just kind of..."
"Keep to myself? Do what I was hired to do, and not much else?"
He nodded. "Yeah, that's one way to put it."
Teldryn hesitated in a way which made knots tighten in the Altmer's stomach.
"I believe we both have our reasons, serjo."
They thought back to Geldis Sadri, the way he'd emphasized to Athenath that Teldryn had his reasons, as anybody did. That the Dunmer was not one to give unnecessary advice, not one to flatter, and not one to grow close to anybody who employed his services. When you've been alive as long as Teldryn and I both, you come to pick the people you speak to very carefully.
Athenath knew this. He'd never wanted to force Teldryn to open up, he'd just wanted to get to know the mysterious spellsword. Now, here, seated on the wooden stairs in the depths of a cold, uneasy night, they began to form a clearer picture of him in their head. The Dunmer had spelt something out, yet not fully written it, and Athenath was left to decipher the reasons behind the other's advice.
The brittle sound of chitin being discarded twitched in their ears. They looked over to the Dunmer as he removed his gauntlets and set them aside. They both sat in the quiet a while before the glint of something on one of his fingers drew their attention, Athenath focusing their gaze onto the ring.
The star is what caught the light best, gold in the dim of candles and hearth. A blue jewel set in the center, with a silver moon united with the band that wrapped around one of his digits. They gave it a curious look, but said nothing, the craftsmanship not lost on the Altmer. It had to be very old, the gem worn down by ages but still bright and rounded. The metals looked as though they'd been polished more by wear than by intentional cleaning. He kept glancing from the ring to Teldryn's face, back and forth. In their early years as a thief, they might try to take it in the night and sell it for a ridiculous amount of coin.
All they could think of now was how Teldryn almost seemed to be giving them an expectant look, and when whatever message he was trying to convey slipped through their fingers, he replaced his gauntlets without comment.
"Well, that was a nice chat, but I'm going to head these old bones to bed. You should, too. If you're really going to take us after this Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, we should all be prepared for the journey," Teldryn announced as he rose, stretching as though to emphasize his point.
"I thought you said-"
"You're still my employer, and if there's one thing I know about those who employ my services, it's that they're all stubborn."
He had a point, though Athenath wouldn't say so out loud. "Well," they began, "we can look at it like this: maybe when we get the horn and return it to the Greybeards, this whole thing will be over."
Teldryn laughed, a sound ringing involuntary in their ears as the mercenary shook his head.
"It's never over for ones like us."
Athenath watched him as he ascended the stairs and returned to the bedroom shared between their friends, disappearing through the doorway as the creaks and pops of the logs in the hearth imposed on the silence which seemed all the stranger now. Try as they may, in the days that followed, Athenath could never shake the way that his last words that night clung to him, wrapping around their thoughts and strangling out any other. Nor could they shake the knowing looks Teldryn gave them, and the way that he was beginning to understand, even if not entirely, what the other meant by each shed glance shared between them.
It's never over for ones like us.