Chapter Text
Green eyes, golden skin, tall frame, sharp build. Good traits of a good Altmer. Squared shoulders, thick tail, brown hair, horns flat to the head. Bad traits of a filthy half blood. A cross that shouldn’t be. A wretched dilution of pure, high quality, Elven blood. So well taught from youth, that Auriel can’t help but agree, despite carrying these such sinful traits. It’s hardly fair, he didn’t choose his mother to be a lizard, nor his father a traitor of what he could have been. Argonians aren’t meant to dirty Altmer bloodlines. Keep your “Lusty Argonian Maid” fantasy to your fantasies. He was hated for a thing out of his control. Though through years of work, he’d gained a bit of respect. People talk about him behind his back, rather than to his face. Alinor was never going to be kind to him. He knew that the day he was born. That was all in the past now, wasn’t it? Auri-El had picked something for him, strewn him from the light of the Dominion. His bitterness was resigned.
In the back of a filthy carriage, horse drawn on rough roads, is not the place to be. Not in a province that scorned your kind. Not when being a Mer was the worst mistake you could have ever made. Not with a far-too-calm Nord in the garb of that stupid rebellion, thinking you’re a genetic oddity and a friend. Not when you’re told you sit directly next to Ulfric Stormcloak, who leads a group that wants you dead. Not when you’re Altmer. A Thalmor-aligned, better than most, half blood Altmer.
“Hey, you, you’re finally awake.”
It takes effort to not roll his eyes. So he puts no effort in. He’s been awake, the roads of Skyrim aren’t kind on his body. There are bruises on every part of him that has contact with the unfinished wood he’s stuck sitting on. He’s simply above talking to Nords. Much less Talos worshippers. Especially not Stormcloaks. In the past, he did question his fellows on that; Why does it matter? He no longer holds that hesitance, he hates Talos. Auriel hardly listens, nonetheless he catches the Nord’s name: Ralof. Ugly name. Fitting, he supposes. Non-compliance gives you stress lines. Even if compliance was a joke.
…
“Sir, I assure you there is no Talos worship here-”
“Silence, Lizard.”
“I’m not-!”
“Silence.”
Silence.
Anxious green eyes meet cold Justiciar armor. He sees his fear in the reflection off of that untouched gold. The mer below that armor has never even actually fought in it. That’s more disgraceful than his own mixed blood. Grabbed by his hair and dragged out of his caravan, manhandled to imminent arrest. Hot tears spring up and it takes much of his past training to reel himself in and settle for the cold expression he’s learned.
His face meets the hem of Justiciar robes, knees pressed to cold dirt that bites through his newest set of trousers. He feels the rocks scuff his freshly shined boots. He can smell the leather of his superior’s own. His hair, long, brown, beautifully taken care of, carefully braided, is tugged harshly. His head cranes up to meet greenish-gold eyes, stealing into his. His neck already aches. The Thalmor are less kind to Altmer prisoners. You’d think the opposite, but an Elf is not too kind on betrayal. So he is treated to righteous Mer cruelty.
A mocking tilt to his head.
“You have committed crimes against Skyrim and her people, what say you in your defense?” The hooded Justiciar mocks, pulling a sharp laugh afterwards. “No, no, I jest. Auriel, you’ve been arrested on behalf of the Thalmor, for accused Talos worship. And, personally, I wouldn’t put it above a lizard to be anything such as loyal to his own people. So you are arrested without trial, and are to be executed with haste.”
“You know my na-” A kick to the back of the head quiets him once more. He knows his place.
“Who doesn’t know the black mark on Alinor’s perfection?” The Justiciar barks. Loathing woven into every word he speaks. But it’s a fair retort. Who doesn’t know him?
…
He pouts the whole way to Helgen. The Justiciars cut his hair. He refuses, out of spite, to admire the forests around him. He knows what this is. He won’t avoid a quick death. Auriel glares at everyone who’s just come to watch. Harder so at every soldier he sees amongst the common. He almost cries when he sees Elenwen. That conniving little- she was not here for the Nord. Their first class ride to Helgen slows to a halt before the keep, he can tell by the large tower, and the clearing made to just emphasize how small these prisoners are. The chopping block sits unimpressive in the center, and Auriel can smell the drying blood. It’s noon, the sun beats down and sucks the moisture out of everything. It smells like rot.
All four prisoners in the cart are instructed to get out. Ralof grumbles something bitter towards the Empire. Auriel scoffs. He’s far too worked up trying to be poetic. Nothing he has to say matters anymore.That Imperial, who he’d agreed with slightly more, if not for his utter lack of a spine, kept babbling about how he wasn’t with them. Fool. They are called up by name and residence: Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm. Ralof of Riverwood. Lokir of Rorikstead. Lokir tries, oh it’s almost admirable, tries to run off. The Imperial Captain has him shot down before he can make it to the gate. Then the soldier, who’d been reading the list, turns to him. He stares back.
He's asked who he is.
“Auriel. High Elf. And, Argonian.” The mer bites out the last part. His tail sways in frustration.
“Both..?” The soldier who asked seems unsure what to do with that.
“Regard me as Altmer, Imperial.”
The soldier, Hadvar, nods. “You’re not with the Thalmor Embassy, are you? No, that can’t be right..” He almost laughs. Auriel shoots a sidelong glare in Elenwen’s direction. No, not with the Thalmor. Hadvar looks at his list of names. “Captain, he’s not on the list.”
“Forget the list, send him to the block.” She seems quite bored, with her average Morndas of beheading people, traitor or otherwise.
“I will make sure your remains are returned to Summerset Isles. Follow the Captain.” It is then that he is shoved into a line. Again, Ralof speaks. Ulfric gets himself given a little speech, the special guy that he is. There is a distant noise that is commented on, but not addressed. Some other heretic is called up, and somebody- probably Ralof, who won’t shut up, compliments his confidence. Ah yes, the ever impressive confidence of telling a priestess to shut up and kill you quicker. Sure. Auriel is called up next. Lizard. He’s tossed to the ground again. Knees into earth softer than his arrest. He feels the sand indented where those before him have rested in fear. He has a cold will to not be absolutely terrified. A grimace. The sand is soft, not because it is warm, but because it is soaked with blood. He frowns but doesn’t protest when he is pushed onto the block. A scoff at the blood, sticky to his jaw. The Imperial General, Tullius, says something he refuses to hear. There was another sound- louder. Grating on his ears.
SLAM.
Rubble flicked across Auriel’s face. His head was angled to the side, away from the crowd. His eyes strained against the sudden heat in the air. He felt that. Auriel’s body lurched uncomfortably into the block, rubbing against his neck. A stormcloak soldier exclaimed likely the most obvious detail about the whole ordeal:
"A dragon!"
Yes, you dolt, everyone in Helgen could see the massive scaled creature, claws through tough stone bricks like it's no more than stale bread. Its body is larger than any one of these houses, and its serpentine neck is elongated like it rules the world. Auriel suspects it might. Black scales, chipped from battles thousands of years prior, reflect almost no light. Leathery looking wings almost block out the sun. The beast's horns look knife sharp, and they’re twisted almost like a crown. The way they curve is particularly intimidating. Auriel, who was directly below where the thing is perched can only do so much as have his face calm. Inside, clear by his heaving chest, he is panicking. He has absolutely no chance of survival here. It would take a miracle. He’d need a prophecy.
Or a little bit of staring at the dragon and his 'get the hell up and move!' Sense kicking in. He jolts up, tripping over his feet. Having his hands tied isn't very helpful, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. Auriel just runs, stumbling from lack of balance. The dragon taking off from the tower almost knocked him backwards and into the fallen corpse of the man before him. But he manages, and is quickly intercepted by Ralof. The Nord said something, but Auriel didn't hear it; the dragon breathed fire onto a nearby house with an ear splitting roar. He follows Ralof reluctantly, his tail flicking nervously at the idea of trusting a Nord, no less a Stormcloak. A bad idea, since that skeever-for-brains asks him to jump out of a hole in the wall. Of a crumbling tower. Into a burning house. It’s at least 12 feet down. He can't argue though, until that damned dragon breaths flames into said hole in the wall and almost kills him.
"You're absolutely beyond insane, if you're asking me to jump THIS!" He exclaims, gesturing at the large gap.
"You'll make it, just go, damn it, before that thing comes back and decides Thalmor Lizards are it's taste!" Auriel almost slaps him, but opts for reluctantly flinging himself out of the window. It goes HORRIBLY.
His face catches on a burning rafter and splits open over his left eye. It misses his actual eye, but it hurts. He slams uncomfortably into the floorboards. He can feel hot blood spill sluggishly. Luckily,because it's so nightmarishly hot everywhere, it manages to close up faster than usual. Not healed by any means, but it's oozing rather than streaming over his skin. It hurts, and there is so much blood. In his eye. He can feel it in slow, sticky trails down his face and neck. He can only smell iron, which is better than burning flesh. He just gets up and runs, despite the bleeding. The prickle of heat of his bare arms distracts from the pain. And when given a choice of who to run off with, he picks the sane looking Hadvar this time. And an Imperial guarantees him a better chance of survival.
Hadvar waited restlessly in front of the door, dragging him inward. Auriel would think it rude, were he not focused on keeping himself alive. They stopped just inside the keep, time that Auriel took to calm himself back down, to actually pay attention to his surroundings.
The air in the keep was pleasantly cool and damp on his face and arms. Every inhale made him dizzy, as his lungs adjusted to the changes. He felt sick, his limbs tingled, now that adrenaline was slipping away and blood moved back through his veins normally. He knew he swayed on his feet, as Hadvar steadied him with hot hands on his arms. Auriel flinched away, trying helplessly to focus his vision. Was it panic or pain that had his nose stinging with the threat of tears. He couldn’t hear. Were his breaths coming in short? Was he still standing? Hadvar cut the ropes around his wrists, which immediately went up into his hair. Usually, he fiddled with his braid. But that was gone now, wasn’t it. His voice sounded broken when he realized. He was unsure if it was blood or tears dribbling down his face. He didn’t know when he came back down, his head had been pounding and his blurry vision didn’t allow him to remember the time passed.
“Looks like we’re the only ones who made it. Gods, was that really a dragon? We should keep moving. Grab what you can, I’m sure there’s something laying around here for you to use.” Auriel took a shuddering breath in, feeling his feet around like a newborn foal. He clenched his hands over the cold stones in the wall, desperately seeking something solid to keep himself tethered. It wasn’t often that he felt so lost. The last time, well.. It was too long ago to remember. He found a couple iron swords, which he set down on a table for after he’d gotten better armor. He found a chest, pushing it open to find some Imperial light armors. It hadn’t changed much since he had to learn its appearance. Auriel fumbled with all the straps, but he got it on over his itchy tunic. Same with a helmet and boots. Unfortunately, no gloves or gauntlets. His hands would forgive him. The twin blades were strapped to his waist, and he gave Hadvar an affirmative nod. He grabbed a small stack of coins on a table, and shoved a potion into the bag on his hip that came with his armor. The city was too destroyed to salvage, bandits would overtake the ruins. He was allowed to take what he needed.
It was a lot of fighting through Stormcloaks. He got more potions, and some lockpicks. He got a warhammer- iron- and a weak looking bow. With that bow, he shot a bear- he thought to sell the pelt later. He would need coin to stay alive. He pushed through a cave exit, which was highly convenient for him, and came out somewhere outside of Helgen. Hadvar was with him, looking disheveled and nervous. He hadn’t noticed the imperial following him the whole time.
“Is it still following us? We should lay low for now, in case it comes back.” He offered Auriel a soft smile, which was given a pained scowl in return. “Come here, friend. Let’s clean you up.” He approached slowly. Auriel leaned away gently when Hadvar’s hand reached out to hold his face steady. Something about not wanting to be touched by a lesser race. Not his fear of vulnerability, he didn’t have one of those. Cyrodiil was not nice about voices, assuming that’s where the imperial was from. That or Hadvar just got really unlucky. Anyways, he does a fast job of pouring some water on a rag and wiping Auriel's face down. He feels less hot and sticky out of the keep, so he supposes he can't complain too much about a human man touching him. He sighs, and runs a hand through now short hair. He thinks to keep his hair short now, it would help hide his identity. Not that he was hard to find. He hoped the injury over his eye scarred smoothly. He valued his appearance.
Hadvar gestures for him to follow, promising that he’d get aid from his uncle. He needed it, regrettably. For now, he just walks, a step or two behind Hadvar. He said he'd take Auriel to his hometown, Riverwood, and see where to go from there. Now, Auriel did not really want to be a fighter, but he didn’t have much of a choice from here, having the Thalmor as an enemy had a few notable downsides- fighting to keep living or hiding indefinitely were your only chances of survival. He knew what happened to the unfortunate chumps who were captured by high Elven supremacists. He himself was slightly lean at the waist, that's the elf, but he is broad. And tall. He can't help but admit he looks like the fighter type. He is not. He is the type to lounge about and stare obviously at Dunmer men, and shyly at the women.
They make an uneventful walk to Riverwood. The roads in Skyrim are never safe, but it is generally safer to walk during the day. He's been in Skyrim before, the only real threat in the woods are.. well the list is long, he admits. But most of them are only a threat at night. They made it quickly to the town, where Hadvar carefully led a still silent Auriel to the Blacksmiths shop. Alvor was your typical nord, which caused him to eye Hadvar curiously. He’d been sure the man was from Cyrodiil, but perhaps not. Auriel tried not to stare at the obvious muscle in the middle aged man's arms. A bad habit. He gets some armor, zones out through some probably important conversation, and gets snapped back to reality when he's told to go somewhere.
"Huh?"
"Go to Whiterun- the Jarl needs to know about this."
"Oh uh.. okay? I could do with more glory."
"Is being a messenger boy glorious?"
"I'll just do something great on the way."
"Whatever you say, boy."
Yes, whatever he says. Auriel feels a bit ruffled by Alvor not immediately telling him he's right. He supposes he shouldn't expect much from an arguably attractive Nord. If they're pretty, they probably aren't the most reasonable. Except for himself. And maybe a few other people. He's proven himself wrong yet again.
Auriel does as any glory seeking Elf would- snoop around the town. It’s an impulsive habit from snooping for Talos worship. He encountered what some may call a love triangle. It was more of a love arrow, two men after the same lady. Idiotic nord man versus some Bosmer named Faendal. He would love to make a Bosmer's day worse, but Auriel doesn't like the nord, Sven. He hands him a letter, one he wrote himself to try and make his muse hate the competition. Trying to sabotage something that should come naturally. Auriel is always one for watching people do poorly, but he doesn't trifle with love. He has some morals. So he takes Sven's note to the girl, and reports his findings.
"Mh, excuse me? I have something that may interest you. Sven, that.. interesting looking nord down by the entrance of your town? He wanted me to give you this." The girl- Camilla, tilted her head curiously. Her jaw dropped at the spitting contents of the letter. “Oh- right. He said for me to tell you it was from Faendal? Not that I know who that is, but I pity him.”
"This… Sven wanted me to think this was from Faendal? I- I’m sure he’d want to thank you for doing this for him. He should be just outside the town, by the mill." Auriel almost giggled. He adored getting things for doing nothing.
"It was my pleasure~" He purred, a content smile melting over his face like it was always there. Never one to deny himself a reward, Auriel goes to find this Faendal. Based on his minimal knowledge of Skyrim, he assumed he was towards the center of the province- in Whiterun hold. That would make it likely that Faendal is the only Bosmer in the town. They were more common in poorer towns. Altmer- Like himself, were far more prevalent in the richer cities. Except for Windhelm. He made sure to know where he was unwanted.
Auriel found Faendal crossing a small bridge with an armful of firewood. Hm. Attractive young mer. He looks about Auriel’s age. Auriel was 200 now, what.. middle aged? Hardly. He rolls his eyes and engages in regretful conversation. No matter. He gets a hefty sum of coins and leaves, footfalls heavier than usual.
His snooping wasn’t over. He walked absently back into the small shop where he’d met Camilla. Auriel had walked in on her and her brother arguing the first time, and was fully intending to figure out why.
The door pushed open with a soft creak. The wood beneath his hand is a reminder that he was really there, warding off the tingly feeling that had reached his fingertips. It was cooler in the shop now, probably due to the ice wraith teeth that Camilla was crushing on the alchemist's workbench. Her brother, Lucan, was counting the pitiful number of coins on the counter. Her brother was the one Auriel wanted to talk to. Emotional- perfect for worming answers out of.
“Lucan Valerius, yes?” He didn’t bother to say hi. Lucan looked up, flashing an ugly smile that Auriel wished he hadn’t seen.
“That’s me, yes. You were in here earlier, to talk to my dear sister, right? Came back to buy something?” He leaned on his elbows and tilted his head. Auriel stepped forward hoping his disgust wasn’t too evident. Not that he really cared.
“Maybe.. I’ll admit my motives aren’t purchase related, though. I walked in here earlier and never got to talk to the owner of the only general goods store in town. But you were in a bit of an argument w