Boxes Wrapped in String

<>

Jotaro awakens, knee deep in the waters of the Marseilles beach. Over the horizon, he can barely see the faint lightening of the sky from the morning sun. His hands reflexively go to the pockets of his coat, but he must have left it back in the hotel; his palms brush against the waistband of his pants instead. He brings a hand up to his head, fingers sliding along the brim of his hat, and takes a deep breath out. It would seem, in the still-dreaming state of his stumble to the shore, he'd at least managed to grab it.

Jotaro allows the waves to lap at his shins for a few minutes more, until he can see the rosy French dawn just beginning to yawn over the ocean. France's Mediterranean dawn is gentler than America's, but she is not who he wanted to see when he awoke; Jotaro turns away from her to wade back to the sand. If he hurries, he can get back to the hotel before Noriaki awakens alone again, wondering where he is.

<>

In his restless nightmares that drag him out of bed and to the ocean, the universe restarts a thousand times a night. Sometimes he's a cowboy in a John Wayne Western, riding his horse across the dry Nevada desert. Sometimes he's a sailor on a small skiff, riding the crashing waves of a tumultuous ocean. Sometimes he's himself, but Egypt never happens and he's not Jotaro Kujo, stand master who can stop time, but he's just Jotaro Kujo, marine biologist made famous for his work on the familial structures of orca whales. Sometimes he's himself and Egypt happens, but he fails everyone and the world crumbles to pieces under Dio's heel. Sometimes he's himself and Egypt happens, but he doesn't get to Noriaki at the top of the water tower in time, or Dio doesn't notice when he's twitching his fingers against the pavement as Polnareff bleeds across the street. Other times, he's the roiling sea, and the conflicts of mortals means nothing to him.

"Another nightmare?" Noriaki asks, without turning away from the window. The curtains are drawn and the sun is almost fully over the horizon now, illuminating him in an ethereal golden glow. In his hands, he’s holding one cup of coffee; another is left, still steaming, on the desk by the coffee-maker. Without asking, Jotaro knows that there is already milk, not cream, and one scoop of sugar in his cup.

"The beach is best before dawn," Jotaro replies. "It's empty."

Without asking, Jotaro knows that Noriaki does not believe him. But Noriaki only turns to him with a raised eyebrow. For a moment, Jotaro wishes he still smoked; the controlled breaths in and out when he smoked would help, but he quit when Jolyne was born and has no desire to begin again. Noriaki, staring through his deception with a piercing gaze, hates the taste of cigarettes on his tongue anyway.

"Marseilles is a popular vacation spot for surrounding European tourists," Noriaki eventually says instead. "The Mediterranean climate makes its beaches among the most temperate in France."

Jotaro walks forward to pick up the coffee from the table. He stands next to Noriaki at the window and sips it as he watches the beach he was standing on minutes ago begin to fill up with tourists. By the time their cups are both empty, the sun is fully above the horizon and the sand is dotted in multicolor umbrellas and erratically patterned towels.

When the last drop of coffee falls onto Noriaki's tongue, Jotaro takes their empty cups into the small kitchenette of their suite. When he returns, Noriaki tumbles him into the sheets of their bed, and they make love until the visions of a failed Egypt finally disappear.

<>

There is a theory among astrophysicists, that the universe they're living in and experiencing is only one of an infinite number of multiverses, places where the laws of physics may or may not function in the same observable way. Jotaro doesn't fully understand it, but his specialty is within the depths of the ocean, not the stars and space above. He only knows about it from sparse readings, articles and pages from the books he poured through for answers to his dreams.

If there are an infinite number of universes, then the things he comes up with in his dreams may not be pure imagination, but glimpses into alternate lives he might be living. That's why he calls them visions, not dreams, why he tells Noriaki that Egypt didn't give him PTSD - it's simply turned him into a prophet.

“Let me share them with you,” Noriaki had said. “Half and half.”

But there is no way to predict them or to accurately recall what he’s seen. Over the past sixteen years his visions have come and gone, swelling and receding like the tides on Floridian shores. When the moon is high and the tide washes over his consciousness, his head prickles with the weight of prescience and his awareness of the world around mutes under a layer of saltwater. When the tide is low and his vision is clear, he is crisp autumn air, brisk and fresh, with barely a hint of salt in the air.

It's unfortunate that the tide has risen again on the week of their trip to France, but Jotaro can't control it. Or maybe the moon here is different, and the way the waters crash against the shores muddle his senses. He's not sure. Either way, he thinks he's only half here, half floating in and out of wormholes between universes.

Noriaki is speaking to him, but Jotaro sees only a river of blood and water flowing out of the hole in his stomach, pooling on the floor of their hotel suite as the sun sets behind him.

"Jotaro," Noriaki is saying, "Are you awake?"

What he's really asking is whether Jotaro is going to leave. Jotaro's fingers twitch as they pluck at tapestry strings, weaving the crimes of ancient Greek gods; here is Leda, lying under the wings of a swan; here is Europa, deceived by the form of a bull, swallowed up by the waters; here is Ganymede, struggling within an eagle's talons; here is Alcmena; here is Io; here is Callisto; here is Danae. His fingers turn to spider's legs under the vengeful jealousy of a warrior goddess.  

Jotaro has to take three slow breaths, in and out and in and out and in and out again, before his fingers are fingers once more, clutched tight in Noriaki's shaking grasp. Their knuckles are whiter than the cream-colored sheets they're lying on.

"Jotaro," Noriaki whispers, face inches away from his. There is no blood pooling from his stomach, just a thick trail of red hair leading from his navel, disappearing under the waistband of his pants.

"I'm sorry," He says. "I'm here."

<>

Jotaro ends up falling asleep again; he doesn’t mean to, but high tide exhausts him. In his dreams, he returns from Egypt. He’s eighteen and graduating from high school. He’s twenty and lying on the floor in the marine biology lab of his university, listening to the humming of the tanks. He’s twenty-two and holding his newborn daughter against his chest. He’s twenty-four and tilting his head down to kiss Noriaki in front of a cheering crowd, libations poured all around. He’s twenty-nine and watching his teenaged uncle help take control of a troubled little town.

He’s thirty and on stage again, receiving his Ph.D. He’s thirty and Noriaki is kissing him congratulations, backing him up against their bedroom door. He’s thirty, and still doesn’t look a day over eighteen. He’s thirty, and Noriaki’s starting to get lines of silver in his hair, but he’s still as beautiful as ever. He’s thirty, and the air has been crisp, his head clear, visions unseen for almost an entire year now, and he’s thinking that maybe Egypt is finally behind him. He’s thirty, and nuzzling into the scar on Noriaki’s stomach. A day later, he’s thirty-one and dreams of men turning into ravenous dinosaurs; he wakes up chest-deep in the water, Noriaki screaming at him from the shore.

He awakens to his stomach pressing against the ledge of the balcony. Noriaki is watching him across the way, Hierophant’s tentacle wound twice across his chest.

Noriaki’s eyes are alert, but not alarmed. His arms are loosely crossed, and he’s leaning back against the opposite corner of the balcony. The sun is behind him, illuminating the shape of his red hair in sunglass. There are slightly more silver strands now than when he was thirty – years ago in reality, minutes ago in his dreams. Jotaro steps towards him and reaches for Noriaki’s signature bang. He runs his fingers through it and imagines starlight embroidering the strands in silver.

“Jotaro.” Noriaki says. Hierophant’s tentacle loosens its hold just a fraction. “Are you awake now?”

Jotaro cups Noriaki’s face in his hands, running his thumbs down the old scars. They’re not bleeding right now. His fingers twitch, but they stay flesh and bone, the right shape.

“I’m not sure,” Jotaro says anyway. Noriaki looks like a stained-glass angel in this lighting, and it draws reverence from him. “I might still be dreaming.”

<>

Polnareff knocks on the door at half-past eight. In one hand, he’s holding a bottle of red wine by the neck; under the other, he’s carrying a tall hookah pressed against his side.  At the sight of the two of them, he haphazardly drops both glass objects on the nearby shelf to sweep them in a hug, even though Noriaki had been offering a handshake.

“It’s been too long!” Polnareff says, pressing a kiss against each of their cheeks. Once upon a time, Jotaro’s Japanese sense of personal space would’ve been ridiculously upset, but now he simply tilts his head down and tries not to smile too widely at his friend’s greeting. “It’s been, what, eight years, nine? Since the last time I saw you two?”

"Ten," Noriaki responds. He affectionately returns their old friend's gesture, and even Jotaro brings a single arm up in an awkward semblance of reciprocation. Polnareff doesn't seem to mind.

“Too long!” Polnareff says again. But then he shakes his head and lets them go, stepping back to look at them. “Damn, Jotaro, you don’t look like you’ve aged a day.”

“And what about me?” Noriaki interjects, feigning indignation.

Polnareff hands him the bottle of wine in response. “I’ve brought something to celebrate,” He says. “From the vineyards of Banyuls.”

Noriaki’s face softens at that as he looks over the label. “Thank you, Polnareff,” he says. He uncorks it swiftly and says then, to Jotaro, "Banyuls is a region along the Vermillion Coast known for the sweetness of their produced grapes. It's said that in the middle ages, the wine produced from this region was reserved for the king of France."

"Damn right!" Polnareff says. "And tonight, you two are kings. Ten years is a benchmark – no, it’s a milestone. And that’s a reason to celebrate if I’ve heard of one.”

“You’d find any reason to drink,” Jotaro tells him, but the words are not unkind. Noriaki has fetched three wineglasses and moved to the table outside on the balcony.

“Just one glass tonight,” Polnareff says, following with the hookah. “We’ve got work to do in the morning, and I’m driving back.”

“I don’t believe you,” Jotaro says.

“One glass it is,” Noriaki smiles.

Polnareff ends up helping them finish off the bottle, despite his previous claims. Jotaro drains the last of his glass as, underneath the table, Noriaki quietly slips him ten Euros in defeat.

<>

Jotaro hasn’t smoked in years. Noriaki never started, but Polnareff insists that hookah is different from cigarettes. The tobacco he’s bought is cherry-flavored, at any rate. When the wine is gone, they set it up on the table and pass the pipe between them.

Noriaki takes the pipe first; as expected, he coughs up the initial lungful, but exhales the second through his nose in long, smoky trails, like the balletic whiskers of a Chinese dragon. He passes the pipe to Jotaro then, who inhales the fruity, white smoke in a single, sharp breath. He holds it, eyes closed, until his chest burns and he sees the charcoal ignited in his ribs instead, kindling beneath his sternum. The smell and the smoke remind him of Pakistan; the lukewarm seaside air sears away to the blazing heat of the desert. When he feels the give of sand beneath his soles, he breathes out and opens his eyes in Marseilles once more.

He passes the pipe to Polnareff, who takes his turn with three quick puffs, the smoke drifting around his head like drifting clouds. When the hookah has made its first circuit, they finally begin talking.

There's business to attend to; Jotaro isn't in France only for pleasure (though it's nice to have left Jolyne at his grandparents’ in New York, and have Noriaki all to himself for a while.) But tonight they simply talk like old friends who haven't seen each other in years, and unanimously agree to hold off on work until at least tomorrow.

Their conversation is instead filled with the silly mundanity of their everyday lives. They laugh about American movies that came out a year ago and the atrocity of the French dubs. Noriaki produces his wallet, which is filled with pictures of Jolyne; Polnareff produces a similar wallet, but his pictures are of the birds on the roof of his apartment. He wakes up every day at dawn to toss birdseed at them. The little red ones are his favorite, and get three whole pictures to themselves. Eventually, he produces a map of France too and points out all the places he thinks Jotaro and Noriaki would enjoy, small places in the countryside that aren't part of any European tour circuit.

Noriaki is playing with the pipe between his fingers as Polnareff is talking about Argentat, a small town on the Dordogne River.

"I know you guys said you wanted to stick to the shores, and Argentat is about in the middle of France, but it's a beautiful little town on the river. Lots of history, too - Kakyoin, I know you'd love it."

Noriaki nods, but he's not looking at the map. He’d accused Jotaro of wandering, but his mind is elsewhere too; Jotaro can tell, from the way he slowly draws the pipe into his mouth, suckling on it gently, balancing the metal between his lips as he breathes out through his nose. Their eyes catch, and his smile is full of intent as he offers the pipe to Jotaro.

Jotaro is not as fond of fruits as Noriaki is, but he leans back and relishes in the flavored tobacco anyway. He breathes in slowly this time, almost letting the smoke trickle into his lungs by itself. He can see swirling tendrils twisting like vines inside of him, flowering into white poppy blossoms. When he breathes out, the smoke curls in the space between them, lingering in an opaque screen. Through the white veil, Noriaki’s smile widens. His eyes are dark and his head tilted. The sweet wine has made him tipsy; the tobacco has made him deliberate; his wandering thoughts have awakened a voracious roaring within him. Jotaro's interest in the rustic towns Polnareff is going on and on about dissipates with the smoke.  

Without waiting for it to be handed over, Noriaki plucks the pipe from Jotaro’s fingers and takes a deep breath in. The smoke he breathes out is thick as the buds of Egyptian cotton growing along the Nile; Jotaro leans forward slightly, mouth open, and draws it in with one breath. He can barely taste the flavor of this smoke, but Noriaki’s scent permeates it, makes it so much stronger. Jotaro’s eyes want to drift closed as the sounds of the busy Cairo marketplace resonate in his chest, but he forces them open.

“Jotaro,” Noriaki warns.

Polnareff shakes his head. “Get a room, you two.” He says. Then, as if realizing where he is, he moves to get up from the chair. “Er, wait, I guess this IS your room, technically.”

Noriaki breathes in again, turning those dark eyes towards Polnareff’s direction. He stands before Polnareff and leans over him, places his hands on either side of Polnareff’s face, tilts his head a bit to avoid crashing their noses together, and just barely doesn’t touch Polnareff’s lips with his own. Perhaps reflexively, Polnareff’s mouth parts, and Noriaki exhales into it with the same, heavy breath. They’re much closer, and only a small wave of smoke escapes into the air around.  

Jotaro's breath falters and his heart skips a whole beat, maybe two. Noriaki is nothing but meticulous, and he knows what message he’s sending. But perhaps Polnareff doesn’t, because he breathes in the smoke anyway, eyes fluttering and cheeks flushing as Noriaki draws away, hands placed still on either side of his face.

"Exquis," Polnareff says, swallowing. "M… Merci Beaucoup."

Jotaro has grabbed the pipe from where it fell now. He stands behind Polnareff’s chair and breathes in quickly enough for the coal to flare bright red in the darkness; he almost chokes, but it draws Polnareff’s attention, who looks away from Noriaki towards the hookah. Noriaki’s hands tilt his head up, until Jotaro is looking straight down at him. He doesn’t bother with the hardly-restrained teasing. Noriaki is the master of finesse; Jotaro simply crashes their mouths together and breathes white onto Polnareff’s tongue.

“Stay,” Noriaki says. His voice is carries the authority of a regent, but his tone is soft as a plead.

Jotaro draws back, breath heavy. Polnareff only nods.

“Oui,” he says, voice weak, more smoke than sound.  “Je serais honoré.”

<>

They barely make it back into the room; they're not even close to making it to the bed.

They fall asleep on the floor. In his dreams, the universe restarts again. In this one, Jotaro is his stand, watching over the three of them like a guardian spirit, thinking about what a strange picture they make. Polnareff's sharp and sun-kissed skin, Noriaki's pale, slight body, his own sea-gold, salt-rough form. He and Polnareff’s limbs are intertwined around Noriaki like a rope, fibers of night and day and the breaking dawn between. Or maybe Noriaki is the sunset, with his dusk-red hair and twilight irises. He thinks there must be a word to describe the convergence of sea and sky and the earth between, and wonders how many more universes he must see before he’s eloquent enough to know it.  

His dreaming shifts. The universe restarts again. He scratches at his carapace with one of his many legs.

<>

Jotaro wakes up where he fell asleep for the first time in a week. The clock on the bedside table reads 3:37, so it hasn't been a full night yet, but it's better than nothing. His throat is parched; he makes a note to move Noriaki to the bed later, and stumbles into the kitchenette for a drink.

To his surprise, Polnareff is awake too, curled up in a pair of boxers on a chair, a book open in his lap. The lamp is low in this room; Jotaro hadn't even noticed the light until he'd turned the corner, and realizes that Polnareff must have done this so as not to disturb the two of them. It's charmingly considerate, for him.

"I thought you'd left," Jotaro says.

Polnareff visibly winces. "Sorry, did you want me to? I wasn't sure if I should've, after -"

"No." Jotaro fills his glass of water and considers his next words. He opts for, "What're you reading?"

Polnareff flips the book over. It’s in English. "Loop. Koji Suzuki. Kakyoin recommended the series some time ago, but I've only just now gotten around to reading it."

Jotaro resists the urge to raise an eyebrow. He would not have guessed Polnareff to enjoy the intellectual types of books Noriaki devours, but he doesn't want the surprise to show.

Polnareff continues. "It's a translation; Kakyoin read it in its original Japanese, but, well, that's not an option for me. It's still good, though."

"What's it about?"

Polnareff pauses. "It's… the third in a series, so it’s kinda hard to explain without spoilers." He runs his thumb up and down the fore edge, opposite the spine, as he thinks. Jotaro follows the movement of his finger.

"Do it anyway," He says. “I don’t care about spoilers.”

"It's about how a computer-simulated reality is invading the real world with a fatal virus that's killing everyone. It has to do with... humans trying to understand the workings of the universe, and how certain things are beyond comprehension because you're unaware of the scope of the world around you.”

Jotaro doesn't respond. It’s not the kind of book he’s usually interested in, but at high tide, he wants to hear more. More accurately, he wants to hear more from Polnareff. For all his impulsive brashness, this is a rare side of him that Jotaro has only ever seen in glimpses and flashes, and he does not want to lose the moment. "Read it to me," He says.

"You should read it in Japanese; I'm sure it's much better."

Jotaro shrugs. He has never cared about the nuances of words. “Read it to me anyway."

Polnareff winces then, and lifts his thumb from the fore edge. There are thin, sharp lines running across the pad of his finger, cutting through the whorls of his prints. Jotaro grabs his hand and lifts it to his mouth, licking off the welling blood.

"I - I should go," Polnareff says. His voice hitches on the first syllable, and his eyes dart through the kitchenette wall, to where Noriaki is still sleeping on the floor. His voice is decisive but his eyes are filled with doubt.

"We invited you together."

"You’re not together now."

"Read me a section of the book."

"Are you going to wake Kakyoin up?"

Eventually, he will. He wouldn’t want Noriaki to miss this older, intellectual Polnareff, who is awake at 3:30 in the morning to read contemporary literature, but for now he wants to witness it himself. He feels like he's managed to capture the fleeting golden light of the morning sun in his hands, and worries that if he shows it to someone else, its light will escape from his grasp and he will lose it forever.

"I don’t read a lot of books nowadays," Jotaro admits, when Polnareff is still hesitating.

“I don’t read often. Just stuff that gets recommended to me, so I can be sure that it’s good.”

“English?”

“French mostly.”

“What are your favorites?”

“L'âge de raison, by Sartre. Voyage au bout de la nuit, Journey to the End of the Night. There’s been a lot of songs written about it.” The corners of his mouth turn up as he sheepishly says, “Le tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours.”

“Around the World in Eighty Days,” Jotaro says. He can’t help the quirk of his own mouth. “Jules Verne. That one I’ve read. Noriaki said I was pretty much obligated to.”

At the mention of the redhead's name, Polnareff's eyes dart back over to the kitchenette wall. Jotaro grabs his wrist then, pulling him from his curled position on the chair into the main room, where he clicks on a dim lamp. Noriaki stirs then, blinking as he pushes the blanket from his shoulders and sits up.

Jotaro sits Polnareff on the edge of the bed and pushes the book into his hands. "Read," he commands, and goes to kneel beside Noriaki on the floor.

Polnareff swallows and opens the book to the first page. "He opened the sliding glass door, and the smell of the sea poured into the room. There was hardly any wind - the humid night air rose straight up from the black water of the bay to envelop his body, fresh from the bath."

Noriaki’s glasses had been haphazardly tossed on the bedside table, but he squints at the cover of the book anyway and smiles a bit as recognition seeps into his mind. “Appropriate,” He murmurs to Jotaro’s ear.

“The moon's expression was constantly, subtly changing for him, and watching it gave him a mystical sort of feeling. Often, it would give him ideas.”

Jotaro dips his head down and says, mostly into Noriaki’s neck, “I like this book. You should lend it to me when we get home.”

“It’s the third in the series. I think you’d enjoy the other two as well, though.”

“I like the sound of the words,” Jotaro says. He closes his eyes, but Noriaki kisses them back open and grasps his hand.

“Jotaro,” Noriaki says, “Are you still awake?”

He’s noticed his drifting, as he always does, but Jotaro can’t control it. The moon is full and his chest is bursting with red-hot charcoal, as if his own lungs are ready to spirit him away to the streets of Calcutta or the quiet beep of a hospital critical care ward. He can feel spidersilk against his fingers and Mediterranean waves against his knees, but he takes a deep breath and instead thinks of white smoke swirling between them, curling against Noriaki’s alabaster skin.

“Polnareff reading? I couldn’t dream this up if I tried.” He says. When Noriaki doesn’t laugh, he dips his head down. “We share this,” he promises, voice low. “Half and half.”

“It wasn't that he hoped to solve a mystery or two on the cutting edge of a particular field. What he desired was to discover a unifying theory, something to explain all the phenomena in the natural world.”

“Good,” Noriaki says, and seems satisfied with that. He lets go of Jotaro’s hand and climbs onto the bed, straddling Polnareff’s thighs. The book thuds to the side and Polnareff flushes even deeper red than before. Jotaro moves then too, presses his back against the headboard as he settles Polnareff’s hips in his lap.

“What I liked most about the Ring trilogy was the way the books connected with one another.” Noriaki says, running his fingers down Polnareff’s bare chest. “They’re all supposed to be connected through the enigma of Sadako, but I think it’s more than that. More than anything, I think it is a story of metamorphosis. Transcendence through the levels of the known universe in the diegesis of each novel’s world. Have you read Metamorphoses, Polnareff?”

“Kafka?”

“Both, but I was referring to Ovid.”

“Yes,” Polnareff says. His breath catches as Noriaki fishes the lube out from where it’d been thrown into the sheets before pushing the boxers down to his ankles, and he kicks them to the floor seconds later.

“All the tales are of transformation. Mortals into monsters, or heroes into stars. A common interpretation is one of metempsychosis. Are you familiar with the term?”

“Re… reincarnation, right? The transmigration of the soul into a new body.”

“Very good,” Noriaki says, and grinds against Polnareff’s hardening cock. “You’ve read other books then, detailing the topic?”

“A-A few. Cloud Atlas. Kafka on the Shore. Kafka’s Metamorphosis.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, pushing back against Jotaro’s chest as Jotaro presses a lube-slicked finger into him. His words become full and breathy, like he’s trying not to interrupt himself with his own desire. “Some of Donne’s more famous works. Infinati Sacrum. I tried to read Ulysses but I – I didn’t really get far.”

“It’s a difficult book to read.”  Noriaki says. He leans forward on his knees as he prepares himself, fingers working in and out of himself from behind. The scar on his stomach is showing, but Jotaro can still breathe, his fingers haven’t changed, and the old wound remains healed.

“I… want to finish it one day.”

“Of those you’ve read, what was your favorite?”

Polnareff can’t help but groan this time, thrusting forward a little as Jotaro’s fingers brush against his prostate. “Oh… oh god, Jotaro…”

“Concentrate, Polnareff.” Noriaki says. He presses his entrance against Polnareff’s cock and wipes his fingers on the sheet. “I’m trying to have a conversation with you.”

“Story-wise, Cloud Atlas.” He arches up again as Jotaro removes his fingers. “R-Rhetoric-wise, Infinati Sacrum.”

Noriaki hums and leans forward, so their chests are almost touching. “I sing of the progress of a deathless soul,” he recites. He rolls his R’s and accents his words nothing less than perfectly.

Polnareff breathes back, “Whom Fate, which God made, but doth not control.”

“Very good, Polnareff,” Noriaki says.  He grips Polnareff’s broad shoulder and sinks downward in one smooth motion. Jotaro thrusts up into Polnareff at the same time, holding him across his chest as Polnareff bucks and moans.

With a smile, Noriaki starts again, “Plac’d in most shapes; all times before the law,”

Polnareff responds, but this time he does not bother to accent his staccato words. “Yoaked us, and when, and since, in this I – Oh god, Jotaro, Kakyoin, – I sing.”

Noriaki moves against him in earnest, seemingly satisfied with his recital, Jotaro thrusting in rhythm from underneath. Polnareff arches again, but with Jotaro holding onto his chest, and Noriaki straddling his lap, he has little room to go.

“More,” Jotaro demands, voice low, into Polnareff’s ear.

Polnareff can’t help the moans punctuating his prose now. “And - And the great world to his aged evening; from infant m-morn, through manly no one I draw. What the gold Chaldee, or silver Persian saw, Greek brass, or - or Roman iron, is in this one; A- god, goddamn, guys,” He grits his teeth now, and the words are less staccato and more rapid-fire stutter. His body is tensing as Noriaki bounces in his lap, Jotaro curling into his back.  “A work to outwear Seth’s pillars, brick and stone, And holy writ excepted m-m-made to yield to none, oh god, oh god, Jotaro, Kakyoin, oh god-” He tilts his head back against Jotaro’s clavicle, keening, and his body goes tense. Noriaki cries out above him and cums a mess across both their stomachs. Jotaro’s not far behind, nails digging into Polnareff’s ribs, holding onto him so hard that it’s a wonder Polnareff can still breathe.    

Their ragged breathing fills the small room for a minute. Noriaki is the first to regain control of his limbs and rises off of Polnareff with a smile. Jotaro moves out from under him, balancing Polnareff across one shoulder as he pulls Noriaki down against the other for a kiss.

“Thank you, Jotaro.” Noriaki murmurs, though his words are more a movement against his lips. His breathing is deepening as he asks, “Are you still awake?”

“Yes,” Jotaro responds, because even though the moon is still full and the sea is starting to wash over his head again, there is nowhere else he’d rather be.

<>

<>

Chapter 5: Rathsin

It's almost daybreak by the time Rathsin finally stops lingering around the shoreline of the Frozen Sea and actually approaches the castle. For someone who was so pressed to get here fast, he's certainly taking his time actually going inside, and it takes the impetus of the impending sun to finally push his courage forward and slip inside the doors.

Most of the Volkihar clan are already asleep; the dining hall is conspicuously empty of thralls lying on the table or the sounds of drinking, and Rathsin is grateful for that. While it'd be hypocritical of him to begrudge someone of needing to feed, having it out in the open like that is crass at best. One of the Death Hounds lopes up to him as he closes the door, and he stays still until it's done sniffing at his hands.

From the sounds of a hammer against steel, he knows that Hestla must still be up. So he moves from the dining hall and into her workshop, lingering in the door and watching her work. Turning hadn't affected her smithing skills; in fact, with centuries more to perfect her craft, she's gotten even better. Her brow is creased in concentration, and her long auburn hair is tied into a ponytail and slicked back against her head as the hammer comes down in precise swings. Rathsin waits until she plunges the broadsword into the cooling waters before making himself known.

"Good morning, Hestla," He says.

Hestla almost leaps out of her skin; she flies to her feet and has a finished scimitar in her hand before Rathsin can jump in surprise. He holds his hands up as she whirls around, the curved blade pointed straight at his neck.

"Gods! You scared the night right outta me, Rathsin!" Hestla says, loudly. Rathsin winces and looks around. The Death Hound who was sniffing at him looks up, ears perked in attention at the exclamation, but nothing else in the castle stirs.

"Sorry," he says, voice low. "I'm not exactly trying to make a grand entrance."

Perhaps out of habit, she puts a hand over her breast. "If I had a working heart still, it'd be pounding," she says, voice still slightly alarmed but volume considerably lower.

Rathsin apologizes again, and then he falls silent and stares at the ground as she turns back to her work. Of all the people still awake, he's glad that he ran into Hestla. She has never cared for the politics of the castle, the comings and goings of its denizens, or the gossip that floats around. Her aloofness is, ironically, what makes her the most appealing to be around for Rathsin. She lets him sit and watch her work for a while before speaking up again.

"You didn't show up when Harkon summoned all of the clan," she says. It's an accusatory statement, but her voice has no incriminating tone to it, and Rathsin relaxes.

"I know, I should - "

"Let me finish. So why show up now? Did something big happen?"

"There's a group of warriors calling themselves the 'Dawnguard' - self-proclaimed 'vampire hunters' who are said to wield the power of the sun itself."

Hestla rolls her amber eyes, a smile on her lips. "Rathsin, I'd have thought you of all people would know those are just children's stories. Dawnguard? The power of the sun? Next you'll be telling me that you've entered the Soul Cairn."

"The Soul Cairn is real," he mutters, "And the Dawnguard aren't just stories. I'm sure the - the whole -" he waves his hands in a circular motion "sun-wielding, I'm sure that's a story. But I've run into one, and where her armor touched my skin..." he shakes his head. "I'm sure, I'm SURE that it's some kind of special enchantment, some mixture of stones and dust that caused it, but when her armor touched my skin - it was nighttime, and it was as if I'd had a beam of sunlight thrown on me. It /burned/, Hestla, like I hadn't fed in weeks. It sapped my strength."

She raises an eyebrow at him and turns back to the sword that she's working on. "You're being melodramatic, Rathsin," she says. "There's no such thing."

"Hold on, Hestla," says a regal, deep voice. Rathsin snaps to attention in his seat and Hestla places the sword down into the water as Lord Harkon steps into the room.

If there was anyone who physically benefited as much from vampirism as Lord Harkon, Rathsin had never met them. He could imagine how in life, the Lord would have had darker, tanned skin, a full face framed by the thick black beard, and the icy blue eyes common to old Nord families. But while most vampires looked gaunt or haunted from the hollow cheeks and pale skin, Lord Harkon wore it like nobility. Rathsin couldn't be sure what kind of position of power his Lord held before the deal with Malog Bol, but now he believes that Lord Harkon could've been the High King of Skyrim, just based on his regal demeanor and appearance.

"Good morning Lord Harkon," Rathsin greets him. His Lord holds out his hand, and Rathsin bends down and presses his lips against the thick golden ring around his middle finger.

"I'm so glad you could make it, Rathsin," Lord Harkon all but purrs, and Rathsin does his best not to squirm. "We missed you during the summons, and I feared you'd fallen into trouble."

"No trouble, sir," Rathsin says. He drops his gaze to the floor, though a pointer finger under his chin forces him to lift his head and make eye contact again. "I apologize for not answering the summons."

Lord Harkon makes a sound in his throat, and Rathsin can't tell if it's a displeased or not. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were avoiding me."

Hestla grunts and, without looking up from checking for any imperfections in the blade, says, "It's not YOU he's avoiding, Lord."

Rathsin shoots her a glare, but since Lord Harkon still has a finger under his chin, he can't actually turn to look at her. But then his Lord smirks and says, in a considerably lighter tone,

"I'll spare you the question. At least you brought me some news, isn't that right?"

He tries to nod, but only manages a small bob of the head. At his Lord's urging, Rathsin recounts the run-in with the Dawnguard lady in Dawnstar, and he watches as the neutral expression slowly turns to a bemused one.

"I don't think this little band of 'vampire hunters,' really understands what they're getting into," his Lord says. He's got a serpentine smile on his face, and Rathsin knows it's not directed at him but he can't help the chill that runs down his spine.

"Of course they don't, Lord Harkon."

The fingers disappear from under his chin, and Rathsin almost naturally lets his gaze drop back to the floor again.

"You are excused, Rathsin," his Lord says, with a wave of his hand. "Get some sleep. I will have some need for you tomorrow."

With a bow and a murmured word of thanks, Rathsin nearly trips over his own longcoat again as he scrambles out of Hestla's shop and up the spires of the castle to his long-untouched room.

<>

There's someone on his bed.

Rathsin wouldn't have minded if they'd just given his room to someone else, a new member of the clan who might actually use the room, but the vampire on his bed isn't even sleeping. They're sitting up, one leg swung over the side of the bed, watching the door as if they were expecting him.

By the time Rathsin realizes that the other vampire is even there, he's already far enough into the room that ignoring the other's presence is worse than acknowledging it. With a sigh, he leans against the wall near the door and points into the hallway.

"Out," he says, in as bored and monotone a voice as he can muster.

The figure on the bed tilts his head and feigns a hurt look. "After all this time? Not even a hello, Rathsin?"

"Get out, Silnas."

Silnas's shoulders slump (it's all for show, Rathsin does his best to remind himself, it means nothing) and he slides off the bed. He certainly takes his time slinking towards the door, and looks up at Rathsin in hope as he passes by.

Rathsin stares straight ahead and as soon as Silnas is out the door, the door slams shut behind him. He might have even managed to catch Silnas's back against the wood, and Rathsin revels in that idea with what little vengeance he can. He closes his eyes and leans back against the door, letting most of his weight rest against it.

Through the door, a muffled voice says, "I know you're not happy to see me, but I'm glad you're well, Rathsin."

Rathsin covers his ears, but he's still a Bosmer and he's cursed with having exceptional hearing.

"You scared me, when you didn't respond to the summons. I thought you'd - well, ours is a dangerous business, you know."

"Silnas, go away." Rathsin says through the door, and he feels like a child throwing a tantrum right now with his hands covering his ears.

"Okay. I will. Get some rest, Rathsin, I'm sure you've come a long way."

Thing is, Rathsin would be flat-out lying if he claimed that he wasn't happy to hear those words. He tries to be mad at Silnas again because he's so sure that this is more of his disingenuity, but that's hard to convince himself of when he's just heard the words, earnest and pleading, spoken through the finished fir wood of the door. Silnas had never tried to plead for forgiveness outright because he knew it wasn't ever coming, but hell if that stopped him from attempting to make amends.

<>

Chapter 4: Kareck

The messenger who brought the grim news yesterday is up at dawn with the rest of the troupe and gaping at the high energy in the keep. For a mobilizing unit of vampire hunters, people are cheerily packing supplies and chattering among themselves. A vampire attack in Solitude! A priest of the Temple of Divines found dead, puncture wounds in his neck, and no evidence of a struggle in his chambers. When Isran asked for volunteers to investigate, almost the entire keep leapt at the chance to get out. At his glower and growl that SOME of them needed to stay behind in case Durak tried to come back and finish the job, a few sheepishly sat back down.

Kareck felt truly sorry for Gunmar, who watches with drooping spirits as almost everyone else cheerily packs. Mogrul was staying behind too, but he'd been unflappable the entire week in the face of Isran's unstable temper, so he only stoically oversaw the process. Florentius almost certainly got the brunt of Isran's rage, but he was also around their belligerant leader more, going in and out of Celann's room to check on his condition.

Celann would survive - they were pretty sure of that at this point. But Kareck saw first-hand the deadliness of a vampire lord's bite; even with restoration magic pouring from Florentius's hands, the wounds across Celann's throat refused to close; it took a mixture of Florentius's magic, an entire bushel of healing herb, and a third of their stock of potions just to stabilize Celann's condition. And even then, the lacerations weren't sealed so much as cauterized; it was a good thing Celann had passed out already at that point from blood loss, because the pain of the flame against his skin would probably have been enough to send him to madness.

The entire week since Durak's attack, Isran hadn't left Celann's bedside. Celann had woken only for brief periods of time, eyes fluttering halfway open as his hands reached for the heavy bandaging around his throat. Half the time he'd fall back asleep before his fingers even managed to brush the bandages; other times, Isran would feed him the water laced with sedative before falling back to unconsciousness.

"He'll live," Florentius had said to an anxious crowd, three days into treatment. He was washing his hands after changing the bandages. "Arkay has spared him his life this time. Can't guarantee he'll be able to talk again, but Isran never listened anyway so there won't be much change anyhow."

He had been lucky that Isran was all but enchanted to the chair next to Celann's bedside; Isran would've whalloped him across the room for that comment, and several of the Dawnguard leaned their heads out the door, in case Isran came around the corner ready to fight. Because Isran's temper was infamous before Celann's injury, and now it was downright scary. The few times he'd left Celann's bedside, whether to update the castle defenses or to hand out bounties for recent vampire attacks, the Dawnguard scattered before him.

"Maybe if we're lucky, all that sleep Isran's been missing catches up to him and he just knocks out until Celann's better," Gunmar is muttering, arms crossed over his chest as he stands in the door and gets in everyone's way. His voice drops to a low tone. "If we're REALLY lucky, Celann gets better and then fucks Isran so hard he can't walk for three days. Isran's wound up so tight, that's probably the only thing that'd take the scowl off."

Despite himself and despite the grim topic, Kareck can't help but chuckle a bit at Gunmar's grousing. "Is that how they are?" He asks. "I'd wondered, but I didn't want to assume."

Beleval chimes in as she reaches past Gunmar's shoulder for a small bundle of sun-enchanted arrows. He shifts to block her reach, but she snags the arrows anyway. "Oh, we're all certain that's what's happening. Isran won't never admit it, of course, and Celann never says anything about it, but the way they fight and fret over each other? Can't be any other way."

"Ooh," a new female voice says from the doorway, "Are we talking about Isran and Celann's way-too-obvious relationship?"

Gunmar looks over his shoulder and smiles for the first time since the Solitude mission had been announced. "Sorine," he says, and actually moves out of the way for her. "It's good to see you again."

"Gunmar," The Breton woman says, and steps into the room. Instead of the Dawnguard uniform, she's dressed in a version of Dwemer plate that looks lighter, pieces of leather underneath the metal strapping it together for easier movement. She gives Gunmar a short look and then peaks around the room, her short auburn hair ending just above her shoulders. Her high cheekbones and slightly slanted eyes give her almost an Altmer look, but the soft curve of her cheek and jaw betray her human ancestory. "Can't say I'm all too happy to be back, but I heard that you all needed the help."

With almost a hopeful tone, Gunmar says, "We're always happy to get help from you."

Sorine ignores the comment and looks around at the members still packing. "Some new recruits, I see?" She nods towards Kareck and Agmaer, the young Nord who'd had the unfortunate timing of signing up for the Dawnguard within the past few days. He still hadn't properly met Isran, but, he'd said, maybe going along on this mission would be enough of a proper initiation.

"Kareck," he says, and holds out a hand to her.

Sorine's grip is a strong and steady; the callouses on her hands aren't in the right places for swords or axes or maces, but they're perfect for bows. "Welcome to the happy family," she says.

"Times have been happier," Gunmar says.

"I heard," Sorine replies. "Part of why I came back. Someone's gotta keep up with all the paperwork while Isran's pining over his boyfriend."

"I am not PINING," comes a gruff, icy voice from the hallway. Gunmar nearly trips over his own feet excusing himself back to the forge, and Kareck suddenly becomes very interested in making sure that he's taken exact inventory on the amount of arrows and food rations he's bringing.

Sorine merely turns her head to Isran's approach, a much softer smile on her face. "And there he is. Rumor has it you've had a close brush with a vampire lord."

"It was Durak. He got turned, and then he tried to turn Celann."

For the first time since her entrance, Sorine's expression changes from neutral confident; her eyebrows arch up and her mouth hardens into a small line. "It was Durak? I hadn't heard that part. That's very surprising; he was always so -"

"It's a reminder," Isran interrupts. "That nobody is infalliable." He turns to those still packing, and Kareck lingers over the arrows even though he's counted and recounted his quiver approximately four times at this point. "When you see a vampire, don't forget what happened here. A vampire is so evil at its core that it will corrupt everything it touches."

Nobody responds. Sorine moves towards Isran and puts a hand on his shoulder. "What kind of paperwork have you been letting build up, Isran?

Isran goes quiet for a minute, and when he responds his voice is low and almost, for the first time, sheepish? "You're not going to be happy with me."

With a sigh, Sorine turns to the hallway, where Isran's office is. "I'll deal with it. Maybe I'll finally get you caught back up on your reports. Go back to pining."

The irritation snaps back like a rubber band, and Isran is scowling again within seconds. "I've NOT been PINING," He insists, and follows Sorine out as the rest of them do their best to suppress their laughter.

<>

Their first major stop is in Dawnstar, where they Ingjard joins them. She's been stationed here for a few days with some of the new recruits, and they cleared out a small vampire nest a few miles away.

"You should have seen the look on their faces," Ingjard says, smiling. Seated around the table in the inn, she still has grateful residents coming up to her every so often. "They laughed at first, when we said that we were the Dawnguard. They were so arrogant. All I had to do was land one blow and the fear of the Divines shone in their eyes."

"Word will spread," Kareck says. "They'll learn to fear the Dawnguard."

Ingjard agrees with a small hum, but then a contemplative look settles over her face. "Be careful, Kareck. That may be a good thing or a bad thing."

"You think they'll start hunting us back?"

With a shake of her head, Ingjard takes a long swig of her ale. "I think that fear is a powerful motivator. I think it will be unlikely they don't fight back, and I think it best not to underestimate them and what they'll come up with. Don't forget - all vampires were just power-hungry mortals once. They won't so easily give up what they worked to get."

"We should take advantage of the time we have now, then," Kareck says. "Before they have a chance to do that. Though they'll be hard-pressed to find a way to fight against the sun itself."

"There are always ways," Beleval says. "Tamriel is home to ancient magics that we couldn't even imagine. Who knows? Maybe there's an Elder Scroll out there that holds the power to destroy the sun."

Ingjard replies, "Kareck is right, though. We should use our time now wisely, while we still have surprise up our sleeves."

"Tomorrow, though. We can make it to Solitude in a day if we leave at dawn." Beleval is yawning already. "Isran might insist that sleep makes you vulerable and weak, but myself, I like being well-rested before going hunting."

<>

Solitude is bustling when they ride into town, even though dusk has almost turned to night; the very tips of the sun are only barely peeking over the horizon, and the streetlamps have already been lit. Then again, Solitude is a port town accepting merchant ships from all over Tamriel, and the docks are always bustling.

They get a few second glances as they walk through the streets, but anyone in full armor who isn't a guard draws attention. Usually they're either emissaries or bodyguards from another province, or they're adventurers looking to spend money, and lots of it. Their group splits into two; Kareck and Beleval head towards the Temple of the Divines, while Ingjard and Agmaer head to the market to question the townsfolk there.

More than once, Kareck notices, they're flagged down by hopeful street merchants. Beleval gets distracted by a bowyer's wares, but she's catching up before Kareck has to double back and pull her away.

"I'm sorry, Kareck," she says. "I've only been to Solitude a handful of times, and the city changes so much each time I see it. It must be so exciting to live here."

Kareck can't help but agree. Even this late, the energy and bustle of the city is almost contagious, and he finds his own eye wandering. Savory scents waft from stalls smoking venison or beef; there's a small stand selling freshly-baked loafs even at this time of night, and the welcoming warmth of bread right out the oven is an irresistable pull to Kareck. He buys himself and Beleval a loaf, because it's not like he doesn't have bread in his bag but it's starting to go stale already and they haven't stopped to eat supper yet. He takes a bite of the fresh roll and savors the feeling as his teeth sink into soft interior and a tiny bit of steam caught in it warms his face. Vampires may have immortality and night powers, but they're actually missing out; drinking blood could never be this satisfying, and the two of them scarf down their rolls as they approach the Temple of the Divines.

Stepping into the Temple is like stepping onto another world; as soon as the door shuts behind them the sound of the city is sealed out and all that can be heard are the reverant murmurs of worshippers and the sound of quiet steps in the halls. Kareck takes two steps and his footsteps are thunderous in comparison; nobody else is in heavy armor, and even Beleval looks a little embarassed (but she's in leather, and her steps are almost masked by the echo of Kareck's.)

They're approached rather quickly by a priest, though to be fair, Kareck can't help but draw attention to them. With some hesitation, the priest informs them that the Temple is almost closing up for the day, weapons are not allowed, and that they're welcome to come back tomorrow morning unarmed if they wish. Annoyed, Kareck opens his mouth to respond, but Beleval beats him to it and jumps right into,

"We heard a priest was killed here by a vampire. We're from the Dawnguard, and we're here to investigate it.'

The priest's demeanor changes from antagonistic to downright nervous. He leads them away from the other worshippers, who look up at the news in alarm. A vampire attack right here in Solitude? In the TEMPLE?

"You could STAND to be more discreet," The priest hisses at them, once they're out of earshot. "Didn't our messenger tell you that we were trying to keep this OUT of the public eye?"

Kareck and Beleval look at one another, both of their brows knitting in concentration. Truth is, Kareck can't remember anything after the words "vampires in Solitude" - the room had basically exploded into energy after then, everyone leaping at the chance to get out of the keep. If the messenger had remembered to leave that part in, probably nobody except Isran heard it.

"My apologies," Beleval says. "I didn't realize. I was just trying to - "

"Cause a panic?" The priest snarls. "Divines help you." He pulls his hood off of his head to reveal an attractive blond Altmer with sharp green eyes. His hair is slicked back and he runs his thin fingers in it, loosening some of the locks pressed down by the hood.

"Kalanar," He says, and holds out a hand. "I'm leading the investigation into Priest Ulseth's homocide."

"Charmed," Kareck can't help but drawl, gripping Kalanar's hand only momentarily before pulling away.

With a sneer, Kalanar replies, "Careful now. These floors were just cleaned, and your sarcasm is dripping."

Beleval steps in again, literally this time, and she places herself between the two because Kareck's hands are balled into fists, and he's ready to go at this priest.

"Anyway," she says, "Kalanar, can we see the crime scene?"

He takes a deep intake a breath, shoots a glare at Kareck, and then turns down the hall. "This way. He was found dead in his own bed. No sign of a struggle, not that we could see. Ulseth was always a very meticulous man, and not even his bedsheets were in disarray. His window was open, and that's how we think the vampire got in."

"And you're sure it was a vampire?" Beleval said. "It wasn't just an assassin?"

Kalanar scoffs. "At first we weren't sure. There was only one puncture wound, so it could've easily been an assassin's needle. But he was so drained of his blood that when we found him, there wasn't enough to stain his mattress, and that's what led us to 'vampire.'"

"Vampire with a snaggletooth," Kareck says. "Not too common. I'm betting we find the vampire with one fang, we find our culprit."

With a jingle of keys, Kalanar unlocks the room. "Feel free to take a look." he says. "We haven't done anything except move Ulseth's body out."

"Why a priest of the Divines, though?" Beleval asks, running her hands over the single tiny spot of blood on the bedsheet. "Surely there are easier targets that would draw less attention."

Kalanar shrugs and looks out the window. "We don't know either. Ulseth was a well-liked man, with a large congregation. He specialized in helping people deal with loss and sickness, and spoke often of Arkay's role as the god of both death AND life."

"Would there be a reason for anyone to dislike him?"

"Not that I could think of. Surely, all men have pasts that they're not entirely proud of. But enough to make someone KILL? And after all these years? Ulseth was one of our most senior priests. He surely knew that he too would fall to Arkay's cycle, but perhaps not in this manner.

"Unfortunately, vampires don't often need the best reasons to do what they do. Perhaps this is a message. Killing a high-profile member of society in this fashion - maybe it's more to do with the publicity? Strike fear into the heart of Skyrim? The vampire have always been here, but lately they've become far bolder. Attacking villages and cities out in the open, sometimes even in daylight, just to make themselves known. Perhaps this is a part of a larger plan, but I'm just conjecturing."

"Let's not give them what they want, then." Kareck says. "Keep news of this within the Temple. If Priest Ulseth was getting on in his years, it's not unreasonable that he could have suddenly died of age."

Kalanar nods. "Of course. We at the Temple had agreed to keep the news silent unless the perpetrator was caught. Who knows - though evidence suggests heavily, maybe it wasn't a vampire at all, just a very clever assassin. But then you - " he says, with an edge in his voice at Beleval, "Perhaps would do well to keep the secret to yourself as well."

"Of COURSE, sir," Beleval says, drawing out the middle word.

With a sneer, Kalanar responds, "Get a towel before you mess up the scene of the murder. You're dripping too."

<>

Chapter 3: Rathsin

Rathsin brushes past his first Dawnguard in the door of the Windpeak Inn in Dawnstar, though he doesn't know it yet. She's leaning against the doorjamb talking to a guard and he, with his hood pulled over his eyes, lowers his head and slips past her with a muttered apology. The exposed skin of his arm skims along the front of her armor, and then the strength disappears from his knees and he's jerking forward and landing on his face in front of the inn. The cool steel of the breastplate had flashed searing heat where it touched him, like a sunbeam flickering across his arm.

He clenches his fists to avoid grabbing his arm as the Nord turns to look at him, suspicion in her eyes.

"You all right there, elf?" she asks, one hand on her weapon.

"Yes - sorry, I tripped," Rathsin responds from the ground. He lifts the frayed and trampled ends of his coat from underneath him. "These things aren't exactly tailored for bosmer."

She snorts, but takes her hand off her weapon. There's no way she believes the lie, but so far as Rathsin cared, it was good enough.

"Are you headed out of town?"

He tilts his head. "Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

The Nord nods and frowns. "We've heard reports that there have been several vampire attacks in the area lately. Might be risky, going out after dark."

Dryly, and with only a hint of contempt in his voice, Rathsin responds, "I'm sure the Dawnguard will take care of that soon enough."

The Nord chuckles and offers him a hand to help him back to his feet. "We're certainly trying. But we're still recruiting, and it's best to protect yourself."

He goes silent, and looks her up and down first, memorizing the pattern of her armor. The crest in her shield is a circle, split into four symmetrical parts. No - not a circle - it has small triangular wave patterns radiating outwards - a sun. It makes perfect sense, but Rathsin almost rolls his eyes at the lack of creativity.

He reaches out to grasp the offered hand. His arm still stings at the motion, but he's got leather gloves covering his hands up to his forearms, and even though the contact still feels like dunking his palms in hot water, the sensation is significantly muted. He almost falls again; as soon as he touches the metal of her gauntlets, the strength drains out of his body once more, almost as if he was standing in sunlight.

With her help, Rathsin manages to pull himself to his feet, though he's eager to let go of her hand. Keeping his eyes to the ground, he thanks her. As he regains his strength, Rathsin blinks and feels like he's out of place in his own body. Sure, he's heard the rumors and the gossip surrounding the Dawnguard, he had brushed them off as just that - rumors and gossip. While he was pretty sure the Dawnguard organization itself had existed at some point, he'd been skeptical of their "powers."

The most popular rumors were that the Dawnguard wielded the power of the sun itself, that their weapons and armor were forged in the presence of the Elven sun god Auriel. While logically, Rathsin can deduce that it must be an enchantment he's never heard about, the effect of the Nord woman's armor against bare skin is testament enough to make him wary. He steps away from her and watches a civilian casually pat her on the pauldron with a bare hand.

Reporting to Castle Volikhar after receiving Harkon's summons was one of the things Rathsin was honestly trying to avoid right now. But with the reappearance of the Dawnguard and personal confirmation of the weakening effects of their armor, he figures that this might be important enough.

It's going to take too long to travel that far east by foot, and with the recent vampire attacks, there aren't any caravans that travel after dark. The last horse he'd tried to ride had barely let him get within eyesight before spooking and galloping away, and that was one that he'd personally rented. So any horse he might try to steal from the Dawnstar Stables was sure to throw up enough of a fuss that the owner would be up and out before Rathsin could wrestle a pick into the lock.

Well - on second thought, there might be one horse still willing to carry him. Even if it means returning to... less desireable company. But the swiftness of his message is ultimately more important than his pride, and Rathsin heads north out of the city and down to the northern shore, where a relief of Sithis is etched into the cliffside rocks.

<>

"Well, well, well," Ysara the Listener says, before Rathsin even rounds the corner. "Look at what the skeevers dragged in."

For a place that was nearly in pieces when he first joined, the Dawnstar Sanctuary had turned almost welcoming in the time that he'd been gone. It's proper shelter, for one - even with the wind howling outside and snow half-burying the door, as soon as Rathsin steps in the howling goes quiet and warmth begins to seep into his skin. He puts his hood down and steps into the main hall, where Ysara is grinning at him with her feet crossed on the table.

"It's been a while, Ysara," he responds, trying to be amiable. "You've certainly fixed the place up."

Ysara looks around and nods, almost seeming to puff up a bit. Her dark brown eyes gleam with pride, and she leans back further in her chair, stretching out her thin form. Her long black hair pours over the back of the chair and nearly sweeps the floor as she raises her arms out, showing off her decor.

Where there was cold, drafty stone was now proper, sealed wall. Old bloodstains had been painted over and covered with rugs and furs. And now a proper band of initiates are milling around, sweeping the floors or tending to the cooking pot. "I pulled in some favors from an old colleague," Ysara said, holding out her empty cup to an Argonian initiate wearing a rather... skimpy version of the usual Dark Brotherhood outfit. Embarassingly, Rathsin recognizes it as what Ysara used to enforce for everyone currently in the sanctuary, before several of the initiates started complaining.

The Argonian looks at her hopefully and pours some Blackbriar mead into her cup. He's new, Rathsin can tell, and hasn't figured out yet that it is the Night Mother who assigns the contracts, not Ysara herself. Not that Ysara would ever tell; the way the Argonian is doting on her, you'd think he was a thrall, and Ysara was a vampire lord.

"It's nice," Rathsin says, and sits across from her. The Argonian offers him a cup of mead too, which he takes with a muttered word of thanks.

"If you're hungry," she says, "We've got some fresh torture fodder in the dungeons. Just came in, oh, two days ago?" She sips at her mead and smirks over the rim of the glass when Rathsin shifts in his seat and instinctively diverts his gaze. "Or, are you looking for a contract?"

At the mention of that, the Argonian sits up and looks at her in rapt attention.

"Actually," Rathsin says, "I've just come to ask if I can borrow Shadowmere for a while."

Ysara pouts and then drains her cup. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but then freezes, eyes staring into the distance as she sits up in her chair, boots landing on the floor.

"Hold on, Rathsin. The Night Mother is calling for me."

Rathsin nods and watches Ysara and the hopeful Argonian disappear into the Night Mother's chambers. Less than a minute later, the Argonian is sent back, disappointment in his eyes, and says to him, "Listener Ysara requests you approach the Night Mother with her."

Eyebrow raised, Rathsin obliges and walks into the chambers. He bows before the Night Mother, a gesture that Ysara had long told him was unnecessary, but habits of respect are hard to break.

"Mother said she wanted to see how you've been; it's been so long since you came home, she almost thought you dead." Ysara pauses, eyes staring into the distance again before saying, "She says you've not been eating nearly enough."

"Thank you for your concern, Mother," Rathsin responds. "I suppose I could stand to eat more."

"She says, if you'd take more contracts, you'd be fed much better."

Rathsin smiles a bit. Once, when he was an initiate dressed in Ysara's personally designed interior outfit, which, across the whole outfit was made of less cloth than the hood of his cloak, he'd laughed at the idea that "Mother cares for her children," which Silnas had said to him repeatedly, but now that Ysara has been relaying Mother's messages, he feels ashamed of rejecting the notion so easily.

"I suppose that's true. But you know I'm very picky about my contracts."

With a shake of her head, Ysara says, her own words, "Yes, yes, I know. Have to be criminals or wanted, can't be a spite contract, can't be... uh -"

"Can't be too young, can't be another vampire - "

"Can't be an innocent." Ysara finishes, and shakes her head. "You're lucky you're one of the best at discreet assassinations, you picky bastard. If you were any less useful, I'd have thrown your cute ass out into the snow when you refused a contract for whatever twisted moral compass you follow. You just make my life harder, you know?"

"I'm sorry, Ysara," Rathsin says, though it's more a formality at this point.

Again, Ysara looks like she's about to respond, but then that distant look overtakes her again and when she speaks, her words are not hers. "Mother has a job for you, Rathsin. One that fits even your strict standards." She blinks and looks contemplative. "I'll let you borrow Shadowmere, if you take the contract."

"What is it?"

"A corrupt priest in Solitude is attempting to gain the powers of a vampire lord. He's led many of his flock to Molag Bal already, and the man who's lost his wife to his influence has performed the Black Sacrament.

"Make his death quiet; make it look like a vampire attack. The priest is a man of high power and status. You don't have to go right away, but the longer you wait, the more die to his poisoned words."

Rathsin frowns and shifts a bit. He's got no evidence of the man's transgressions; hell, for all he knows, Ysara might be lying to him just to make him take the contract. But Rathsin has known Ysara since the Dark Brotherhood was stationed near Falkreath, and she's never purposefully led him to go against his standards. With a deep breath, he accepts the contract, and smiles when Mother commands him to make sure he feeds on the priest while he can.

<>

Silnas had been part of the Dark Brotherhood before Rathsin ever met him, and it was a short matter of time after they entered Skyrim for them to seek out the Sanctuary. The news of his involvement with the guild of assassins had surprised Rathsin, when he found out, but it was oddly easy to accept. Or maybe that was just Silnas's exceptionalism. Rathsin found that it was always easy to forgive Silnas for anything, if the reasoning was good enough.

Joining the Dark Brotherhood, now that was a little more difficult to wrap his head around. Certainly, there was a precarious balance of power in the world; there were politicians and kings and people of power, and there were assassins. Rathsin just never imagined he'd fit into either of those categories, and especially not assassins. (What child HASN'T dreamed of being the High King once? Being an assassin just isn't quite as popular a position to aspire to.)

He's pretty sure Silnas hand-picked their missions to put the Dark Brotherhood in, ironically, the best light possible. Their first mission was an abusive husband, the contract from his teenaged son with two black eyes. Their second, a bandit chief who'd ransacked a village and burned all the children in a bonfire set ablaze in the middle of town. Their third, and the one that finally made Rathsin take the oath to join, a small-region lord who taxed so many crops from the farmers living on his land that several families were starving.

"See? And you thought before that killing people was only a crime," Silnas had told him after he'd taken the oath. The red handprint on his chest was still wet, and Rathsin lay very still so as not to smear it.

"I get to pick my contracts, right?" Rathsin had said, only his eyes flickering to where Silnas was sitting.

"Until we find the Listener, you do. If the Night Mother personally assigns you a contract, well, it's in your best interests to take it."

"What if she... what if she tells me to kill - "

"Mother cares for her children, Rathsin. She wouldn't give you anything that you couldn't do."

"Have you killed an innocent?"

Silnas had gone silent then, contemplating his answer. "When I first joined, and I was willing to take any contract for the gold. Greed is a very powerful motivator. I'm choosier now.

"Word of warning though - not everyone has the standards you or I do. As... refined and organized as the Dark Brotherhood tries to be, it's still a band of assassins, and that tends to attract... unsavory types. Just be careful."

"How did you first get involved with them, then?"

<>

Chapter 2: Kareck

Kareck gapes at the pile of paperwork he was told to sign, then looks over at the hopeful face of his recruiter.

"What's all this?" he asks, tentatively picking up one sheet off the top and turning it in his hands. The text on the page is tiny; Kareck has to bring the page to his nose and squint at it before he can make any of the words out, and he can hardly understand half of them.

"Oh," Durak says, with a dismissive wave of his hand, "Just general recruitment papers. Organization like the Dawnguard is tied to the court of the High Emperor. An archaic thing, really, but we've gotta have the right documentation for all of our members."

Kareck takes a few more pages and flips through them. Dawnguard membership contract, acknowledgement of uniform, acknowledgement of duties and responsibilities, twelve pages of a handbook identifying and fighting vampires, a five-page waiver detailing options if he were to sustain an injury so bad he couldn't fight anymore, and that was only the first fourth of the stack. Court-ordained organizations always had a certain amount of beaurocracy associated with them, but this was ridiculous.

"Look," he says, "Isn't there just a generic thing I can sign and be done with?"

"Afraid not. Gotta know what you're getting into, friend. Vampire hunting's dangerous business."

Kareck makes a neutral noise, trying not to agree or disagree with the other orc's statement. He'd fought vampires before; hell, helping to repeal that attack in the little town near Kynesgrove was how he caught Durak's eye in the first place. Vampire magic stung for sure, and it was always hard to tell how injured one really was, with their blood magic shenanigans. But he'd never run into a problem that his trusty mace and shield couldn't solve, and vampires weren't an exception.

"By your silence, I take it you don't really believe me. You haven't fought a vampire lord then, eh?"

Kareck looks up from the paper he's scanning, something about "upholding the history of the Dawnguard," with a raised eyebrow. "Vampire lord?"

"One of the Volikhar clan. They're based somewhere way up north, scouts think they're somewhere near Morthal."

"I've never heard of them," Kareck says. "They're just stronger than normal vampires, I guess?"

With a small snort, Durak digs through the pile of paperwork and pulls out an old, small booklet. A gaunt, grey creature with bony wings haunts the cover; it's got glowing amber eyes and impossibly hollow cheekbones, sharp claws and teeth so long their mouths shouldn't physically be able to ever close. At first glance, Kareck thinks it's a particularly well-preserved Draugr, except the Draugr look closer to human than this thing does. "You'll be lucky not to run into one unless we find their hideout."

Kareck gives another neutral grunt and flips through the booklet. Most of it is scare stories with overexaggerated illustrations. Actually - he frowns as he looks closer at the small packet - there's hardly any useful information about them at all. He looks up, confusion on his face, but he doesn't have to ask.

Durak takes the booklet and places it back on the pile of paperwork. "Very few people who have ever seen a vampire lord live to tell about them. Even fewer understand, or can remember anything but the death and destruction these things bring." With a low exhale of breath, Durak leans against the table. "But that's what we're here for, isn't it? Protect the people, wipe out the danger. Make it so no one loses a loved one, or several, again."

With a nod, Kareck grabs the first paper off the top of the pile, and begins to sign.

<>

"What makes Dawnguard equipment so deadly to vampires," Gunmar is saying, as he fits the spaulders on Kareck, "is that it's specially enchanted with the blessing of Auriel."

"Auriel?"

"Lower your arms a bit - Yeah, Auriel. Akatosh, you might know him as. Under the name of Auriel, he's known as the god of the sun. You can - how's that fit? - you can probably imagine that he's not terribly popular among vampires."

Kareck puts a hand on the armor as he loops his elbow in circles in the air. "Too tight in the left shoulder," he says, as the metal clatters against itself and keeps him from raising his arm higher than his neck. Gunmar grunts and pulls that pauldron off, setting it back on the workbench.

"You orcs and your broad shoulders. Anyway, you don't wanna fight vamps after dark, but sometimes you don't have a choice," Gunmar says, between strikes of the hammer against the steel of the pauldron. "Sometimes you get lucky, catch one out in the open in the day. Best not to kill 'em right away. Get the info out of them. If there's a vampire around, there's probably a vampire nest around."

"How many in a nest, usually?"

Gunmar shrugs and presses the reworked spaulder against Kareck's shoulder. It's significantly looser now, and Kareck easily rotates his arm with a full range of motion. "Depends. Usually one master, three to four lesser vamps, probably several thralls. Careful about killing the thralls. They're still living, haven't been turned yet. Do what you have to, 'cause they'll be out for your blood, but if you can kill the vamp controllin' them, they'll come to their senses."

Kareck moves around in the armor and picks up a Dawnguard-enchanted mace. It's lighter than the one he's used to, but vampires are swift creatures, and the speed he can swing the weapon with will be helpful. "And the thralls stop attacking, if the vamp controlling them is dead? What if they willingly became thralls?"

With a snort, Gunmar pulls several steel ingots from under the workbench and gets to work modifying a pair of greaves. "No one sane would want to do that. You wanna know why Vamps would bother keeping around mortals, instead of turning them? They're kept as living cattle, for vamps to feed on willingly when they want. I've seen the way thralls act around their masters. You'd think that vamp was the High King of Skyrim, the way their thralls fawn on them. And you know that ain't the only way they're gettin' taken advantage of." With a sneer, Gunmar spits into the forge. "Disgusting."

"Illusion magic?"

There's a pause. "Mind control," Gunmar says. "Or something close. Almost every thrall I seen, they come to their senses and don't even know what's happened. No memory of being controlled, last thing most of them remember is feeling fangs on their neck."

"Better than being killed, or turned," Kareck says.

Gunmar pauses again and takes a deep breath. The forge crackles behind him, a few embers floating upwards from the mix of coal and wood stoking the flames. "Hard to say." He finally responds. "I seen all kinds of thralls. Some just happy to be alive and out of there. Some presumed dead, and it's too much of a shock to their families to go back. Sometimes... it's rare, but sometimes they remember, or sometimes they're just kept prisoner, don't even have the benefit of delusion. It's an awful thing, being kept alive just to be fed on, or used.

"The worst - The worst case I ever saw, this little Redguard girl, couldn't have been more than twelve at the oldest. They'd been using her to lure fresh cattle back to the nest. Because who doesn't trust a little girl in trouble, eh? Soon as that mind magic wore off... She was one of those rare ones who remembered everything. Never talked again, from what I hear.

"Don't tell that story around Isran, by the way," Gunmar says, voice dropping low. "The girl wasn't related to him or anything, but she was still a Redguard. It's a sore spot."

Kareck nods and swings the mace harder. It sings through the air and he imagines wielding the power of the sun.

<>

Dawn hasn't broken yet when Isran and Celann start arguing again. Loud shouting echoes from the direction of the main entryway. Kareck grumbles and rolls over in his bed, but when the shouting shows no signs of stopping, he pulls himself out from under his covers and gropes for his uniform in the dark.

From behind his door, he can't quite make out what they're yelling about. But he catches Durak's name, his zealous recruiter, and that piques his interest. He opens the door just a bit, looks down the hall, and sees several other doors cracked. Gunmar isn't even being inconspicuous; he's leaning on the balcony overlooking the scene, half-dressed in civilian clothes and his long red hair in tangles.

Emboldened and curious, Kareck steps out of his room and over to where Gunmar is, greeting the armorsmith with a quiet nod. Gunmar scratches his beard and nods back, then goes back to watching the scene.

Celann is standing between an enraged Ismar and a figure bound and lying prone on the ground. Kareck looks closer and it's Durak there, seemingly passed out.

"He's a traitor!" Isran bellows, trying to side-step Celann. Celann steps with him though, body taut and hands outstretched.

"It's a disease, Isran!" the shorter man responds.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kareck can see Ingjard stepping from her room. She's fully dressed in her armor and her light brown hair is wet and slicked out of her face. She takes a position next to Gunmar, though without acknowledging him with nod. She crosses her arms over her chest and frowns at the scene below.

"He CHOSE this. You think the Volikhar clan freely turns? He had to seek it, and he turned his back on us."

"You haven't even heard what he's said!" Celann's voice reaches a particularly irritated note. "He came to us for a reason and you just attacked him!"

"He's a vampire now, and in case you've forgotten, we're vampire HUNTERS, Celann. You know better than to let your guard down around them!"

"It's Durak! He was one of the first to join us, and you're just going to execute him like some criminal?"

Others have started joining them on the balcony now. Beleval with her hair pulled back and eyes narrowed (though with Bosmer, they always look slightly disapproving.) She looks like a juvinile willow standing next to Ingjard's muscular Nord frame. Mogrul, another orc, has a heavy scowl on his face wrinkled. What little hair he has turned white long ago, and he watches with his good eye with only slight interest.

"The nest at Fallowstone cave, just west of here. Should've been an easy take-out. Durak himself said so - he was the one who scouted it! And then what? Three Volikhar vampires waiting in ambush? How could they have possibly known, except for an inside informatant? One who just HAPPENED to receive their gift, after five of our brothers were slaughtered like sheep?"

"You're assuming the worst," Celann says, and has to sidestep again. "If Durak was so keen on betraying us, why would he have come back? He's a message, and we have to help him!"

Isran roars like an enraged frost troll. "WE. DO. NOT. HELP. VAMPIRES."

Celann, while not matching him quite in volume, stands on his tiptoes and roars back, "WE DO HELP OUR BROTHERS."

Isran turns. He doesn't step away; more like paces in an aggravated path back and forth across the room, but he looks up at the balcony where almost all the rest of the Dawnguard have gathered by now, and a sour look settles on his face.

"So untie him," He finally says, voice low. To Kareck's left, Gunmar nods to himself as Ingjard and Beleval scoff. To his right, Mogrul makes no indication of his opinion, but he's clearly showing more interest than a few moments before.

Celann drops his arms to his side and turns to Durak, still lying prone on the floor. He undoes the bonds and shakes the orc's thick shoulder.

Slowly, Durak blinks awake. He groans at first, a hand going to his cheek, where a nasty bruise has formed stark against his skin. Celann helps him to his feet, and Durak looks around at the gathered group. He's pale, and his eyes have changed to a sickly bright orange, with an unmistakable hunger in them. It even throws Celann off, who has to clear his throat and look somewhere to Durak's right.

"What's happened, Durak?" He asks. Behind him, Isran's pacing grows more and more agitated, and he's muttering to himself.

"We were ambushed. I managed to kill one of the Volikhar, but the other two overpowered me." He stops, and leans his neck to the right, and the puncture marks are visible even to Kareck, up on the balcony. "I think they were going to drain me dry, but they decided not to. When I came to, I was like this."

Kareck thinks he hears Isran hiss "Horseshit" under his breath, but he can't be sure. Celann ignores him and instead puts a hand on Durak's shoulder.

"We'll find you a cure, brother."

Durak smiles at him, places two hands on Celann's shoulders, but something's off. Looking around at the others on the balcony, Kareck realizes he's not the only one who picked up on it. Durak is too calm, too collected for having just been turned.

"No." Durak says.

Isran stops pacing and swivels, warhammer in hand.

"Sorry?" Celann responds.

"You don't understand, Celann. I came here to share the gift. I never knew that the darkness held so many colors, or the night air smelled so sweet. There is power at my very fingertips, Celann. Magics I could never properly wield flow through me like water now."

Celann says, very slowly, "Please remember where you are, Durak."

Durak shakes his head. "No. I know where I am. You don't understand. I didn't either, until now. This power is exhilarating, Celann. Let me show you."

Isran springs forward, but not fast enough to stop Durak's fangs from sinking into Celann's neck. The balcony freezes for a half second, then springs into action; Kareck and Ingjard both leap over the railing and to the entrance hall below. A few seconds later, his mace clatters on the floor next to him, and Kareck looks up to see Gunmar pushing weapons into others' hands. He snatches the mace up and runs after Ingjard, who has already started charging.

Celann chokes, but manages to get a foot against Durak's stomach, even as the two of them go crashing to the floor to avoid Isran's hammer. He kicks at Durak as Kareck and Ingjard simultaneously barrel into the turned orc; their combined strength sends Durak careening away, but the fangs drag two bloody lacerations across Celann's throat.

Isran bellows for Florentius before sprinting, weapon poised, at Durak. He's swinging the warhammer in an arcing slash when a burst of power flings all three of them back, and Durak's body twists and changes.

Skin-stretched, bony appendages that look more like claws rise out of his back as his face hollows; teeth and ears elongate and bones crack as they morph. His green skin turns ashen; fingers shapen into claws and when he laughs an artic chill runs down Kareck's spine. That doesn't stop him from flinging himself right back at him though, mace gripped so tightly he thinks the steel handle is bending.

His mace goes right through a cloud of bats, and then Durak appears behind him, sending him into the wall with a kick to the back that knocks the air out of his lungs. Ingjard's luck isn't any better; Durak flies up to avoid her attack, hovers above them and laughs again, spraying the floor with a mixture of spittle and Celann's blood.

An arrow lodges in one wing and sends him spiralling down to the ground again. Beleval is on the balcony still, notching another arrow into her bow. Durak sneers at her. He pulls the arrow out of his wing but doesn't take flight again. Instead, he disappears into bats again as Isran swings the warhammer through him with such force that the stone wall cracks on impact.

Kareck's eyes can hardly keep up with the bats as they dart to the door. When Durak appears, he sneers at them and smashes the heavy wooden door with a single claw swipe. They run after him, but Durak sprints with an unnatural speed, and by the time Kareck reaches the door, the vampire lord has long disappeared into the thick forest around the fort.

<>

Chapter 1: Rathsin

When the rumors first begin trickling in, Rathsin writes them off as the ravings of desperate men otherwise too weak to fight. He had only heard stories of the Dawnguard before, in his youth; he hadn't cared to pay much attention then, and hardly considered them worth his time now. Stories always have a way to embellish themselves, and these so-called "vampire hunters" were never terribly impressive even in their most daring stories. If Rathsin ever had faith in them, it's long disappeared to contempt now.

The wounded Stormcloak soldier has finally stopped struggling, eyes rolling into the back of his head as Rathsin drinks his fill. A shame that most of the soldier's blood had spilled into the snow but, trawling the skirmish ground, Rathsin hadn't much choice. Most of the Stormcloak's comrades were burnt to ash or long gone cold when Rathsin found them. This one had actually reached up to him as he walked among the fallen bodies, only to draw his hand back once he'd gotten a good look at Rathsin's eyes.

"The Dawnguard will hunt you down," he rasped, as Rathsin undid the clasp of his helm to reveal his neck.

He hadn't graced the threat with a response, empty as it was, only sank his fangs into flesh and reveled in the feeding. It had been almost two weeks since he'd been lucky enough to come across a fresh battle, and the coppery-bitter taste sent shivers of euphoria down his spine. As the soldier's blood sates his hunger, Rathsin can feel dawn rising up over the horizon. But the sun burns less now, still hurts enough to make him flip his hood over his head, but not so bad it sends him running for shelter.

He drinks until the soldier's heart finally stops, skin pale as the snow underneath him and drained enough that the area Rathsin was drinking from doesn't leave so much as a bruise, just a couple of puncture marks. Rathsin wipes the excess blood from around his mouth with the back of a sleeve and heads back in the direction of Falkreath before the sun gets too bright, and he's already forgotten the soldier's threat.

<>

The next time he hears the name "Dawnguard," Rathsin is crouching in a barricaded inn, hood pulled tight over his head and eyes squeezed shut. Travelling adventurers had leaped out the door when the town crier ran in yelling about vampires, and soon the rest of the townsfolk had rushed inside, pushing chairs and tables up to the door as the guards fought outside.

"Don't worry lad," a Nord tells him, her voice soothing as her hands massaged the back of his neck. "The Dawnguard will eradicate the vampires, and this won't happen any more."

Rathsin tenses up more as a Redguard adventurer dies on the other side of the wall. He hears the sound of laughter, a reanimation spell, and grits his teeth as magic crackles and makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He pulls his hood further over his head and does his best to forget that he's huddled in the middle of a group of mortals, that he's pressed up against people on three sides and he can feel their pulses beating right under their skin. It's been a week since the Stormcloak soldier, and he's already having trouble focusing on anything but feeding.

The longest he'd ever gone without feeding was probably a month, or something close to that. When he'd been freshly turned, and the idea of feeding on the living like a parasitic worm revolted him, and he'd turn away meal after meal that his then-lover Silnas brought him. Until the moon had grown full once more and they only ever talk about werewolves turning into monsters on the full moon, but the truth is that it brings out a lunatic rage in anyone tied so closely to the night as vampire are. And on his first full moon, Rathsin, blood-starved and desperate, finally took the offering that Silnas gave him and drained the Dunmer past death, drank until he threw up. It tasted of copper coins, like in the old Imperial myth about boatmen and passage and a river of souls. He thought it vile back in Valenwood; now he can hardly contain himself.

The sounds of fighting outside eventually stop, but Rathsin doesn't look up until he feels people shifting away from him, taking their pulses away from the fabric of his long cloak. Even then, he has to calm himself, looking around furtively before slipping out of the inn and into the cool Skyrim night.

<>

He starts paying attention, ears perked in interest, when he finally hears the guards discussing the Dawnguard starting back up, stationed in the old fort near Riften. Between chatter and boasts, drunk off-duty guards joking that they'll go sign up, Rathsin listens for any relevant information. Not that he's concerned about individual Dawnguard members; they are, after all, just soldiers with a different mission, but if they're sweeping towns and rooting out vampire dens, he needs to know. It's hard enough already finding a place to stay for the night that's not a bear cave or a bandit hideout. Adding the Dawnguard is just another thing in his way.

"I hope they kill every last one of those damn bloodsuckers," one of the guards is saying, slamming her fist on the table. Her compatriates cheer and raise their tankards, and Rathsin pulls his hood over his eyes and places more gold than necessary on the table for his ale. He's almost slunk out the door when a heavy hand comes down on his shoulder.

Against his will, Rathsin jumps a little. Of all the Dawnguard stories that get told, by far the most popular are the ones of Dawnguard zeal and swift judgment. While he's fairly sure he can fight off one, he's less sure about an entire group, especially with guards around.

"Hey, you," a deep voice says, loudly. The guards at the table go quiet at the sound.

Rathsin looks to the side as he makes an inquisitive noise in his throat. The tavern's gaze is on him, and instinctively he swallows in his throat. He knows he draws attention; bosmer are not common in Skyrim, and fewer still would wear the long flowing coats of vampire fashion. He hates how the coats were clearly fashioned for taller-figured peoples - even after getting it tailored, the tails are still too long, and the tips just barely drag in the dirt when he walks. But it's too easy to mistake one of your own for a mortal, and Rathsin has no desire to repeat any incidents that might come from that error. The coats are common enough in general Skyrim fashion anyway; it's more a signal to look carefully before sinking fangs into necks.

"You look at me when I'm speaking to you," the rough voice demands. If Rathsin still had a heartbeat, it'd be in his throat right now. Instead, he just shakes his head and shifts his gaze to the floor instead. Guards have looked him over and sneered "sneak-thief" at him, and honestly Rathsin had never minded. He'd do anything not to be the center of the public eye, and he wishes he hadn't fed just yesterday, or he'd still have the ability to meld into shadows and disappear.

The hand grabs his wrist and Rathsin tries to pull away. But raw strength has never been a common trait of the bosmer, and the orsimer easily keeps his grasp. He's not panicking, not yet, but a hundred different scenarios flash through his mind. What's he done now to be stopped? He'd killed off that sickly farmer in the next town over and thrown the corpse into a furnace, so there can't have been evidence left of that. He hasn't been to this town within the past year, so it's unlikely anyone remembers him passing through. He'd heard stories of orismer having exceptional memories, but Rathsin can't remember ever staying at this inn.

Before Rathsin can ask what he's being arrested for, a few gold coins drop into his palm. "You overpaid for your drink," The orsimer growls. "We don't take charity here."

Rathsin's hand closes around the coins. "Thank you," he says, and when his hand is let go, he drops the gold in his money pouch.

"You heading out this late, adventurer?" the innkeeper says to him. "We got rooms, if you need one."

"I appreciate the offer, but I should go." Rathsin replies to the floorboards underneath. Conversation starts up around them again, and the sound is welcome relief to his ears. "Thank you for your hospitality."

The orsimer grunts. "Protect yourself out there. Hear the vampire attacks are getting worse."

With a small smile, Rathsin can't help but say in a delicate voice, "Don't worry. I'm sure the Dawnguard will wipe them out soon enough."

The guards overhear him somehow, and they raise their tankards in hooting cheers. Rathsin takes the opportunity to slip out the door and hops a caravan to the next province over.

<>

Rathsin dreams of having the magic to change his eyes, because anyone can be pale, but you can always tell a vampire by the hungry amber-orange swirl of their irises. Rathsin has become used to never looking at people when he's talking to them, staring at the ground or talking to the side. It's been a long time since anyone's attacked him over what he is, but regardless Rathsin wants nothing to do with their judgmental, condescending tones or their haughty accusations.

Nobody openly denounces him now, not with potential Dawnguard ears prowling about. Provoking fights in the middle of the street has historically only led to too much blood shed, But Rathsin has long learned to read fear before it's openly shown. Innkeepers draw back behind their bars. Merchants keep a closer eye while you're browsing wares. Guards and adventurers place their hands on their weapons and stalk after you, as if thinking they're stealthy while stomping around in full plate. It's something he has long grown weary of, and he just draws the hood over his eyes and does his best to disappear into the crowd.

Rathsin begs the face-sculpter in Riften to change his eyes; any color will do, he says, any look. But she takes one look at him and turns him away in the same breath. I can do nothing for the unliving, she says, and Rathsin's almost insulted. She doesn't even have the decency to be frank with him and call him for what he is; instead he's reduced to an antithesis, a dissentient mortal. He's not dead, just unliving, and the word falls from her mouth like vitriolic spit. It burns him more than the sun. He leaves without thanking her.

<>

Rathsin was just barely an adult when he met Silnas, the dark-skinned rogue who had a way with knives and words. Within a week, Rathsin was enchanted, following behind Silnas with a smile on his face and puppy-dog adoration in his eyes. Silnas was the one who took him out of the forests of Greenheart and instilled within him an insatiable sense of wanderlust. Silnas was the one who taught him the art of being unseen: how to manipulate chaos and make an escape. The finer points of picking locks and pockets, and if Rathsin was any less enamored he'd have found it questionable but as it was, he learned eagerly and quickly. They made their way across Tamriel from Daggerfall to Necrom, and by the time they reached the Imperial City in Cyrodiil, the two of them could rob a town blind and be halfway to the next market over by dawn. And everything was shared, of course - gold, weapons, plans, drinks, beds.

All in all, Rathsin was happy. And he would've liked to think Silnas was happy too, except for the offhand fixation he had on his own mortality. At the beginning of their journey Silnas would talk for hours on end justifying their thievery as nothing but the movement of temporary, material goods, and that since life was so short, they had the right to enjoy as much of it as possible.

Rathsin would humor him but roll his eyes. "It's not so short," he'd teased once, smiling as he sleepily curled into Silnas's side.

Silnas had looked down at him then with a sadness that had the smile disappearing almost instantly. "In our line of work, it certainly is," he'd replied then, voice distant, holding Rathsin in a tight hug.

In that moment, Rathsin had gone quiet and understanding dawned on him why Silnas was so obsessed with mortality. (If anyone ever asked him now why he thought he understood then, Rathsin would brush it off as naivety and youth mixed dangerously with delusion, but that'd just be hiding the truth that he was, and would never stop being, hopelessly infatuated with the idea of romance and inherent altruism in others. A crush that he should've long gotten over, but would ultimately settle over him with every romantic interest he had since then.) He wasn't so egotistical that he thought Silnas was afraid more of losing him, but that he believed, somehow, that Silnas was afraid of losing THEM, of being alone, or even, with another lover, that it wouldn't be the same, that these travels would fade to memory or disappear all together. So, head tucked against between lean muscle of Silnas's shoulder and the curve of his rising and falling chest, Rathsin promised on his life to help him find a solution, to steal from Arkay himself and cheat mortality.

("It was delusion, because somehow I tricked myself into thinking that I was some sort of exception to Silnas's manipulation, when really, hah, really I was his easiest fool.")

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You took your heart out of your chest and gave it to your brother because wolves had devoured his, lapping and frothing at the torn open hole in his ribs because emotions are hearts drawn in teenage notebooks and etched into trees with scars that outlast the relationships they proclaim, and you saw the life fading from his eyes even as they glowed with the desperation that comes from siphoning sustenance from demons. You filled the hole in your chest with drugs and bad decisions and stitched the wound tight with jagged lines that you covered up and let no one see, least of all yourself.

And you lived your life like that for a while, running off of vitriol and arrogance as your heart beat against your brother's ribs and pulsed love and happiness and sacrifice through his veins. And just as you think you've finally begun to figure out how to live with the lumpy, uneven conglomerate taking up space above your stomach and under your throat, your brother comes to you with his hands across his chest and asks, is this his real heart? Or is it fabricated with silken threads, hairline fractures running through its embroidery?

Your tongue dries up and your voice fills with butterflies, wings beating against the skin of your throat, but before the frogs can leap out of your mouth the stitching across your chest becomes undone and spills to the floor in a pile of regrets you never let yourself have. You stare down at the mess at your feet and lie, ignore the way the blood slows and stops in your own veins. You have never been good at lying. Your brother knows this. You know your brother knows this. You do it anyway.

His eyes are disappointed in a way that he'd been expecting this from you, and somehow the cavern in your chest grows a little bigger when you come to this realization, that you have never been able to deceive him, that what he believed was entirely what he wanted to believe, and now he's ready to try and regrow what has been lost; he just needs to know what he's lost, first. But he is the jungles and the wilds, and you are the desiccated desert sands in dunes and dust storms, and you are, more than anything, afraid of the beasts lurking in the undergrowth, ready to pounce when your lies are laid bare.

So you brush the sands over old ruins, sealing archaeological evidence inside and maybe one day they will be discovered, with no context, the pieces of the story you've worked so hard to weave. But for now you watch those desperate eyes close and seal and stitch another regret into your skin.

A week later you hear that your brother has gone, and he's taken your heart with him, into the depths of the ocean. You hear how he swam until he was too tired to swim back, think about how he sank into the saltwater and waited for any sign to sharpen the border between fabrication and reality, how he waited to wake up with a jolt and a breath from a nightmare until the waves crashed into his lungs and dragged him to the sands below. You stand on the shore he started on and feel something form amidst the lumps and assorted pieces, and for the second time the stitches fall out and you're looking at the things you've done. Reaching into your chest, your fingers wrap around something flat and circular, like the shape of your palm. It is a small weathered stone, sides made smooth by years of erosion and tiny, microscopic grains sanding over its edges.

You hold the stone between your forefinger and your thumb and flick it out across the water. You can feel the motion as it skips along the waves that took your brother, you hold your breath as it plunges beneath the surface. Water rushes into your ears, across your skin, when you look up to the surface you can see bubbles rising from air previously trapped in your empty chest. Distorted and muted, the moon is rapidly shrinking as you sink deeper and deeper, but a sharp sound draws you back.

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Keynlest stared at him with wide eyes, and Rathsin froze in their doorway, heartbeat racing in his throat. His brother’s shoulders tensed; green eyes narrowed as the priest took in the sight in front of him, an aura around his hands pulsing with a dark energy. Rathsin hardly dared to breathe. One hand wrapped so tight around the reins of a white hawkstrider that he could feel his pulse in his fingertips; the other had stopped on its way to a wave, lifted awkwardly near his chest in a hesitant “hello.”

“What.” Keynlest finally spoke. “Have you done to your hair.”

In hindsight, maybe it would’ve been a better idea to rent a room in the Silvermoon Inn, just for an hour or two in order to clean up, maybe take a bath. But the prospect had seemed silly at the time, extravagant, when the house of his childhood was just a few blocks away. Now it didn’t seem so extravagant at all. It seemed prudent, even. Even more so when his brother crossed the distance between them, twisted a handful of the matted, tangled hair, and yanked him inside by it.

Rathsin’s head smacked against the doorframe and he stumbled through the Embersilk curtains. His ears were ringing from the impact and he let go of the hawkstrider’s reins to reach out to try and regain his balance on anything he could, but Keynlest smacked his hand away.

“You smell like you haven’t bathed since you left Silvermoon!” Keynlest snapped at him, which wasn’t technically true. The lakes of Pandaria had such fresh water that diving in for treasure was basically taking a bath, just without the soap. And he’d sat through the grooming sessions with Cuzu, where the white lion would put a paw the size of a dinner plate on his chest and pick out with his teeth the dried blood and grass and sometimes bugs that’d buried themselves in the long, blonde locks. Those counted!

He kept his mouth shut, though, because he was pretty sure Keynlest would slit his throat with those manicured, lacquered nails if he’d mentioned those things.

“Hi, Keyn,” Rathsin said instead. His scalp was aching, but he knew better than to try and wrench out of his brother’s Elementium grip, even though his back and neck were aching from being dragged down to Keynlest’s height.

“Don’t talk to me,” Keynlest responded, one hand dipped in the bath he was filling. The heavy scent of perfume and herbs rising from the water made Rathsin’s head swim, but before he could protest he was unceremoniously thrown in, armor and all.

The water clouded almost immediately, the dirt and sweat and everything else blooming out from his entry point like an underwater explosion. Within seconds, the water was a murky shade of brown.

Keynlest looked like he’d been slapped, staring at the water with disbelief. His hand hovered over the surface. He dipped it downward once or twice, but his fingers never broke the surface of the increasingly muddier bath.

“Drain it,” he commanded instead, and Rathsin sighed and pulled the plug by his hand. As the tub drained he took the time to unbuckle his now-soaked armor and set it outside. Keynlest gave it a disdainful look but took it onto the balcony, where the sun could dry it.

When he returned, he turned the faucet on as high as it would go, and now commanded him to sit under it. With a resigned sound, Rathsin scooted under the high-pressure water, looked down, and watched his hair change from a brunette shade back to its original white-blonde.

“I can’t believe this. You’re the one to get Mother’s hair color, and you treat it like THIS.” Something cold poured onto his hair, and Rathsin jerked before a hand grabbed his hair and pulled him back. It was just shampoo, and soon afterwards he felt Keynlest lathering it in.

Suddenly, the hands disappeared, and Rathsin dared to open an eye. His brother wasn’t one to leave a job half-finished, and he peeked over his shoulder to find Keynlest staring, shampoo-covered fingers holding something out at arm’s length.

“Rathsin,” he began, and his voice quivered (though with anger or fear, Rathsin couldn’t tell.) “I just pulled.” Keynlest swallowed and tried again. “YOU. HAVE. SPIDERS. IN YOUR HAIR.”

Well, of course that was inevitable. Rathsin spent most nights sleeping in trees or on the bare ground, and sometimes that was where spiders lived. He was a little surprised it’d managed to cling on through the plunge into the bath and then the faucet’s torrent that followed, but the news itself was nothing he hadn’t experience before.

“It’s not doing any harm,” Rathsin tried to argue, and then he was glad that Keynlest wasn’t a mage because otherwise he’d probably have burst into flame right there. He shrunk down into the tub and tried again. “I’m… sorry?”

 “I can’t believe we’re related,” Keynlest said. Somehow, the flat tone of his voice, devoid of the anger it usually crackled with, made Rathsin shrink further into the tub, until it was just the mismatched tips of his ears sticking out over the edge.

Behind him, he could hear the wet sound of a spider being flicked out the window, and he winced. Then he was being shoved under the water again, and that was followed by a scrub from a brush he was fairly sure was made out of sandpaper, with a soap that smelled so strongly of nectar he was sure he’d attract bees. Keynlest even made him tilt his head back and stay still as he shaved the beard off with a straight razor, and Rathsin was only mildly terrified that his brother was going to slip and slice the blade across his throat. Let him feel like he was drowning in his own blood for a little while before he’d send the healing touch of the Light through the wound. But Keynlest apparently didn’t feel like undoing so much of his hard work by getting blood all over him again, so Rathsin was spared from that, at least.

When he was finally done, Rathsin barely even recognized himself. His skin had been scrubbed a shade lighter, and he was blonde again. He felt like he’d regressed several years, like he was getting ready for (he winced, mentally) mage training for the day. Almost any minute he expected his tutor to walk through the door, but instead it was just a curious Faiza peeking in through the curtains of the bathroom.

She stared at him, blue eyes wide, in almost the exact same expression Keynlest had when he first walked through the doorway. Keynlest looked down at her, confused. Raptors weren’t common in the walls of Silvermoon, especially not hatchlings.

“Keyn, dis is Faiza,” Rathsin said.

“Another one of your pets?”

On the floor, Faiza bristled and screeched at the older blood elf in indignation.

“No, no, I’m her da.”

Keynlest’s eyebrows looked like they were about to rocket from his face and up into the spires of Tempest Keep.

Rathsin held out a hand to Faiza, the scarred one, the one that her own teeth had marked some time earlier, and she screeched at him too.

“Aw, Faiza, you know me. It’s me! Rassin!” He reached out further and she stumbled over backwards trying to avoid his fingers. He heard her feet pit-pattering against the floors and straight outside, disappearing into the distance, and he sighed. Tracking down a very clever raptor hatchling in Silvermoon City, well, he’d find her eventually. Probably. Assuming she’d stop running away from him. Though he couldn’t really blame her – the past hour and a half had been a time of drastic transformation, and it’d probably take her a while to come to terms with it.

“What happened here?” Keyn asks, prodding at a nasty scar running from the jamb of his shoulder and into his ribs.

“Worgen rogue in Tol Barad Peninsula.”

“What about here?” That scar cut across his midsection, arching up slightly to meet his sternum.

“Angry Direhorn parent on Isle of Giants.”

“This one.” An oddly shaped one, almost shaped like a jagged crescent made up of three lines that stretched from down his side to over his hip, to the small of his back.

“Mantid in Dread Wastes. Er, big, spikey bugs. Stand on four legs, scyffs for arms. Some of ‘em use weapons.”

“Here.” A multi-branched scar fanning out across the back of his thigh, some of the tips of the various arms reached around to the front of his knee.

Rathsin paused, then gave a sheepish smile. “Fell outta tree.”

Keynlest’s mouth was set in a taut line, but not in its usual grumpy manner. He pulled a Windwool towel from storage and draped it over Rathsin’s head. “You don’t write about these things in your letters.”

“Can’t fit everyt’ing I do on a letter. Wouldn’t be able to afford da postage costs.”

“You’ll pay the postage to send back magically enchanted robes, stacks of different cloths, exotic leathers and furs of arctic beasts, enough books for me to have to build a new library in the basement AND the attic, tea pots, whatever this – “ Keynlest picked up a stone slab, with Pandaren writing etched into it. “ – thing is, relics and trinkets and other gifts. But you won’t spend the extra line to tell me about how you probably almost died when some cowardly Alliance piece of shit attacked you, or how you probably almost bled out on an island where the only other sentient beings are Zandalari trolls that would sooner eat your guts than stitch you back up.”

“Keyn-“ He wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out of the tub, but Keynlest ignored his objection and continued to barrel forward.

“You show back up to Silvermoon after years of being gone. All I’ve heard from you is how you’ve been running around in the mountains of Northrend, and suddenly you’re telling me that if you weren’t so lucky, you’d probably have joined Mother and Father by now.”

“I – “ Rathsin started scooting back towards the main room, not that it would discourage his older brother’s rant.

“I remember when you fell off the roof pretending to be a Farstrider lookout and you shattered your arm and cried for three hours, way after Mother mended it with her magic, and you’re telling me you’re this tough hunter now who just bears these kinds of wounds with a grin? Give me a break. How dare you-“

“Here’s a gift,” Rathsin finally cut in, handing the reins to his brother. Keynlest blinked, stumbling from being interrupted, and looked from the leather straps in his hands to the white hawkstrider at the end blinking inquisitively at him.

“Where did you even get her?” the priest finally asked. “I thought these were a royal breed.”

“Guess ‘royal’ doesn’t mean much widdout any royalty left,” Rathsin said. “Found the egg in a wild nest on Quel’danas. She’s very smart. Trained her myself. But, well, way I run around, she doesn't stay white too long, and she doesn’t like dat.”

“Figures you would keep your pets cleaner than you keep yourself,” But Keynlest was already patting the bright feathers on her head, and she cooed and leaned into his touch.

“See? Perfect Match.”

“Get dressed.” Keynlest said, and lifted himself into the saddle. The hawkstrider cawed and shook out her feathers, lifting her legs in readiness to run.

“Are we going somewhere?”

“Well, we’ll need to find that pet of yours before it causes too much trouble. What did you call it? Fido?”

“Faiza. She won’t go to you, Keyn, she doesn’t trust strangers.”