Palindrome-Alt

According to Nebarra's inner monologue... Things were 'objectively' better when it were just the two of you amidst the quiet snowy mountains- and occasional fat horker just waiting to be slain, butchered, and stewed. Simply imagining those nights was enough to spark the yearning that'd come up for simpler times and happier days. 

 Oh the pleasure in both the spontaneity and the mundane with an agreeable companion at the hip. Freedom. The meals were good. The occasional inn was a real treat for sore bones. The drinks made all the merrier. The coin didn't hurt. Sure, the air was bitter cold and nearly worse than being stabbed with a sword, but nothing a fire under the stars couldn't fix. He hadn't realized how good you'd both had it, at the time,

 --until there were three. 

 You sat some ways from the campsite, your legs folded, practically a statue in a sea of fallen, warm-colored leaves. A staple of the Southeastern frontier of Skyrim. Perpetual Autumn. Fine Cyrodilic Birch forests and the occasional sap brewer to accompany them. The plains area, where you'd picked up another stray who had seemingly forgotten his purpose of passing through the region in the first place. 

 It was unlike you to choose the company of rocks and bugs over the likes of him, until one too many arrived. Still, you got along swimmingly with the identity crisis having Argonian. Spent many evenings wandering off in idle conversation, leaving Nebarra to his own vices. And vices they were, white knuckling his brandy as if it had personally wronged him in a past life. 

 For what it's worth, Nebarra doesn't hate the.. Lizard.... however, suffice to say, he has overstayed his welcome. He's a fine addition, which is the bewildering part. Handled the cooking with more mastery than one might expect from an Argonian at first glance. Put up a decent fight in battle. Had the occasionally worthy thing to say, despite the boring conjecture about whatever nonsense came up in daily life. 

 Why, just why he felt annoyance over extra company eluded Nebarra, personally. He'd had a many o' companions of all kinds in the past. Parties. Sellswords and adventurers. Bandits and thieves. The occasionally wet behind the ears noble. It made sense to travel with others in groups. Even when the company was way less than palatable. Hardly ever Argonian farmhands, but even then he'd survived the few he'd been tasked to serve alongside. Maybe not respectfully, but he didn't bring them any harm. 

Xelzaz, the sub-species of a man he was, shot Nebarra a look while sprinkling some salt into the stew he was working on.  "You know, I can still feel you glaring at me through the helmet." A somewhat sly look overtook him, expecting entertainment. "Is there something I can do for you, sera?" 

  "Hmm, what?" Nebarra realized he was being spoken to, and hadn't realized he'd been drawn so far into thought. He crossed his arms and sat back on the makeshift chair he'd fashioned from a chopped log. A habit he'd actually picked up from you. "...No, it's nothing." 

 Xelzaz nearly dropped the ladle into the pot. "What's this? No insult?" A genuine surprise. "Must be the end of the world."

 "Oh hush. I simply don't feel like it right now."

 Normally, the High Elf never passed an opportunity to start arguing. Instead, Nebarra glanced a ways out, distant and quiet. 

His gaze trailed along the treeline, rocks littering the forest floor. Somewhere along the rustling grass and gentle sunstained breeze, sat you.

 It was like that before, but perhaps less frequent when it had just been the two of you.

 (He could only wonder what was troubling you so. Not one to pry, there was a good chance he would likely never know.) 

 "..."

 He saw himself in your reclusion.

Knew that feeling best when he reached for the bottle. 

  "..Ah. I see what this is about." Being not a stranger to what he was going through, Xelzaz had almost an ounce of pity for the poor fool. "Don't act like you-" He ignored the displeased comeback to continue his line of thought. He couldn't say he blamed him. It took a special person to put up with (dare he say, even befriend) Nebarra."-What would you know, anyway?! I've been around much longer than you have, you- you!"

 And for once he'd even failed to come up with an insult. Something was clearly wrong. 

 "Hmm..." Xelzaz wasn't sure he knew what to say.

 Maybe, "I...don't suppose you want to talk about it, do you?"

  "..."

 "Talk about what, your annoying voice?" Nebarra hissed, momentarily seeming to be back to his senses. However, that pause went on for far too long. 

 Xelzaz considered everything about the situation itself highly unusual, but he understood Nebarra's position, somewhat. To become the travelling companion of a, well, what was considered a demigod in the anciently heralded belief system of the old mythologies, was far beyond his predictions of what might happen when he crossed the border into Skyrim for the first time. Beyond that, you were surprisingly personable and deeply involved with all manner of disciplines. You read books and learned theory without a clear background in it just to humor him. You had no real need for companions beyond optional amusement. 

 You stood, spiritual monolith in a sea of mortals. Perhaps because of that, you saw individuals' souls where flesh was unequal. To be judged worthy of knowing by that sort of special person, despite what they were, well, it probably did something to them. Presumably both of them. 

 A merc accompanying anyone without a steady stream of coin was more telling than anything. He almost wondered how fast it happened. How quickly it was that Nebarra himself had realized that you were a promise of a second chance. Or if he had even realized that change was inevitable around the last fate twisting god to ever walk the mortal plane.

 As for Xelzaz, he just knew that his master's spirit had purposely guided him to you. In all but blood, he was Dunmeri. He was Telvanni.

 Perhaps even Saint Nerevar guides him. 

 And be it Mara's cruelty for his lack of worship, Xelzaz himself couldn't help but feel the burgeoning tinge of that more delicate admiration. Something about him and having a penchant for befalling under the curses of those untouchable. Not that he'd ever be interested in developing that seed of intrigue... He'd already made that mistake once. From what he could tell, Nebarra was almost- if not perfectly his mirror. 

 You carried the air of an old era. Spoke with a voice laced with ancient magics. Bound the very fate of the world to each step you took. It was.... A lot to process, really. 

 He imagined it to be a touch lonely for all involved. 

 However, it seemed your emotions were fleeting, as though you yourself were detached from them.

 Admittedly, it was unavoidable. To grow fond of the person beyond the title. You hadn't exactly meant to hide your personality, but such a reputation would of course precede you before anyone came to understand what you were truly like beneath the posterity of it all. 

 "You can't. You know that."  Xelzaz spoke before he could reel himself back. As if he were saying it to remind himself more than anything. 

  "Can't do what? I can do anything, I simply won't do most things. Because I don't want to." 

 "You...know what I'm talking about." Xelzaz looked at him now, for real, gaze hardened.

 Sensing the shift in the mood, Nebarra sounded only slightly a tinge more annoyed. "Hmm? What ever could you be talking about? I, for one, can't understand the ramblings of a-"

"You know what I mean." 

 "..."

 "Haa..." He inhaled, a sigh. Then he clenched a fist as the pressure caught up with him. He never did well under it. 

 "Fine!... Yes, I know." He growled. "I'm not stupid. Clearly someone doesn't know how to take the hint." 

 "Point taken. Maybe I shouldn't have--" "Oh, you're so right, Xelzaz!-- You're always right, because you know all! And you're right! You shouldn't have!" 

 "Wait, now, hold on--" "Wait? To what, stop and think? When you clearly didn't? Why should I have to, it's only fair - Tit for tat! So what if I-" His words started to jumble together, and he sputtered, before continuing. "Oh look on, sodded lizard! Someone was nice to you, without any motive! Someone finally treats you well, is that it?" He snarled. "You just drink that one right up, now don't you?! As if it soothes all the woes in the world, huh?!" 

Barbed, pointed, hurtful, but Xelzaz caught the double meaning. 

 "I don't do charity! I simply have a debt. A simple lifelong debt of forever repenting for everything ever wrong with me." 

 "Does that pleasure you, Xelzaz? Does it make you feel giddy, knowing how afraid I am to screw this one up?" He ripped himself out of his spot to snatch the cooking wine and gobble it down in one gulp. Grimaced, dark red dripping down the chin guard underneath that mask.

 "Of course I can't. I can't do anything right. I never have. And I really, really want to, but, it's just. Too late." 

 There he was, his suffering on rare display. 

 His voice, just barely a whimper, now.

 "...Gods I wish I had gotten here sooner." 

  Then he saw what they both saw. Your head turned, ever so slightly in their direction. 

 "Ah, fuck." He sure hoped you hadn't had some sort of super hearing dragon shout or something. 

 "Ah... I'm... Sorry, Neb-" "For the record, it was better when it was just us." Nebarra whisper-hissed at him. "And I would do anything to get rid of you, delectable dinners be damned." 

 Ha. "Ah, right, the stew. Better get back to stirring before it burns." 

      "....So, was it love at first saving, or,"

"I will actually smother you in your own hide if you keep talking." 

  "Alright, alright," Xelzaz waved his hands in surrender.  "It... took a while." He conceded, staring at your back. "I... don't. Don't love anyone. But..." 

 "This time, I... Can't help but want to, a little bit." 

 ...Wow. 

  "..."

 "..."

 "Right, so, I would appreciate it if you-" "Gods." Xelzaz interrupted with his own thought. As if thinking of the perfect thing to say. 

"Don't I know that one. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe... 'Can't' is a strong word." He said it just to mess with him, but the pure unadulterated murderous intent told him almost instantly that he fucked up for a second time on this particular day. 

    If the camp erupted in an explosion of spells and sword clangs, nobody said anything - save for the screaming and general pleas for mercy. Neither noticed your return after being drawn in by the commotion. You took over the soup stirring and helped yourself to a bowl as you watched on in quietly confused amusement. The potato chunks could use a little more time, but you'd been starving for eons now. 

 Whatever they were talking about, well, it must've been strangely serious. What with how much squealing Nebarra was squawking about "keeping secrets" and "Don't you think I'd ever let that happen- it doesn't matter if they're an overgrown lizard on the inside, you mutated swamp reptile!!" He was usually more level headed than whatever this was. 

Nice casual day to be an aspect of a dead god travelling around with a potentially Thalmor agent, member of a faction considered your current mortal enemy. Is he reporting back to them about you? Probably. Is it a problem? Absolutely not.

Being a theoretically dysmorphic immortal dragon god in a body too small for your soul, there's a lot of disconnect. Sometimes, though, you just have inherent knowledge you can't verify.

Such as charming factoids to argue over with your unwitting elven companion.

"Nebarra, in the old tongue of the First Era -which your people had spoke back then- is part of a word- or, concept-- Neb-raahz-zah. That roughly translates to Afterlife - Star - Cloud. It's the glow in the night sky, said to be the fractured spirits o' Nirni's sacrificial Aedra, dancing together in anticipation for the next Kalpa - coalescing so that they may rain down and return together in mortal form as the fated chosen in the history of Atmora. It's poetic. Of course the Modern Altmer took something so beautiful and turned it into an insult."

His sword catches the glint of a flame flickering in your hand, just enough to see the stone road ahead. You keep your eyes away from the world. He scans the perimeter at all times for any threat to your unusually fragile life. 

"You made that up." He grits back, keeping his gaze away from the shimmering auroras faintly drifting on the north wind out towards sea. Down here, the air is stiff. If only you could ride that ethereal light-ribbon on the jetstream into the early morning... 

You do have differing 'religious' and political views, however obvious as that may be.

He, for one, thinks this whole 'Dragonborn' nonsense is just more made up propaganda. Sure, you verifiably have the same power as an overgrown lizard, but the Greybeards can also get loud and whoodoo things to death with their voices, and they're just old men. You're just some sort of, unusual mutant of a lesser species of mer, or, man. Probably mer, despite your ambiguous looks and undisclosed background. Would better explain your affinity towards magic. 

"Nebarra." You sigh. Sweet and tender association to the name forgotten. This time, you cease your yearning for the dance in the sky, the place without war and fear and sadness, and you say his name as it was now intended, with that mortalness you now most certainly hold - you speak it as an insult. 

"That was noticeably less tender, thank you." He snarks. 

"I'd call you by your real name just to torture you if I knew it, but fortunately for you, I haven't pried - and I haven't forced you to tell the truth-" You snuff the flame in your palm - now a fist, and give his shoulder a good tap. "Though I have the means."

Forcefully bathed in darkness, your sellsword companion grunts out an annoyed, if not disgusted groan. 

"See, and this is why I curse the robes that aren't healers." He mutters. Not that you haven't admittedly practiced a great deal of healing on him, despite his protests. You're getting good enough to not leave any marks, but he'd still rather take a reliable potion over any shoddy handiwork. 

You could have cast Magelight for him and a Candlelight spell for yourself, but Flames generated heat. Though not so North that the air itself carried frost that settled in the cracks of armor, Nebarra was acclimated to warmer climates for most of his life. How long that life had been, however, you weren't sure. That impracticality of constantly expending magicka to keep the air in a close radius a few degrees warmer could not have been lost on him, for the logical thing was to light a torch and be done with it if that were the case. 

You must be as pitiful as the City of Windhelm. A great relic of a bygone era, now left in decay. The power to topple empires, but a sleeping giant in the palm of your hand. That glorious castle silent and stoic, mourning the loss of the kingdom Skyrim, which has for the first time in recorded history since the beginning of all time, fallen. 

After a bit of silence passes, you return with one small quip. 

"Meet an old enough Altmer priest, and he might just remember his forefathers telling him so as a boy."

He has a rather specific distaste for your brand of know-it-all. 

You speak as if you know more about the Aldmerian belief system than he, a natural born Altmer, does. (And the difficult part of that, that prickles him in all the wrong ways, is that a part of him realizes you were right.) 

Sometimes you feel as if your ego were a vessel to trap the dust that fell from a sky with no moons, this dragon mannered creature. The dragons' tongue comes intuitively, but your knowledge of the ancient languages of man and mer speaks to some hidden time which had severed connection to your memory. Young in the body on the planet Nirn, old on the cosmic wheel of reincarnation. He has been warned of your struggles to reign in the nature of a being born evil by nature. Following the words of your spiritual mentor and predecessor Paarthurnax the White Dragon at The Throat of the World, you attempt to overcome that evil nature through great, formidable effort. 

Getting Nebarra to sheath his sword in the presence of said Dragon was an ordeal that caused you many headaches with the light repremandment on behalf of Arngier of The Greybeards. 

The switch in the air between god-touched and mundane. There are times you feel several lifetimes of exhaustion from stories solidly forgotten, and then as quickly as they creep in, they dissipate, like the morning fog.

The amnesia settles cold along the fine hairs of your arms, causing them to bristle, though there is no strong enough breeze to warrant the excuse of being cold. 

As much as you argue, you admittedly like Nebarra. For he was witty, and loyal, though he spoke otherwise. Always complained of coin and carnage left in your wake, how he was cold, how this was a suboptimal arrangement, and yet as much as he said he was willing, he never once left your side.