#rathsin

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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.

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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.

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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.

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"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.

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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?"

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.")

<>

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.

<>

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.”