Yhen’a rubbed tenderly at his cheek where a dull pain had been pulsing since he’d woke up that morning. He was glad the giant scorpion he’d hunted had been a runty one, easy enough to tie to his back over his bow, quiver, and backpack. If it hadn’t, there wouldn’t have been a hand to cradle his aching jaw with—the other was gripped tight around a bushel of trapped skeevers still noosed in their snares. At least Dune was less than a mile away, where he could get paid, laid, and maybe even sugared. His unruly bangs and whispy bits of silvery hair that escape from his ponytail hung over his eyes with ghosting touches against his lashes and his hands twitched, Just a little longer, and twitched, Just a few more steps.

Reaper’s March was the perfect little war-torn patch of dried grass for a Bosmer like Yhen’a—swarming with game to hunt and dead soldiers with deep pockets. Nations spilled blood here long before the current war. So much, that scavenging coin and trinkets of someone’s dead son had become long-standing traditions at this point, handed down from one generation of survivors to the next. The soil was red—with blood and clay, both—the trees never grew all that high, the grass was fried by the light of Magnus for hours in the daytime, and at night bandits scurried about the dirt roads by the light of the two Moons. When the ruling powers of the age (like Valenwood or Elsweyr before, or one of the Three Alliances from this jumbled mess of an Era) weren’t laying each other low upon its hills, Imperials came down from the North to dress it up in its finery: things like evenly paved stone streets, market stalls dripping with gems, and tall stately houses to move into at a later (safer) date. The short of it is this—gold ran quick and easy here if you were smart. Nothing big, no, one never made the kind of gold that took you out of Reaper’s March in one go. But if you had a nose for opportunity and a quick hand, then maybe you could make a living. And Yhen’a had both of those in easy supply.

It wasn’t long before he reached the edge of Dune, the settlement spreading its shambled arms in welcome from the grassy hill where it sat. A great arched bridge yawned from its entrance, travelers passing to and fro over it like a stream of ants. He took the same road until he was spit out into the main thoroughfare of the town, the pain in his jaw pulsing as he cleared the incline, and he readjusted the giant scorpion on his back—Time I got rid of you. Here the road went straight, then opened to the North and South markets and slums, before ending at the Temple of Two Moons (and more slums). Before that though were two great stone walls that hugged the path, both with rows of merchants’ tents sprouting up at their feet. You wouldn’t believe they’d been attacked by Daedra not long ago as there were a good amount people out and about; trading, laughing, loving despite it all. Maybe it was living in Reaper’s March that equipped you with the skill to rebuild—you’d be doing it every few years, anyhow.

He made his way down the aisle towards the stall of one of his regular buyers, passing other Bosmer, Khajiit, and some towering Altmer. Normally, he would process his kills into their individual parts: meat, pelts, shells, trinkets, and charms. Call it a nod towards wood elf culture, using all parts of the game animal, but Yhen’a also called it “enterprising.” People had to eat, scorpion venom was great to coat arrows with, and you could make all kinds of things from bug shells. Visiting soldiers could be a superstitious lot—maybe had to do with the possibility of dying horribly in a foreign land away from family and friends—and quite a few of them bought skeever feet for good luck; though Yhen’a never understood that, a whole skeever always seemed quite the opposite.

“Yhen’a! Slim pickings today, eh? You sure it’s a giant scorpion?” chirped an Alfiq sitting atop a pillow at his stall—Yhen’a’s buyer. She was gorgeous little thing, like the most pampered housecat he’d ever seen. Except, she would scratch him to ribbons if he said so aloud. The Khajiit’s tail swished, a gleam in her turquoise eyes, “Oh? Is little Yhen’a hurt? This one senses something off…”

As if on cue, a dull pain throbbed in his jaw and a twitch wiggled through both his hands, even the one holding onto his skeever bouquet.

“What’s off are these rats if you don’t get ‘em off my hands quick! The walk was long, Misi’Ka. And hot.” He smiled, a painted thing, eager to do business and leave. No haggling today, Kitty.

“Prhrhrhm~ if you insist,” She stood on her pillow then, arching her back before tucking herself into a well-mannered sit, dainty gold bracelets twinkling above her fuzzy paws, “Little Yhen’a should make sure to buy some meat with the coin Misi’Ka gives him. He is looking a little scrawny.”

✽

A house stood blackened at the entrance of Dune’s North market. A family may have lived there before the Daedra came, but no one returned after the smoke cleared. Now its charred belly harbored new inhabitants. Inside, intricately woven carpets had turned to ash but each bit of furniture had stayed within its rightful place, though with a new layer of greasy soot. Dark pointed spires reached towards the ceiling—a hallmark of Khajiiti design—from singed bedposts and wardrobe corners. There was a hole in the roof; a column of light poured down from its jagged edges, catching motes of dust in its rays. Yhen’a watched it, the only thing to look at while he sat with his head tipped up, helpless with another’s fingers probing about his mouth. A series of glass lenses hung at angles from the ceiling caught the light, directed it to his mouth. It was hot on his tongue.

“Hm… left premolar, nice crack! Come to Needle later than this n’ you might’ve had a nice little infection on your hands. And your jaw,” a shrill laugh, “What was it this time? Get the snot beat out of you again? Rock in your sugar?”

Yhen’a rolled his eyes and shrugged. Physicians. They were supposed to help, weren’t they? Why did they feel the need to laugh at you while they were at it? Or maybe that was a Needle thing. Needle was an Ohmes, one of those Khajiit that looked Not-Khajiit but were, in fact, Khajiit. A cat man. It was in the little things, if you paid attention—a name, a gesture, the cat-like sweep of ink along the high points of their faces. This one looked a lot like Yhen’a—tanned skin, a hunter’s gaze, and shorter than the other peoples of Dune and beyond. But there was something else about the Ohmes that Yhen’a simply wasn’t; it was hard to name. Perhaps it was the moonlight that the wood elf saw in his nighttime eyes or in his skin, or maybe it was the feline energy. Needle had been a surgeon for the Dominion (that was the wood-elf-high-elf-cat-people alliance) for a little while—a very little while—until they let him go for… well, Yhen’a never knew the reason as Needle changed it every time. But if it had something to do with being a prick, he could believe that.

“I oughn gnow,” he droned around the Ohme’s fingers in his maw, trying not to brush his tongue against whatever balm the surgeon usually coated his hands in before procedures. Whatever it was, it was bitter and smoky and stingy and tasted like death. He always failed though, managing to get a sample, and grimaced as he asked his next question, “Cagh you fhigs ih?”

“Fix it? Mmh. Little more complicated than that, Needle thinks. Crack might go deep. Needle says remove it, see if any tiny bits left, clean it out. Maybe Needle can try an experiment—growing a new one? Maybe… graft a new one?” The Ohmes removed his fingers then, and looked excitedly at Yhen’a with golden eyes, a feature they shared. Needle was the type of back-alley physician that specialized in just about everything—meaning, nothing. He’d set up shop in some abandoned thing or other, his whole practice fitting in a many-drawered box on his back. His greatest talent was stitching you back up, if it wasn’t obvious. Clean you up, close you up, and send you back out there to do it all over again. Little experiments were just Needle’s bit of fun between patients when most of them weren’t coming back anyways. Still, Yhen’a would rather have a gap than another Bosmer’s tooth. Or a Senche-tiger’s.

“Just rip it out then and close the hole.”

“Suit yourself,” Needle sighed. He turned, and all Yhen’a heard was the sound of a drawer and then a jar popping open. Overhead, the lenses adjusted themselves to shoot a finer beam of light. The Ohmes swiveled back, his smile had returned. His finger was poised to enter Yhen’a’s mouth again but now the tip glowed with a blue substance, “Netch jelly topical. If you feel anything after, scream! Oh, and do let me know if you want something for that tremble before you go.”

✽

The jaw ache felt worse after Needle’s work. Yhen’a tongued the new gap between his teeth, where the flesh had been knit with magic. It was early evening now, and long shadows draped the streets in large stripes. There were plenty of people still up and about, buying something for dinner or a distraction. At the far end was Walker’s Stay, a two-storied Khajiiti-styled inn with the fluffiest beds in town, two roaring fires, and great views. He’d had a room there until…

He stretched his jaw and the side Needle worked on ached again. After a somewhat traumatic tooth extraction he’d paid the man, then paid him a little more. The Ohmes had tsked but took the money quickly before producing a tiny vial from his pocket, as if he’d been ready for the trade—because he was.

Shimmer.

A happy middle-ground between regular moonsugar and Skooma. It made the lights dance, the brain happy, and the body tired. He’d had a little last week and was kicked out of the inn for it. Something about being too obviously high and falling all over himself.

Yhen’a patted the pocket where he’d stowed the stuff before making his way towards the Walker’s Stay, hand protectively clasped around his treasure. He passed through crowds of people like water, slipping around tails and under outstretched arms. The walk always seemed longer when he was excited to get back, or the place was unusually crowded, whatever—Just get out of the way, it’s Shimmer time! Finally, after almost tripping over a beggar’s legs in front of the inn (really, arsehole shouldn’t have been there if he didn’t want to get run off or tripped over) he made his way around the back. Luckily, he was charming or pathetic enough to convince the innkeepers Odaini and her mate that he had nowhere to go and he was so cold. So with a few flicks of their tails they let him camp behind the building in an old storehouse, and that suited Yhen’a just fine. He was used to roughing it anyways.

At the back of Walker’s Stay, where the last of Magnus’ light hit before disappearing past the horizon, Yhen’a made his home in the little raised storehouse. Patchy canvas was stretched over a wall that had fallen to the Daedra attack, and a flimsy reed door that squeaked on its hinges sealed its windowless insides. There was a bedroll in there between sooty sacks of grain, cushioned with furs laid across the wooden floor—a luxury or two for ridding Odaini’s place of pests along its perimeters. Good enough for sleep, he had thought, and good enough for a sugar trip. Excitement made the little vial seem to burn in his pocket, its cylindrical form pressing against Yhen’a’s leg insistingly. He was about to climb the steep steps, unload his things, and settle in, eager to get to the fuzzy place where he was there yet not there, where his jaw didn’t feel like a gazelle had kicked it, where—

A blade appeared at his throat.

Yhen’a froze, the metal edge burning icy against the too soft skin at his neck. He felt something, or someone, at his back. They leaned in close, Yhen’a could feel another’s body heat vaguely blooming at his upper back, and heard a whisper:

“Where are you going, little wood elf? Where are you going… without me?”

Yhen’a had stopped breathing. Not a move, his brain shouted at him, or you’re finished. But he was never very good at listening to that little voice. His eyes darted to his right and his head turned the barest fraction in the same direction, as if he could catch a glimpse of who he knew it was, but quick as the sensation of them came on, they disappeared, as if the presence at his back had never been there, and he could turn around.

When he looked, there was no one. Just the back of the inn and his own footsteps in the dirt. For a second, he could convince himself that it was all in his imagination. But a wriggling feeling at the pit of his stomach knew better. Immediately, another noise came from the right of the storehouse. Yhen’a turned back around.

A Dunmer was perched on the eaves of the storehouse, almost lazily, peering down at the Bosmer like a cat with its prey cornered. He was practically reclined, propped up on one arm as if he’d been waiting there for hours. Yhen’a would have believed it as the mer glowered at him, a deep crease at the center of his brow marring otherwise beautifully smooth gray skin. He made to descend with one smooth gesture of his long limbs, as if he were sliding down, and seemed to drip from his perch; a long dark river of ink that touched the ground with barely a whisper. Yhen’a backed away, and the dark elf’s crimson eyes bore into him as he drew closer, closer. The waning light of the day caught on the mer’s unsheathed blade, which curved bitterly towards Yhen’a, it’s back-barb glittering with the twilight.

“Y’ffre… no, no. I don’t have time for this right now!” He groaned in his frustration despite the threat. His jaw ached, it hurt to speak.

Azarak, the dark elf who had been intent on claiming his life for months now, or at least, tormenting him. Because obviously, he was still kicking. Yhen’a knew this because he himself was a hunter and a street brawler at most. He was a good shot with his bow, he was quick on his feet, and wily enough to escape sticky situations by the skin of his teeth. But up against Azarak? Up against a taller, stronger, Dunmer who claimed affiliation with a group of professional assassins? The Morag Tong? Yhen’a should have been dead yesterday. Last month. Long before he had even learned the man’s name. But something stayed his blade the first time they’d run into one another. Continued to. What was it?

Ah, that’s right, Yhen’a thought while slowly reaching back for his bow. ‘Cause we’re the same kind of idiot.

“You and I both know that is not true,” hissed the assassin, who edged closer still, “You were going to crawl on hands and knees into your next fix, to kneel at the altar of your own destruction—your one true god.”

“You don’t know anything about me—”

“Wrong. I know everything about you.” And Azarak lunged for him then. Yhen’a had his bow between them in a second, arrow nocked in a quickness that was natural for a Bosmer. But before he could loose it, Azarak had brought his blade down and snapped the string and limbs both, the back-barb ripping the wood from Yhen’a’s hands to fall in pieces to the dirt. The assassin hissed again, “Wrong again. I am too close.”

“Damn you…!” Yhen’a growled, taking a hunting knife from his belt. He ripped its leather sheathe off, nearly slicing his own hand, before he held it in front of him. He could see the tremble before his very eyes now—slight, but if he squeezed his hand into a fist it went away. The vial of Shimmer screamed shrill in his mind.

“Better,” Azarak said, barely above a whisper, before he brought his blade up for a downward cleave. Yhen’a raised his knife, stopping the assassin’s blade with the ringing of metal against metal, and the barest hilt. It was clearly telegraphed—he could tell—which only meant the mer had more to say. His hands shook with effort as Azarak bore down, the razor edge of his short sword coming closer to Yhen’a’s face. Closer, and he could nick a few pale hairs from his eyebrows. The Dunmer filled his vision like a storm cloud blocking the sky, his strength near overbearing. And as the Bosmer expected, he spoke again in that voice of dust and fire, “But you are outmatched—you ought to evade.”

Yhen’a stared defiantly into those cursed red eyes, jaw clenched despite the pain. I was here first!

“I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be. You should be running from me—for I, I am Thinking Death.”

“You’re all talk…!” Yhen’a spat, before letting himself ease and side-step, using Azarak’s own power and momentum against him. He slipped out from under the blade as the assassin caught himself and went to slash at his blade arm. But Azarak was too fast—always too fast.

Clang!

He went for another slice and was blocked again.

Clang!

Another.

Clang!

“Do you intend to hurt me or not?!” Azarak taunted before Yhen’a did something he couldn’t predict—and he had to admit, he himself hadn’t either. The Bosmer maneuvered out of his sword’s way, leaned forward and bit the assassin on his sword hand. Hard. It was a spur of the moment idea, a reflex… his sore jaw seemed to cry out and he grunted for the pain of it. But what else was there to do against a target that couldn’t be hit? The Dunmer’s hand was bare, his skin tasting of dust and metal in Yhena’s mouth. He didn’t break skin despite his somewhat pronounced canines, but he left a mark. Azarak was caught between a gasp of shock and utter indignation. He yanked his hand away, “You IDIOT!”

Before Yhen’a knew it, within the space of a blink, he had been tackled to the ground. They wrestled, Azarak had disarmed him—too quick to know how, always too quick—and he lay on his back. The assassin had him pinned. He near sat on Yhen’a’s chest, one knee planted in the dirt next to his head, the other under his arm. The assassin leant down, one hand pressing Yhen’a’s against the ground into the silver spray of his hair, now undone, the other holding his blade to the Bosmer’s throat. He couldn’t move. His spine felt awkwardly bent from the pack he still wore beneath him. His knife-hand was above, and his other arm was trapped beneath Azarak’s shin. He couldn’t kick his legs far enough to knee the mer off. All he could do was adjust his hips somewhat so as not to rest on the precious cargo still miraculously in his pocket. There was a stillness, where Yhen’a’s senses were filled with the Dunmer: his weight, his iron grip, his red eyes that seemed to glow, the long dark bangs that couldn’t be secured into the bun at his crown caressing his cheeks soft as silk. He felt his own heart hammering and heard the sound of the assassin’s breath. His own breath echoed its rhythm in puffs, choked by the weight of the mer. He could smell him this close, like leather and storm clouds, and he could feel…

Arousal.

Yhen’a blinked. With a needle-prick of smugness his earlier thought returned, same kind of idiot.

The discovery lit a similar fire within the Bosmer, though somewhat dulled by the possibility of his throat being sliced open. Yhen’a swallowed, before he breathed out his next words—his next gamble—trying for sultry, though it sounded more like choking.

“… You want me, I can tell.”

Azarak said nothing, his gaze hard. His blade didn’t move, but Yhen’a could feel the thighs on either side of his torso tense just slightly.

“If you kill me now, the… the fun will end.”

“…”

“I-I want you too…” Yhen’a bargained, barely above a whisper. Or perhaps it was a confession for the kernel of truth it held despite the situation. Azarak had come for him some months ago, the first of several visits. Long story short, they both had a job to do separate from one another—Azarak was supposed to kill someone, Yhen’a was working for that same someone for a potential mountain of gold—and they both managed to ruin each other’s jobs (and lives) in the process. The assassin had been pettier about the whole thing though, in Yhen’a’s opinion, and thus began hunting the Bosmer down with intent to kill him. Or at least, once again, he tried. The first time they had wrestled one another to the ground had been just the same, all fury, hatred, but a strange attraction also. He thought he would die that day, thought maybe he’d be reckless in his last moments, thought this mer looked good in his leathers despite his intentions. And when his mask rode up to reveal that delicate, pouting, mouth… one kiss, a ghost of one, like the flutter of butterfly wings was all it took. And the two had begun wrestling in another way, desperate hands and heated glances.

Damn you, I want you, I hate you, touch me.

Azarak’s gaze sharpened, the smallest sound in the back of his throat as if he ventured with Yhen’a into the same memory, and his frown deepened.

“Do you want me, Death?” He asked, hopeful, but whether for physical intimacy or salvation he didn’t know—maybe both. Or maybe the Shimmer was speaking to him again from his pocket to get the mer off his chest so they could have their little date. Maybe the assassin could tag along if he wished it. Azarak considered him a moment, his blade pressing against the soft skin of Yhen’a’s neck, just barely. There was a minute tremble there, and the Bosmer had a feeling he might have said the wrong thing, especially as the Dunmer above him seemed to burn with an angry heat.

“You barter with desire?” Azarak growled low in his throat and dismounted him then. The blade retreated, drawing an exhale from Yhen’a as he stayed stuck to the ground like a squashed bug. Azarak stepped away and ran his fingers along his dagger, seemingly regarding its reflection of his own eyes, the bite mark around the base of his thumb .He stiffly turned his back to his prey.

“How disappointing. You’re disappointing.”

“…What does that make you then?” Yhen’a glared, “Can’t seem to kill me no matter how much you try.”

“What satisfaction is there when the prey cannot fight adequately?”

“What kind of assassin is looking for a fight?!” They shouted over one another.

“My knife at your throat and you try to seduce me—”

“You kill them quick and finish the job—"

“Couldn’t even die with dignity! Instead you choose to be a fool—”

“It’s called taking a risk—”

“Catapulting yourself blindly into an unknown, likely negative outcome—”

“Well, it worked. Didn’t it?” Yhen’a had raised himself to sit, watching the Dunmer with anger plain in his face. He didn’t reach for his knife, which glinted weakly in his peripheral vision on the dirt. The fight was over. He watched Azarak roughly sheathe his blade into the hilt on his hip. He usually had its twin on his other side, but it was curiously absent. He continued, “Did work. Will work. Because you’re—”

“How long will you rely on it?” Azarak interrupted and turned to look at him then, eyes reflecting the same fury, “On luck? Lack of any real strategy? Your tendency for foolhardiness?”

He had to give to the assassin, he was good at pointing out faults and shoving them in your face. Others couched their worries or disapproval in over-politeness, double meanings. Azarak liked to stick the knife in and twist it. Yhen’a gave him a long hard look. Then, petulant, only shrugged. The assassin seemed to expect it, as he only stared. For a minute there was silence between them, the dull thrum of market activity beyond the Walker’s Stay the only sound. Then there was a crunch of dirt, as Yhen’a reached for his discarded hunting knife, tucking it in his belt unsheathed. He raised himself to his feet and dusted himself off, watching his own hands as they passed over his knees, his pockets. There was nothing more to say. They were done, he knew it, because their meetings always ended like this. Azarak ambushes him, tries to kill him, doesn’t, lectures him, then vanishes into thin air. He’d laugh, if he didn’t know that Azarak really could kill him if he wanted to. He supposed the real question was when.

“If that’s it then, I’d really like to go to bed,” he said wearily before he looked up. Azarak was gone. He was once again alone, the only trace of the assassin’s coming the disturbed earth where they struggled.

“Bastard.”

✽

With a shrill squeak, the reed door closed, and Yhen’a was alone in the storehouse. It was dark, heavy with the musty smell of furs and burlap sacks of grain. He threw his now smashed backpack and broken pieces of his bow (both courtesy of Azarak) against the far wall before he crawled onto his cushioned bedroll, half collapsing in it like an asp on its belly. He groped for a small clay oil lamp he kept near the back wall. Lit it. Once the warm light of the lamp’s tiny flame filled the storehouse, he made himself comfortable. In a smooth, practiced movement he took Needle’s vial from his pocket, nearly kissing it—tumbling in the dirt with Azarak didn’t break it, a miracle to praise some god for, surely. He removed its cork, which had been impaled on its bottom with a sort of thin wooden stick. Lifting it from the bottle showed that this addition allowed the user to dispense drops at a time; a clear liquid beaded at its end, barely holding to the surface. Yhen’a stuck out his tongue and tipped his head back. One, then two drops, that was his usual, then he laid back.

Might last me a week, he thought, as his gaze drifted up past the rotting beams of the storehouse roof. Tiny lights edged in from the corners of his vision like a dusting of stars, staying even when he closed his eyes.

There you are, he thought, Shimmer.

A feeling began to wash over him that was tingly and warm, and made the back of his head swim. The storehouse fell away, and so did the fight with Azarak, even the dying sounds of Dune through the thin wooden walls, and the violence of Reaper’s March. Here, the heat of the plains and the ache of the hunt to feed his meager existence were distant memories; here he was home, here he was loved.