#but if you're willing to read the essays you're gonna see all my lil clues :)

[varlaisvea]

... lattia mallari av malatu.

For day 4 of @tes-summer-fest: Thief

This can totes be read on its own, but is a continuation of days 1 and 2. It's also all on AO3.

Rated G-ish, veiled reference to sex, mild descriptions of racism

------

Va garlas agea, gravia ye goria, lattia mallari av malatu. "In the caverns of lore, ugly and obscure, shines the gold of truth." —Ayleid proverb

J’zargo curses every step on the way to Dawnstar. The Arch-Mage had to go to Artaeum—they say they do not trust the Psijic Order, yet when the Elf-wizards came calling, the Arch-Mage duly followed their kin through the portal. And they left J’zargo with a stupid errand, as if he is some assistant, taking care of the Arch-Mage’s unfinished business while they accomplish yet another spectacular historical achievement, no doubt. 

The moon-amulet had glowed in J’zargo’s hands, and then when he'd opened the also-glowing book… there were words that had not been there before. The fur on the back of his neck had stood on end—surely he could not return this amulet now; much larger things are at stake, or so the time-traveling Elf-wizard had said, when he came to fetch the Arch-Mage. This amulet was clearly far more powerful than its owner had let on—the Arch-Mage had said the caravan-guard told them it is only a stone, it is not worth your life. Likely the warrior-cat had no concept of what the amulet could do; such cats usually have minds as dull as their swords are sharp. A treasure like this is easily worth at least one life, especially an unimportant one… J’zargo could probably fry this ignorant cat to a crisp before he could draw his sword. Truly, a cat who does not know the worth of this treasure does not deserve it, especially not when J’zargo was the one who had unlocked its secrets, somehow. 

But, if the Arch-Mage does not keep their promises, it looks bad for the College, and the College cannot afford to lose any more prestige than it already has—then all of J’zargo’s study, hard work, and putting up with slight after slight would be for nothing. So J’zargo trudges through the snow and frigid winds, like a silly jeek who does exactly as he is told. No, he thinks bitterly, it is Zargo who trudges stupidly through the snow. J’zargo respects himself. J’zargo is not an errand-cat for the Arch-Elf.

It’s only once Dawnstar is in his sights that he fully understands this transaction will involve speaking to another Khajiit. A choke comes to his throat suddenly when he realizes he does not remember the last time he even saw another Khajiit, let alone had a conversation with one. It is a loneliness he’d anticipated when he came to Skyrim, but could never have prepared for. The trading caravans were the only other Khajiit he’d ever seen in Skyrim, and he’d distanced himself from them since the beginning—common cats who will never rise above camping in frigid fields, sleeping on the frozen ground, politely enduring suspicious glares and racist abuse for a bit of coin. He could not imagine they would have much to say to him, or he to them—J’zargo spends his time perfecting the intricate art of harnessing magicka, while the caravan-cats do not think very far beyond their next sale.

Nevertheless, their fire is warm, and they greet J’zargo with minimal suspicion about his mages’ robes. The caravan boss has surprisingly high-quality Pellitine moon-sugar—at least, if a Khajiit asks her for it—at a very reasonable price. She tells him with a sly wink that she always has quality goods for discerning buyers. At least this errand means he’ll have a steady source of good moon-sugar in the future, and won’t have to be as sparing with his supply.

J’zargo finds the cat in full plate, sitting off to the side of the fire, cleaning his sword. “Eh… hello. The Arch-Mage of Winterhold asked J’zargo to return this to you,” he says, pulling the amulet from his satchel. “It is yours, yes?”

“Ah! My amulet! I thought I’d never see it again!” Kharjo stands immediately, grinning with warmth J’zargo did not expect from a stern steel-clad warrior. He looks at J’zargo’s robes. “That Elf is Arch-Mage now? When I asked them to help with my moon-amulet, they were merely a dragonslayer, master thief, and Thane of Whiterun.”

“They seem to have a way of attaining authority, that’s for sure,” J’zargo says.

Kharjo notices J’zargo is not handing back the amulet. He looks at J’zargo with a questioning expression.

“Eh, when J’zargo had this in his possession… it, er… it made new words appear in certain books,” J’zargo says, by way of explanation.

“Jone and Jode,” Kharjo says. “I have never seen such things when I have had it.”

“It showed this one a hidden text that was supposedly about the first Khajiit Arch-Mage of Winterhold.”

Kharjo steps back. He seems like he didn’t quite believe J’zargo until he mentioned that detail. “The first Khajiit Arch-Mage,” he says, mostly to himself.

“J’zargo did not know whether to believe this thing,” he says slowly. “According to the story, he was seduced by a witch, who compelled him to teach strange dark magic at the College. The witch killed him and joined the Psijic Order, selling out the College in the process. Apparently the first Khajiit Arch-Mage was embarrassingly dull-clawed.”

“The witch was Altmer?” Kharjo asks, oddly surprised. 

“Er…” It’s a strange question, but J’zargo presses on. “The text did not say. This was during the brief period in the Second Era when the Order allowed mages of all races to join, so, not necessarily,” J’zargo says. Then, before he can stop himself, he asks, “you have heard of the Psijic Order?”

Kharjo laughs. “You sleek mages like to think all of your knowledge is so shadowy and secret! This one has been guarding caravans for the past twenty-odd years. The Psijic Order is just like the Dark Brotherhood and the Blades—everyone knows what they do, but very few know what they really do, yes?” His eyes turn to the necklace in J’zargo’s hands. 

“Ah, apologies,” J’zargo says, handing it to Kharjo slowly. Too slowly, probably; with every movement of the muscles of his arm, he wishes he had not chosen the honorable path.

Kharjo takes it and then they stare at each other awkwardly. “Er, bright Moons guide your steps, walker,” Kharjo says, but he doesn’t turn away, and neither does J’zargo. Kharjo hesitates, then turns to leave, then hesitates again. He looks at J’zargo. “Mother told this one a story about this amulet. There are, eh… similarities,” he says, wincing as he speaks. “Heh, it sounds silly when I say it out loud.”

“You must tell J’zargo, please,” J’zargo says, immediately kicking himself for being so eager and hot-headed. Too much time constantly ready to parry an insult from a man or mer.

Kharjo seems not to have expected that reaction. “Heh, I thought you would say every Khajiiti family has a silly story about some heirloom.” 

“That is true,” J’zargo says. “But recall that this amulet did some strange magic in J’zargo’s hands, and—” he looks down at his feet, then sighs. “And the information it showed me was not exactly clear on its own.”

Kharjo sighs too. “Well, when I was barely a teenager, I went on my first caravan trip. Mother did not want me to leave, but… I had to get out of Riverhold—”

“—that is not hard to believe,” J’zargo mutters, before he can stop himself.

“Ah, you have been to Riverhold.” Kharjo smiles kindly. “I miss Elsweyr bitterly, and of course I love my hometown,” he says, as J’zargo looks away from his gaze, “but…” He gestures, and J’zargo nods. “Anyway, Mother gave me this. She said to be careful, because it was cursed—of course, isn’t every ancient amulet? But mother also said that in her experience it had always felt protective.”

“A curse on your enemies, then?”

“Not quite,” Kharjo says. “I have lost it twice, and both times, when I returned home to visit Mother, she had some strange story about how some traveler or merchant brought it back to her. Both times she was afraid Kharjo had been killed, and was overjoyed to see him alive.”

“Heh, it is cursed to return to Riverhold, perhaps,” J’zargo says.

“Mother says its first owner was a mage adept, also from Riverhold. The story goes that he was secretly a Ziz Zhan assassin who had run afoul of the Zhan, and they killed him on his way to Winterhold to become a student.” Kharjo looks away, a bit sheepish. “Heh, apparently a witch brought him back to life with an enchanted pearl,” he holds up the necklace, which features a large, faintly blue-tinged pearl at the center of an intricate metal cage.

J’zargo stares at it, remembering how tempted he’d been to steal the Saarthal amulet—which, he now remembers, also had a large pearl at the center—when he’d noticed it just laying around the Arch-Mage’s quarters. He briefly considers swiping the amulet back from this cat’s claws and running away as fast as his legs will take him.

Kharjo cautiously watches J’zargo’s reaction. “Eh, us northerners and our back-country superstitions, hm?” he says.

“J’zargo is from Torval,” J’zargo says with southern pride.

Kharjo looks J’zargo up and down. “Yes, this is obvious.” What is that supposed to mean? “So anyway,” Kharjo continues, “having been resurrected, the mage expressed his deepest gratitude to the witch under the shining aurora, several times. When the witch was thoroughly subdued, the mage stole their pearl." He laughs. “I think that part was one of my ancestors spicing up the tale by mixing in Rajhin and Mafala, but it makes for a much more interesting family story, so Kharjo makes sure to keep it in. Heh, but of course, unfortunately for the mage, the pearl was already cursed.”

"This mage does sound about as dull-clawed as the Arch-Mage I read about," says J'zargo. "Everyone knows that stealing a powerful item from a witch has consequences, yes? Even Rajhin could not manage hold onto the power he stole from Mafala.”

“Just so,” Kharjo says. “Any Khajiit worth their whiskers is wise enough to fear a witch’s wrath.”

“Then, what happened to the mage?”

Kharjo laughs. “I don’t know; the story ends after he steals the pearl. But, the pearl was cursed—at some point, it was given to the Temple of the Purifying Moons in Riverhold, after their pair of Temple Pearls was stolen. Of course temples must house a pair of pearls, to honor the Moons, but the witch’s pearl would not bind with any other pearl, no matter how many sanctifying rituals or spells were cast. The Winterhold mage was long gone, and the pearl had rejected the blessing of Jone and Jode, so it was considered quite unlucky. Apparently, it was given to one of my ancestors who was an acolyte at the temple.” He laughs to himself, gazing at the amulet as he turns it over in his hand. “But, if we are talking about the same cat,” he says, “it sounds like the witch got their revenge eventually.”

“Who is to say?” J’zargo says with a shrug. “Khajiiti stories are not exactly known for their factual accuracy.”

Kharjo smiles like a crooked crescent moon. “Ah, but they are always true, yes?” 

Despite himself, J’zargo grins. “Ha, just so!” They both laugh, and then there is a long, not-entirely-comfortable silence. J’zargo spends it cursing himself for being so reluctant to leave this stupid necklace behind. It is only a stone, he reminds himself. It doesn’t help.

“It seems like it would be easier to simply steal back your pearl,” says Kharjo, scratching his head, “but this one has never really understood mages.” He smiles.

“Neither has J’zargo, if it makes you feel better,” says J’zargo with a chuckle, in his nervousness friendlier than he’d meant to be.

Kharjo is still turning the amulet over in his hand, his movements suggesting strong muscle memory, something he has done in idle moments for most of his life. “I have always felt safer with this around my neck.”

J’zargo forces a smile. “I wish I’d had more time to learn what secrets it could tell me, but…” he looks at Kharjo, at Kharjo’s beaten-up armor and battle-scratched sword, at the weary caravan horses, the unwelcoming homes of Dawnstar, the wind whipping in from the harbor, the other caravan members readying their tents, the setting sun. “Anything that makes Khajiit feel safer in this frozen place is a precious blessing.” He’s a little proud of himself for not saying that with a resigned sigh. “Jone and Jode watch over you, walker,” he says. He forces his feet to turn around.

“Wait,” Kharjo says. J’zargo turns, and Kharjo lets out a heavy sigh. “It is not curiosity alone that made you hesitant to return this.”

“No,” J’zargo says. “But nor is it greed, nor ambition.” He sighs. “J’zargo is as surprised as anyone.” They both chuckle. “It is… well, I do not actually know what the problem is, but… I think the College is in danger.”

Kharjo looks at him with something like pity. “More danger, you mean.”

“Eh, yes. I suppose. Anyway, I have been researching for days, trying to figure out what to do. I do not know what this Khajiit Arch-Mage has to do with anything, but…” ugh, “I think reading about him might help me find part of the answer.” So much time without speaking to a single other Khajiit has made him prone to oversharing. He does not like it.

Kharjo closes his eyes and breathes in. “Mother always said that Kharjo is not its final owner.” He sighs again, and looks at the amulet in his hand. “It is only a stone, right?” He smiles weakly and holds the amulet out to J’zargo.

Two minutes ago, J’zargo was still half-considering stealing the amulet as soon as Kharjo turned his back, but now, he feels sick at the thought of taking away something that could make a Khajiit feel less unwelcome and alone in Skyrim. Namiira take this frigid place. “No,” he says, holding up his hand. “The night is dark, and this one has his own fire,” he says. He conjures a tiny mote of flame.

Kharjo shakes his head resolutely. “Even if your Arch-Mage is not the same cat as my pearl-thief, the College of Winterhold was important to both of them. This pearl came from the other end of Tamriel to be in just the place it was needed, at just the right time. It cannot be a coincidence. Or at least, things make more sense if it is not a coincidence.” He looks at J’zargo pleadingly. “And you still brought it back to me, when you had every reason not to. Please.” Now he almost looks like he’s fighting tears. “Heh, it will make Mother laugh, when I tell her how I lost it this time.” He thrusts his hands at J’zargo again.

J’zargo takes the necklace and puts it in the inner pouch of his robes. “Thank you,” he says, not sure how to express the deep and unwelcome emotion he’s having. “You have made the cold snow feel like warm sands to me. I will repay this kindness. I promise.” He turns to leave, then turns back. “Keep your claws sharp in Skyrim, walker,” he says. He casts a ward over the caravan, the strongest he can muster. The moons are in Cathay; the ward will last for days. “Bright Moons light your path.”

For some reason, he can’t bear to look back at the caravan as he trudges away.