It hadn't necessarily been too long. Winter, Spring, and Summer had passed; leaves had changed, snow had fallen, and flowers flourished just to wilt again, but not that much time had went by.
He forgot just how softly the city slept at night. The faint sound of the lapping canal below danced along in the chilled air, swiftly passing around the flags that hung parallel of the wooden rooves across from one another. A heavy sadness lingered here. A weighty sense of imprisonment crushed against his chest just stepping through the gates. Teague couldn't believe his parents never decided to move. They were much older and set in their ways, yes, but Riften with it's musty smell and rise and fall of the Gutter Guild wasn't worth all of...this.

The city was falling apart. You'd think with someone like Maven Black-Briar running this show, the city would show signs of her greed. But maybe that was why the palace was thriving while more and more poverty and people filled the streets every day.

He silently trailed over the rickety bridge and through Dryside with his hands in his pockets, thanking the stars for being just the right amount of light to illuminate his way through the gloomy night. Passing so many of the homeless as they slept curled over the cold stone ground. Down the steps into the lowest level of the city, he quickened the pace and tried to keep his steps from reverberating off the moisture ridden stone.

Who knew who'd be desperate enough to strike him down here.

Stopping in front of the apothecary's shop, he sighed heavily to himself and reached deeper down into his pants. He brought the skeleton key to the locked keyhole, it once again being reunited with the patterned plates, snugly turning to the right, and clicking to alert access. A warmth washed over him as he stepped inside, Teague thankful the embers in the fireplace had not yet died. Shutting and locking the door behind him, he slipped off his boots and dropped his knapsack into the chair that was used to catch coats or other articles of clothing. He prayed no one had heard him just yet as he imagined the fright he'd give the person on the other side.

Elgrim and Hafjorg had tried for many years to have chilren. Being of respectful Imperial lineage, sterile women were frowned upon in Hafjorg's family. It was bad enough she had married a Nord, but a Nord alchemist, now that was a source of conversation. The couple had tried every elixir, every health potion, every illness resistant with no success of getting pregnant. It wasn't until the two made a promise in the name of love to the Aeadra, that whatever was to be done, that the Divines blessed them with a child.

Nine months later, a fifty-one year old Hafjorg gave a painful birth to a small and frail little boy. It took many conditioning ingredients to save the two of them, but the woman was able to look past the tears and into the blue eyes of the babe they prayed many years for. Yes, they had to face the judgemental glances and absurd comments in the beginning, but there wasn't a thing that could be done to strain their relationship with the divine intervention.

Except many things; one including the divine intervention leaving.

Now he stood still in his childhood home wondering if it was too late to turn around and leave before anyone caught wind of his return. Teague tried to swallow the guilt as it rose and bed back down in his body through waves. How could he have been so selfish? In a sense of panic and selfishness he leaves with only a note explaining his sudden outburst of seeking.

But seeking what?

"Did you ever find what you were looking for?" It was a soft question, but the sound of her voice piercing the long silence made him nearly jump out of his skin. His mother sat in her nightgown by the dying flame, her long gray hair draped over her shoulders. She shut the book slowly and set it down on the small table on her left.

Teague stood before her, Hafjorg's face frowning slightly as she looked up at her son. "I- Well... No. Not really," Teague managed. He shifted in the awkwardness. "Momma, I'm sorry."

She stood from her chair to embrace him. She had to of heard how hard his heart was beating as her head rested on his chest. When Hafjorg's eyes finally met his, she stroked his hair gently and left it to cup his cheek. Tears were filling her eyes but she didn't appear hurt or angry.

The look was too much, however, and he set his focus on his feet. "I should've come home sooner."

"That, or you could have at least sent letters."

"Teague paused for a moment. "I just wanted a change."

"I know, dear." She took his hand in hers and led him around the corner and down the hall. Past his parents bedroom and to the last door on the right. Opening it slowly to avoid the loud creak, she revealed the room had been kept just as he left it. The guilt sunk deeper. He tried to say something, but the words were trapped behind the lump in his throat. "You must be exhausted," she sighed, but mustered a smile, "we can certainly catch up in the morning."

He scratched his ebony hair roughly, annoyed with himself. He hadn't meant to panic and leave so soon after his father's death. It was something that took the both of them by surprise. And each day that passed in their small cobblestone hole of a home screamed his father's absence. Elgrim was a skilled trade Alchemist. He could sense the sickness of anyone that entered his store. What do you mean he wasn't aware of his own? It ate away at the old man. A once strong and broad Nord became a frail shell of what he used to be.

The rare sun beam of a new morning had peeped through the crack of the wall. The young man was the first to wake, anxious to set Elgrim outside to soak in the warmth. He went in to check on his father, as he did every ill-stricken morning, and that's how he found him. Eyes wide and mouth agape, like Death was as indeed terrifying as the books perceived.

It was too much for Teague. He still saw his father's face every night when he closed his eyes...

Teague nodded the thoughts away and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll see you in the morning."