If you haven't read Fire and Potions, you should look that one up first.
This is the second work in the series and contains massive spoilers to Fire and Potions.
Thank you, please enjoy.
Ondolemar,
The room is being scryed - you're being watched.
Meet me on the southern balcony.
Oh, and smile as if I've written something quite clever.
That should make them mad with curiosity as to what you're reading.
-Therion
Smirking, Ondolemar folded the note between his gloved fingers. Pinching it between thumb and forefinger, he reached out, faintly brushing the parchment with his magicka. The corners crinkled under the red glow of fire, turning black and crumpling, until only ash remained.
Brushing the soot from his hands over the waste basket, he hummed softly while making himself comfortable after a long day of work, casually moving through his suite as though nothing were amiss. Taking his time, he poured himself a drink, retrieved the stack of messages waiting for him on the entry table, and sank down into one of the room's leather arm chairs. The suite was pleasant and luxurious, decorated with refined art, and its large windows revealed a breath-taking view of the capital palace. Of all the amenities, however, the room's cooling enchantment was his favorite, coming as a welcome relief after his day.
Alinor's sweltering, crystal throne room was an awe-inspiring sight to behold, but far from comfortable. Especially at midday, as it captured the sun's rays.
Peeling off his robes, he sighed fondly at the sensation of the cool air washing over him. He stretched lazily, letting his back slowly pop, before undoing his pants and shrugging them off. Though his face remained neutral, he felt a sense of mischievous satisfaction, as he wondered if the individual spying on him was embarrassed by his nudity.
Stepping into the shower, he used his magicka to fill the overhead basin with ice, before channeling a long gout of flame over it. As he released the warm water over his head and cleaned himself, he found that it still felt like a novelty despite having been back in Alinor for nearly six months. After the years he had spent in Skyrim, the simple luxury never ceased to amaze him.
After a quick shower, he dressed in loose slacks, hung his towel around his neck, and went outside to stand on the balcony. Leaning on the railing, he stared out at the dramatic sight of the capital city of Alinor. The crystalline spires of countless buildings older than memory stretched into the sky, shimmering with a hypnotic beauty around the stunning view of the palace.
"You finally decided to join me. I was beginning to wonder," chuckled a familiar voice from behind and overhead. "It's safe, by the way. They can't see out here."
Ondolemar turned around, laying eyes on the dark figure lying casually on the rooftop above his balcony. With an agile motion, he leapt up on the handrail and jumped up to grasp the edge of the roof. Muscles flexing beneath his gold skin, he pulled himself up in one smooth motion.
"I didn't want to rush outside. It might have seemed suspicious," Ondolemar said, sitting beside his visitor. "I certainly wasn't trying to reprimand you for coming all the way here. Despite giving me your word that you were taking the week off," he added pointedly, suggesting he had slowly made his way outside for that exact reason.
His companion merely chuckled.
"A whole week? And you believed me?" the mer asked, removing his black hood and mask to give him a galling smile. "That's your own fault."
"It's been one day, Therion," Ondolemar chided with a tight lipped frown.
"Yes, and there's trouble already," Therion said enthusiastically, sitting up. "Imagine if I had taken two days off?"
Ondolemar opened his mouth to argue, but Therion continued, cutting him off.
"Talamagne sent me. Well, sort of," he corrected, seeing Ondolemar's disdain. "Protested loudly, then deeply regretted mentioning it would be more accurate. However, someone needed to let you know you were being watched, and ironically, he could not, because he was scrying someone else."
Ondolemar sighed in irritation.
"What about Aran? He was supposed to be my contact."
"Stalking out a group of Thalmor extremists," Therion said brightly, happy to catch him up on events. "Since you left they've entered a particularly nasty phase in their struggle to determine who will succeed Radac. It's been getting bloody. With any hope they'll tear themselves apart before reaching a decision. Alas, we're rarely that lucky. Aran's keeping a close eye on them, using every available agent of the Laloria Malatar."
Ondolemar drummed his fingers thoughtfully.
"No rest for the wicked," he said, shaking his head. "On that note, has Talamagne made any progress in the palace?"
"No... nothing new," Therion said, trailing off in a daze as the sun began to sink over the horizon. The whole of Alinor shone with an ethereal glow as the sun's rays reflected the crystal palace and surrounding capital buildings.
Ondolemar observed his cousin's gaze, watching him drink in his surroundings with an intense expression. Since his return from exile, Therion often looked preoccupied. Leaving Ondolemar to wonder what engrossed him so in those moments. Perhaps his concern was unwarranted, and it was exactly as Therion often assured him; a thirst for sights he had gone without for so long.
Shaking himself, Therion turned away from the view, swiftly resuming their conversation.
"Talamagne is discreetly watching as many of the princes as he can. Support is still strongest for Prince Corrick, but that really isn't saying much. They all have designs on taking the throne; every prince and princess wants to be the next Arcane Arch-Magister."
Ondolemar made a soft 'hmph'.
"The Thalmor aren't the only ones tearing themselves apart with in-fighting. If this power struggle goes on much longer, Alinor will be at risk of destabilizing. Leaving the country open to assault. To that end, how is your errand coming?"
"Investors, bankers, and all variety of venture capitalists will arrive by the end of the week," Therion said with an eager grin, rubbing his hands together. "Prince Corrick will receive credit for the steady stream of coin pouring in from foreign hands. Cyrodiil and Skyrim are eager to trade, now that our doors are open, and it should give Corrick the edge he needs. Money talks."
"Excellent," Ondolemar said, clapping his hands together with an edge of finality. "Well, now that you've delivered Talamagne's message and gotten me up to speed, you can go back on your vacation until they arrive."
Therion scoffed at his dismissal.
"Certainly," he replied with a patronizing smile. "I'll relax for a whole week, cousin. On my honor," he added for good measure.
Therion swearing on his honor meant many things. More often than not the exact opposite of his oath.
"Divines," Ondolemar grumbled, giving him a sour look. "When will Farengar return? You're insufferable without him. Even for you."
Therion let out a long, drawn out sigh.
"Two weeks. I'm bored beyond belief."
"It had not escaped my notice," Ondolemar quipped, causing Therion to grin at his half-serious grumbling. Deciding that convincing Therion to go home was impossible, or at least not worth the effort, he sat back, making himself comfortable.
In truth, he enjoyed the brief respite from his deep cover, as well as Therion's company. There was something rare and precious in watching Alinor together from the rooftops.
After the harrowing night of their failed revolution he had believed these moments gone forever. For a moment, the peaceful sunset before him was gone, replaced with an altogether different view of the crystal palace of six years ago. Great plumes of black smoke blotted out the red sun to a faint glow. Blood seeped from his brow, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision, while horrid anxiety gnawed in his stomach like a wound. Broken and defeated, Talamagne by his side, the two frantically scanned the battle raging in the streets, searching for Aran. The palace loomed before them, reminding him of the last moment he had seen Therion before they had been forced to retreat. The thought of the throne room doors shutting before his eyes, sealing them safely on one side, while leaving Therion on the other, made him want to scream in blind rage.
Blinking, Ondolemar cut the memory off, forcing himself back to the present. He was once again staring at the peaceful spring evening, although his vision had been so vivid he swore he could still faintly smell fire and ash, and feel that old uneasiness clawing in his gut.
Therion quirked his brow in silent question, sensing something in his pause.
"I was just thinking the absence of Skyrim's ambassador has caused a surprising stir in our small circle," Ondolemar said smoothly. It was a pleasant night. Speaking of the past was a somber affair, better left to quiet nights after several bottles of mead. Though that night in particular was one which Therion was never willing to discuss for long or in much detail. "Talamagne in particular is bursting with excitement that the good ambassador quickly conclude his business in Skyrim," Ondolemar said, shaking off the dismal aura of his memories with more cheerful thoughts. "I've never seen anyone share Talamagne's boundless enthusiasm for experiments both great and small. He's thrilled for his return so they may begin their research into getting high on mushrooms."
"Yes, they really enjoy their experi- what?" Therion asked, looking at Ondolemar in disbelief tinged with curiosity. He groaned as Ondolemar smirked. "You almost had me. I'll bite, what are they actually doing?"
"They've been trading notes on various projects by mail while Farengar's been in Skyrim, and apparently they made a breakthrough. Remember when you and Farengar brought over the Trama Root he bought from that Morrowind refugee?" Ondolemar asked, chuckling to himself. "I honestly think that moment of shared excitement transformed them from casual friends to blood brothers; Talamagne was positively giddy for the tiny, living sample. He talked of nothing else for a week. Well, they think they've found a local species of mushroom capable of extracting the levitation trait from the Trama Root, thus breeding an entirely new species-"
"Of levitating fungus," Therion finished, cocking a brow. "Impressive. Levitating reagents have been all but extinct for the last two hundred years, since the eruption of the Red Mountain. An event a young and handsome mer like myself cannot personally remember, of course. Unlike some-" Therion began, but was interrupted as Ondolemar whipped his towel from around his neck at him with a loud crack, causing his cousin to roll out of the way, snickering as he did so.
"Go home already, so that I may take out my false teeth. Mer my age need their rest," Ondolemar snapped cynically, realizing Therion's taunt about his age was no coincidence. Draping his towel once more around his neck, he added dispassionately, "Who remembered my birthday?"
"I promised not to reveal-" Therion began.
"I'm going to kill Aran," Ondolemar said with calm certainty.
"I'm just glad you're as excited for your four hundredth birthday as I am," Therion said, face carefully masked with good cheer, leaving Ondolemar to wonder if he had guessed correctly about Aran.
"If you want to give me a gift, then do me a favor and go home, relax, and perhaps try staying out of trouble for awhile," Ondolemar said. Frowning, he looked closer to at his face, finding dark circles around his cousin's Amber eyes. "You look exhausted."
Therion absently ran a hand back through his short, gold hair.
"You know, it's a strange thing, but I've never been very good with sleep. Oddly, next to Farengar, it's easy," Therion said thoughtfully, with a stifled yawn. "I doubt I've had a decent night's rest since he went back to Skyrim. Although," Therion continued, shaking his head, "when he is here, getting him to stay in bed can be nearly impossible. He's always thinking of something in the middle of the night and racing off to his desk. I can't explain it, but I know when he's not there. Even in a deep sleep. If he steals himself out of bed to work on research, I toss and turn all night. Thankfully, we seemed to reach a compromise just before he left. He keeps a journal by the bed and scrawls his notes there. At first he simply didn't believe me, but I honestly don't care about the light spell, just so long as he's there."
Ondolemar shook his head, looking impressed despite himself.
"What?" Therion asked, raising a curious brow.
"You and Farengar," Ondolemar said, drumming his fingers in his usual habit. "I'm just glad that you met him. For a time, after Radac..." Ondolemar began, his eyes flashing dark and dangerous as he spoke the name. "You were very different. I thought you might never smile sincerely again. And then you found Farengar. I never told you how shocked I was to find you were once again yourself when we met in Skyrim. The way he affects you, it's easy to see he means the world to you."
Therion smiled a little, before sighing.
"Not easy for everyone, apparently," he muttered.
"Oh?" Ondolemar asked doubtfully. "Does he not know?"
"Oh, he knows quite well how I feel," Therion said, rubbing his tired eyes. "It's more that he doesn't fully accept it. And sometimes when I look at him, I can tell, he's thinking..." he paused, sighing again. "He's thinking that he's just enjoying it while it lasts. That my affection is temporary."
Ondolemar nodded his understanding. Relationships between mer and men were notorious for being short-lived due to the difficulty of their difference in life spans. And from what he had gleaned talking to Talamagne and Therion (the wizard himself looked on him with distrust and spared him few words), Farengar had already been jilted by a mer before. A young Dunmer sorceress who had broken off their engagement.
"He's a stubborn individual, to say the least," Ondolemar said, thoughtfully drumming his fingers as he considered the Nord wizard. "I can empathize with the frustration of not being able to convince someone that you care. You know first hand how dry my personality is, when I'm not pushing myself to act for others."
"At least Talamagne has you figured out. Clever mer that he is. It would take a genius to do it," Therion said with a friendly chuckle. Shaking his head, he added, "I just wish Farengar understood how much I care."
"If your goal is to convince him you want to spend your lives together, could you get the point across by proposing marriage?"
Therion groaned, covering his face with his palm.
"Unfortunately, no. Ironically, asking him to wed would have the exact opposite effect. I'm rather certain he would take it as impetuous and reaching on my part. Grand displays of affection just further make him believe I'm trying to convince myself, not him, that I want to be together despite the fact that he'll age before I do. No, I need to do something understated, to get him to realize how much he means to me."
"Ah," Ondolemar said with roguish grin. "You mean like becoming a god in a fit of insanity, to bring him back from the dead?"
"Yes, something like that," Therion agreed with a laugh. "Understated."
A knock from within Ondolemar's suite reached their ears.
"Sir? Are you there, Weapons Master?" called a voice from within.
"Ah, that would be my cue to leave it would seem," Therion said, rolling to his feet.
"And mine to get back to work. Be safe, cousin," Ondolemar said, sharing a quick embrace with Therion before descending down to his balcony.
"You as well," Therion said fondly, before pulling his mask back and disappearing out of sight.
Therion sprinted across the rooftops, eagerly leaping from one to the next, flipping and twirling through the air. The night felt free and limitless, the whole of Alinor spread out before him. As he ran, his thoughts melted away, routine taking over and leaving him relaxed. His feet knew the way home by heart, every familiar groove a part of him.
By the time he had reached home, he was finally beginning to feel tired as he had hoped he would. Yawning, he collected the mail left by courier at the gate and walked up to his large, empty manor.
As soon as he touched the ornate, steel door handle, he heard the lock open with a faint click. Skyrim had been wonderful in many ways but he had sorely missed the conveniences of home. Having to use a key to enter your own house had been a nuisance.
Once inside the dark entryway, he smiled to himself. If there was one enchantment he had missed most of all, it was perhaps the simplest.
With a snap of his fingers, a shower of sparks burst around his hand in halo, bathing him in their warm, red glow. Instead of fading, the tiny embers flared brighter as they fell, before leaping up and flying toward the ceiling. They soared across the sconces over head, before shooting forth the catching every lamp and candle down the hall and up the stairs.
All at once the manor was filled with bright, cheerfully burning firelight.
Sorting through the mail, Therion kicked off his boots and walked toward the kitchen. Only a package and a letter from the College of Winterhold caught his interest. Curious, he produced a concealed dagger from his cuff, before tearing into the paper and twine around the box.
And that was when he tripped.
His first thought was relief that he hadn't slashed his other hand holding the package with his blade- reflexively spinning the handle around into a safe grasp, as he stumbled.
Regaining his footing, he tiredly shook his head before swiftly returning his dagger to its hiding place. Ondolemar had been right, he sighed to himself as he rubbed his eyes; he was exhausted.
In the kitchen he set the mail down and tossed the paper and twine in the trash. As he moved to open the package from the college, he was struck with extreme dizziness and fatigue. Wincing, he clutched the countertop for balance. His legs gave out, making him falter, and finally collapse on the smooth, stone floor as his grasp on the counter failed.
The sound of footsteps alerted him that he was not alone. Blearily, he watched two mer appear from the dining room, the site of their attire sending a fresh chill up his spine. Black and gold robes swept across his kitchen with a faint flutter, making his pulse race faster with each step the two took with their leather boots. It was like a scene from any of a number of his nightmares.
The Thalmor had found him.
"Finally," drawled one with long white hair, drawing a sword. "I thought he'd never come home."
Therion forced his bone tired body to respond and began to slowly crawl, inching his way toward the cabinets beside him.
The white-haired mer took a step toward him but was stopped by his companion. A mer of perfect contrast to him with short, dark hair. She produced a crossbow, looking disdainfully at the sword he held.
"It's better if you don't get too close, Melmar," she chided. "This is the mighty Dragonborn," she added haughtily, looking down at Therion's pitiful struggles.
Melmar shrugged off his comrade's arm.
"Hm," he said looking down on Therion. "Doesn't seem like much without his 'shouts'."
Searching desperately for his thu'um, Therion found what they said to be true. His Dragonborn powers were beyond his reach. With a sinking realization, Therion spied a thin, blue trail of energy stretching out from himself and leading back to the package from Winterhold.
Gritting his teeth, he continued his crawl, growling something beneath his breath as he reached out and quietly opened one of the cabinets neither of them could see from where they stood.
"What did you say?" Melmar jeered, while his companion aimed her bow at Therion with deadly intent.
"I said," Therion gasped, trying to fight the tide threatening to envelope his senses. "I don't need my voice to kill you."
Melmar shouted as an arrow sprouted from his chest. The white-haired mer stared in surprise at Therion and the small, pre-loaded crossbow in his hand before he collapsed, spasming on the floor.
Therion inwardly cursed. He had been aiming for the mer holding the crossbow.
Holding his right hand protectively in front of himself, he tried to pour his remaining strength into his magicka. His vision grew dark as his body reeled from the strain, but he managed to raise a ward spell, the barrier springing to life at the exact moment the Thalmor fired her crossbow. He watched the bolt speed toward him, and hit the clear shield exactly in front of his heart. The bolt deflected from its original course, it found a new destination, piercing deep within his shoulder instead.
The impact caused Therion to drop his bow and protective ward as he shouted and grabbed hold of his left shoulder. It felt on fire, inflamed by his every movement. Training took over as he ignored the pain, focusing on the target across the room, who was quickly re-arming her crossbow. Drawing a deep breath, Therion braced himself against what he had to do next.
Clapping his hands together as hard as he could, he screamed in agony.
A wave lept from his hands, extinguishing every flame simultaneously, and engulfing his home in darkness.
The absence of light was interrupted as a soft glow shone in the darkness, the Thalmor agent's hand illuminated by her arming a sparks spell in one hand and candlelight in the other. She snapped her eyes toward what sounded like breaking glass just as she summoned a light spell over her head with a crack.
White light flaring to life, she observed what appeared to be crystalline shards of a container on the floor covered in strange writings. She had barely craned her head to the side in curiosity, when she heard a sudden growl from behind her, making her spin around in a flash. Too late to react, she stared into the demonic black eyes of a daedric hellhound, leaping down in a blur of sinister teeth and claws that seemed too numerous for any sane, living creature to possess.
The Thalmor agent's screams ended before her light spell did, leaving Therion alone but thankfully not in the dark. He was grateful for the light, since he had no strength to cast one of his own, and while he was counting his blessings, he was also feeling good about the summoning jar he'd had the foresight to purchase. The hellhound had been quick and effective, leaving a pile of ash behind in its wake.
The blue stream between himself and the package was either brighter in the dim light or growing in intensity, he wasn't sure which. More disconcertingly, it was acting erratically, flaring up at odd intervals with a crackle of electricity, and sending a horrible jolt through him when it did.
Reaching up, Therion grabbed hold of the counter and pulled himself up with his right arm as quickly as he could, grimacing as he rose. His left shoulder seemed to be bleeding more than normal for the type of wound, making him suspect his enemies had prudently applied a blood thinner to ensure he bled out. Poison would have been a better choice, as he had proven, but then, Thalmor did love slow and painful deaths.
Leaning on the counter he drew himself toward the package. The closer he came, the worse he felt, making it hard to focus. Consciousness slipping in and out, left shoulder in agony, he reached for the box, willing himself to take hold of it and throw it away. He doubted he could throw far, or at all, but it seemed to be his only chance. Hands shaking he brushed the top of the box with his hand before his eyes slid shut and he lost awareness and slumped over. Limply, he slid from the counter, his arm knocking the box as he fell and causing it to tumble toward the floor with him. As it was upended, the lid parted from the package, causing the contents - tiny, blue crystals - to shower out across the polished stone floor, bouncing and scattering around Therion as he met the ground.
The broken and uneven shards of the ancient crystal, Silgahrot, crackled with erratic electricity, its fragments humming and pulsing with light, making it the sole illumination in the room as the candlelight over the dead Thalmor finally extinguished.
Therion made a half conscious groan as a windy gale met his ears; the same wind which greeted him when he stole the soul of a dragon. For a time he was lucid, staring at the light of his soul drifting into the fragmented crystal in a radiant cyclone.
Then his pain began to come and go as he felt strangely and horribly detached from his body. The new, wrenching sensation was just as distressing as his physical suffering.
The bizarre moment ended swiftly as both his physical suffering and normal perspective of the floor returned, with his pulse racing increasingly faster while a bone chilling cold crept over him. Shivering violently, he cursed the ice filling his veins in place of the warm blood seeping from his shoulder.
Eyes sliding closed, he sighed to himself.
Death, or losing his soul to the crystal, he mused faintly.
He wondered which would come first.
Dimly, he realized someone was talking but the words were faint. He wondered if he had imagined the voice when it spoke again.
You can't die. That would be most inconvenient.
The howl of the wind, whipping his gold hair across his cheek, was suddenly still, leaving behind a hollow silence. He felt the icy chill and stabbing pain of his wounds drift away as his mind went blank.