Elder Scrolls belongs to Bethesda, the elven languages used to make Fëaárë's name belong to Tolkien, Brandy and the interpretation of some characters is mine. Some TES lore has, and will continue to be, altered for this story.

Word count for this chapter is 4940. Total word count for the story thus far is 5295.

Half and Half

Chapter 01: The Dropped Token (Winterhold)

21, Sun's Dusk, 4E 201, 6:19 pm

"—warrior of no small skill, adept mage and blacksmith, elite Thalmor Justicar, and do I get any respect? No!" The Altmer threw his hands in the air to emphasize his exclamation as he ranted, stomping through the shin- to thigh-deep snowdrifts of the northernmost coasts of Tamriel. "I get teasing and pranks and divines damned puppy eyes!" He spun around and pointed accusingly at his companion a few steps behind him where, sure enough, the Imperial had on that exact expression of wide, watery eyes and quivering, pouty lips. He immediately deflated. "Oh, damnit. Are you serious or faking it, this time?"

Brandy grinned; her previous expression vanished so quickly, it could have been imagined. "Sorry; you just leave yourself wide open for that. I'm surprised you haven't developed a resistance to it yet. You've known me for, what? Three-and-a-half months, now?"

Fëaárë sighed and continued his trek. "Close. Three and four days. That's not nearly enough time to adapt to the peculiar entity that is you."

"Hey," the young woman pushed her way through the sea of snow after him, scowling her displeasure.

"It's true."

"Jerkface. Is it much farther to Winterhold?"

The elven man pulled a map from a holster on his etched leather belt and unfurled it. "Eh… another mile or so north-northwest to the town, I think," he responded, tilting his head as he deciphered the tiny notes and marks that dotted the parchment, "or we're half way back to Windhelm."

The Imperial shook her head with a laugh, "You, my dear, are hopeless."

"I am not," Fëaárë sniffed, chin raised. "I have quite a bit of hope. I hope for a quiet journey with warm beds, baths, and a hot meal at the end of it."

Brandy made a noise that she would swear was anything but a giggle. "Don't we all?" She came up beside him and threaded her arm through his. "Wandering makes you appreciate the little things all the more, doesn't it?"

The robed man looked at her and his expression softened. "Yeah. Yeah, it does." He looked back ahead, gold-orange eye scanning the Winterhold snowdrifts for Sabercats and Snow Trolls. "Do you…" He fell silent and shook his head. "Bah."

"'Do I,' what?" the Imperial pressed.

Her companion turned his gaze to the ground. "Do you ever miss your life from before all this? Back when things were simple?"

Brandy looked up at the cloudy sky, a yet-rare seriousness surfacing through her admittedly juvenile personality. "Feeling philosophical, are you? Not much, to be honest. My life had stopped being simple a while before I met you. I didn't mention that episode, did I? No, I wouldn't have. It was stupid and so was I." It had been a display of the naiveté she thought she had rid herself of a lifetime ago; something she was content to forget and move on from.

Fëaárë guided them around a crumbling pillar that looked to be the remains of an ancient Nordic ruin lost beneath the snow and ice, scanning the distance once more. "I can see the college, now. Tell me anyway."

"As I said; it was stupid, and there's not much to tell," the young woman stated, hopping over a narrow but deep fault that marred the glacial shelf. "The only way to put it was that I was young and gullible. I slept with someone I took a fancy to when he was passing through Ivarstead and stopped at Vilemyr Inn. Then I found out who he was. He left the day before you arrived without so much as a goodbye, like the arse he was."

"We all seem to have those moments in our lives," The Altmer hopped over a particularly deeply piled snowdrift on to the cobbled road and turned back to lift the much shorter Imperial woman over it and beside him. "In my case, it was a few years after the Oblivion Crisis and involved a rather enjoyable week with another pureblood Altmer, at the end of which I learned that he was the one the squadron I was part of had been deployed to assassinate; he and two— …others. It was one of my first and greatest regrets from my time in the Dominion."

The young woman looked over in surprise. "You were around back during the Crisis? I couldn't give a flying fuck about history, but even I know that was several hundred years ago. You're older than dirt." Her eyebrows furrowed in sudden concentration and a puzzled look dominated her cold-flushed face. "Wait, 'He'?" A confused glance to her traveling partner rewarded Brandy with a flat stare and an eyebrow raised in silent challenge. She coughed and looked away, awkwardly. "Sorry, nothing. You just didn't look it. That or age."

They were at the borders of the small town, dilapidated buildings breaking up the continuous white of the ice fields. "Looks are often times deceiving." His closing words were softly spoken; quiet and ominous, though by no means a threat, from what she could tell. Neither spoke as they moved briskly through the town, the piercing stares and scowls prickles on the backs of their necks. The slowest minuets Tamriel had to offer passed through the town beside them.

"Ah," she let go of Fëaárë's arm and pointed to the end of the road once they passed the populated section of the once great city. "There's the bridge to the College. Shall I follow you or stay here?"

Catching her gloved hand in his gauntleted one, the Altmer drew his companion along beside him. "As if I would let go of your wealth of knowledge so easily! You'll probably understand what they expect better than I would, the flimsy, senseless mages."

"A high elf who doesn't excel in magic; the shame."

Said elf granted her a withering glare, turning sharply to trudge down the road with a huff.

H&H

"Continue at your own peril! Civilians are not welcome to enter College grounds," announced a dark skinned, Altmer woman wearing master ranked robes. She stood beneath the shadowed archway that marked the entry to the notoriously perilous Winterhold Bridge; a crumbling structure that was as narrow as a foot and a half in some places and spanned the massive chasm between the mainland and the weathered pillar of ice and stone that served as the foundation of the College. Despite how ridiculous she looked with her pale red hair in high, dangling pigtails, an intimidating aura still surrounded her.

The male High elf glanced at his traveling companion before addressing his kinswoman. "Things are so bad, the College needs to post someone to warn people away?" It was spoken with a questioning inflection, but Brandy had the distinct impression that it was more of a statement. He shrugged and continued without waiting for a reply, "It is irrelevant. I am here seeking to apply for tutelage, not fish for gossip."

The mage raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms, having to look up at Fëaárë despite being a few steps higher up than he was on the stone walkway. "Oh? And what exactly do you expect to find within the College?"

"I had been studying Aetherius before I left the Summerset Isles," the blond mer admitted, sounding oddly sheepish. "I haven't had the chance to continue my studies, since."

"That's nothing to be ashamed of," the warden responded, seemingly puzzled at the other Altmer's tone. "It is said to be the source of all magic; a noble goal to pursue."

"That was more than three centuries ago, by the way."

And much became clear.

"And you? What do you seek?" The mage addressed Brandy, choosing to tactfully forgo responding to that final statement.

The former tavern wench clutched her companion's hand tighter as she cast about for a reply. "Er, I'm here primarily because Fëaárë is, but I wouldn't mind studying whatever's available on the Elder Scrolls, since the chance of actually seeing one is dishearteningly low." The Imperial paused as a thought cemented itself in her mind, and she gave the other woman an inquisitive stare. "You wouldn't happen to have an encyclopedia of magical defects, anomalies, and disorders, would you?"

Fëaárë turned a startled expression on the human woman that morphed into something almost impressed. "That's actually rather brilliant, for you."

"If you weren't wearing ebony boots, I would kick you."

He snorted. "You know you love me."

A mischievous glint entered Brandy's eyes. Without missing a beat, she dropped to one knee in the snow and raised her arms dramatically to her friend. "More than there are fish in the sea! More than there are stars in the sky! More than there is snow in Skyrim!" She cried, exaggeratedly, "We are like bread and butter! Like thunder and rain! Like Stormcloaks and Imperials— wait… scratch that last one." In her peripheral vision, she could see the college mage mouthing some of the lines Brandy spouted in utter disbelief to her right, and on the left, the villagers had stopped their daily glower to gape in equal shock at the spectacle she was causing. She almost broke her straight face when she spotted the Dunmer Steward vainly fighting to maintain the signature, dark elven grumpy composure, just behind an open mouthed Jarl. Stupidity served as an excellent form of entertainment in almost any culture. "Take me! Take me now and let me show you the depths of my immeasurable adoration!"

"Alas!" Fëaárë clutched his chest exaggeratedly, as though suffering terrible, intense emotions. He had decided to humor her spontaneous silliness, it seemed, as he joined in appropriately with her little impromptu act. "I cannot, for you lack one primary physical attribute that would even let me consider such a liaison. Forgive me, dear madam, and do not sorrow, for you will surely find another who may return your affections just as fiercely as you offered yours!" The two travelers looked at each other for a brief moment before they could maintain their composure no longer.

"I can't believe this. Comedians. The Arch-Mage is going to love these two." The Imperial heard the bridge warden mutter over she and Fëaárë's chortling. The mer continued louder, addressing the travelers. "If you're quite finished. In order to be granted access to College grounds, you must first display an adequate grasp of the mystic arts." She eyed them critically as Brandy stood and brushed snow and twigs from her legs, her gaze ultimately settling on Fëaárë. "The school of Destruction requires a strong will and precise control. There is little room for mistakes when dealing with the elemental forces. I bid you cast the spell Firebolt at the insignia on the ground." The red haired woman motioned to the large, raised medallion of an eye that dominated the path beneath the stone arch. "If you are not familiar with the spell, I have a tome available for sale."

The blond mer sighed as he pulled off steel Nordic gauntlets and dug through another of the pouches that hung from his belt, counting a number of septim into a small, drawstring bag. "The Dominion always had something against fire based magic I never understood." He muttered, exchanging the coin for the grey-bound book. Looking his usual irritable self once more, he tromped over to the mammoth skull that sat next to the bridge and swiped away the layer of snow that covered it. With a grumble, he sat himself on the curve of one of the immense tusks, letting Brandy perch herself on top of the skull to lean over his shoulder as he worked through the tome. "I never liked these damn things." He commented to her as he opened the book. "Back before the walls between our world and others were messed up by the Oblivion Crisis conclusion, you had to have another mage teach you a spell, themselves. Once they taught you a spell, you'd know it so thoroughly, inside and out, that if you had the materials available, you could enchant items with any spell you knew. It made it worthwhile collecting spells, where as now, they become clutter in your mind."

"You collected spells? I thought you were primarily a warrior." Hazel eyes rapidly scanned the pages of the book, grasping the verbal theory as Fëaárë let his vision unfocus, taking in the magic with long, gold-hued fingers that trailed across the pages. Living fire, combustion, consuming air and giving energy in the form of heat… an extension of will… magic rooted to potential energy, turned kinetic… laws of gravity and motion permitting indefinite movement in a singular direction until the decay of magic-to-energy bonds… Rate of Motion versus Rate of Bond Decay averages range of sixteen lengths… overcharging of magic causes brief stunning to hit target due to overflow of invasive alien energies…

"Most of the spells I favored stopped working. Hundreds of spells were lost, mostly from the schools of Restoration and Mysticism. As a result, Restoration lost quite a bit of respect and Mysticism was rendered obsolete after what few spells remained were reclassified into the school of Alteration. Few enchanted artifacts remain from that time, outside of a handful of Daedric artifacts and a number of pieces currently secured by the Synod. Chillrend is still unaccounted for, as well as the Grey Cowl of Nocturnal, and the infamous Blade of Woe."

Brandy sat back once she finished reading over her companion's shoulder, moments before the tome dissolved into tiny sparks of energy and flecks of darkened ash. "What, was that something you were researching in your time in the Dominion?"

Fëaárë brushed his hands off on the hem of his robe as he rocked back to his feet on the snow covered cobblestone. "Not exactly. I was… looking… through the inventory taken of the Champion of Cyrodiil's belongings, after she vanished, for something of mine I… misplaced. There were a number of powerful items that were missing from her property when the executrix compared her findings to the Champion's own listings. It nearly caused a scandal, some of the artifacts and trophies she collected over her rise to power." He maintained a remarkably neutral expression that looked utterly unnatural on his harshly featured face. "There was a lot the Elder Counsel had to cover up. The rest… Thalmor. We… they… did everything possible to make a missing hero vanish. It helped break an Empire. After all, legends don't exist." The Altmer made himself busy strapping his gauntlets back on, flexing his fingers to settle the leather padding into place.

"'Legends don't burn down villages.'"

His golden gaze was as sharp as the dagger he had given her back in Ivarstead those many months ago, and the woman did her best to preserve an impassive appearance. "Where," the mer questioned, lowly, "did you here that from?"

She glanced at him in the fading light and gave a closed-mouth sigh. "From a passing fancy. Are you going to leave your kinswoman waiting in this icy wind all evening, or are you ready to cast the damn spell for her?"

The elf studied her for a moment longer before he acknowledged her unsubtle subject change with a half nod. It was their unspoken agreement; don't push for more than what's offered. The former tavern wench came to understand early on that her curious friend had quite a past behind him that he had not entirely come to terms with. There was no way in Oblivion he was going to share it with someone he had known for barely a fraction of his life, and, perhaps not the Divines, but some higher power definitely knew that she certainly had a history that she was by no means willing to touch upon in any way, shape, or form. "As you wish."

The warden glanced up from a string of beads around her wrist that she was fiddling with to see him approach with flames dancing across his palms. Fëaárë raised an eyebrow at her before turning his sight to his hands. "I can't say I've had a reason to play with fire since that dreaded mandatory preliminary destruction training back in the Isles. Let's see how this works out," After a short pause to channel magicka into the flames he had willed into being, the Firebolt was released at the emblem with a flick of his wrist. The spell struck it almost dead-center, the magical fire spluttering for a few seconds. He let his gaze linger thoughtfully on the spot for a moment longer. "This could be useful. It doesn't need the precision an arrow does, doesn't explode like a fireball, and I think it has a more controlled range than Lightning Bolt. Less expensive to cast, too." And it looked like fun. Shame she couldn't cast it.

Brandy held up her hand to forestall what the female Altmer was going to say when she turned to the young woman. "Before you present your challenge, could you humor me for a moment?"

The College mage raised an eyebrow as she crossed her arms. "I suppose…"

"Cast Magelight on me."

The request earned her a puzzled look, but the mage complied. The brilliant ball of light was lazily tossed through the air to land on the Imperial.

And abruptly vanished.

The lady elf scowled. "Very funny. What was it: Potions of Magic Resistance, or are you part Breton?"

The travelers exchanged glances. "Neither," Fëaárë responded, quietly. "Why do you think she was asking after that disorder list? That she was able to read the spell tome along side me? She understands them better than I do, but she can't cast spells. Period. Alteration, Illusion, even most Destruction and Restoration spells wont work on her, properly. Divines, Soultrap doesn't work, and that isn't even affected by magic resistance! Try for yourself if you have to. Just don't try sustained spells, like Healing Hands. We learned the hard way how dangerous that was."

They were subjected to a suspicious glower before the mage called colorful, swirling lights to her hands and began throwing various spells at the Imperial.

The red of Fury, a green Calm, the buttery yellow of an instant healing spell, and a pink she thought might be a fear spell hit her in succession. When none of them did anything— or anything significant, in the healing spell's case— a Telekinesis, Soultrap, and Sparks spell followed. "What in Oblivion..?"

"Not so skeptical now, are you?" The other Altmer drawled.

"You," the red haired woman stated, pointing at Brandy, "I'm taking to the Arch-Mage. This condition is, to the best of my knowledge, unprecedented in the history of the College. This needs to be investigated. And you," she turned to address Fëaárë. "You go to the Arcanaeum after reporting to Mirabelle Ervine. Ask Urag gro-Shub for whatever he has on anti-magic conditions. Follow me." With that, she turned on heel and marched the snowy, stone path.

Brandy tucked her hand in her friend's as they followed behind. "I don't like where this is going," she muttered.

"What, across a bridge?"

She elbowed him, sharply. "Smartass. I meant the whole 'Meeting-the-Arch-Mage-to-become-the-Latest-Test-Subject' thing. Brings a whole new meaning to crossing bridges. This is a bridge I really don't want to cross."

Fëaárë watched the other Altmer neutrally as she tossed a Magelight at a pool of water that sat atop the round pillar that formed a support of the bridge. "When you come to them, or before you burn them?"

"I don't think frozen stone will burn very well." They edged across the narrowest part of the path single file, many hundreds of feet between them and the shallow waters below.

"Unless that's what's holding this ruin together. My old contacts speculated that the ice foundation of the College was an enormous Stahlrim deposit. That was why it stood up to the Great Collapse," The barred and insignia-branded gates opened before their guide, granting access to the high walled, circular courtyard. "Could be true, could be bullshit. We never had an agent that could confirm the rumors stationed here."

The Imperial was about to continue when she heard a tense conversation from across the courtyard, the participants out of sight behind the monument of Shalidor.

"I believe I've made myself rather clear," snapped a woman's voice.

"Yes, of course," a high, somewhat nasally male voice responded in an impatient tone. "I'm simply trying to understand the reasoning behind the decision."

"You may be used to the Empire bowing to your every whim, buy I'm afraid you'll find the Thalmor receive no such treatment here." The woman's tone was border-lining both frustration and a touch of arrogance. "You are a guest of the College, here at the pleasure of the Arch-Mage. I hope you appreciate the opportunity." The last sentence was said with poorly hidden warning.

"Yes, of course. The Arch-Mage has my thanks." The male backed down, coming into view as he bowed out of the conversation. He wore the Thalmor Justicar uniform, but the black, eagle-beaked hood was thrown back to show platinum blond hair behind pointed ears and orange-gold eyes on a sharply angled, gold toned face that was twisted into a perpetual sneer.

"It can't be…" Fëaárë was already striding across the grounds, unconsciously dragging the human woman along behind him. Louder, he called out, "Ancano?"

The Thalmor straightened abruptly, looking like a deer caught in a Magelight. "Brother?" he questioned, disbelievingly. Brandy would have said that he gaped like a fish, but Skyrim's fish were typically better at the crocodile smile than slack-jawed blubbing.

Her Altmer grinned like a fool and released her hand in favor of trapping his squirming brother in a bear hug. "It's really you! You have no idea the chaos and frustration I've been through to get here. Between Helgen and the Jarls and the Greybeards—"

"Brother!" Ancano squirmed free from the other's grasp and pushed away, shifting from foot to foot and crossing his arms in badly contained agitation. "You had no reason to come here; I have the situation completely under control. There is no need for my top ranking fool of a brother to come all the way from Valenwood to check in on this operation. Elenwin is the First Emissary of Skyrim, not you—"

"That's not why I'm—"

"—Shouldn't have even left your station to another bloody province—"

"Will you just—"

"—may have been established for a century and a half, but you know how delicate a position—"

"Ancano!" Fëaárë's roar sounded like thunder in the abruptly silent courtyard. Content that he had recaptured the attention of his kin— and everyone else's, unfortunately— he continued in a low, level tone, "I came to Skyrim to find you, yes. It's because of Arleah. What have you heard?"

The pale blond Altmer tilted his head and settled, looking confused and relatively unconcerned. "Our dear baby sister was assigned to your battalion, last I heard. How is that working out for her?"

Brandy found herself swamped with confusion as she, the gate warden, and the Breton woman Ancano had been speaking with stood a few feet away, doing their best to remain unnoticed. "Sister?" she mouthed. She hadn't even been aware Fëaárë had any family, much less a brother and sister. It sounded like they were all in the Dominion, as well.

The warrior grasped his brother's shoulders and forced eye contact. "You don't know? They didn't tell you? Did they even tell— Father? No, he wouldn't even care; might have even been behind it. That bitch of a false queen blinded him to everything."

"Tell us what?" the shorter, slimmer male actually looked frightened. "What in Oblivion happened?"

"She's dead. Murdered," was the blunt reply. "By mercenaries hired by those directly under me, at that. They were sending a message and didn't deny it when I confronted them. Those traitorous bastards were her agents."

The following silence was deafening, time seeming to slow as the Imperial took in what was said. That was… this was not something she had any place eavesdropping on. She sharply tugged on both the other woman's sleeves, jerking her head at the main doors in a not-so-subtle hint. In the corner of her eye, she saw that Ancano had much the same idea, as he urged Fëaárë into the radial tower to the statue of Shalidor's right hand. "It would be best to leave them be for a day or two. I don't think Fëaárë's given himself time to grieve properly, and the other— Ancano, was it?— only just found out," she muttered as they stepped into the Hall of the Elements.

"Lovely," groaned the Breton. "So not only do we have two High-and-Mighty Thalmor, they're emotionally unstable, as well as mentally. Just what I wanted."

"Mirabelle… the new student is not at all like—" the warden started, carefully.

Mirabelle abruptly halted to avoid the finger that was suddenly in her face, having to go cross-eyed in order to focus on it. The Imperial had stepped in front of her with a scowl as thunderous as her friend's voice, earlier.

"I will not call you out on your behavior towards Ancano," Brandy hissed in an even tone. "From what I heard, he deserves most, if not all, of the shit you give him, but I will not abide your unfounded, short-sighted, and utterly bigoted judgment you have made of someone you have never seen before in your life before five minuets ago. If I find that you are giving my best friend in the world trouble because of your ignorant opinions, I might not kill you, being against the rules and such, but I will make your life a living hell."

"Living… hell?" was the confusedly whispered response.

The young woman slapped a hand to her forehead and growled a sigh. "Fucking cultural gulfs… Imagine the worst day of your life. Then imagine having to relive it over and over and over, each day becoming worse and more miserable and humiliating. I will make it happen. Ugh, that sounds so pathetic when I have to explain it," she turned to the Altmer sharply. "Now that that's out of the way, can we get on with this? With Fëaárë occupied by family matters, I need to cover for him and make sure he won't miss anything."

The redhead looked startled. "You just threatened a College faculty member," she stated, sounding somewhat unnerved.

"The Arch-Mage, I respect. The same goes for the actual teachers, but I don't care if Master Wizard is next in line for Arch-Mage; this narrow viewed idiocy is why she isn't, yet," was Brandy's miffed reply.

"And you're overreaction was uncalled for," Mirabelle angrily interjected, following behind the others as they ascended the stairwell to the Arch-Mage's Quarters.

"Nobody can claim I'm not loyal. I keep my promises, and I swore I would stick with him to the end,"

"Blind loyalty, much?" she barely caught the Breton's muttered observation, but let the matter lie.

The Altmer knocked on the heavy door at the top of the steps and waited several heartbeats. At the muffled "Enter." She opened the door and ushered Brandy and Mirabelle in ahead of her.

Sitting in a chair at a table along the right hand wall was a Dunmer man reading a book, which he reluctantly drew his attention from to look at them. He was hooded, but she could see his purple-grey skin, black beard, and jeweled red eyes. He looked at the three with a mild, passive confusion. "And who is this? Mirabelle, Faralda? Has there been an incident? I really don't need any more incidences."

"No, Arch-Mage Aren," Mirabelle replied with a slight bow. "We seem to have two new students—"

"Sort of," Faralda interjected.

"—One being the brother of that Thalmor, and the other…" She motioned to Brandy. "Faralda informed me that this is a special case that was to be brought to your attention. Something about magic immunity..?"

Brandy didn't even try to comprehend the following explanation. The mages were using some of the more complicated terms Redah tried to explain to her back in Ivarstead so long ago. She didn't begin to grow nervous until Savos Aren sat forward and put his book aside. "Mirabelle, be a dear and fetch Colette. After all the best way to study a condition is to investigate its limitations," He glanced to the suddenly sweating Imperial woman. "With your consent..?"

She put her face in her hands and contemplated crying. This was for Fëaárë, she reminded herself. He needed her, had told her as much, even. She just had to suffer through a few tests, and then she could insure that he wouldn't miss anything in his mourning period. Just a few tests…

"Fine," she heard herself say. "Just don't set me on fire; that actually does work, as do potions, poisons, and soul gem powered traps."

"Splendid! Faralda, have Urag pull out anything he can find on magical absence conditions, would you? It's best to be prepared."

As the Imperial glanced over her shoulder to watch the College mages tromp back down the steps, she caught their muffled conversation through the closing door.

"New Apprentice number two bothering you, Faralda?" Mirabelle questioned.

"…In a way. Something just occurred to me…"

"Yes?"

"I never mentioned you were Master Wizard."

Brandy smirked and turned back to the Arch-Mage, ignoring his curious look as she quietly laughed to herself.