That night, Adrian served supper, with a little help from Vaera. The mer seemed surprised he could prepare a decent meal.
"Most men I've known think their job is only to drag the meat home and toss it upon the table. I've never met a man my age who knew how to do woman's work," she'd said, knowing it would prompt a sigh from Adrian. "What I mean is," she began, 'correcting' herself, "I've never met a man who didn't think himself above this type of thing."
"I know what you meant," Adrian replied quietly, thumb and forefinger pressed to his eyelids as if a headache had taken him. "What you said reminded me so much of my brother, is all." The Breton went on about cleaning the plates from his dining table.
"I thought you never saw him?" the mer queried, leaning against the adjacent wall. "You never mentioned anything else about him."
"I've not seen him in many years." The Breton ceased what he was doing, stacking the used plates to be cleaned later. "He left home when I was sixteen years old. Told our father he was off to find his fortune. Father was furious…at first. Then he agreed to let him go." He shrugged, seemingly frustrated by the memory. "He gave him the sword that was his birthright as the firstborn son, and let him go off on his own. I haven't seen him since that day. He used to occasionally send a letter, but he'd changed so much, I could tell by the way he wrote; the things about which he wrote. He wasn't the same person," Adrian didn't notice, but Vaera had drifted closer. "I was almost relieved when I realized the letters had stopped coming. My father refused to read them. He wouldn't let mother know they'd come. He feared she'd worry even more."
Adrian started a bit, noticing how close Vaera had moved. "I don't like talking about my family," he murmured, eyes drifting away from Vaera's face.
"Yet it's always so easy to get you to do it." Adrian did not look at her face, but he could hear the smile in her voice, a sound warm as the smoldering hearth.
"I don't want to talk about them anymore tonight, then," he shot back, flicking his eyes to lock with hers. "Tell me about your family, about your life. You rarely talk about yourself."
"Because there's very little to tell, but if you're so curious I'll share." Her mouth had lost its smile, but her eyes still held a look of mirth. "My father's a merchant. He used to trade in Morrowind, but moved us away when he sensed war with the Nords would become inevitable. When we lived in Cheydinhal he'd make trips back home to bring in goods, but they didn't sell very well. A lot of the Imperials there really hated Dunmer." Vaera's words gradually softened as she spoke, trepidation tingeing her words. He began to sense that perhaps he shouldn't have pressed her.
"You don't need to go on if you don't want to," he gently assured her.
Vaera shook her head. "No, it's nothing," she quickly shook her head, trying to dismiss his concern. "He moved us to the Imperial City after I ran into a friendly group of locals at the wrong end of a dark alley. Good thing they were too drunk to notice the nearby guard." She forced a chuckle, trying not to let her fear show through, but not doing a very convincing job. Thank Azura a guard heard her cries for help before the men got too far. The mer rolled her shoulders, shrugging off the grip of invisible hands. "I suppose he finally realized how dangerous it could be in Cheydinhal. Not that it turned out much better in the Imperial City, huddled in our basement while a giant daedra stomped through the city," she laughed, still uneasy, her normally cheerful eyes filled with a quiet kind of fear. "I remember wondering what would happen. Thinking Dagon's foot could come crashing through our ceiling any moment and there wouldn't be a thing we could do."
"I was there that night, too," the Breton replied, hoping that his words would be somehow comforting.
"Were you? Where?" Vaera asked, looking up at Adrian, that horrible, cold anxiety lingering in her beautiful eyes.
"I waited with Serrian and the Council of Mages at the Arcane University. Serrian had given me a promotion to apprentice for what he called admirable service in the field of research. I could see Dagon from the university courtyard." He looked into Vaera's eyes, lost in them for a time as he remembered. "I don't think I've ever been so scared," he said before he even knew he was speaking. "But, you were talking about your parents?"
Vaera merely smiled. "Father's retired now, and spends most of his free time turning my mother's hair white. When I left he was on about learning to use a blade and taking up combat in the arena. When he told my mother she swore if he tried she'd kill him herself and save some young, able-bodied man the trouble of beating an old Dunmer to death." The pair laughed, a bit of the tension eased. Adrian was pleased to see a genuine smile back on Vaera's face. "He's always been a stubborn man," she went on. "I remember when mother told him she'd been teaching me illusion magic. The man threw a fit for the ages, saying I was too young, too irresponsible, and too silly of a girl to learn magic. All of that from seeing me use a light spell when his candle blew out."
"How can anyone be too young for a light spell?" Adrian scoffed, shaking his head. "A light spell was the first sort of magicka I learned. It's almost impossible for it to go wrong, unless you count my very first time." Vaera looked at him expectantly after he ceased talking, and Adrian resumed with a roll of his eyes. "The first time my father showed me how to perform a light spell, I let the magicka build too long around my hand. Instead of creating a soft glow, it exploded into a bright burst of light."
"How bright?" Vaera cocked an eyebrow. It didn't sound so bad to her.
"For a few hours afterward, my father swore up and down he'd gone blind. He hadn't, of course, but he sat in his chair, lamenting his fate for a few hours," the Breton admitted, grinning sheepishly as Vaera laughed.
"It's not as bad as my first invisibility spell," she replied, Adrian taking his turn to look expectant. "It worked for a few moments, but the minute I opened the door to step out of the house it began to fade away. Only it didn't work like it should have," she covered her smile with the tips of her fingers, "My clothes didn't reappear as quickly as the rest of me. I think my feet barely touched the ground I ran so fast. Even so, I gave the afternoon guard an eyeful."
They both fell into warm peals of laughter which seemed to last a long time. When they finally composed themselves, they leaned together against the wall.
"Were you planning to stay another day?" the mer asked, turning her head to look at Adrian.
He thought for a moment, and then shook his head, his mouth sore from smiling. "No, I think in the morning we'll move on to the Imperial City." He thought over his words, a blush covering his cheeks. "That is, I'll move on," he corrected, eyes drifting to the floor.
"Then I think I'll go with you," Vaera replied. For a moment Adrian felt quiet relief. Soft warmth pressed against him and Vaera's arms encircled his neck, her slender hands resting upon his back. Without his permission, his hands found her waist and stayed there.
"Thank you," the Dunmer said, her breath puffing against his collarbone. Adrian pondered what to say for a moment, fearing that his foot would spring up and lodge itself in his mouth if he dared open it. Eventually, he asked for what he was being thanked.
"For everything," Vaera replied, coyly succinct. She backed slowly away, one hand drifting from Adrian's back to his chest. Her delicate fingers rested there for a moment, then slipped away. The mer stepped back through the entrance to the sitting room. "Knock on my door when you're ready to leave. I'll see you in the morning." She disappeared from the entrance way; moments later Adrian heard her ascend the stairs.
"Good night," he replied weakly. He then slumped against the wall, eyes closed. He mused, wondering if Vaera took any pleasure in making him feel with no effort at all. Surely she must
The next morning Adrian awoke early and dressed. He knocked on Vaera's door as she'd requested, and she surprised him by emerging moments later fully prepared to leave. After locking the house—not that it held anything of much monetary value anymore—Adrian and Vaera retrieved Navali from the stable.
The morning was beautiful. The sun had barely peeked into the sky, casting an amber hue across the dew speckled grasslands. The air was cool, and the green of the trees upon the road was interspersed with robust shades of yellow.
Despite their pleasant surroundings, neither of them spoke much. After the previous night, Adrian didn't know what to think of Vaera. He would have felt foolish for reading too much into her gesture, though her intentions seemed obvious. It was times like these he wished he was more like his brother, who'd swept women off their feet without even trying, sometimes without even realizing. Vaera simply smiled, enjoying the Breton's silent frustration. The mer finally broke the silence, giving an air of perfect nonchalance.
"When the last time you visited the city?" she asked without turning her head.
It took Adrian a moment to process her question and answer. "The last time I was in the city? It was when Dagon appeared, the day Serrian promoted me for my assistance in closing gates near the city. At that point he was the only living member of the Council of Mages, except for Raminus. There was no one to care at the time, but when he appointed Carahil and Teekeeus to the Council, they had plenty to say." The Breton sighed, a heavy sound, the sigh of someone remembering a dilemma they had forgotten for a time. "Serrian's done a fine job of ignoring them so far. Carahil is dedicated to Traven's old way; apparently the two were quite close, and she sees my promotion as a disservice to his memory. Teekeeus is an old curmudgeon. He believes I was handed the promotion because Serrian knew my parents and sympathizes with my loss. He claims my aid in closing the gates didn't help the guild enough to warrant a promotion."
"Why is Serrian making exceptions for you?" Vaera asked, this time turning to look at Adrian. He looked somber, older than he was. The memories clearly weighed on his mind.
"Serrian needs mages who carry clout, I suppose. He needs ranks that will be taken seriously. I'm sure you've heard of the incident with Mannimarco? Even before then the guild was hobbled. When Traven banned necromancy, two members of the council quit, along with numerous other members of the guild. He assembled a new council, who later betrayed him. Serrian killed them. Then Traven sacrificed himself so Serrian wouldn't be turned into one of Mannimarco's thralls. Traven instated Serrian as the new Arch-Mage before his death. Serrian inherited dying guild. Kvatch is still in ruins, the Bruma guild was only recently rebuilt." Another sigh. Adrian's voice had grown quite tight, almost angry. He let go with that breath. "If something isn't done soon, if the guild doesn't gain some weight, I fear it will die. Imagine no mages in Cyrodiil. All the talent would likely leave for Summerset Isle or Morrowind."
"Serrian plans to stop that from happening?" Vaera inquired, head still turned to fix one crimson eye on Adrian. "I've been told recruitment for the guild has been rather lacking. How does he intend to rebuild without new members?"
"He's already relaxed some of Traven's standards, much to the chagrin of other mages. He partially overturned the ban on necromancy, and obviously he's temporarily altered the standards for promotion. He doesn't seem to be rebuilding what's been destroyed. Instead, it's like he's starting anew. I think for now he just needs people to do the footwork, which is why he wants me to get to my new position so quickly, not that it's going to matter. I won't have a guild hall or any guildmates, not until Kvatch is finished." Adrian pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyes, trying to ease the pain behind them. "Let's talk about something else."
"Always changing the subject," Vaera teased, her voice jovial, filled with its usual jabbing humor.
"Hush," Adrian shot back, not angry. "Any plans while we're in the city?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. I figured since I was nearby I'd drop in on mother and father for dinner. I was going to invite you to join me, actually, if you were interested." When Adrian made a noise of uncertainty, Vaera insisted. "My parents would love to meet you, I'm sure." She went quiet for a moment, contemplating what she'd said. "That is, my mother will love to meet you. My father…let's say he's not keen on any young man who decides to be near me."
Adrian nodded. "Despite your father, I suppose I'll join you. Your mother's cooking…is it good?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow at the back of her head.
"Of course! How else do you think she makes my father bearable? The only way to quiet men like you two is by padding your stomachs."
"Men like me?"
"The grumpy, petulant, argumentative kind of men. You're like babies; all that makes you happy is food."
"That isn't true at all," Adrian replied, smile coming across his mouth, "I can think of at least one other thing that makes me happy."
Vaera turned toward him, eyebrow raised. "And you're planning on getting that from me? I think you might be reading too deeply into the rumors about Dunmer women. We've not even known each other two weeks."
"I don't need anything from you," Adrian replied, nudging Vaera playfully in the back. "There are plenty of women in the Imperial City."
"Of course there are," the Dunmer replied with a nod. "But they do get expensive, don't they?"
"You're not funny," Adrian replied, nudging her back again, harder this time. "Besides, I have plenty of gold."
Vaera laughed, shaking her head slowly. "In that case, make sure they're clean."
Adrian merely smiled. For a short while the two pair was silent, Adrian quietly admiring the dew specked grass on either side of the road, Vaera vigilantly watching the road ahead, idly stroking Navali's mane. It was not, however, in Vaera's nature to stay silent for long. A question burned at her tongue; she opened her mouth to release it.
"Are you still worried?" She kept her eyes on the road.
"Worried?" Adrian quirked a puzzled eyebrow at the back of her head, then let out another of those unpleasant sighs, the kind that sounded like he'd been given buckets of water to carry and a hill to climb. "I'm not sure if I should be. It does seem ridiculous anyone would want to assassinate me, it's not like I've been in the way of any guild politics these last few years. I suppose that Khajiit could have obtained that powder almost anywhere," the Breton pondered, a cold shudder running down his back at the thought."
"Probably mistaken identity," Vaera cut in, trying to be a voice of reason. "Maybe he marked you at random; an overzealous attempt at catching the Dark Brotherhood's attentions."
Adrian nodded again. "Probably," he agreed. "Still, I can't shake the idea that there's more than that."
"I think you spent too much time cooped up in your house," Vaera said, turning to show her smile. "You'll look back on this soon and realize how silly it all was." She turned her head back toward the road. "And, to be frank, I think you're scared."
"Of course I'm scared," the Breton replied, furrowing his brows. "Someone tried to stab me to death. Wouldn't you be a little concerned for your safety?"
"Not about that," Vaera replied, turning her head again. "You're afraid of the responsibility that's been cast upon you. You're afraid of Serrian. You're afraid of…" Vaera wanted to end that sentence with 'me', but did not, thinking better of it at the last moment. "You need to stop looking for things to hide from, stop regretting. I know it's easy for me to say so, but you have to let go of your past."
A long silence followed, no angry remark from Adrian, no sounds at all from the Breton. "I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn," she said.
Adrian shook his head, though she couldn't see. "No, you're right." He turned his gaze back toward the dew speckled grass. "I wasn't always the way I am." He shook his head. "I know that sounds melodramatic, but it's true." His eyes jumped from dewdrop to dewdrop, too embarrassed even to look toward the Dunmer. "I'm getting better, though. Slowly. You being hear makes all this a lot more bearable. I want to thank you. You've been…very good company, when you haven't been trying to get my goat, that is."
Vaera smiled, her azure skin darkening with blush, but she didn't let Adrian see. "You know, you're not so terrible yourself, when you're not acting like a child who hasn't had his nap."
"We should reach the city early this evening whether we want to or not. No inns between here and there. I suggest we go to the Foaming Flask, drink enough cheap ale to ensure we'll sleep well," the Breton said, smiling as Vaera turned her head.
"That sounds like the best idea I've heard in a while, but it seems like you'd be a little hesitant to go out drinking again." She arched one of her dark eyebrows at him.
Adrian shrugged in reply. "You said I need to stop being afraid, didn't you?"
Ralis stretched as he walked, rolling the stiffness of sleep from his neck. The high sun greeted him with warmth, countering the cold air all around him. He'd taken care to wrap himself in a few furs he'd stolen from the young ladies' campsite. The Dunmer grinned, remembering the previous night's adventures, brief as they were. It hadn't taken the clannfear long to track down the Bosmer, and Ula didn't last long followed by a hunter so experienced as Ralis.
Oh the fun they'd had when he'd dragged them both back to camp. They'd begged him to let them go, to which he'd promised he would. But he couldn't, of course. They would have informed the Bruma guard about him and he certainly could not have that. No one would miss them for a while so far from home, and if anyone did go looking the ogres would take care of the bodies long before anyone could find them.
It was nearly noon when Bruma finally greeted the mer's weary eyes, a welcome smudge of grey amongst all the blinding white snow. Outside the remnants of the battle four years prior still lingered. Small lumps of glassy black stone jutted out of the snow, the remnants of shattered Oblivion gates. If one traipsed through that field long enough, they would find a smattering of swords, shields, and pieces of broken armor, remnants of an event that would have destroyed Bruma and the last of the Septims at Cloud Ruler Temple. Of course, the last Septim was destroyed, anyway, and left a gaping hole in the empire. A hole that Hlaalu Helseth and Morgiah wished to fill, not to mention all the other royalty who were sliding their rich, corpulent asses off their gaudy thrones to make a claim at the empire. Ralis didn't much care who ruled, they were all the same in one way or another, but he could feel something in his bones. Conflict was coming, perhaps even war. When the time came he'd pick a side carefully and throw himself into the fray. The hold of peace on Tamriel was slipping, and peace always gave way to revolution by one group of malcontents or another. The time it would likely be all the entitled royalty, clamoring to take their place at the top of the tower.
Ralis pushed through Bruma's front gate, greeted by the sights, sounds, and scents of Cyrodiil's north-most city. It was the sound of a smith's hammer on steel that caught his ear first, and he headed in the direction of the heavy clang.
He walked into the blacksmith's, flagging down the Nord who ran it from his busy work at the anvil. For a short time he made small talk, asking to see a few of the man's wares, idly mentioning how much he liked Bruma. The Dunmer made a point of saying that he admired Nordic hardiness and their appreciation for good food and drink. The smith retained his people's stoicism, but Ralis could tell he was charmed. The smith mentioned he offered custom swords and armor, but Ralis said he would not be in town long enough for such things. A shame too, he said, because Nordic armorers were the best in the empire, and Orcish armor was highly overrated. The smithy slammed his fist on the table, heartily agreeing.
After all was said and done, Ralis bought only a steel shortsword which he would later drop into a snow drift. The smith assured him he gave the best deals in Cyrodiil, and hoped Ralis would remember him next time he was in the mountains. Ralis assured him he would never forget this day in Bruma.
The Dunmer's next stop was the local watering hole, Olav's Tap and Tack. The place smelled of woodrot and spilled ale, and the people smelled worse. The night was young, but many of the town's men and women were already deep in their cups. Ralis eagerly joined them, chiming in on many of the drinking songs, getting looks from some of the town's rough women, and engaging in slurred, sloppy conversation with the barrel-chested men. The ale clouded his mind, steeled his resolve, and heated his blood.
He pushed his way out of the inn into the cold, dark hours of the early morning. The Dunmer walked slowly up the town's steep hill toward the snow topped buildings at the top of the rise. He swore he could feel the magicka tingling just beneath his skin, ready to burst forth, though it may have been the alcohol tingling him. Before a job like this, Ralis liked to mingle himself into the town a bit, making his presence known only well enough that the townspeople would remember a stranger had been through. By morning his work would be long complete, he would be long gone, but the people of Bruma would weep and whisper. They would speak of having scene a stranger in town, but no one would know his name. Some would remember his face, the smith surely would, but no one would be able to place him the next day. Rumors would spread throughout Cyrodiil, then through the Empire. Before then he would disappear, possibly to the deep reaches of Elsweyr where he could hide himself amongst the brigans who made the desert their home or the wilder reaches of Morrowind while the war distracted its inhabitants.
He stopped having come to stand in front of the wide wooden doors of the recently rebuilt Bruma branch of the Mages Guild. A quick look around to verify no one was out and about, and Ralis spread his arms to either side. A brief chant and he felt his limbs become heavier, warmer. When he next opened his eyes, he was dressed in a full suite of black armor, glowing with veins of molten red. He could feel the heat of his own quickened breath blowing back on him, his head encased in metal crafted to fit a spawn of Oblivion. The Dunmer placed a black clad palm on the wooden doors. Beneath the metal gauntlet he could feel the black ring given to him by his employers before he left the Imperial City, the one that promised to increase his power ten fold. He tested it.
With a roar of thunder, he blew the doors from their hinges, tumbling them into the dim main hall. In the lobby stood one mage, reading a book by candlelight, frozen with fear as he looked into the face of his murderer. Before Ralis could deal with him, a Khajiit sprang from the shadows, a spell already on his lips. With a wave of his hand Ralis engulfed him in flames, burning J'skar to ashes. He then turned his attentions back to the young Imperial behind the large desk. There would be no summoning this night. All the destruction and death would be only for Ralis to reap. And when he finished his fun, making a jolly game out of eliminating the terrified mages in the lower rooms, he wrote his given message on a wall with one burning finger. He had to read it from a scroll, as he was not well versed in Daedric, but he completed his task, slightly disappointed he had only minutes to get it all done.
When he returned to the lobby, two guards were examining the destruction. Ralis smiled behind his black helm. One guard, a middle aged Nord, turned and saw him. The yellow clad Nord charged toward him and swung his blade. Ralis grabbed it with his left hand, and with his right drew his own enchanted blade and cleaved the guard's head off his shoulders. The other guard, a younger, less experienced man, turned to run. With little more than a glance Ralis froze him to the bone, a thick sheet of ice holding him to the floor. The Dunmer stepped forward, swinging his blood slicked blade, shattering the guard's flesh and bone, pieces skittering across the floor. The Dunmer stepped out into the cold air, looking around him. The city was alive with movement, the bleary-eyed inhabitants half dressed in the streets, peering out their windows to see what horror had befallen them. Ralis raised his sword to the sky, a feral bellow escaping him. In a flash of blood colored flame he was gone, vanished on the frigid wind.