Sorry it's been so long. To make up for it, the chapter is quite a bit longer than usual.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Now there had been a time, Lucien reflected, when his life was easy. Not to say he hadn't come across his fair share of challenges, but his good looks and charm – and failing that, his blades and his poisons – had carried him through any difficulties. If he wanted something, he could get it. If he wanted someone, he could have them. He carried with him a kind of effortlessness that inspired awe and envy in all those around him.
Then he met Caelan, and it had all gone downhill from there.
He was far too fond of the boy for his own good. Which was why he had waded across Cyrodil chasing an impossibility, despite having more important things to do like figuring out why Arquen was snooping around his home. Then he had doubled back towards the Imperial City, now with a shifty, daedra-worshipping Dunmer in tow and hunting down an incredibly rare book. He'd actually been gullible enough to believe life was throwing him a bone when Caelan piped up about having the damn thing all along.
And now, standing in Caelan's utterly empty Waterfront shack, he could do nothing but inwardly moan about how unfair everything was, as well as sorely wishing he had some wine at hand. Brandy would be even better.
"But – what – I had-" Caelan looked bewilderedly around the tiny excuse for a house, though granted, with all the books gone it looked at least a little roomier than last time. "Thieves?"
"Mages' Guild," Olyn corrected him, nodding towards an official notice pinned to the back of the door: "'The total of...two-hundred and sixty-one books have been found and reclaimed by the Arcane University. The resident of this house and presumed thief is hereby ordered to pay the fine to a Watch Captain, or face imprisonment'."
"Well they'll have trouble enforcing that, I bought this place under a false name," the Altmer replied mildly, walking through the book-free space as though he still didn't believe what he was seeing, "Oh, they even took back all the silverware I managed to swipe from them. How rude!"
"I take it we're due for a trip to the University, then?" Lucien asked Olyn, "The sun is already setting. We should move soon or we'll end up waiting another day."
The Dunmer nodded, "A summoned daedroth should be a sufficient guard-distraction while you steal the book. And Caelan..."
"Can stay here," Lucien said firmly, "And wait for us to get back."
"What? But – Lucien," Caelan protested at once, "I want to come too."
"No. You're too clumsy, you'll end up getting caught, or getting us caught."
"I won't! I'll be careful, really. Promise."
"Caelan, you can't walk from one end of a room to the other without tripping on your robes, knocking something over, or breaking anything delicate-"
"That's so unfair! All you do is insult me-"
"Stop arguing!" an exasperated Olyn spoke before the assassin could give his answer, "Lucien and I will go to the University. Caelan, you stay here."
"But-!"
"Your absent-mindedness is very charming and all, but not ideal for trying to steal a heavily-guarded book. Stay here," the other Elf interrupted, "We won't be too long."
"And don't go outside," Lachance added, "You'll risk the Imperial Watch spotting you, and the University will know who to look for when their book goes missing. Understood?"
"Understood," Caelan repeated, albeit with a sulky tone, half-heartedly kicking the floor for emphasis. "Fine. Have fun without me."
A more caring partner might have tried to cheer him up, or at least assured him that little fun would be had. Naturally, all Lucien did was tut his disapproval at the childish behaviour and leave with Olyn. He made sure to lock the door behind him.
And then immediately turned to the Dunmer; "His absent-mindedness is charming, is it?"
"I wondered how you'd react to that," Olyn murmured, "He is charming, in a pitiful sort of way. One has to wonder how he ended up studying under Mannimarco, given he's not exactly...conventionally smart."
Lucien made a non-committal noise, but said nothing further on the subject. A silence lapsed between them as they walked along, just in time to catch the sun slowly sinking over the horizon and bathing the city in scarlet.
"No sense in trying the front door," Olyn declared once there were no guards around to overhear, though he kept his voice quiet just the same, "We'll have to follow the city perimeter and-"
"Scale over the rooftops. I know," Lucien finished primly, "I have done this before, you realise."
"My apologies," if his tone didn't give away the falsity of that statement, the smirk certainly did, "Thought you might have gotten rusty, in your old age."
"Old?" that was genuinely insulting, "I'm middle-aged at a push. And in my profession, I think you'll find, the older ones are less inept than their juniors."
"Touché," Olyn conceded, "So since you've lived a great deal longer than most assassins – Brotherhood, no less – you have fulfilled a great many contracts, yes?"
"That goes without saying. What of it?"
"Have you ever fallen in love with a target?"
He ought to have kept a better lid on his reactions, really. By the standards of most people he looked unfazed, but there had been the slight pause in his movements, shoulders tensed and eyes widened a fraction of an inch. He had no doubt Olyn had picked up on it. "Are you always so interested in the affairs of others, Dunmer?"
"Not at all. But it isn't every day one gets to speak to a paid killer." At least he could comfort himself with the fact that Olyn also couldn't hide his reactions. His expression barely masqueraded as a smile, the arrogance obvious even to someone who didn't consider reading people to be part of his career. "Is the subject touchy for you?"
It was bait, intended to goad him into answering. He knew it was bait, and Sithis help him, he fell for it anyway: "No, I've never fallen for a target. Assassins and sentiment don't mix well, you'll find. Fortunately I lack the capacity to feel any sort of compassion."
"Compassion and love are two very different things."
"I disagree. To care for someone you need to care for living creatures in general. I do not," was the brusque reply.
"Caelan would be the exception to the rule, then?"
He had been expecting the mer's name to crop up eventually, otherwise he might have been caught off-guard. "I'm not sure what you mean," he answered carefully, though beneath the neutral tone was the prominent urge to throttle the smug Conjurer, "I don't love Caelan. He knows that as well as I do."
"And yet here you are trying to find him an impossible cure; you've also freely admitted that you consider him 'yours'. Which means you must feel some degree of care and compassion for him," Olyn pointed out slyly, "And I do recall you telling me but a minute ago that you did not think compassion and love two different things. Your words, not mine."
Lucien gritted his teeth at the realisation that he'd been neatly strung along; Olyn of course noticed the action, and smiled that little smile of his like he'd won. Any other subject and the assassin might have commended him – he had a certain appreciation for the art of manipulating people even when he was the subject, because he so rarely encountered others at his level of finesse. But, as with everything involving Caelan these days, the topic struck a nerve. He'd somehow changed a great deal since meeting the Altmer, and without even realising it.
"I don't see what you hope to achieve," he answered at last, when he trusted himself to speak, "By forcing a false love confession out of me. If you crave drama, I would suggest a romance novel."
"Drama? No, I simply wish to see how you work," said Olyn, still smiling, smirking. "False love confession, you say? You still deny it?"
"Denial would imply I am lying to myself. I'm perfectly aware of what I do and don't feel," Lucien snapped before he could control his temper, "You wish to study me? Fine. I despise him but I can't stand the separation. I want to break him but I'd slaughter anyone who thought of doing the same. I don't want him to die, because I want to kill him over and over again," he finally stopped in his tracks, wheeling around to face the Dark Elf, who actually looked quite surprised; "Is that enough information for your curious little mind? Will you stop asking me these pointless, infuriating questions?"
For a moment there were no words, only a silent glaring between the two men. Unwilling to engage in something as juvenile as a staring match, Lucien turned away with an almost-snarl, storming back on course to the University. Olyn followed, but kept his distance.
"I wonder," he drawled at last, "How long Caelan will stay by your side?"
Lucien did not pause again in his stride, but his disapproval was more than evident in the steeliness of his tone: "And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?"
"You're more unstable than you'd have people believe – and you'll kill anyone who says otherwise. I imagine I'd be added to that list if you didn't need me alive and complacent," Olyn told him, voice soft, words cutting, "Caelan could find someone better than you. Calmer. Less volatile."
Contrary to outrage, Lucien simply snorted; "Forgive me. I was not aware you were the boy's mother."
"Do you really think he'll stay with you forever? Even without the invincibility he'll far outlive you. If you escape the fate of most assassins and make it to old age, he'll end up leaving you out of boredom."
"Hold your tongue, mer," the Imperial's tone had dropped from steel to ice, and suggested that under any other circumstances Olyn would be lying in a pool of his own blood by now, "Before I end up removing it."
"Intimidating me into silence? You must agree, then, even if you don't want to hear it," Lucien could not see the Conjurer's smirk, but he didn't need to, "And you know as well as I do, I need my tongue to restore Caelan's invincibility. Empty threats hold little weight, assassin."
"Let us hope you can complete your task, then, or I'll have no reason to leave you intact," was the reply, made all the darker by how pleasantly it was spoken, "So you say he'll tire of me...will a daedra-worshipper be his next fancy, then? Is it your arms he'll wander into?"
"My, but you are a possessive one," grinned Olyn, far from being frightened, "But it isn't my intention to snatch him from you – I have no need for romance. I'm simply warning you of the inevitable."
"How kind of you," and that pleasantry took on just a hint of sharpness, "But next time I want my future told, I'll consult a fortune teller. I'm sure it will be about as accurate."
"So you think you can keep him?" the ensuing laugh, if it could be called that, held little mirth – a thin, cruel sound, "How precious."
Lucien said nothing, but one hand rested on the hilt of the short sword at his hip, caressing the cool silver metal and lamenting the fact that he couldn't use it. In the meantime, he'd have to make do with daydreams of ripping Olyn apart; maybe when this invincibility mess was over and done with, he could even put them into practise.
Back at the Waterfront shack, Caelan was bored.
He didn't like boredom. He could handle hunger, sickness, even outright agony, but he could never stand boredom. It didn't help that there was nothing to entertain himself with – not only were his books gone, but the Imperial Watch had taken everything that wasn't bolted down to cover a portion of his fine. They'd even confiscated his bedsheets.
And he really did try to stay occupied until Lucien's return. He tapped the rickety bed frame, he paced up and down the bare floorboards, he stared wistfully out of the tiny window. He hummed a nonsense tune, he tried and failed to do a handstand, he spent a short time thereafter rubbing his forming bruises and feeling sorry for himself. And after all of this, which had used up about fifteen minutes, he contemplated going outside.
Lucien had been pretty clear on the subject...but then, he and Olyn wouldn't be back for a few hours, and Caelan had already run out of things to do. A walk around the Waterfront would kill time nicely – he could even get back before Lucien did, and the man would be none of the wiser.
Of course, angry assassins weren't exactly the problem – it was being spotted by the Imperial Watch. And yet none of them knew what he looked like. Besides, the sun had already set, there were plenty of shadows to hide in if he did get in trouble.
Maybe angry assassins were the problem. He'd agreed to stay inside, and Lucien didn't take kindly to broken promises. Mind you, Caelan had only said he understood the request, which wasn't technically an agreement. He'd never outright stated that he'd follow the order...
He glanced out of the window again, fidgeted with his sleeve, and then headed for the door. Lucien had locked it, but that was little obstruction with his trusty Alteration spell at hand. With the door open he stepped outside, breathing in the cool night air and relishing that certain sense of freedom he got from disobeying Lucien.
...Only to a certain extent though. He probably had the time to wander beyond the Waterfront, but decided to just stay put; it wasn't like there'd be any shops open at this time of night anyway. Instead he made his way to the docks, settling down to watch the city lights reflected in the dark, still water. A little further up, the Bloated Float tavern glowed with the merriment inside, a drunken chorus of song slowly climbing in volume as it rang across the otherwise quiet harbour. The Imperial City was never silent, but after sundown it took on a somewhat muffled quality as most of its residents retired indoors. Maybe it was too much time spent in Lucien's company, but he appreciated the peace of it. At least, more than he would have done just a few months before.
He spent the next hour or so thinking of Lucien. There was little point in trying to label their relationship – it wasn't precisely love-hate, it wasn't even love, nor friendship or even affection. Yet Lucien claimed to be obsessed, and Caelan thought he might feel the same, given how often the man crossed his mind. But obsession was supposed to be a poor imitation of love, a weak and watered-down charade of it. Whatever he felt wasn't love, precisely, but it was just as strong, and probably just as destructive. He didn't know how it would end up, or how long it was last – surely something so fierce would burn itself out soon enough. But while the smarter thing to do was walk away before things turned ugly, he just couldn't do it. Besides, he had nowhere else to go.
As he was so involved in these thoughts, it took him a while to notice, reflected in the surface of the water, someone standing behind him.
He immediately turned to face the woman, her skin an unusually greenish shade for a Dunmer, and her smile oddly detached from her unblinking eyes. But what mostly caught his attention was the black robes she wore, so dark that they almost bled into the surrounding shadows. The red Necromancer insignia emblazoned on the front, however, stood out like an open wound.
He recognised her face as another one of Mannimarco's hand-picked apprentices: "N-Noveni..."
"Hello Caelan," her smile did not falter, and her voice remained eerily pleasant, "Lovely evening, isn't it?"
"...I suppose," he glanced about for the nearest guard, only to realise, to his horror, that they were all currently tending to a fight that had broken out in The Bloated Float. His end of the dock was completely empty.
"You know, we've been looking for you for quite a while," and at that word we, Caelan quickly noticed another robed Necromancer stood a further distance away, but watching him just as intently as Noveni. Then he spotted another...and another...and another...
"Really now?" his voice came out far weaker than he had intended, "And why would that be?"
Noveni's smile widened a fraction, before she lunged for him. He narrowly avoided her grasp, rolling away and scrambling to his feet. Two Necromancers blocked his path towards the guards, so he ran back to the small collection of shacks where the city scourge lived, himself amongst them. He might've stood a better chance at losing them if he'd weaved between the maze of houses, but in his panic his only thought was to get back inside.
He didn't even get the door closed. A summoned zombie almost ripped it off its hinges, pinning him against the nearest wall with supernatural strength. His Turn Undead spell was useless against it; he'd never paid attention when Mannimarco tried to teach him a stronger version, since he'd thought it was a useless spell that he'd never end up using. And now he could do no more than flail futilely against the zombie's stranglehold as the other Necromancers entered his home.
"So you've been hiding here all along," Noveni commented, glancing about the place disdainfully, "To go from being Mannimarco's top student to this...what were you thinking? Why would you throw such an opportunity away?"
He might've answered – mostly to point out that he'd actually been hiding in and around Cheydinhal – but he couldn't speak through the grip on his throat. Even when the undead faded away like any summoned creature and left him to fall to his knees, he was too busy gasping and wheezing for air to reply.
"I don't suppose you could come up with a decent explanation anyway," the Dunmer woman spoke, then directed the other mages: "Knock him out. This place is too small, we'll find somewhere more spacious."
What for? Not that he really needed to ask even if he were physically capable. A hooded Necromancer strode forwards, but rather than employing magic, backhanded him sharply. He heard the crick as his neck abruptly turned from the force of it, but by some small act of mercy, he blacked out before the pain could register.
