Chapter 34: An Evening Together
"Lucretia," Arelius called. "Where is my armor?" His wife turned from where she sat at her vanity, combing her hair back over her shoulders, and the black locks trailing in silky waves down her back. Lips parted into a sly smile as she stared at him from beneath long lashes, Arelius merely leaning back into the stack of pillows behind him. An entire day had passed, and while he'd still been working on plans and listening to Tamil's ideas, Lucretia had insisted that he remain home for the day. She'd even notified the legion commander so that his duties as a palace captain would be suspended for a few days—not that it'd been a difficult task. Arelius had an impeccable record, and although the legion commander didn't know for certain that his most astute employee held other, more obscure responsibilities, the man wasn't stupid.
"I sent your armor out to be repaired," Lucretia confessed. "There were some scratches from your recent battle." She returned to her mirror, but she watched his reflection, and Arelius had to smile as he lounged on the bed in a thin tunic. A tray with a crumb covered plate and an empty silver cup sat on a nearby nightstand, and he appreciated that Lucretia had personally delivered it rather than sending a servant.
"My dear wife," Arelius playfully smiled. "If you were worried that I'd sneak out today, you don't know me as well as you pretend."
"Oh really?" Lucretia smiled, setting her brush aside and standing, blue nightgown swaying about her ankles as she walked. "I know for a fact that you wouldn't sneak out," she said, tapping the tip of his nose with a dainty finger. "But you would announce your departure and dismiss my arguments."
"The thought never even crossed my mind," Arelius replied, looking upward at the commanding woman before him. She'd been just as willful when he'd first met her, but she hadn't been as forward. He'd only become acquainted with that side after their private life grew, and he admired how she balanced an understanding of his duties with personal desires. Sometimes the personal side won out, like now, and he took that as a sign that she forgave him for all the lonely nights and extra troubles of his double life.
"Arelius," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning to rest against his shoulder. "I would prefer that you carry some potions like Tamil does. She makes use of our stores, as should you." Arelius wound one arm around her waist and planted a kiss on the side of her head, the scent of honeysuckle rising from her hair.
"I am rarely injured," he reassured her, and he wisely kept his tone light, for Lucretia hated when she appeared to need support.
"Or do you merely fix yourself up before coming home to spare me the sight?" Lucretia probed, tilting her face up toward his. She was a sharp one, which made Arelius breath deeply of her hair and pull her closer.
"You know too much for your own good," he soothed. "But I didn't hide my wounds this time." Lucretia silently agreed as she ran fingers over the ugly scar now running down the top of his right arm. It would fade, but it would take time. "It gives you an excuse to keep me closer to home for a few days." He could tell that she was smiling as she curled up beside his body, arm over his waist, and lips pressed to his neck.
"In the morning, you should perhaps speak to Portia," she suggested. "She's been withdrawn since I brought her home. Something heavy is on her mind, and I do not feel that it's my place to interfere." Arelius sighed, reaching across Lucretia to snuff out a small row of candles beside the bed. Now only moonlight offered sight, and Arelius lingered on the softly illuminated curves of his wife's hips against his.
"She lost someone close to her," Arelius explained. "Healing takes time, and Portia has always preferred to handle struggles on her own when possible. I only pray that this does no permanent damage. I don't think that it will—not when she's still here and discussing our next move with Tamil—but please keep an eye on her behavior. Sometimes loss can lead to anger before acceptance, and that could be deadlier than if she lost her way again."
"She does not seem angry," Lucretia noted. "I would say that she's...troubled, but it only shows when I catch her alone. Otherwise she's quite focused and bold, as usual. Just this morning, she was shouting at a street hawker for harassing Pyrus, that adorable servant boy that I picked up from the orphanage. She's taken to chatting with the child since he led her to the tomb."
"That's a good sign then," Arelius commented, distracted by Lucretia's fingertips tracing circles on his chest. "Perhaps she is handling this better than I expected. Portia's strength has a way of asserting itself when I don't always expect it."
"You take risks in pushing her, and don't think that I don't see what you're doing," Lucretia said, knowing exactly what her slow, trailing fingers were doing to her husband. "I delivered the sword, after all, and I saw her reaction. You have plans to...mold her." Arelius responded, but he wasn't sure what he said as Lucretia began kissing him. "No more official business tonight," she whispered.
"You're a vixen when you want to be," Arelius lightly laughed.
"And don't claim that you don't like it."
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You need to do this.
Portia lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, hands resting on her stomach as she contemplated her situation. Tamil had filled her in on all the gory details of the decoy, and how the Mythic Dawn had resorted to suicide rather than surrender, making her again wonder how Mehrunes inspired such loyalty from the cult. The dremora were part of his world, and he ruled them with a might that drew their respect and support, but why would a mortal subject themselves to the daedric prince of destruction? She supposed that some mortals loved fighting and power as much as Mehrunes and the dremora, but the cult wanted the entire world to be washed in Oblivion's power. It made no sense, for even if their contribution was acknowledged, she couldn't imagine many humans proving themselves worthy of holding a place above a dremora—Churls, maybe, for mortals fought them on a regular basis, but that was the bottom of the hierarchy.
Ignorant bastards, she thought, referring to the Mythic Dawn. Tamil's story played through her mind, and she frowned when she recalled Arelius returning home with blood across his body. Her natural instincts had been to fear for the man's health, and even though the wounds had been healed, he could have died. Arelius could have died, and the concept was so very difficult to imagine, for Portia had never before seen him injured, and she had yet to see him lose. The idea seemed thoroughly wrong, and yet, she'd been reminded of his mortality last night.
Lucretia had kept a straight face, but her skin had paled, and she'd rushed to her husband's side, completely ignoring everyone else in the room. That had left Portia to examine Tamil's rumpled appearance, which made her regret having been absent to aid them in the fight, and for a few horrible seconds, she'd even lost her composure in considering the implications of their victory. Yes, it was a victory, but if Mehrunes and the Dawn felt like they were being cornered, would they make a desperate strike?
They could all die, Portia dejectedly though. Gilthan had already been murdered, and the children might be safely away, but Lucretia and the servants were constantly exposed in a home that the enemy watched like vultures. If Mehrunes decided to launch a surprise attack, there would be deaths, and Portia loathed the idea of Arelius losing his wife because of his hospitality to her. The man was strong, but even she could tell that his wife meant the world to him, and there could be no more innocent blood on her hands for her own sake. To work with Arelius day after day in a future where she might possibly cost him his family was unthinkable, which brought her back to her current position on the bed.
She needed to prevent disaster if she could, and that meant moving before Mehrunes could. So she focused, fully intent on attempting to do what she'd once failed at: spying on Mehrunes Dagon. He had stopped her from investigating his rooms in the capitol before, but she hadn't visited him there since, and so the element of surprise was in her favor. She only needed to seize the opportunity and see if she couldn't figure out where his current base was, for despite warnings to not use the chaos sphere, safety didn't justify endangering her remaining allies. If her true enemy was Cassius, perhaps there would also be evidence of that, and as uncomfortable as that notion was, she sensed that ignoring it could be the death of her.
"Here I go," she whispered, opening chaos and running into the dark. The void no longer confused or disorientated her, for she knew exactly where she was going, and the path was as clear to her as anything in the physical world. In fact, she was moving so freely and so fast, that when her destination materialized, she nearly rammed into the wall before she could slow down.
"Goblin's gall," she gasped, nose inches from the wall. She might have simply gone through the barrier, but with the increasingly physical nature of her travels, she wasn't willing to count on that.
The window, her mind screamed, and she stepped backward, not even looking for Mehrunes as she noticed that the room's curtains were drawn shut. It was the same elaborate bedroom that she'd entered before, and she could feel Mehrunes presence at her back as she lunged for the closest window, fingers tearing away material to reveal latched, wooden shutters. She tried to force the latch open, but the harder she pushed, the less progress she seemed to make, and soon the metal was biting into her skin with painful intensity.
"I thought that you might try that again," a low, smugly amused voice commented.
So much for my plan.
Portia ceased her frustrated efforts and spun to find Mehrunes sitting in a chair with his legs propped up on a table as he watched her. The room was well lit and rather warm due to the lighted fireplace to his left, and when Portia realized that her opponent only wore breeches, her eyes flitted across his bare chest with its many designs. Thank the gods that she was wearing a tunic and trousers this time, for she felt vulnerable enough after her futile assault on the window. Of course Mehrunes wouldn't have left the windows uncovered after her last attempt to exploit them.
"I take it that you can see and hear me," Portia stated.
"Quite," Mehrunes replied, still reclining. By the Nine, but the man really could be Cassius with his arrogant and casual mannerisms. Portia swallowed, nervous but also annoyed by the man's blatant disregard for the threat that she presented. He always seemed in control, except for those few moments where she'd knocked him off balance, but even then, he recovered with the grace of the prince that he was. He could talk about death and defeat like they meant nothing, and as she stared at his firm chest, red swirls curling across faultless skin, she marveled that he displayed no scars.
Bastard. It would have pleased her if his face bore markings from her assualt, but there was no evidence of their fight, as if he'd walked away unscathed. There should have been something, and hell, if Mehrunes wanted to downplay her as an opponent, she would correct his mistake.
"You may have locked the shutters," she began, "but there are ways around that." She guided chaos into her fingertips until the charge made the air beneath her palm crackle, and then she lifted it toward the window, fully intent on blasting the shutters away no matter the cost to herself, and there would be a cost. She could feel the sphere pulling excitedly at her nerves, searing the tips with its sudden draw, but frightening as it was, it was too late to undo her actions.
"I don't think so!" Mehrunes roared, and before Portia could release her attack, he was upon her. She was lifted from the floor as arms wrapped around her from behind, her feet flailing and attempting to kick the warm body pressed to hers as she was hauled backward. "Woman, you don't give me any rest." At least she'd gotten to him, but the shutters remained closed, and she was ensnared in his arms as her heel made contact with something soft.
"Mortal..." Mehrunes growled, threateningly as his grip painfully tightened, pinning her arms ever closer to her torso. If he applied any more pressure, and she was certain that her ribs would crack.
"Put me down!" Portia commanded, memories of her flesh being carved into assaulting her. She could already feel her hip bleeding from his grip, and the idea of a fresh wound made her thrash violently. She could feel his breath on her neck, his muscles firm and unbreakable against her body, his chest rising and falling against her back, and it was overwhelming. Part of her knew that she could never forcefully escape his arms, but surival instincts made her fight like a wild animal.
Panic. Was she panicked? She didn't think so, for there was a stern, sharp edge to her determination that whipped about like the energy she felt inside the sphere—like the energy that she sensed within him.
"That was an impressive trick," Mehrunes commented. "But I don't like seeing someone else summoning my realm's power, mortal. How did you manage that?" Portia didn't have an answer and refused to admit that to him as he squeezed her to remind her of who held the power.
"My lord, is there a problem?" a voice suddenly asked through the bedroom door. It was not a voice that Portia recognized, the tone smooth, low, and perfectly level, but she doubted that the speaker was worth asking for help. He probably belonged to Mehrunes.
"No. You may retire, servant," Mehrunes ordered the unseen man. "I've...contained the problem." His words made Portia renew her struggle, and Mehrunes chuckled, his chest vribrating against her shoulder blades. "Do not bother me for the remainder of the night."
"Fetcher!" Portia loudly growled, but she ceased her movements when Mehrunes continued to squeeze her. There was a pause, and then a muted farewell from beyond the door, the two combatants were again left to their own devices as the intruder departed.
"I'm not really here," Portia boldly reminded her captor. "So you can't kill me." I hope. Truth be told, she felt rather helpless when pressed to his body as she was, unable to see him, and convinced that she could scream bloody murder and no one would come to her aid. Maybe the neighbors...no. As she recalled, no one but Mehrunes ever seemed capable of seeing or interacting with her when she was in spirit form.
"You feel pretty damn real to me, Sherkyn." The affectionate term made Portia cringe as she felt Mehrunes' lips spread into a smile against her neck, and what a wicked smile it was. "The protection that your spirit used to afford is gone. If your mind dies here, your body will soon follow, just as a spectral can die even though it isn't entirely physical."
"You won't kill me," Portia asserted, breathing heavily as she stared down at the arms around her middle, the limbs easily dwarfing her own. She felt like a scrawny toy in his arms, and he was much too close, for she could feel the small horns on his head touching her hair. It was a cruel reminder of just how deeply she'd sunk into this quagmire of hers.
"How do you know that I won't kill you?" Mehrunes taunted.
"Because if you wanted to kill me, you've had plenty of chances, and my life is valuable so long as you're still looking for your sphere. You know that I have it, but not where. For all your confidence, did it ever occur to you that my abilities might not be directly linked to the sphere?" Mehrunes' mood darkened, and she could sense something terrible coming before he even moved. It was unavoidable when his emotions were a magnetic, and there was a darkly playful element to his current feelings that could not be good for her.
"I'll wait to call that bluff, but in the meantime, if you're going to be difficult..." the prince spoke, cruelty encasing his every word. "I can't let you snoop around my room, can I? But I won't kill you either, so I'll just have to hold onto you." That didn't sound promising, and Portia quickly began struggling as Mehrunes hauled her backwards and dropped into his former seat, taking her down onto his lap with him. What the hell did he think he was doing? Her back remained pressed against his chest, her legs dangling overtop his, and his arms preventing her from hitting him as she nearly choked in surprise.
"You sick, twisted bastard," she hissed, her body angled so that she had to lean against him, and instinct making her summon chaos. She had to get back to her room before this went any further, but before she could continue, his commanding tone cut her off.
"You're not going anywhere," he said, voice so forceful that defiance crumbled in the wake of his will. "You're staying right here and answering my questions." Portia blanched, but then recomposed herself, nerves still shaken until Mehrunes allowed one of his hands to trail down her side to the hip scar. Through the tunic, he still knew exactly where each, ugly line cut across her skin, and as his fingers probed the freshly torn markings, her resolve hardened. He bore no marks of their constant, personal war, but she did, damn him.
"You can ask whatever you wish, but I don't have to answer, Mehrunes," she declared, fists clenching in anger over the arms around her. She wished that her nails were longer and could cut into his flesh, but they were short and dull from swordplay, and she could still remember the momentary disgust that she'd felt after her last hand-to-hand assault on the prince. She'd picked his skin out from beneath her nails, and the feral, wildness of the act had been disquieting. That had been when she'd panicked, the threat of torture igniting something within her that she'd believed dormant once leaving the Blades. Suddenly, she had the urge to turn and see if Mehrunes' ear bore a scar, but moving was impossible.
"Sherkyn," Mehrunes breathed, head resting against the side of hers. His cheek touched hers, and she was grateful that he had chosen to lean against the left side, where he would not feel the earring. Akatosh help her if he touched the chaos sphere, for she'd never leave this room in one piece, but worried as she was, another sensation overrode her concern. The feeling was warm and brushed her skin with a promise of power and security wherever he made direct contact with her, and when she realized the link, she tried to tilt her head away from his.
"Now, now," the prince mocked her. "Is my touch so repulsive, mortal?"
"You tortured me," Portia stated. "How could you not repulse me?"
"A good question to ask yourself," he teased. What?
****************
Mehrunes could feel ever inch of Portia's body against his own, and if she wouldn't attempt to kill him, he would have loosened his grip to let hands roam and locate the scars that he knew lay beneath her tunic. He also fought down the urge to chuckle as she stiffened in his arms, his words obviously resonating with her, and well they should.
"You can say what you want," he told her. "But you don't find me repulsive. That's your anger over being manhandled talking." Ah, how he loved bruising her pride. "You respect me, as I respect you, and you did choose to follow me around night after night for no apparent reason. You can blame it on the chaos sphere or your connection to Oblivion—whichever—but it doesn't excuse your interest in me, does it? Someone's a busy reader."
She was still stiff, and Mehrunes pulled his face back to bury his nose in her hair. He liked the way that she smelled, for unlike the perfume that he'd suffered through on many social outings, she carried the subtle scent of violence and blood that was her training yard. Of course, the pull of chaos amplified his senses when it came to her, and beyond that, she even felt like violence as her hands gripped his forearms, callouses rubbing against his skin, and her defined muscles all to apparent from the way that he squeezed her. She would be ready to strike if he gave her an opening.
"You've seen my books?" Portia questioned, and some suspicious element to her tone gave Mehrunes pause. She had relaxed more, and he could tell what she was thinking.
"I've been keeping an eye on you, Sherkyn," he carefully stated. "And I must say that your reputation for defending my realm and dremora is interesting. It was a dremora, after all, that made you scream and beg for death." Her hands tightened on his arms, and he liked the sensation, his face moving back to rest against her cheek. Her skin was warm, energy seemingly jumping from him to her in a way that he'd never before seen, and as old as he was, he'd seen a lot.
"And did you keep an eye on me then too?" Portia demanded, clearly angry, but still controlled as if focused. He didn't like that one bit. She could be too clever for her own good. "I didn't scream for death," she asserted. "Maybe at the beginning, but then I screamed in rage, and your dremora lost his life for it."
Ah, now that was what he liked to hear, but perhaps having her sit on his lap while she said such things was not for the best. She was up to something, and while he didn't want to release her, a small part of him warned that mentioning the dremora had been a mistake, for she was dangerous when her anger was aroused. Perhaps the book comment had also been a mistake, for she was clearly digging for information, but he could not stop the conversation when doing so felt like a concession. He would not lose. A mortal could not win.
"That aside," Mehrunes continued. "Tell me how you summoned such a concentrated amount of chaos. You wouldn't have just blown off the shutters, but probably put a hole in the next building. Amusing, but inconvenient." She shifted against him, and his blood pumped harder, spurred by the fact that he could almost feel her spirit form sinking into him, growing weaker physically, but increasing in power. She was moving, and the chaos sphere on his ear burned without a summons, as if the magic were thinking for itself. It was a force to be reckoned with, for it'd taken him decades to fully master until it became him, but now it writhed like a wild thing, as if responding to an outside force.
"What is.." Portia's voice trailed off, and Mehrunes felt his sphere crackle and gravitate toward her, which elicited a pleasing sensation when close to her skin. The draw made sense given that her veins were infused with the taint of his world, and he knew that his own, personal claim to the woman and aroused state amplified the effect, but this was too much. She'd taken too much chaos into herself, and as he sensed the extent of her exposure, he suddenly became aware of deep shards of shimmering orange at the center of her body. Chaos had leaked into her to a point where he doubted if it would ever be removed, but then why hadn't she succumbed to darkness? Why wasn't she being destroyed?--not that his idea of victory involved seeing her crumble before he laid hands on her.
"You are a puzzle," he stated, seriously concerned. My puzzle, and as Portia squirmed, he knew that he liked the feeling of the mortal against him far too much for the dignity of a daedric prince. He wanted her, but the choice to let her leave and when might not be his as his arms began passing through her. Something was waking up her real body, and as she jerked free of him, she spun, accusingly staring at him as if he were responsible for her turmoils. He hadn't forced her to do anything, and he waited for her to curse at him and disappear, but she merely stared with those cold, narrowed eyes, the expression barely masking her discomfort.
"There will be many questions to answer when I finally capture you," he thought aloud, and he would need the aid of dremora mages to figure out this link between him and mortal. He'd always exploited it to his ends, even enjoyed the entertainment it provided, but if this continued after he reclaimed the sphere, would Portia retain some ability to draw from his powers, from his essence? The spheres were to be his alone.
"I'm never going to completely escape this," Portia suddenly stated, sounding dazed. "Even when this ends, win or lose, things will never be the same."
"So you're finally accepting the ramifications of your decisions," Mehrunes mused, pleased. "You only fooled yourself into thinking that you'd come out ahead by stealing. The joke's not so funny now, mortal, and you've only yourself to blame. You should have known that meddling with Oblivion leaves its scars."
"I'm not just talking about scars," she tartly corrected him. "I know what it's like to have scars, but there's something else, a taint deep down that you claim I've nurtured. Maybe I have, but I can't keep it at bay." He saw the conflict behind her eyes—the struggle to comprehend something so much greater and more menacing than anything that she'd ever before experienced, and for whatever reason, she was admitting her inklings to him. Of course, he knew much more than her, and they had talked about this issue before, but here she was, accepting that there might not be an escape route for her. There might not be a light at the end of the tunnel, even if she physically escaped him, which he might have mistaken as defeatism if not for the strength in her voice. She wasn't surrendering, only acknowledging the reality of her situation, and he wasn't sure if that would help or hinder her.
"Humans have been consumed by my realm before," Mehrunes told her. "It chews and spits them out, leaving either a bloody corpse or a puppet, but sometimes...sometimes a mortal survives intact. It's rare, but it happens." His lips curled into a slow smile. "However, there's always a price." He watched her regarding him, and his blood still hummed pleasantly with desire as she finally rose into a confidant, commanding stance.
"And what's the price that I'll pay? My sanity? My life?" she asked, her tone clearly telling him that he'd need to fight for it, but he'd been doing that for weeks. He could hear the unspoken words in her statement: What do you think you can force me to pay? She still wouldn't admit that he had power over her, at least not openly, and the light at the end of the tunnel might not shine as brightly as she hoped, but she still had faith that there was a light.
"The price is yourself," he honestly told her, leaning back and letting his arms hang over the sides of the chair. And you've already begun paying it.
"I won't submit." The words were so precise and sharp that he knew that they were chosen with care and directed specifically at him. Ah, what he'd told her as Cassius. He sometimes forgot what he said to her as whom, for he didn't bother hiding his personality traits around her. For the first time, he wondered if she knew more about his alter ego than she betrayed. "Yilt nacormai," she said. You'll lose.
And Mehrunes laughed as she vanished, his predatory senses peaking with her words, and in his own language no less! Did she have any idea how her defiance only made her more desirable? The idea would probably repulse her, but if she'd read enough about his realm, than she'd know that such assertive rejections by a female dremora made her a greater catch. Mehrunes asked himself just what the extent of his intentions regarding the woman were, and the more he thought about it, the more he envisoned her bowing before him, chaos in her eyes as a glowing reflection of his mark and world. It would be hours before he could think of anything besides Portia Augustine.