Dawn crept over the mountains, sky lightening to pale blue in the east, colours of nature waking up in all their saturated glory. He pulled his hood further up in an attempt to block it out, hating it all. Too much sunshine hurt his eyes, and today was shaping up to be a bright—and long—day.
"Gone," he stated, nodding deferentially to the patiently waiting woman still standing in the middle of the dusty road where he'd left her. "Only the dead remain. They left this behind." With a low bow, he offered up the leather pouch, trying to minimize the jingling of the coins. The noise made him think of bright, the word encompassing everything he despised.
"It stinks of green," she stated as she took it, looking it over as it rolled in her hands. The sound made him grit his teeth. Turning her molten eyes from it, she gazed over at him, pulse of displeasure rolling off her in a wave of magicka. It didn't hurt him, but it unnerved him. He'd never studied under one such as her, her skills and abilities rumoured to be the closest any mortal had come to imitating their lost Master's. "Did you think her a witch?"
"No," he quickly answered, "she smelt almost as bad. A friend of the coven, maybe. He also stank of their foul magics."
She nodded grimly at this, his words confirming her suspicions.
"Would you have me seek them out, for your revenge?" he hastily offered in an attempt to please her, wanting to bow low, out of range of her eyes, but he found himself unable to look away.
Her eyes glittered like rubies as her smile returned, the most secretive, promising, dangerous smile he'd ever beheld. "Revenge...that's a word I suggest you forget, if you plan to live as long as I do. Revenge is something the fools concern themselves with. You and I," she somehow created a warmth inside him, a cozy sensation of intimacy to bubble in his chest, "need concern ourselves only with mastery."
"Yes, Mistress," he muttered, suddenly feeling foolish and ignorant. After all, he'd begged to learn from her because she knew so much, had already lived out her lifetime several times over without resorting to the usual methods. Suggesting things to her was perhaps...unnecessary.
"Besides," she continued, looking down to the ground, the removal of her eyes a palpable sensation, as if he'd been released from a tight hug, "why would I bother? They killed my lover, yes." She knelt down in the dirt, next to the body. Her fingers ran over the cold flesh, gently caressing unfeeling cheeks.
"My brash, idiotic, prejudiced lover." Her hand paused, thumb tracing the dimple of the chin. "He knew I would aid him no further, yet he still sought out your assistance, pretending this errand was my will. Even if he could provide me with his gifts, he would have learnt the error of his ways for such an offense."
A shiver ran down his spine at the thought. Somehow she seemed to notice, turning back to him with her warm grin. "Do not concern yourself with my displeasure. You did as I instructed, so you shall be rewarded."
"Thank you, Mistress," he gratefully replied, his mouth having gone dry. He was relieved to have no further dealings with Lord Wickton, the man having approached him during one of his visits, inquiring about his ability to brew a certain drug. He had, of course, revealed all to his Mistress, and only after her blessing did he agreed to provide assistance when the time came.
He had not enjoyed the task, having to deal with the stench of the prisoners, the travel during the day, the dismissive contempt of that pompous lord. The man's fate was less than he deserved—too bad he didn't know the extent of his luck.
"Theodyrick, darling," she whispered, lowering her mouth to the corpse's ear. "You once promised you'd make it up to me. That you'd keep me company, work to make me happy. It's time, dear, to make good on your promise." Bending over, she kissed the cold lips, a flare of violet magicka pulsing into the body.
The heavily lidded eyes opened.
Rising with easy grace, she looked back to him, red eyes glittering with pleasure as she waited for the reanimated corpse to stand. "There is much for you to do, Acolyte. Retrieve the bodies, then bring them back with the wagon. Make sure you don't forget any of the pieces."
"As you will, Mistress Karethys," he responded quietly, words hard to find. He was sinking, falling into the depths of her glowing eyes, blood red rubies lit with the spark of fire. Her eyes...they were like no other. Rumours, barest whispers rarely repeated, said she'd plucked out her eyes in offering to their Lord, her actions pleasing him so much he'd fashioned her new ones using the hearts of dragons.
As she enveloped him with them, he knew such stories were folly, the tales of her terrible deeds nothing but lies. Because as he gained the merest inkling of her majestic, dark power, he understood the truth lay far beyond what mortal tongues could whisper.
"I'll send you a note as soon as I dock. The Mages Guild in Westcastle, right?" Agronak nodded as he asked, trying to engage her, get her to spark a smile.
"Yes, that should be fine," Cerisse answered flatly, her mouth still stretched in the same false grin.
"Irc!" The angry call of the mer, hidden from view in the small cabin, could barely be heard over the plaintive cries of the seabirds and heavy thudding of the waves splashing into the shore.
"Coming!" Agronak bellowed towards the small ship, frustration fueling his volume. With a heavy sigh he turned back to Cerisse, pulling her close in a tight embrace. To his chagrin she reacted in that strange new habit of hers, squeezing him back with all of her strength, before slackening her hold to the barest of pressure, as if enduring rather than enjoying the touch. "You promise you'll come visit?"
"I promise to try," she replied in a mumbled monotone. It had grown worse in the last couple of days, their time together exploring the sights of Wayrest—the spectacular gardens teeming with flowers of every hue, the ancient cemetery filled with an overwhelming amount of history, and the confusing labyrinth, his sense of direction failing him every time—marred by her sudden withdrawal whenever he spoke of letters, visits, or his impending departure.
Today was the worst, the planned luxurious morning enjoying the benefits of their stay in the Queen's Hedgehog—the one with the good food—turning into a series of awkward moments and fumbling silences, the mood between them growing as grey and leaden as the skies overhead. The wind pried at them, sending the edges of their cloaks to flick angry lashes against their legs.
"I'd better go," he stated, letting his grip relax. Not that he wanted to go, dreading the return journey cramped into a ship, but they had to leave before the weather soured.
"Yes, you should," she mumbled, stepping back, letting him hold onto her limp hands, her false smile firmly affixed to her face, her eyes shrouding her emotions from view.
"Farewell, Cerisse. And thank you, for everything." As he took his leave of her, he decided not to kiss her, seized with the terrible premonition her lips would be as cold as the dark waters of the Bay. No, better to carry the memories of her warmth with him, to help while away the interminable hours at sea.
"Fare thee well, Agronak," she answered, voice stolen by the wind, her words coming to him as a distant whisper. Pulling her hands out of his, she stood expectantly on the weathered pier, waiting for him to go with that same horrible smile.
He walked down to the small boat, which would take them to their real transport, the captain refusing to dock her ship within sight of Wayrest without the benefit of covering fog or clouded night. As he stepped over the thick planks of the pier he occasionally glanced back at Cerisse, hoping for a wave, something, but she never moved, leaving him restless and confused.
"Finally. Let's get this floating scrap heap out of here," Synderius muttered, before shouting for the pilot of the boat to start the journey. He poked his head out of the cabin, then stepped out onto the deck, walking with easy movements over to join Agronak. "Don't worry, Irc, I'm sure I know what kept you so long. No apologies necessary."
Agronak didn't answer, instead loosing a throaty growl as he stared at the dock, eyes following Cerisse as she walked away without a backwards glance. She didn't even bother to watch him sail away.
"Ah," the mer murmured, realizing he said the wrong thing. Gamely, he tried to cheer Agronak up. "Yes, well, I'm going to miss Wayrest. Nothing like spending two days hiding indoors, pretending I don't know you, being tended to with the finest room service. I still don't know why you complained so much about The Dead Gnome. Fabulous establishment."
Agronak closed his eyes with a moan as a wave rocked the small boat, regretting what little breakfast he managed to choke down. Despite the leaden pit in his stomach, he felt strangely...hollow, like the staff he'd given to Synderius for keeping. He also had the plaguing sensation he'd forgotten something, left something important behind. All in all, he was in a foul mood.
The s'wit at his side, obliviously chatting away with a happy grin while resting lightly against the railing, did nothing to improve it. He gave Synderius his best warning glare, strongly considering pushing the mer overboard. At the moment, the idea of suffering through a sea journey alone was more appealing than doing it in the company of the Dunmer.
"Lighten up, Irc," Synderius coaxed, lightly tapping Agronak's side. "This was your vacation, remember? You should be relaxed, happy, cheerful."
Agronak paid no attention to the mer's attempts to raise his spirits, instead confused by the report of something hard having pressed into his side. One hand clutching the railing for balance, the other hand trying to get at the lump stuck in the lining of his cloak, he wasn't prepared for the sudden lurch as a wave rocked the boat. The motion pitched him heavily down to the deck as his fingers found something metallic hidden in the secret pocket of his cloak.
"B'Vehk, Irc, watch yourself," Synderius scolded, offering an arm to help up his friend. Except Agronak didn't move to stand, too bewildered by the presence of the very small, very green ring between his fingers to do much more than stare at it.
"Oh, Irc, I'd say I was flattered, but...I'm not," Synderius laughed, resuming his position lounging against the railing. "You'll never be my type. Besides, I'm not the marrying kind."
"What in the hells are you talking about, you daft s'wit?" Agronak growled, shoving the little ring safely away in his pocket, before using the railing to pull himself back up.
"That's a ring," Synderius answered, giving Agronak a curious look as he stated the blatantly obvious. Nodding, he continued slowly, infuriatingly amused grin on his face. "Unless you're planning on selling it, or you've changed your mind about dallying with married women, there's only one reason for you to have a ring too small for you to wear."
"What are you going on about now?" Agronak demanded, seriously contemplating knocking the smile off the mer's face. His stomach did a back flip, causing him to moan softly. Damned boats.
"Even you must know there's only one reason to give a woman a ring," Synderius scoffed, mouth dropping open when he realized Agronak didn't know it. "You're joking! How you managed to survive Ilona I'll never understand. You never give a woman a ring unless you mean to. The lovely creatures always think it's a promise, not a gift. Unless they're married, which is how you can tell who has the richest lovers—they wear the best rings."
Agronak leaned heavily on the railing, watching Wayrest jump up in down in his vision, suddenly far too aware of the small trinket in his pocket, and why it had been returned to him. No wonder Cerisse reacted so strangely to it. He didn't doubt she slipped it into the secret pocket because she felt she couldn't keep it. Damn—now he understood why she'd never so much as tried it on.
Why didn't they teach important things like this in the Arena?
As Synderius prattled on, choosing to take the opportunity to lecture Agronak on the best—and worst—gifts to give women, he ignored the mer, thoughts centred on the little ring, and the reaction of his little nymph to it. She'd thought he was...and then he'd told her it was green...and that's when she'd become so...
Yes, he could have handled it a lot better. That was not the best way to have given it to her.
With a heavy sigh, Agronak straightened up, undoing the fastenings of his scabbard. He handed the startled mer his sword with a grim nod. "Take care of this for me. And give Mrs. Palenix my regrets."
"Wait, Irc," Synderius grabbed Agronak's arm in a firm grip, "now, don't do anything foolish. It'll work out, okay? Let's go inside and talk about it..."
"No," he snarled, stepping back, tugging his arm out of the mer's reach. "There's only one way I can set it right."
"Listen, you've got so much going for you—don't throw your life away. I know it looks bad now, but it'll get better. Trust me," Synderius soothed carefully, slowly inching closer towards Agronak, preparing to tackle him to the deck.
"Take care of yourself, Synderius," Agronak stated to his friend, before closing his eyes and leaping over the railing.
"Damn it, Irc!" the mer shouted over the splash of the waves. "I never could keep you out of trouble..."
The words faded away, lost to sudden shock—he had no idea water could be so cold.
"Finally got rid of 'em, did you? Good riddance." Rhaerton paused in his wiping down of the counter—the only surface in the inn to ever receive such treatment—to nod at his new customer. "What can I get for you? Hot cider?"
"Strongest stuff you've got, dearie," Cerisse answered, trying to get her voice to crackle to match her appearance, finding it far too easy to do. She reached for some coins to pay the Redguard.
"This one's on me, kid," he said with gruff kindness, setting a large tumbler on what looked, at first glance, like a napkin—except his inn had never, nor would it ever, see one of those inside its walls. "You had a good run," he whispered to her, leaning over the counter, his stomach resting on the wood, "they appreciate it."
"Thanks," she managed to answer, heart sinking as she picked up her drink and the note underneath it. She knew it would come to this, knew no matter how well it ended, it would still have to end.
Only occasionally remembering to shamble, she made her way to the far booth in the corner, past the bleary eyed sailors who lived their lives in a perpetual haze, already drunk before the morning finished. Maybe they had the right idea.
Reading the note, she sipped her drink, the burning liquid stinging her eyes and making her cough. Flin. She'd never had the capacityable to handle the stuff. It was useful at times—for getting drunk very quickly, for drawing out the properties of certain ingredients, for faking potions...
Quickly taking another sip of the harsh drink, she chastised herself. Best not to think of that. Best not to think of anything. Not that she had anything she needed to think about. What was left? Her work with the Blades finished, the gracious letter from the "Order of Talos" thanking her for her years of selfless devotion and aid to the temple, signed with an illegible scrawl, only the B decipherable.
She cackled bitterly into her cup, not caring if she startled anyone, certain they'd see nothing but a mad, old woman who'd had a bit too much to drink. Burning words echoed up to float through her mind, her sister's scathing comments forgiven, but not forgotten. Ria had no idea how deep she cut with her remarks, the phrases branded forever into her memory.
She lied when she told Ria nobody thought with fairytale minds. Wouldn't it surprise her little sister to find that Cerisse, her grumpy, stodgy, older sister did? She dreamed glorious tales of knights risking all for liege and love, selflessly devoting their lives for the benefit of others. She was no warrior, she'd known that as a child, but images of brave knights riding into battle, armour sparkling in the sunlight, kindness in their hearts had always enarmoured her.
So it had surprised her greatly to receive the invitation from the cunning Redguard in that nowhere town, in that nothing inn, to work with the secret defenders of the Empire, the most loyal and honourable Blades. Her entire world changed that night, the idealistic young woman emerging the next day a steel-eyed champion, righteous fire in her breast, justice in her palm.
Setting the clay tumbler on the sticky tabletop, she pulled one of her trailing shawls closer, fingers playing with the ragged fringe as she tried to console herself. No matter what she chose, it would have ended eventually, her usefulness as a source limited to her own source—that dashing scoundrel, the scandalous rogue.
Eddy—Edwistyr, she'd never called him anything but his proper name. She'd felt so surprised when he suddenly turned his twinkling eyes in her direction, flashed his dimpled smile, and proceeded to whisper the sweetest nothings ever spoken in her ear. Oh, how naïve she was, not understanding the poem about Hawkton women had begun to circulate, misunderstanding the reason for his interest. She was nothing but flattered, melting inside at the thought of the worst knave of Wayrest choosing to pursue her, dull, little Cerisse Hawkton, over all the other beauties at court.
Her fingers began to twirl the strands into knots as she laughed darkly to herself, recalling how lucky it was she wasn't completely naïve, all too aware of his reputation. Not wanting to tarnish her family's, she insisted on the deepest secrecy. It should have been a clue when he so eagerly agreed. Quite soon into their affair she began to suspect he had motives other than enjoying her physical charms, and was most chagrined by his pillow talk, scandalous tales of his cousin's doings coupled with vague hints of his current plots.
The worries about one plot in particular distracted her as she undertook what she thought was a simple task for the coven, delivering a cloak to a merchant in a nowhere town who'd sworn false promises to the witches. Belladyvyra's hints about how it would transform his outer self to a semblance of his inner beauty hadn't sunk in. She made the delivery boldly at his shop, in front of a couple of clients. When he put it on to suddenly transform into a giant bat, she'd grown terrified, realizing her error.
The Goddesses smiled on her, leading her to Baurus' clever care in a nothing inn. After she learnt he was a Blade, the friendly Redguard earned her trust enough for her to confide her worries over Theodyrick's plots, in hopes he'd do something about them. Not only had he assured her he'd personally take care of the matter, he convinced her to send him any further information she could get, indoctrinating her in the world of secret codes and cryptic messages.
Edwistyr never knew when she turned the tables in their game, using him for her own purposes, rather than the other way around. It was always the same—a stolen night of secrecy, the man either drunk or well on his way, occasionally a simple potion to further loosen his tongue and ensure his memory remained clouded. Though never the potion when she had disinformation to feed him, her involvement with the Blades deepening in time.
It hadn't hurt he was so attractive, devastatingly charming when he chose to be. Though he'd aged faster than the passage of time, his lifestyle beginning to show in the puffy lids, the bloodshot eyes, the faint wrinkles. He'd also grown jaded, the charm wearing thin, the smiles running cruel.
Cerisse grabbed the flin, taking a large gulp as memories of their last meeting pressed in on her. He was drunk when she finally arrived, having ridden all day at a rough pace, girding herself to make the break. It had been so hard to leave (don't think of him)...she dreaded it, but she made her choice. Edwistyr luckily made it easier for her when he laid on the thickest, oiliest lines, presenting her with a horribly gaudy ring, a massive ruby set in a chunky gold band, the last thing she'd ever want to wear.
Marriage. The fool tried to convince her to marry him. He must think her an idiot to attempt that. She declined his offer with genuine conviction, her refusal earning the sharp side of his tongue, his insults and jeers so scathing her heart stung with them, a surprise considering how well she thought she'd barricaded it against him. After that there was no question of their continued affair. So really, it didn't matter she'd already chosen (don't think of him)...
She couldn't help thinking of him, unable to do anything but since he'd given her that look, claimed her with that kiss...she'd tried, Mara's tears, she'd tried. She'd fled Chesterbrugh, leaving him behind in the townhome, responding to Edwistyr's request for a meeting. But even with him hours away, she'd failed to banish him from her thoughts, his hands, his lips, the only thing she'd desired during that long night. By the morning she'd felt ill with guilt, as if she'd played the cheating harlot, though it hadn't been Edwistyr she felt she'd betrayed...
Cerisse squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force away the burning sting, caused not by the rough drink, but the fire slowly consuming her heart. Kindled. That's the term the witches used, too worldly to speak of simple notions such as love, instead dealing with the intense heat of passion, affairs of the heart ruled by the size of the flames. She'd denied it at first—to Belladyvyra, to herself, but the witch's warning words guided her actions nonetheless.
Thou art blessed and cursed, child. Entwined as thou art with the forces of the world, thou must stay thy hand and thine words. Snare not a man by lures, for trapped he shalt surely become as the beasts, wild and ravening. Thou must be as the rose, patient and passive, waiting to be plucked. Thou must be chosen, child. All else shall end as ashes. This be the burden thou shalt bear on thine heart.
It wasn't the first time Belladyvyra said such words, the same warning given to her when she accepted the honour of becoming a friend of the coven, privy to spells and powers no lay person could learn. She paid it no mind back then, not thinking of such matters, having optimistic faith love would come find her, the fair damsel waiting for the shining knight.
She'd not realized at first since she cast herself in the role of the knight, she'd doomed herself to this loneliness, stuck here while (don't think of him)...
A traitorous tear broke free. She wiped it quickly away, to remove all traces of her weakness. Knights didn't cry. Not even the old knights, their armour rusted shut, their muscles softened with age, their skin thick with scars. No, those knights who served their liege and sacrificed their youth, who never found their fair damsel, didn't cry. They faded away, forgotten, living out the rest of their time in seedy taverns, boring the younger folk with tales of long dead colleagues as they tried in vain to relive the golden, glorious moments of their past. They waved meaningless tokens—a stained handkerchief, a dried rose, a tarnished locket—as they spoke of chivalrous love, pure and chaste, never consummated. If she was a knight, then that's what she would do. Not pine and weep as the forgotten damsel, but hold her head up as she drank herself into a numbing stupor in rundown bars.
As she already sat in the most rundown bar in Wayrest, it seemed like a good place to start. She took another stiff belt of the flin, finding the liquid slightly easier to swallow, having already burnt away her sense of taste. Her sense of smell still worked though, the salty scent of the waters of the bay remarkably strong today, perhaps due to the gusting winds. She could smell it, as if she was still standing on the pier, trapped into inaction by her foolish hopes, watching as (don't think on it)...
"Oh, no, not you again! I thought I got rid of you!" Rhaerton's angry shouts helped distract her from her thoughts. Cerisse listened as she stared into her flin, blowing on the clear liquid in bursts to create miniature waves in a tiny lake. "By the Rat God, I am not cleaning that up! Look at that mess, are you going to..."
The Redguard's grumpy bellowing tapered off, whichever misbehaved sailor having somehow made amends, no easy task. Rhaerton did not give up grudges easily. Cerisse frowned into her flin, wondering why it suddenly stank so much like the docks. She even smelled the scent of rotting fish and mucilaginous seaweed, something she'd never cared for. Did flin heighten the sense of smell? She could always drink some more to see if it got better or worse.
"I never did buy you that ale." The rumbling voice, the grey hand holding a mug, and the massive, dripping body sliding onto the bench beside her startled her so much she squeaked, dropping the flin to puddle over the sticky table.
"What are you...why are you..." She couldn't think of which question to ask first, her thoughts a chaotic whirl as she resisted the temptation to poke him, just to make sure he was real, and not some flin-induced hallucination. She hadn't drunk that much of the stuff, had she?
"That's your ale, dearie," Agronak rumbled, nudging the mug closer to her, dripping bay water on to her skirt, assuring her he was real. "Enjoy it." He picked up his own mug and began to sip it thoughtfully, looking at the pitted table, reading the more colourful of the words carved into it.
Not sure what else to do, she grabbed the mug and took a big swig. Oh, yes, definitely real. One couldn't imagine up a taste quite like Rhaerton's finest ale.
"I was once asked," Agronak began to speak, talking to the empty wall in front of them, "if I could name a spot where my world changed. I can name several now." He paused for a sip, grimacing as he took the mug from his lips. He turned to look at Cerisse, setting her cheeks on fire as she caught sight of his warm eyes, making her hands shake as she clutched her mug, restraining her desire to grab him then never let go. "In this nothing inn, in this nowhere town, under the kitchen, when I placed myself in the hands of someone special. On the coast of Menevia, watching a wild woman kick up spray, when she offered me a choice. In the middle of a swamp, in a place outside of time, where she forever changed the way I saw the world."
Cerisse sipped her ale, too afraid to speak—too afraid to breathe—lest she break this hallucination...spell...dream.
"A wise man once told me of a perfect poem," he stated, before suddenly speaking in Orcish, repeating the line she grew up with. "Love is." Agronak chuckled, setting down his mug. "Damned if I know what it is, but I do know this." He reached for her ale, carefully prising it out of her fingers, setting it beside his own as he held one of her hands. His other hand went to his pocket, squelching noises coming from his clothes as he shifted on the bench.
"I don't share," he grinned, pulling her hand closer, "and I can't go back, not unless you come with me. So I'm going to try this again, the right way, and see if we can't change each other's worlds." A familiar twinkle of green flashed out from his other hand, held between two strong fingers. "I don't have much to offer. My squirrels are fat, my friends are crazy, my gold's up in a tower somewhere, and my shoes are at the bottom of the Iliac Bay. But it's all yours, if you'll have me." He turned her hand palm up, pressing the wet ring into it. "Marry me, Cerisse."
Happy tears slipped onto her cheeks, blurring her vision as she looked at the prettiest ring she'd ever seen, given to her by the most amazing man she'd ever met. She sniffed, trying to regain her composure enough to answer, far too aware of how easily she could lose it completely.
"If you don't like it, I'll get you another...somehow," Agronak quickly offered, mistaking the reason for her reaction.
"I like it," she hastily assured him in a shaky voice, hiding the ring away in her clenched fist. "I love it." She could feel her mouth curling into a giant grin, such that she wondered if it would split her cheeks in two. Unable to resist any longer, she launched herself into him, holding him tight, heedless of the water and scent working into her clothes. "I love you. Yes, yes, a million times yes." She tilted her head up to kiss him, shocked when he pulled away with a grimace.
"You look..." he trailed off. She laughed, letting the years slip away, the shell of Morgolda sliding off her skin. "Ah, now there's my little nymph."
As he kissed her, pulling her close with his powerful arms, she felt her world change as her shoeless knight in soggy armour made her feel like the luckiest rose to ever be picked.