Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Sorry about the wait – I've not been well, headaches and stuff. But enough of that – here's the next chapter!
--A--
Chapter Thirty-Five
--A--
The gorgeous day looked singularly at odds with the atmosphere within Cloud Ruler Temple. Overhead the sun blazed brilliantly in a sky so blue it hurt the eyes – even normal eyes – to look at it. Settled comfortably against the wall of battlements ringing the main courtyard, I looked over at an extremely tired Martin. His lack of practice – even three or four days worth – showed when he picked up a sword. "You've got to practice," I admonished, barely winded after the second furious bout.
Cyrus, standing guard with another Blade I didn't know, looked amused. His current partner did not – I think this new Blade resents the familiarity between the would-be emperor and myself. Well, Martin's not Emperor yet, and he needs the practice.
"Yes, I think you're right," Martin managed. "Or maybe someone's just gotten stronger."
Maybe. Two Oblivion Gates after getting burned by the Mysterium Xarxes has left me to settle out – I'm still finding odd peculiarities I noticed but never really identified before. Still, the knowledge I was 'okay', coupled with my new good luck charm, hanging hidden and safe beneath my shirt, I actually feel pretty good for not having gotten enough sleep.
With a barking laugh I got to my feet, clanking slightly as my chainmail shifted to hang properly. "Come on – you've got another round." I prompted, tapping my staff against the ground. It is way too cold out here – I feel it more when I'm not moving around. It never used to feel this cold.
"He's tired." The second Blade announced dryly.
"He won't give you much of a fight, Ailirah." Cyrus seconded. Martin scowled, though not at them. Come on, guys, he's the heir apparent - he's not delicate.
Stifling a noise of derision I nodded at Martin – we are going to do this. "No, he won't," I responded with a shrug, giving Cyrus a look of amusement. Does it occur to anyone else that maybe – just maybe – getting out of the great hall, away from the books, might just be fun for him? "But…" I shrugged glancing over at Martin.
"He'll remember the lesson." Martin finished, the glint of determination in his eyes as I smiled at him, a sweet invitation to do his best. Cyrus and his partner are quite right – Martin's not going to…
Hot damn!
I yelped as Martin rushed me. The rush wasn't an actual attack – I blocked automatically, muscles trained to react even when the mind could not, startled by the sudden burst of speed. Martin reached out with his free hand - having a longer reach than I – grabbing my arm as I sent his wooden sword spinning away.
My arm went dead, uselessly numb, except for the sensation of a band of pins and needles where Martin grabbed me.
He let go immediately as I brought my quarterstaff – the closest approximation to Frostreaver I could find – towards his shoulder. Marin darted for his sword and actually managed to get to it as I struggled to figure out what to do with my quarterstaff and one useless arm. It's an ungainly weapon when you're one-handed.
Clumsily I gripped higher, letting the off-end just out past my shoulder, the weapon held as close to parallel to my arm as I could, allowing me to block the next blow awkwardly. The next sent my weapon spinning. Thinking he had me – I'm certainly at a disadvantage – Martin contrived to get behind me, and grab me, my neck resting in the crook of his elbow. He kicked my staff out of reach. "Do I win?" he asked in my ear. I could hear him grinning – he's never come this close to a win before.
Others might let him have a match now and then, but with me he has to earn it. It helps him keep his skills in perspective, or so I feel. I never got to win in sparring just because I was someone's sister – never. That's not the point of learning the sword; you learn to fight so you can survive whatever life or your opponent throws at you.
Chuckling I adjusted my feet, twitching my paralyzed hand. It reacted, albeit slow and stupid, but at least I could use it. I'll need it.
The size difference between Martin and I – particularly when he's got me in a chokehold (even a poorly executed one) - seems like a disadvantage to me, when in reality, it's not. "I don't just let anyone win, Martin. You know that." I grabbed his wrist, twisting it so his hand inexorably opened, uncurling his arm from about my neck. Releasing his arm quickly, he didn't move fast enough to stop me from repositioning my grip.
He's never tried grappling before, and has never asked whether I can or not. The answer is 'a little bit'. Markos studied grappling with Davela Hlaren for several months, after getting into and out of a tight spot with more damage to himself than he liked.
And afterwards, Markos taught me, because it wouldn't do to get into this sort of situation in the real world. Not his precious little sister. I bless him for making me learn now.
Grabbing Martin's shirt as well as his arm, not caring whether I left bruises (they're only little Ailirah-finger sized bruises, after all) I rocked forward, putting him on the ground.
Martin landed on his tailbone with a thud, his back against my braced leg. "Ow." He announced, wincing. Yes, defeat does hurt.
"Yeah, show me your super-secret Blades deathgrip and I'll show you how to get out of it." I announced cheerfully, rephrasing a line Markos is fond of using.
Martin is crafty. I should commit this to memory, because I heard it in his voice when he answered. "Right." Reaching back he grabbed my ankle and jerked.
"Ow!" I yelped, landing on my tailbone – damn that hurts - before swinging free of his grip, grabbing his practice sword – the closest one – and swinging it at him. It's not over till it's over. Previously, I've allowed the fight to stop whenever it looks like he's done, but today is a knockdown drag-out kind of day, in which neither player is 'dead' until they announce they're dead.
Back home we call them house rules.
I yelped when the practice sword in my hand burst into flames – though I had time to drop it before the magical fire reduced it to cinders or burned my hand. Martin smirked, his blue eyes twinkling as he waved his fingers at me, much as I'd done earlier.
You cheeky little…
So you want to play. Okay. I can do that – the house rules deathmatch then. Martin's smile dimmed slightly as I returned one of my own. You're dead. You're so dead. Still – you've made a brave attempt, and a valiant effort.
But you are dead.
He's also getting tired – he can't keep this up for long – and I'm getting more and more feeling back in the arm he paralyzed. Regaining my quarterstaff I turned to find Martin apparently centering himself, or whatever mages do. "I wondered if the trip up here was just a fluke," I teased.
"Medium or well done?" Martin asked, out of the blue.
"Eh?" blinking I readied myself to spring left or right, in case he sent a snowball or something at me. That smirk of his could mean just about anything, and it would be funny to see me with a face full of snow.
"Your crow," he continued to smirk.
"Oh…" I nodded, a grin creeping wider across my features. He's in a good mood – see? Everyone needs exercise. I'll bet he gets cranky when he's cooped up. "I'll get back to you on that."
The snowball I expected came flying at me, shattering when I slammed it with the off-end of my staff. Despite the fact he still smiled at me, I could see concentration brewing behind Martin's eyes. I'm actually quite pleased – I didn't expect him to break the perceived rule of 'no magicka' for months. Sure, I'm teaching him the sword – but more importantly, I'm teaching him how to stay alive. Much more valuable than any one single discipline, I'm certain.
The problem is, how can I get close enough to 'kill' him, when he's using magicka and I'm not? I'm sure he's aware of the problem, which tips the scales in his favor. Of course, he'll run out of magicka quicker than I'll run out of good old fashioned strength and endurance.
The two of us stood facing each other, a 'safe' distance between us, considering options. Of course, while we stop to think, his magicka is trickling back, which means it's more dangerous for me to wait and attack than to throw caution to the winds.
Biting my lip I summoned all my magical resources and imagined a sort of plate, or wall between Martin and I, and with that I sprinted forward.
Martin's spell shattered my shield, as I expected it to. What I didn't expect was the backlash of a badly made spell getting shattered by a very well-constructed one.
I reeled, lost my balance and hit the ground again, my hand still gripped around my staff.
It occurs to me, somewhere between falling and hitting the ground, I can still win this. If I were teaching honorable combat, I'd never do it. However, since I'm not, I feel no guilt whatsoever. Any odd flares of temper evaporated long ago - I truly do enjoy sparring with Martin. More now that I know he can be so very creative. There's nothing like a good fight, without the usual walls of certainty and calculation.
"Are you all right?" Martin asked, sweeping over, to peer down at me. Undoubtedly, he knows I wasn't ready for magical backlash.
Just a little closer…come on, a couple more steps…there you go.
I opened one eye, squinting up at him. He looks like he's wearing some kind of halo, backlit like he is. Smirking, I attacked.
The end of my staff poked him in the stomach as I got up, I delivered a 'gentle' rap to the side of his neck – which would have decapitated him in a real fight. My staff's end rested on his shoulder, a steady reminder if he moved I was going to 'kill' him again.
"Ow." Martin announced, raising his hands slightly.
"Are you dead yet?" I asked, feeling more cheerful than I had for awhile. We should do this more often.
"I don't know, want to check?" he inquired, straightening up. I rapped his shoulder reprovingly with the staff – you don't get to stand up straight until I know you concede the match.
"No, because you could be playing possum. I'll just stand here and wait for evidence of death to present itself."
"Evidence?" Martin snickered, abandoning his attempt to straighten up. He's still cooking something up, I'm sure. The question is, can he execute anything?
"Mm hmm," I nodded emphatically. "Like vultures circling overhead or…" I broke off as he started to laugh. "Or maybe…" Aha! Speak of the vulture! "Hi Jauffre!" I chirruped, waving as Jauffre walked up to observe the so-called lesson.
"Well, I'm dead." Martin announced. Stepping away from him I leaned on my staff, still beaming at Jauffre in an 'I don't think you'll get the joke, so don't ask' sort of way.
Cyrus gets it – I can see him struggling not to laugh.
Catching the wicked look on my face, Martin's eyes danced as he bit his lip. I could see we're on the same page, he and I, in the book of wicked humor. Sorry Jauffre, but you really walked right into that one. "Jauffre." Martin nodded, still struggling to hide his amusement at Jauffre's timing.
"Good morning." Jauffre nodded. "How's he doing?" Jauffre inquired of me, jerking his chin towards the staff.
"Well, he fights better than anyone else I ever killed." I winked at Martin. "It's a hell of a workout."
Jauffre made a 'good point' face. "I didn't realize you expanded the lessons to include magicka."
"I didn't. He can't beat me with a sword alone, so he improvises like any good fighter will," Martin looked vaguely surprised at this. "I don't teach artistry with a sword, I teach you to survive," I directed at Martin. "You always win if you can walk away."
"I did wonder why you didn't cry foul." Martin announced.
"You don't have much faith in me, do you?" I asked, still joking.
"I have a great amount of faith in you. But I also know you like to win." Martin returned courteously.
"Don't we all?" I retorted with a grin. "Still, for someone who slacked off while I was gone…" Shrugging to make my point, I waved to indicate things were still pretty well in hand. "How do you feel?" I asked Martin.
"Fine." He answered. His expression said 'exhausted, hungry, and sweaty – but better'.
Elbowing him gently I jerked my chin towards the great hall, and lunch. "It's good for you."
--A--
After lunch, Martin began his work on the Mysterium Xarxes. Just sitting close to the book made my skin prickle uncomfortably. Martin noticed my discomfort quickly, and advised me to find something constructive to do. I'd gladly do it, but again I found myself met with a vague sort of discomfort wherever I went. Veiled mistrust. Uncertainty.
It's human nature to mistrust what one doesn't understand, and even more so to fill in the gaps oneself, rather than asking the strange one why she is the way she is. I understand the source of the sense of walking on eggshells, even if I don't like it. I know I'd be a little unsettled around someone with red eyes, who has nightmares bad enough to make her jump out of bed, ready to hack into the first person to come close enough…I'm not even sure I can truthfully say I'd ask the person in question about it, though.
It's not open animosity. It's simply…unease. Palpable unease. Less so from Cyrus and a couple others – mixed with guilt in the case of Caro, I hope she'll come around soon, I miss chatting with her – but all the same, the more nervous they get, the more uncomfortable I get, and we just sort of feed the other's discomfort.
Finally, I went to Jauffre, tapping politely on his office door.
"Come in."
Sliding the door opened, I slipped into his office, then slid it shut behind me. "Jau…what a mess!" Blinking in astonishment, I took in the massive mess that is Jauffre's office today.
"Very astute," Jauffre remarked dryly. "If you've come with the intention of cleaning it up so as to be useful, the kitchen would benefit more from your…industry."
Snickering softly, I took the chair before his desk. "Yeah, I'm amazed you haven't sent me back - my dishpan hands have nearly healed," I wiggled my fingers at him.
"I can fix that, if you'd like," Jauffre smirked.
"What for? I haven't done anything yet!" I protested, startled by the sudden sense of seriousness in his eyes.
Jauffre arched his eyebrows. "Guilty conscience, Ailirah?"
Standing up, so as to maintain a less vulnerable position, I crossed my arms over my chest. "Nope – not today and Martin will vouch for me," I tacked on, feeling mildly cheeky, despite the ambiance outside the office. I think Martin and Jauffre have already discussed my, ah, issues, probably before discussing them with me. "I actually came to ask if…if we've learned anything about the Mythic Dawn."
"Past what you've brought back?" Jauffre shook his head, returning to true seriousness. "No, not at all. All we know, really, is they're a step ahead of us." With a sigh he abandoned looking for whatever eluded him in the deluge of papers on his desk, maps, personal accounts, almost everything handwritten. "I'm glad you got Martin to go outside this morning. He spends far too much time poring over that evil book."
"I agree," pacing over to one of the walls, I examined a painting there, without really looking at it. "I don't like him spending too much time with it either." Call me paranoid. That thing burned me, I don't trust it not to have some nasty surprises between its covers. "Talking of staying a step ahead…what if I told you I had another lead?" I asked, eyeing Jauffre for a reaction. I have to play this carefully, or he'll tell me to go scrub dishes.
"I'd believe you saved it for this moment, because you were cagey and wanted an excuse to leave the Temple," Jauffre answered, though he didn't sound exactly accusatory. "I'd also believe you didn't think it a viable lead, if you used it so cavalierly."
"A lead is a lead," I shook my head. "Tar-Meena mentioned it while we were looking for the Dagon shrine." Turning back to Jauffre I chewed my lip for a moment. "Ah…you know I make a lot of your men uncomfortable, don't you?"
"They'll get used to it," Jauffre said, after studying me for a moment. I think he means to reassure me, but it isn't working.
"But not overnight, and not with me breathing down their necks." Caro in particular has begun to skirt me, like she wants to say something, but hasn't the nerve – hence why I think she feels a little guilty, and why I thinks he'll come around fairly quickly. "And this lead is feeble at best. But," I added slyly, "if it turns out more than hope and a scholar's dusty legend, it might be the step we need to get ahead. And then your Blades can stop acting like nervous cats."
"And you can get some air," Jauffre finished.
With a sigh I settled on the arm of the chair. "That's not entirely untrue. I'm used to ranging beyond four walls. I know I'm not the only one who needs to feel useful. In fact, since Martin made me promise not to close anymore Gates, I feel pretty useless." I admitted, surprising Jauffre a bit, I think, since he looked away from his desk to regard me again.
Jauffre sat down, and shrugged as if to say 'let's hear your argument'.
"This lead isn't much. In fact, it's probably nothing, so it doesn't make sense to send a whole crew down to look. Couple that with the fact I'm making people nervous, it makes no sense for more to go."
"And if it's not a wild goose chase?" Jauffre asked.
I shrugged. "Anything they want, I don't want them to have, it's as simple as that. My specialty with the Guild is artifact recovery. It's a dungeon dive – I'm more than qualified. If it looks like I'll get in over my head, I'll pull out and get a message to you."
"But you don't think that will be necessary," Jauffre responded.
Damn it – I forgot how perceptive he is. "Weigh what you could gain by what you could lose." I finished my argument. "And tell me if it's not worth it."
Jauffre deliberated. "He got you to promise that, did he?" Jauffre asked, breaking the intervening silence.
"He had a good argument." I answered, neither of us in any doubt as to who 'he' was. "And I don't want to be any more Daedric than I already am." It's true, and also the only way I can find to describe the changes – 'more Daedric'.
Jauffre sighed, then looked at me. "Do you really think removing yourself from the Temple will make people accept that you've changed a little?"
I shrugged. The feeling of my mood swinging from one extreme to another isn't reassuring, and I get the feeling it could take a week or two for it to settle down. I don't know if there's any precedent for my condition. "No. And honestly, under different circumstances I don't think anyone would care. But I've heard the rumors. Half the new arrivals think I'm half-Daedra myself. It scares them – most of them don't even know how it happened, which leads to speculation. It's the speculation that's worst."
The stories I've heard while eavesdropping are many and varied – all because I have bad nightmares, red eyes, a reputation for closing Oblivion Gates and a really big sword.
"And this lead of yours?" Jauffre asked.
"Well, it's not the Amulet of Kings…but if I were a betting woman, I'd say walking away from it was like betting against Agronak gro-Malog." I answered with a shrug.
I hope he doesn't ask too many more questions.
--A--