Quaranir entered his chamber hastily with an apologetic look. His green gaze fell upon Amaris and he said seriously, "the island has been breached, we must move now."
Amaris' eyes widened in alarm and she queried hoarsely, "by who?"
Quaranir frowned slightly and retorted, "I do not know, Nerein reported it, an unnatural and unusual presence on the island, even our superior is looking into it, but it is moving, towards here. We cannot take any chances; I must return all of you now." His stern Altmer face softened slightly as he held Amaris' frightened stare. "I am sorry I could not talk more with you," he confessed. "I am...proud," he admitted awkwardly, "you have coped...admirably, perhaps better than myself."
"Will I see you again?" she asked sorrowfully.
"In time perhaps," the mage answered, "another thing I had to mention..." He paused and looked to Mercer who stood close to Amaris and then glanced briefly at Orthorn, who had stood up in alarm at his entry and was now looking at him in dumb confusion. "Time passes differently here, at times slow, at other times fast, it is a realm within Tamriel and yet outside it, you have not been here long so you will not have lost much of your Skyrim time, if any."
"What?" Mercer snarled angrily.
There was a loud cry from outside in the corridor and a roar that sounded like flames. Quaranir stepped towards them and snapped, "link hands quickly!"
They obeyed, Mercer gripping Amaris' right hand tightly as she extended her left palm to Orthorn. Orthron accepted it hastily as he continued to look at Quaranir in shock. The monk began to chant, waving his hands about them as he did. A red light surrounded them and their surroundings seemed to blur.
Amaris and her companions became translucent and their vision danced from red to silver and then black as they faded away. Everything was spinning now and the air turned cold as the trio finally vanished from the room. Quaranir looked to the space where his daughter and her companions had been and for the first time in years he prayed, begging the Aedra to ensure her safe return before he turned at last to deal with the intruders.
If Amaund Motierre had been a more faith loving man he might have considered it divine intervention or forced destiny that the soaked and bedraggled woman leaning against the tall, dark haired Nord should be one he knew, as it was he just considered it a coincidence. A terrible and yet much sought after and thought about coincidence.
"My...my friends," she choked out with a mouthful of water as she tried to turn back the way she had come.
"You were on your own," the Nord chided, his voice soft and thick with a Skyrim accent. Despite the fact that he was a tall, muscular and armoured warrior, who stood over six feet he seemed nervous to be near the girl and his discomfort was obvious in his pale eyes.
"No," she argued as she tried to fight his stronger grip and turn back again.
"Stop," he said pleadingly, "you need to get dry, it's a cold night."
Amaund knew he should not intervene and he could sense Rexus' stern gaze upon him, willing him to just keep walking and return to the inn. Yet of all the people it had to be her and for whatever reason he could not ignore her distressed, odd eyes. He gave a thin, faint smile as he recalled that it had been here that they had first become acquainted, it seemed poignant enough that it should be here that they reunited.
"Excuse me," he addressed the Nord politely as he stepped up to him and the struggling woman, "but you seem to have come across my rather disoriented companion, perhaps I could take her off your hands?"
The Nord looked back at the Breton with suspicion, reluctant to just hand over the woman to a stranger. Yet she was a stranger and an irritating one who was only causing him trouble, he had helped her from the pool she had seemed to just drop into and yet rather than be grateful she had tried to struggle back into it, adamant that there were other people there.
Amaund knew he looked dishevelled, it was hard to impress and intimidate when he was not composed and neat, yet he still had the skill of his tongue and a compelling brown gaze that had changed the minds of many noble folk who had thought to stand in his way. "I'm grateful that you found her," he remarked in what sounded like a sincere voice, "she's not been well and I was concerned." He knew it was mean to say but it was the first thing he could think of.
Her mismatched gaze fell on him at last as she finally noticed his presence. Her grey and blue orbs filled with a moment of confusion and she shook her head dumbly before questioning tentatively, "Amaund?"
He nodded with a tight but pleased smile. "Yes, I've seen better days," he admitted awkwardly, "but it is me..." It was so foolish to identify himself to her, he knew that, especially when the point was to drop off the grid, at least a little. It was impossible for one so high ranking as he to just up and vanish but his business was delicate and the less attention the better, and if he looked grubby and haggard then few people would take notice of him.
"Yes," she said with her own faint smile as she glanced past him to his ever present shadow Rexus, "it must be, your friend hasn't changed."
The Nord released Amaris at last and murmured, "get dry."
She looked up at him apologetically and nodded as she pushed back some of her soaked hair. "Yes, thank you for your help..."
"Farkas," he introduced himself bluntly as he looked hopefully to a stone path leading uphill. He was tired, thirsty for some mead and anxious to get away from the strange woman and awkward situation.
"Thank you Farkas," she said sincerely.
He nodded before turning and walking on. Amaris looked about her surroundings in puzzlement before realising that she was back in Whiterun. 'Why?' she wondered with a pang of alarm. 'Why Whiterun and what happened to Mercer and Orthorn?' In the spinning darkness their hands had been wrenched from her despite her best efforts to clutch them tightly, but it had not been long ago, the cold water had come straight after, she was certain. 'They have to be here, they have to be!' She looked about the torch lit streets anxiously, wondering which one to run up and explore first, too worried for their safety to notice that her teeth were chattering and she was shaking.
"Amaris what's wrong?" Amaund pried quietly.
She turned her attention back to him, glad to have one familiar face at least, well...almost familiar. "You've changed," she whispered. Amaund was no longer a clean shaven, well groomed and dressed elitist, stubble was forming into a dark beard at his chin, his hair was now severely short, still thick and ebony though there was a hint of silver at the front, but the ponytail was gone and it hung to just above his upturned collar. He looked stressed, there were new wrinkles to his dirt smudged face, his eyes were slightly sunken and his clothes looked worn and dirty as if he had not changed or washed for a while.
"It's been a few months," he replied awkwardly as he felt a rose tinged blush creep up his neck. It was alright others seeing him this way, unkemptness made for a good disguise after all but not Amaris, he did not want her thinking him filthy, smelly and incapable of looking after his appearance. 'Fool she's not shallow,' he chided himself, 'and yet I'm hardly attractive this way,' he added sardonically.
"Months?" she echoed as she wondered just how long ago it was that she had last seen the Breton.
"A few, yes," he answered, his nerves slipping into his voice as always seemed to happen around her. "Now, it is cold as...Farkas pointed out, maybe...well you should get indoors," he suggested. He felt it was improper dressing the Nord by his first name, he knew him to see as he knew all the Companions but he did not converse with any of them, nor they with him.
Again she looked about her, clearly searching for someone or something though she evidently did not know where to start.
"Have you lost your friends?" Amaund ventured as he wondered why they had journeyed back to Whiterun. He was here in an attempt to be inconspicuous, watching from the sidelines as his master plan finally started to take action. He wondered as he looked at Amaris' odd eyes if the final piece of the puzzle would reveal itself in good time or if everything he had worked so hard to achieve would end in meaningless death and waste.
"Yes," Amaris admitted with a nod, "I was with Mercer and a mage called Orthorn, he's an Altmer."
'I wonder what happened to the madman and the other mage,' Amaund pondered dryly, 'and that other Breton, what was his name?'
"They have to be here," she said with a pleading look as she continued to shiver, "they have to be."
Amaund was troubled by her gaze and suddenly eager to help even though he knew he should not involve himself. Best thing would be to keep his distance and continue to be alone and aloof save for with Rexus. He had to keep a low profile, it was important, not essential but important, and he had to be secretive or else someone might start noticing things they should not. "Alright, well they will know you are here I'm sure," he said kindly as he felt his cheeks begin to burn. "It would be sensible going to an inn, it's...logical," he remarked weakly as his blush darkened.
"I suppose," Amaris admitted quietly as her toes and fingers turned numb. It did make sense, if they were here, well Mercer would look for her and he would have the sense to check the inns. 'Please let him be here,' she thought fearfully, 'please...how could the spell have gone wrong? Quaranir is a Psijic, he wouldn't have messed it up, Mercer must be here.' Yet it felt wrong to just hope that he would come to her, what if he was in trouble? It was unlikely, the Breton could take better care of himself than anyone she knew and yet it seemed uncaring just to go and sit in an inn. She shook her head and said, "no, I have to look for him, them, first, I have to."
Amaund let out a small sigh knowing that what he was about to say was stupid and risky and that Rexus would scorn him for it later. "Then allow me to help," he offered. He felt the Imperial soldier's disapproving look immediately and tried to suppress his own frown. 'What is it about her?' he pondered. 'She doesn't even ask for my help and yet I want to give it, every time I see her I have to speak to her.'
Amaris could not hide her joy as she looked up at the Breton with gratitude. Whiterun held only one memory for her, that of the beginning of their drunken night with Sam Guevenne, in her youth it had just been yet another city to hear tales of from Hadvar, so she knew she would only get lost trying to find Mercer on her own.
Seeing her continue to shiver, Amaund took off his bedraggled mustard coat and held it out to her sheepishly. "It's a bit...dirty," he admitted clumsily, "but better than nothing."
Amaris accepted it with a faint blush and put it on hastily, pausing just briefly as she fixed the collar, recalling how Mercer had given her his jacket in Solitude. Mercer's coat had smelled of Riften's salty docks and dusty underground tunnels, Amaund's had a collection of scents to it, the dirt of Whiterun's cobbled streets, the ale and burnt food scent of the taverns and a faint musk of something soapy and masculine, undoubtedly an expensive soap or oil once used by the noble. It hung loosely on the redhead, the sleeves dangling over her hands and concealing them from view until she rolled them up, and the ends of it pooling on the ground. Amaund smiled at the sight with genuine mirth.
"Thank you," Amaris said sincerely before buckling it closed and looking about the streets warily. "I don't know where to start," she admitted.
"Well let's start where you did," Amaund suggested.
Amaris nodded eagerly and turned to a path that led up towards a square pool of water that sat at the bottom of the stone steps leading up to Dragonsreach. It was a small point of darkness and quiet, on one side were folk moving to their homes or the inns, and high up on the other side was the impressive and heavily guarded Dragonsreach, home of Whiterun's Jarl. There was one brazier of fire resting on a stone platform that sat between stone steps leading down into the square pools that sat on either side of a stone path. The only sound was the flames twisting gently in the air and the babbling of the small waterfalls that spilled out of the walls and into the pools.
Amaris halted suddenly before they went to climb the stone steps leading up to the pools, something was wrong. She felt it deep within her, something had changed, a subtle and yet detectable change. She recalled Mercer's teachings and tried to sense what was different. Sound? Everything was soft, deceivingly quiet but it was not unnatural. Sight? The shadows were thick and black near the walls and ghoulish near the few torches but she could see no threatening ones. Smell? Yes, faint in the air, it would have carried better with a breeze, it was a polished, cold smell of oak, steel and nightshade that attempted to mask the faint stench of death and blood. Amaris knew the odour well; it was the musk of the Thalmor, an expensive perfume they soaked themselves in to keep the stink of blood and death from them.
She turned to Amaund to give a warning but found herself mute with fear as four black robed Altmer stepped out of the shadows. Amaund looked at Amaris perplexed as he saw her face pale and her eyes widen. His own brown eyes widened as two Thalmor stepped out before them, one male and one female, both tall, the female bearing the icy beauty unique to the Altmer whilst the male was bristled with ovular dark eyes that made his face appear insect like.
"Time to stop running," the male spoke in a firm but smug voice.
Amaris started to shiver uncontrollably at the voice and flung herself against Amaund with an animalistic scream. The Breton was stunned as he stumbled back slightly with the force of the redhead and tried to embrace her as she started to scream against his chest. He looked back at the Thalmor in mistrust and then disgust as the male grinned back sadistically.
"You are surrounded," he spoke up loudly, "and we will kill the Breton and Imperial if we have to, slow if you do not be silent."
"No, no, no, no, no," Amaris stammered over and over again against Amaund's chest. This could not be happening! How could Quaranir have sent her back to this? Where was Mercer?
"What's going on?" Amaund demanded as he tried to sound authoritarian. He heard Rexus give a small grunt and glanced over his shoulder to spy out the four Thalmor who flanked them. It was hopeless, they were too many and he realised that he had all the appearance of a scruffy nobody, they would not think twice about killing him and Rexus. As Amaris trembled he pulled her close, wanting to seem protective even though he knew it was futile. Even if the Thalmor were to know who he was it would not matter, he, Rexus and Amaris were here alone, the Thalmor could murder him and spread any rumour they liked about it.
"It is not your concern," the female Thalmor hissed frostily, "and if you try to make it so, you will die."
Amaris tried hard to stifle her sobs but she could not cease her shaking or bring herself to break from Amaund. 'Please no,' she thought pleadingly to whomever might listen, 'Clavicus, Hircine, anyone, I will make whatever trade you want, don't let this happen to me again!'
"I will not tell you again," the male Altmer snapped with a violent gleam in his odd eyes, "the Breton's blood will be on your hands!"
Amaris turned at last to face him, the worst of her torturers and pursuers- Rulindil. 'How did they know I would come here?' she wondered numbly. 'The attack at Artaeum...there must have been a traitor...how? Who? The game...it was just a game and they've won again!' Her nose ran so hard it began to bleed and even as she tried to release Amaund's shirt she found her grip tightening. When she met Rulindil's sadistic gaze she could not stop her bladder from losing control and bowed her head in shame and terror as fresh urine streaked down her legs.
Amaund recoiled slightly at the smell and realised that the Thalmor meant something to Amaris, they knew her and she them and she was so terrified of them she had lost control over her own body. His grip upon her turned numb as he thought over what to do. 'It can't end now,' he thought in anger, 'my plan is not complete, I cannot die here, not when I am so close! But...I can't let her go, she's so scared, it wouldn't be right but...'
Amaris pulled free from Amaund when his grip slackened in a moment of hesitation and she turned to face the Thalmor pair properly with an unconcealed tremble. "Please," she begged, "please, I won't bother you, I don't! Please leave me, I will cause no trouble for you, I promise."
Rulindil folded his arms and shook his head in a damning gesture. It was the last Amaund saw before the blow to the back of his head came, knocking him out cold. Amaris screamed again as she heard the Breton cry out and turned to see him fall. A bolt of green surrounded her then, shocking her into unconsciousness.
Mercer was not impressed when he found himself half-buried beneath a pile of smelly hay and tangled up with Orthorn. He freed himself hastily from the mage with several choice kicks before standing up and dusting himself down. It took him mere seconds to realise that Amaris was not within the stall and he wasted no time in charging out. He found himself beneath a clear twilight sky, the wavy green lights of the aurora just beginning to show, and realised after a quick observation that he was at the edge of Whiterun and that Amaris was still nowhere to be found.
"Why did we end up here?" Orthorn queried wearily as he joined Mercer at last, one hand up in his dirty blonde hair attempting to extract stray bits of hay.
Mercer did not bother to waste a glare on the mage; instead he hurried up to the path leading up to the proud city. He knew something had gone wrong with Quaranir's spell, there was no doubt that Amaris should be with them still, but something or someone had pulled her away, he had felt it in the dark, a malevolent presence wrenching her away. Worried, though he would never admit it, the Breton broke into a run up the hill, hoping that he would find her within the city walls and fearing that he would not.
Orthorn, not knowing what else to do, followed after the Breton, panting as he was forced to run, a movement he was no longer used to. It had been so long since he had had to run, and the days of walking to Winterhold had taken the last of his energy and adrenaline. The only reason he had even made it back to the ruined city was because Titus, knowing Orthorn was following him and Onmund, had deliberately left food and water for the mage at his camp.
The walled city was quiet, the few Nord soldiers looked bored and kept their gazes on a few men and women who took the time to pause and hurl insults at each other before grumbling about their 'houses' and hastening on. Mercer paused briefly at the entrance by the blacksmith's house and took a moment to take in his surroundings and look for clues. He used his secret weapon, a fine Daedric prize known only to him, to unlock his potential and use every gift he had at his disposal. He found the world dimming around him as he tried to channel away the normality and focus only on the things that seemed out of the ordinary.
"Did you hear about Vittoria Vici?" a male Bosmer remarked to a female Dunmer. "Killed on her wedding day, ironic don't you think?"
"Perhaps," came the curt retort.
"Did you see Farkas?" a female Nord commented with mirth to her two companions. "Dripping wet and grumbling about a woman he found in the water."
"Probably a mermaid!" another Nord answered. "Where did he claim to find her?"
"Up in one of those pools," the first Nord answered carelessly, "he says that dishevelled Breton who keeps hanging about the Bannered Mare took her, he's a strange fellow."
Mercer's grey eyes snapped open and he hastened to the path that led up to the pools. First there, then the Bannered Mare, it had to be Amaris they were talking about but who was the Breton? Was she his captive? He gritted his teeth in frustration, tensing when he saw the crumpled silhouettes lying just up ahead before the path that led up to the pool. He hurried towards them, disregarding the first as an Imperial soldier who looked familiar but was not of consequence just yet. The second figure was a shabby Breton; perhaps the one the Nords had been talking about. Mercer nudged him over roughly with his boot to see his face and frowned. Without hesitation the older Breton booted the unconscious man hard in the stomach.
Amaund awoke with a cry of pain. For a moment he was confused, wounded and alarmed and he turned anxiously, trying to simultaneously spy his attacker, the Thalmor and... "Amaris!" he cried out her name in fear earning another kick for his troubles, this time to his chest. He gave a grunt of pain before glowering up at his attacker, his brown stare growing large as he recognised him. "Why are you kicking me?" he rasped in anger. His skull was pounding, his brow felt warm, the back of his head was damp and he was dizzy. Now his chest and stomach ached too and his thoughts swam in an unorganised muddle.
"What happened?" Mercer demanded sharply. "Where is Amaris?"
Amaund froze up as he recalled how he had considered his selfish desires before her well-being, how for that one swift moment of weakness his grasp on her had slackened and she had slipped away. He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked about in horror. She was gone, they all were, she had been wetting herself with fright, clinging to him and screaming like a mad thing and he had done nothing. He had stood there and literally let her go; he had not even attempted a defence.
"The Thalmor," he confessed as he reached up one hand to the back of his head with a wince, "there were six of them here and they took her." The young Breton had no time to brace himself for the sudden assault the thief unleashed upon him. In a fit of rage Mercer grasped the nobleman by his collar, yanking him close to punch him hard in the face twice with his free hand before releasing him to kick him again. The punches and kicks came in a fury as the thief cursed every Aedra and Daedric Prince he could think of along with shouting out several profanities.
Orthorn arrived on the scene, having fallen behind in exhaustion; he had hurried up again upon hearing Amaund's yells. Seeing the thief beating the man he did not think he simply attacked, conjuring a blast of cold that was enough of a distraction to cause the thief to release the Breton's hair, giving him a chance to crawl away.
Mercer turned his hateful glare upon the mage and he clenched his fists together, taking an offensive step forward. Before he could do anymore however the guards arrived at last, an irate clatter of metal boots on the cobblestones, they tried to look calm but could not hide their surprise. "What's going on here?" one demanded angrily.
"Nothing," Orthron answered with a nervous laugh. He knew he could not face a prison cell so soon after escaping from one he had been left to rot in. He would not cope in such small and dark confines, it was too much.
"It doesn't look like nothing," came the answer in an aggressive voice.
Mercer plucked out a pouch of coins and flung it at their feet. "It's nothing," he snarled.
The two guards exchanged a glance before one grasped the pouch quickly and gave a nod. "Keep it down," he ordered moodily before gesturing to the other to leave.
Orthorn sighed disapprovingly as he watched the guards scurry off before he turned his attention back on Mercer and Amaund. Both the Altmer and younger Breton braced themselves for a blow as Mercer looked from one to the other with abhorrence burning in his eyes. Rexus gave a low moan as he finally started to return to consciousness.
"I..." Amaund paused to spit up a mouthful of blood. He sat up and looked down at himself pathetically, muck and blood covered no one would ever believe he was a member of the Elder Council. 'I don't act like a member,' he thought bitterly, 'a member would have gotten rid of those Thalmor and protected Amaris. Why did I let her go? Why did they want her? Where did they take her?'
Mercer hurried off again without a word, vowing to rip apart the city stone by stone if he had to, to find her. How long ago had they taken her? Were they on horseback? Could they have ridden far? Someone had to know, someone had to have seen them. He cursed Amaund to the depths of Oblivion as he ran back down the path without hesitation. 'He let them take her the little worm,' he thought odiously, 'barely a scratch on him, he didn't fight for her. Now where is she?' He felt a pang of guilt, something he had not truly felt for years as he realised that he had let go.