Judge not too harshly the actions of a sage
for he will never know plainly the errors of his ways.
In thought, he will endeavor
though thought alone is seldom a pillar of virtue.
He gives much thought to sin, and saves the rest for little else.
Ilsme dwelt on the transparency of Vehk's character, given so freely on parchment, while not so in person. Ever the performer, he could not speak ill of himself except through the vicariousness of a fictional figure. She did not fault him for that, and though her hands worked to bring the kettle to a boil, she found that her mind was far away. Focus did not have to be given to an action that carried with it such familiarity, though, and so she allowed herself to wander.
They had not spoken since afternoon the day before, to the benefit of either. Vehk was wise to leave her to her thoughts, and she was grateful that she was first to rise from bed on this morning, since the gravity of his gesture lent profundity but did not provide the same mercy for her sleep. Already, she prepared herself for a grand speech to proclaim her forgiveness, but found that all rehearsals fell short to the simple yet eloquent words on parchment that she'd received.
Steam, billowy and hot, rose from the kettle she'd placed on the tiny corner stove, driven by her people's notorious flames. Using telekinetic magic, she brought the kettle off of the stove and let it cool for five minutes, before serving herself a cup. It was still dark outside, though the telltale colors of dawn, which she was intimately familiar with, revealed itself to her as if she were its lover. And she supposed, that she and the dawn, and its mistress too, had a rather complicated history.
The poem he'd given her, which was moreso a confession of sorts, was strikingly intimate in its design, a far cry from the detached tone of his public sermons and revelations, which she'd consumed obsessively when she'd first come to Vvardenfell. Truly, he approached most art with a detached and almost melancholic appeal for beauty, while in this there was instead an appeal to prose and simplicity. Ilsme added the crushed rind of a lemon, along with a small dash of cream, to her tea, a Khajiiti blend she had purchased alongside Vehk at their visit to the marketplace yesterday.
Her breath gave steam anew to the cup, which she cradled in either hand as her red eyes raked over the page again, for the countless time in this morning alone. She searched and searched for hidden meanings to decode, but found none, and while not content to accept Vehk writing plainly, it would need to suffice for now. He would not admit to ulterior motive or cryptic messages anyhow, and thus it would be wise to treat it as if it were not there.
And raise not your spear to his private sins
he pays for them in kind.
The Sage's tears are rarely his own
because they fall into a river where the folk take their daily bath
And it is their alms that he will use
to afford a cloth that will hide his heart.
Vehk split his soul when first he grasped the Dwemer's tools to see his grand vision unfold in reality. The further division of his soul followed soon thereafter when his many public personas manifested out of the womb of his own historically bad habits. But it would be foolish to say his soul was damned, because he had looked into the very mind of the universe, and surely such ascension was a sign that his sickness of soul was destined to be cured, for no wound could fester indefinitely.
When the sky shone pink, and the panes of the window began to refract the light of the rising sun, Ilsme requested a bath from one of the inn's servants scurrying about in the hall just outside her door. Together, she and Vehk were to begin enchanting their new, southern clothes. A burgeoning curiosity, which belonged to the former apprentice mage and to the eventual ranking Telvanni scholar, dwelt within her and made itself known, endlessly looking forward to a lesson in enchanting she'd never known could exist.
"A lovely day for it?" Sounded a serene and deceptively gentle voice from behind the divider, as she brought a gown over her moist skin.
"Quite so.." She let her voice trail, as she did not want him to assume that was the last of what she had to say. When at last she appeared from behind the divider and saw him, she inhaled deeply, and found her voice ready and unwavering as ever, "Your gift was moving, my friend, I am afraid it was so that it even stirred me from a restful sleep. Rarely have your lines ever effected me in this way, although it was not grief that held me."
Ilsme was not done, however, and leaving it at that would leave a deep mar of dissatisfaction in her gut. She wet her lips, and looked him in the eye, since they were equals, after all. All their time together, before the past month and at present, proved that claim.
"You truly have a gift, my friend. A gift I am thankful you have condescended to share with me." He was like a beautiful shadow in the room, so good at making himself seem small, when in reality he was the thing many feared when they looked behind them.
"It was lovely prose, was it not?" Was his simple reply – coy, baiting, and so reminiscent of another time. "There was no demand for condescension in my giving it to you. After all, it is only sensible that it be done, for the god, whose name is Poetry."
Ah, and there it was. His escape from speaking about it forwardly, his chance to detach himself. Vehk both coveted and loathed taking accountability for the emotions of others. While true that he perceived the world in varying hues of poetical truths, it came far more naturally to him to use this unique talent as a shield or spear, rather than a quality to be held and cherished.
Ilsme wondered if he had a desire to share with her beyond his need to perform, a trait they both shared in equal measure. Though not one to shy away from such a thought, there was no doubt that it would lead to a fruitless contemplation on the motives of the mer, whose nature had been shrouded in enigma since Nerevar met him on that fateful day – millennia ago. It did not suffice to say that his motives were private and numbered, for Ilsme's mind did not work that way. While the virtuous actions of any individual were commendable, it was ultimately the intentions that were telling.
"I brewed some tea. Take some, if you like." She said, her silver head tilting in the direction of the tray. A heating spell would suffice to bring it to boil again. "In the meantime, I'll find something palatable for breakfast."
There was a slight quirk in the brow of his pleasant face, a questioning look, which, with any other, she may know the source of. With Vehk, she did not know. She never knew. She only knew that his curiosity was not ever genuine, or for curiosity's sake.
"I can't imagine you've been given much leave to pursue those domestic things." He commented, though she knew he was fishing. But his fishing would be to no one's detriment, for her past as an orphaned elf was a secret to none who asked.
An orphanage produced one exceptional individual out of one-hundred who would fall into obscurity. Base methods of survival were nothing new to Ilsme, though neither were they anything new to Vehk. He would understand, for this was the only delicate matter they could speak on without any doubt of the other's truth. Childhood slights and struggle were a different stripe of wound, one which could never stay hidden.
"You're acclaimed for your broad imagination, my friend. There is none other I know who could merit that title. And for that, I'm certain you can imagine the duties of an elven child in an Imperial orphanage." She did not explain more. Perhaps she would another time, when her certainty of Vehk surpassed Nerevar's knowledge of him.
The look he gave her was calculating, but not altogether like the serpentine creature he sometimes reminded her of. No, this was the look one gave to another when their situation was too conveniently similar to the other's, and distrust naturally brewed. Ilsme said nothing, and continued to the area of the apartment that housed an oven and counter space for cooking.
It was by no means accommodating, though she's worked with far less, and refuses to complain. After all, years spent in an orphanage and then years spent in the Ashlands could acclimate anyone to any environment, and any cooking environment was sure to be better than the Ashlands, where ash clung to every morsel of food, coating the throat on the way down.
She felt herself being watched before she heard his quiet footsteps, and she imagined he must have a perplexed look on his face. They'd never spoken about each other's past – for her, she knew much of his, but for him, he knew little of hers beyond her accomplishments and incarnation. Only through cleverness, could one deduce that their upbringing was similar. Ilsme had no doubt he'd deduced such a thing, though the details were spotty, as neither of them shared much talent for scrupulosity.
As it were, Vehk said nothing, because there was nothing to say – now. He would observe, and wait for his moment to strike. Only, this strike would be one that benefited either. It served no one for her to know his entire story, and him none of hers. They traveled together now, and trust would be an integral factor to the survival of this companionship. A part of her though, that part that was infinitely stubborn, argued that real trust could never be established between two arguably untrustworthy individuals.
Vehk made for an interesting listener – one who discovered the poetry in mundanity. It was an interesting development, that she wished that somehow, the two could speak openly. And she wondered if it was naive to hope that after all this time, there could be a crack in their masks. Perhaps even lift the mask off, for they performed for no one now. However, contrary to her facade being a gift to the people, Vehk's was a gift to himself.
(*(*(*(*(*(*(*(*(*(*(*(*(*(*(*(*(*(*(*
In the parlor they were sat, across from each other. Breakfast had been a quiet affair, with either of them too busy contemplating the other's thoughts. It was a wicked game they played, a game he would win eventually, because she was more suggestible and given to cracking under pressure, than he was.
Sets of attire were spread across the rough floor, a remnant of Ayleid architecture too far gone for it to be seen as such by a commoner. Ilsme has lived in the Heartland though, has seen countless Ayleid artifacts in her life, and could identify it wherever she was in the world. Vehk sat, cross-legged, looking pensively between her and the clothing, but she did not falter underneath his scrutinizing gaze.
Where he fell short in some, she had no doubt in her mind that he was a good mentor. He had been to Nerevar, and it was because of that connection that she'd sought him out in Vvardenfell, months and months ago. In the public eye, he was the pinnacle of mastery and the mentoring of the commoner, but in effect, she knew he was extremely impatient and exacting in his ways. Ilsme does not blame him, though – when one has mastered so much at the sheer depth that he has, it can be difficult to imagine where to begin when teaching it to another.
Reminded of her apprenticeship with the University, and further her apprenticeship under Master Aryon, she easily slid into the role of student. Vehk would understand her thirst for conceptual depth, as he shared it with her.
As it were, his gaze was severe, though not hostile. He was preparing himself, then. He taught the people through parable and myth, and rarely did he teach anyone like this. She'd not considered that this may be unfamiliar to him at this point.
"You've not taught a student in millennia, have you?" It was risky questioning, he could easily perceive it as a threat against his abilities.
"Not in these arts." He answered, smirking at her in a way that invoked an ancient familiarity. Unpredictable, Nerevar would say of him. "I assume you're aware of the nature of soul gems, and why I would caution against them."
Indeed. Soul gems were often regarded as a necessary evil by all those who studied the arcane arts. Their nature was tied to the entrapment of another's, or a thing's, soul, a concept that attracted many a Daedra, who were in direct opposition to the one sitting before her. Most chose to ignore the implications of soul gems, Ilsme herself was guilty of this, and she was hungry to hear a distinctive take on it.
"Your reasons for cautioning against them could be numerous, Vehk. Not only is it cruel to trap a living thing's soul from the afterlife, but doing so is the dominion of many a Daedra. Molag Bal, being chief among them."
Vehk gave her an almost indulgent look, if his features were sculpted for indulging others. They weren't. They were fit for enticing others, and if she'd not known him as she did, she may have blushed underneath the attention, which was likened to the attention that a predator gave to its prey. Nonetheless, she remained somewhat stoic in the face of his endlessly artful, and subtle condescension. She'd nearly forgotten what it was like to be in his presence, when he knew something that others knew not.
It was oddly mortal of him, though that part of entities lived and breathed even unto the ascension that Vehk's sort achieved.
"Partially correct, my friend. One could even dare say mostly." His ruby eyes shone with excitement. It was truly contagious, for Ilsme, who'd not seen such an expression on his beautiful face in thousands of years.
When there is little you do not know, few things bring with them anticipation. But with the passing of time, came a greater understanding of the significance of these mundane things, the little things were rendered invaluable. Millions of worshipers and their alms could not twist the mer before her, who had an awareness of self beyond her own imagining. Vehk enjoyed performance, enjoyed playing a thousand parts in a tale of his own making, though what was at the absolute core of Vehk? For a couple of years now, she's been sure he was fit more for a mentor at heart than a performer, for he could lie to a thousand but not to himself. A truly good performer could lie to oneself, like Ayem.
"I will reveal to you, in the simplest of terms, why the Daedra so covet the souls of mortal things, and why we must not surrender them unto those… sly creatures." There was a hint of spite in his otherwise tranquil, even utterance. "The Daedra do not possess a soul, this much is known by you, and any who have studied the arcane at length. They lack the most integral component of living things, trapped in a state of confusion between what is and what isn't. Thus, hunger follows. Evermore, they are hungry for that which they can never have: life. Such preoccupation is doomed, for acquisition rooted in greed rarely amounts to anything substantial, or indeed truly gratifying, much like a financier who seeks wealth despite having an unreasonable amount of it in his possession. He is never truly satisfied. Therefore, we as mortals should never, in good conscience, ruse them into believing they can ever attain the unattainable."
His reasoning, as she'd imagined was complex, and she doubted it was rooted entirely in virtue. Vehk had never shied away from artifice, but she supposed she could be wrong. Unlike Vehk, she had not the need to always be right. Only most of the time.
"Where is it that a trapped soul goes, if not bound to a Prince as is usual? So little have I heard of the Ideal Masters, though I have heard enough to know their frequent intervention in the trapping of the mortal soul."
"An unbound Anuic animus will be summoned to the Soul Cairn, where the Ideal Masters grasp at each one with unscrupulous reverence. Knowledge of it is difficult to happen upon, especially in our race's homeland, where necromancy is a subject spoken only in whispers. Some is known about it, to those who seek it. Sil related to me the nature of said plane, and it only furthered my vision to find a greater, more ethical method to enchanting. Let it be known that such cruelty is unknowable to mortals, only a fraction of it can be seen by those who are not among the dead." He was serious now, a topic that demanded seriousness – for how many mortals did comprehend the gravity of this topic? The gravity of what was at stake? They'd not the time, of course, unlike present company.
It reminded her that at Vehk's core, no matter how it manifested corporeally, that he was virtuous. At this, she found herself a bit lost in thought, watching him underneath the light of the room, which entered the Ayleid window, and reflected a thousand colors on the angular, effeminate panes of his face. On either pointed ear were there several holes of piercings long shed, a history of decadence engraved into his very skin, though it had not touched his soul. The first signs of hair grew on his head now, a dusting of black, which looked so foreign on him now as to invoke a memory of long hair, which he'd once camouflaged with dyes that suited his fancy. And every fancy was fleeting, changing like leaves in an autumnal land.
"The theory we are working with is peculiar in that it is one's own magic sacrificed, instead of sacrificing another's. In this, the price is small, but the skill required to perform it is exacting. You have never been dull, and I seriously doubt that it will take much from you to complete it." He stated, his fingers searching for the first piece of attire they would be working on. It was one of her blouses, which she'd bought at the marketplace. A thin, chiffon top that was as blue as periwinkles, and had long, bell sleeves.
She had some questions, though rarely did she ask them, preferring to find answers herself. Though who else could answer the questions concerning this obscure discipline, besides Vehk? Effectively, it was surrendering to his wisdom, for which he had an insurmountable supply of. Nerevar had been confident enough to say with certainty that he knew Vehk, but she was not. Again, he was like the banks of sand on the sea – layers could be removed, but after some time, one would find that even more sand had congealed together to form a reinforced bank. No, she did not know him completely, and thus she did not know if he would betray her as he had Nerevar. However, in good faith, she would trust him, until he gave her reason not to.
"What does this entail? I don't believe you're suggesting sacrificing one's own magicka in the sense that spellcasting requires. Are you suggesting, then, that one transfer's their magic into an object? If so, then theoretically, the connection would need to be severed quickly, so the caster wouldn't perish from the magical drain. Am I correct in assuming this?" She asked, voice laced with honest curiosity.
"Ah, but the connection need not be severed if it was never a part of the whole to begin with." One light brow crooked at that, and she found her eyes narrowing in confusion, until understanding dawned on her face. "Magic yields to the theory of forms in physicality. There are few who show true understanding of this. Any thing on this plane conforms to its laws. Therefore, magic made manifest into a form, will be separated from the caster's reservoir, if you will. Anything that is, is its own. Will, then, must be rendered unto magic made corporeal, and bade to another form of one's liking."
"Magic is then, no longer, a higher state of being, as it is within ourselves. This then implies that magic's superior manifestation is in the mind, where the contents know permanency. And when used for sorcery, is degraded to a lower state of being." She says, more to herself than to him. She is wholly intrigued now, enraptured with revelation. "Magic is no longer property of oneself when cast into the material plane. It is then the province of Lorkhan, whose will is unshakable save for-"
"Mortal ambition." He finished. Her gaze found his, shocked at the almost.. youthful eagerness in it. "Compromise was made with the cunning one, and it will be made – again, again, and again. The spell you will use to enchant your clothing will be cast… on nothing. As it floats before the tips of your fingers, you will then force yourself upon it with the intention of change. Only then, can it embrace the object of your choosing."
Ilsme fixed her stare on a point a thousand yards away, past Vehk, trying to recall any memory of hers that corresponded to the theory he was teaching her now. None of them did. She took a minute to herself, to properly digest the curriculum at hand, and what she found was nothing short of awe-inspiring. Truly, it was an impeccable theory made useful in practical spellcasting. So impeccable was it, that she uttered under her breath.
"Brilliant…" A mistake of awareness, a slip in form.
Her cheeks were flush with lavender now, though she uttered little else. Unwise was it, to let slip her opinion on his brilliance so freely. Vehk rarely respected those who admired him – it was known by any who knew him before he mantled godhood.
For his part, Vehk said nothing. There was silence now, as was common between the two, and never burdensome for they were naturally inclined to it. Ilsme considered her skill with enchanting to be proper, and fit for the occasion. Aryon had valued enchanting over most of the other schools, excepting Alteration, which she had an innate skill with.
Gently, she took her blouse from his hands, which were holding the piece of clothing loosely. Reassuringly, she cast a smile at the mer, who returned it only after a few seconds. She felt his eyes watching her, cataloging her every move – every breath, every tic, every weakness. Ilsme is no stranger to conducting herself in front of an audience, and so she does not bend to his flattering, watchful presence, as he doubtlessly expected she would.
It was a game they played, like so many others. There was admiration there, and on her part, there was a deep, begrudging reverence for the wisdom of the elder mer. However, there was always this gnawing, biting urge to outdo him in some way, and if outdoing him was out of the question, then subtle flattery was preferred. This was the language they spoke to one another, the only language that either were fully fluent in. One day, perhaps, when thoughts of foul play from millennia past were soothed, she could find a true friend in Vehk.
Though as it were, she would wait for him. And the wait could be tremendous.
