Tachkal forced himself to his feet, hissing as blood gushed from his wound. He waited for something to resurface, expecting the corpse of his mistress and an uninjured Dragon Priest. Breathing heavily, his scanning eyes found nothing. The formerly cacophonous chamber rang quiet once more, only the lap of the disturbed pool keeping him company. He held his side, knowing that all the healing potions were in Dianthe's pack, which was now somewhere underwater with her. Finally he forced one foot in front of the other and trudged into the clear jade water. Poppy red blossomed around him, staining the waters with his daedric blood as he searched. Taking a deep breath, he dove.
He found her unmoving, wedged under the Dragon Priest's armor. Grabbing her arm he dragged her free, breaking the surface with a ragged gasp as his side stung from the heavy breaths. Tossing Dianthe's body on the stone at the foot of the word wall he climbed from the pool, rivulets of water and blood running from his armor. Dianthe didn't move. Her chest immobile and lips parted lifelessly.
Tachkal could still feel the faint pull of his binding to the mortal and through that he knew she was close to death. The lightning scars trailed over her pale skin like pink spider webbing, her clothing and pack as waterlogged as the inside of her damaged body. If he wished, Tachkal could allow her to die. It would be easy, maybe even a just punishment for what she'd done to him. His lips pulled into a mean grin, thinking of how he'd lay claim to her soul in Oblivion and spend all eternity correcting her for her mistake in binding him. He dropped to a knee, staring down over the just alive girl. His dark hair hung in wet clumps, droplets falling from him to her face. He leaned in closer, ragged gasps blowing against her parted lips. With a heavy breath, Tachkal came to a conclusion.
"BREATH, WHORE," he bellowed, not a hand's breadth from her face. Dianthe's eyes flew open, fright restarting her heart. She made to scream but gagged, rolling to her side to retch water over the stone while Tachkal dug through her pack for healing potions.
Dianthe finished clearing her lungs and set about wiping the tears, snot, and saliva from her face, "is he dead? Did we win?" she croaked. Tachkal sat heavily, choosing not to answer her as he drained potion after potion. Dianthe eventually got her face clean and in the process discovered the sensitive red streaks marking her skin. Together daedra and mortal polished off half the healing potions and a small jar of paste, still drenched and sitting before a dormant word wall. When she was feeling reasonably alive again Dianthe dove down into the pool to collect what she could from the fallen Priest's remains, resurfacing wearing his horrible mask. She enjoyed the small start her Dremora gave at the sight of her helmed face before swimming over to loot the chest, Tachkal moving through the shallows with her pack to get to her side.
Moving into the connected chamber Dianthe and Tachkal dripped over the dusty stone floor, warily approaching a dark book set upon a pedestal. Dianthe frowned, first to approach the tome. It was odd, seemingly bound in dry wrinkled leather that somehow pulsed. She teetered closer, craving to know what this odd book held within the confines of its engorged pages. Raising a hand, she brushed her fingertips against the coarse cover only to have Tachkal haul her back by the scruff of her armor. She frowned up at him.
"Don't touch that," was all he said through clenched teeth, shoving the girl ahead of him and out of the chamber.
"So we've got a Priest's mask, that weird red sword, a pouch full of jewels, the guy's great grandda's journal, some Empire pendants, enough coin to pay for a room at the Netch for another week, and we only had to both nearly die and use up half our supplies and ruin all the food and a load of the ingredients I had on me to get it all," Dianthe grumbled, "lovely. Well at least we know the Razor's still instantly killing things." They both sat in the crumbling fortress the mine turned barrow had led them too. Tachkal had thrown just about every reaver from the high bridges and chuckled when their bodies cracked against the ground. Dianthe had stripped out of her light Dawnguard armor near a lit brazier, hanging the garments on a nearby staircase to dry. Looking over her summon as he too began removing his soaked and damaged armor, she smacked a hand over her face and dragged it.
"We've got to have Glover look at that cuirass, it's completely wrecked," she huffed. She could already feel the wealth leeching from their purse at the thought. Tachkal didn't respond, continuing to peel off his damaged clothing until he only wore a loincloth. Dianthe likewise was down to her skivvies, eating the remains of a reaver's meal of baked potatoes and roasted boar. Tachkal had found some horker steak and was ripping into that, tearing it apart with his teeth while his hair dried.
It was quickly decided that the Dremora wanted the Bloodskal blade for himself. After eating he got up and took a few practice swings with the new greatsword, scaring Dianthe out of her skin when a ribbon of red energy slammed into the far wall. Dianthe whispered thanks to every god she knew that she hadn't been in the way of that while a mean grin exposed Tachkal's fangs. For the rest of the time they waited for their clothing to dry Dianthe watched him practice with the greatsword, letting her eyes drift to the silver knot of lightning scars the speckled his side and the rippling muscles that flexed with every powerful step and swing. Curiously she traced her own new scarring, the irritated pink already settled into a cool shining white.
It wasn't quite a blood pact or as influential as their binding, but in a way the shared injury felt right. Physical proof they were brother and sister in arms now, tied to each other for better or worse.
The couple made it back to Raven Rock in the late evening, stopping in at Glover's first. Dianthe had Tachkal remove the cuirass, handing over the damaged piece while the Dremora stood shirtless in the middle of town. She could just feel the Redoran guards glaring them down.
"Well, good news is the mine's back open thanks to you two. I can get you the ebony and leather for free, but the daedra hearts are going to be a problem," the blacksmith rubbed his jaw, fingering the damaged armor. Dianthe had been expecting as much, "any idea where we can find some?"
"Not a one. I can put in an order with Gjalund about getting some through the East Empire Company but it'll be weeks before he's in port again. And he still may not have them," he warned. Dianthe shook her head, knowing short of travelling to an orc stronghold or the College of Winterhold this was the best shot.
"Do that, I'd appreciate it." They finished up their business, leaving the cuirass with Glover. Leading the still indecent Tachkal to Fethis, Dianthe quickly rummaged through his wares. The Dunmer looked up from where he was working at the tanning rack, cocking an eyebrow, "looking for anything particular, outlander?"
"Still have that Dawnguard armor I sold you a while back?" she asked, popping open a trunk. He nodded; pointing her to where the heavy gray armor lay. Pulling that out along with a few other provisions to replace her waning stock, Dianthe paid for her purchase with the Empire pendants and the ugly Priest's mask. Arms filled with the armor she crossed back to Glover's house and set to work on altering it.
Dianthe wasn't the best smith but she'd picked up a few things over the years. She could alter most armors to fit different body types as well as improve them, although not too greatly. It was well past nightfall before she finished her work, heaving the heavy product into her Dremora's lap.
"Put it on," she ordered.
He curled his lip, "I don't want to wear this, tramp."
"You can't walk around half naked and it's going to be a while before your armor's fixed. So just wear this in the meantime," she huffed, putting Glover's borrowed tools away.
Tachkal wondered what he had done to anger his lord in such a way as to be stuck with this mortal. Perhaps this torture was meant to make it all the sweeter when he had her soul in Oblivion. Pulling on the Dawnguard armor, he grimaced at its pathetic thinness. The wide pauldrons felt light and childish compared to his usual daedric spikes. Dianthe studiously circled him, asking Tachkal to bend and twist or raise his arms to test the fit.
"Look at that, I'm so talented," she purred, more than pleased with how well it had come out. Tachkal glared at her over his shoulder, not for the first time wishing he could twist her skull from her shoulders. Still, she had given him something to wear. As nonchalant as they were with each other's bodies he still wasn't fond of being so exposed to the other mortals. Reluctantly he followed Dianthe as she dropped off the journal and collected her coin from the crazy old man, eventually returning to the cornerclub.
The Retching Netch was filled to the brim with ecstatic Dunmer, the sujamma flowing like water in celebration of the reopened mines. Geldis and half the customers cheered at the sight of the weary Breton, the attention turning her pink and making her smile bashfully at the ground. Tachkal was more interested in the free meal of horker and ash yam stew they were served, following Dianthe as she fled to eat in the privacy of their room. He shut the door behind him, spinning the lock into place as she settled on the bed. Gulping down the meal with eagerness he hadn't seen her possessing in months, Dianthe finished her stew and half a loaf of bread before sprawling back against a pillow. Tachkal ate more slowly, finishing off two loaves of bread and a bottle of flin while Dianthe wandered from the room to ask Drovas for a bathing basin. When she returned and set up the bath, he watched her with barely contained boredom.
"You're not getting under those sheets if you don't wash," Dianthe warned, dumping a bucket of hot water over her head. She sat in the basin, using a bar of soap bought from Fethis to scrub away the mildew odor from the barrow and the frankly sour body smell the ashlands had a way of instilling in a person's skin. Tachkal grimaced but nodded, stripping and washing once she'd gotten out of the water and pulled on a long sleeping tunic. For what she's worth, Dianthe was a considerate woman. She pulled a stool to sit behind Tachkal and helped him scrub his immense back while he sat with his feet in the basin. She washed his hair for him and even bothered scrubbing the faint ash dinge from his alabaster horns, handing him his pants when he'd finally finished. They were both done washing before the water had cooled. Together they ended up climbing into bed.
When they used to have coin to spare Dianthe would pay for Tachkal to have his own room. She'd even get him one with the double beds, knowing he didn't fit in the singles comfortably. The past months had put a damper on their wallet since she'd picked up the moon sugar habit and they'd been forced to share a bed for quite some time. At first it had been odd, Dianthe had never shared a bed with another male unless they'd been sharing each others bodies, and Tachkal had never shared a bed with a mortal. They'd quickly gotten over the issue when Tachkal reasoned Dianthe was closer to an animal than a daedra and Dianthe reasoned Tachkal was incredibly warm and more like a furnace than a man.
Unfortunately tonight Dianthe fell sleep. Whether she'd planned to or not it didn't matter, as soon as she hit the pillow sleep had taken her. Tachkal took a bit longer finding a comfortable position and was aware the moment his bedmate was found by Vaermina's touch. He rolled onto his side, propped up on an elbow to watch her suffer.
And suffer she did.
Dianthe clutched the pelts, curled in on herself and gasping against her pillow. Sweat beaded her furrowed brow, her lips parted for quiet pants and faint whines. Tachkal leaned in closer, feeling his heart swell with fondness for her tortured expression. The fearful shivering, Vaermina's hellish visions flooding her mind, it was perfection. He sighed contentedly, feeling a quiet joy flood his chest. He cherished these scant chances to see her in pain, his gaze roaming luxuriously over her tense posture and plump quivering lips. Dianthe whimpered and Tachkal reacted bodily, his cock straining against his oppressively tight pants.
Dianthe chose that moment to seek out comfort, desperately trying to find release from her nightmares, nuzzling in against the Dremora's chest. Tachkal froze, clenching his jaw as her thigh pressed against his stiffness. She burrowed against him, trembling bodily. The daedra's hand hovered over her back, caught midway between holding her to him and shoving her from the bed. He hesitated, the small thing against his chest quietly pleading for help through her terrors.
Vaermina's hold was powerful and sure, Dianthe would be trapped in dream well into the morning so long as the Prince willed it. Tachkal knew this and knew that Dianthe's body was at his mercy until then. With the binding he was only promised not to harm her, and he could do so much within that tenet. He felt his cock twitch at the thought, goading him into using her for his own pleasure. The Dremora threaded his fingers through her long hair. He brought the silken strands to his lips, inhaling the soft scent of soap and marveling at the way the pale strands stood against his ebon fingers. Exploring her further Tachkal slid his nails across her hip, grasping a handful of the soft flesh and growling in the back of his throat, barely stopping himself from thrusting against her.
She shifted, her soft thigh rubbing against him. Precum began to drip from his hardening cock. It urgently and painfully strained against his breeches in favor of the unwitting and helpless girl at his side. Dianthe was all but offering herself to him, her flesh nothing more than a vessel he could spill his seed in, a means to an end that couldn't refuse him. Scowling, the Dremora flipped onto his other side, glaring at the far wall as he bent his knees so his feet wouldn't stick out over the foot of the bed. Dianthe remained pressed into his back, trapped in Vaermina's realm as Tachkal suffered his own disgust at the throbbing hardness in his groin.
She awoke with a start, a choked shriek strangling her throat as she returned to the world of the waking. Dianthe remained in bed for a while more, swaddled in pelts sobbing and trying not to vomit. It was always this way after she slept, somehow her body even weaker and the bags under her eyes even darker. At least she was keeping her stomach contents down, some mornings she wasn't so lucky.
Tachkal was dressed and seated on the edge of the bed with his back to her. He had barely looked at her all morning, making it his business to respond with only short grunts when she asked for things. After she'd collected herself enough to dress, she reclined back into her pillows and indulged in her moon sugar. Tachkal snorted.
"Do you have something to say?" she snapped, glaring as she eased into the bedding, her whole body falling limp. The Dremora turned in place, his arms crossed, "you're weak, unable to face your own fears, having to use that sugar to cope. How very expected of you mortals."
She scoffed, flapping her hand at him, "you have no idea what you're talking about. Immortals could never understand."
"Is that so, harlot?"
"Yes!" she shouted, "I'm only given so long to live, even by mortal standards my lifetime is short compared to the damned elves, and that witch Vaermina's made it her business to ruin what little I have."
"Then why bind us? Before only your life would be forfeit, there was a chance you would escape suffering after death but now you've only ensured it," he hissed, narrowing his eyes. Dianthe huffed, rolling onto her side and nudging Tachkal's hip with her cold toes. He swatted her away, eliciting a whining complaint from the girl.
"I was scared, I didn't want to die," she sighed, throwing a pelt over her head, "I would have been killed sooner or later with all the cultists after me, so I made a choice. It was stupid and I was desperate when I made it but I don't regret it. So."
Tachkal's brow furrowed, milling over her words. Even for a mortal it demonstrated a significant lack of intelligence, her decision bringing her more pain and suffering than a quick death no matter which way Tachkal looked at the issue. The lump of pelts sighed, "see, I knew you wouldn't understand."
"And I don't want to be using forever. I'll stop when I can stand sleeping again," the lump muttered. Tachkal very much doubted her words but found himself bored with the conversation.
Idly he fingered the knick in his ear, the one he'd received from the Razor during he and Dianthe's first meeting. It had been the catalyst that bound him, only by bloodletting from the Bane of the Righteous had he been caught in her contract. He had once pressed her for where she'd got the scroll she'd used for entrapping him. Apparently she'd pocketed it after rummaging through a vampire clan's castle years back. The magic was old, the scroll itself probably the last of its kind, and it had the misfortune to fall into her dubious hands.
Tachkal glared at the bedside table where Mehrunes' Razor lay, glinting in the flickering orange lantern light. How unfortunate that Dagon's champion was a shivering puddle hiding in her bed, scared of her own dreams. Tachkal wondered again what his lord had seen in this girl, this pathetic sniveling mess of a mortal.