Chapter 3:

The knock was soft but audible, and it roused the napping man from his place by the fire. The flames were dying down this late into the cool night, and he cursed himself for being less attentive. This was not the sort of time to be dozing, and the knock was his reminder. With a yawn, the Imperial rose and stretched while pulling a poisoned dagger from his belt. Either the company that he'd been expecting had arrived or someone less desirable had decided to stop by. Where was that damned Nordic guard when he wanted him? And suddenly he remembered that he'd fired the moron for stealing alcohol from the stores. Still, the extra muscle would have been nice about now. He wasn't a man who was terribly skilled at combat, for diplomacy was his field, and he was accustomed to hiring others for less pleasant work.

I can still spill blood. He moved toward the door and opened a small, gated window at its center. He loathed direct combat like that which he'd seen in the arena, and yes, he had attended the battles on several occasions to satisfy parties that he'd happened to be accompanying, but hacking and slashing was not his idea of worthwhile combat. Honor, bravery—screw it. A knife in the back was so much simpler and more appealing. It was with that thought in mind that he stared at the cloaked figure beyond his door. The black cowl hid anything of the person's face, and old stories of the dark brotherhood came to mind, but Horace Pantrov brushed them aside.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"We serve the same master," came the enigmatic reply. So it was the company that he'd been expecting. Excellent.

"Quietly," Horace warned as he unlocked the door and stepped aside. The cloaked figure entered his home, which was situated in the Elvin Gardens District, and moved to stand by the fire. "Some wine?"

"That would be acceptable." Horace moved to a nearby cupboard and poured two glasses before seating himself in his previous position. His visitor remained standing, and Horace wondered if it was an attempt at intimidation. He could still make out nothing of his visitor except that the man was tall and swimming in robes one size too large. Even the voice gave no hint of race or personality, for it was controlled and neutral. Mehrunes had chosen his representative well.

"How can I be of service?" Horace asked, and he wished that he could at least tell if the visitor was looking at him, but despite his annoyance, he was too well trained to betray his emotions. Danger drifted of this person in waves, telling Horace to keep himself politely distant. He would behave himself like the diplomat that he was.

"Our master is planning a visit to the capitol," the dark figure stated.

Oh really? Horace knew that Mehrunes Dagon was a proud being who considered humans lesser creatures, so why would the daedra lord choose to appear as a weakling? It made no sense given the prince's disposition, and there was also the fact that Mehrunes was barred from this plane of existence, at least for the time being. Horace's surprise over these events must have shown, for his visitor's hood turned toward him, and the man's smile could be assumed from his tone.

"It is quite possible for our lord to come here," the laughing tone stated.

"Then the barrier is breaking," Horace approvingly nodded.

"Yes, but it is not time yet. His power here will be...lesser than it would be otherwise. The dragon fires have not been extinguished long, but our day approaches..."

"What's the occasion for Lord Dagon's visit?" Horace asked. And don't you think that our lord will be a little noticeable? The daedric princes were all very distinct in appearance, and Mehrunes was less human looking than someone like Sheogarth or Azura. He actually looked like some demon from a fairytale, and Horace had visited enough shrines to know that with certainty. On another note, wasn't the prince of destruction a little busy with his plans for world domination? Why come to the capitol?

"He is looking for the last heir," the dark figure was saying. "And he is tired of waiting for a decent contact in this city. He is displeased with your service, Horace. You have not discovered who is in the Blades or where the heir might be."

"I am doing my best considering that I must keep up appearances."

"Regardless, more is required. Our master will arrive in a week's time, and he expects you to provide a front for him. He is a diplomat and nobleman from Morrowind—one who worked in the royal court as an envoy in the Mercutino family." Hadn't that line died off? Horace folded his hands over his lap and listened carefully, his mind already spinning possibly explanations for a guest. "He will explain the details, and he shall stay with you when he first arrives."

"Old friends?" Horace guessed, a little unnerved by the thought of Mehrunes being under his roof. Serving the prince for gold and future status was one thing, but meeting him was another. He'd only ever spoken to representatives, not the man himself. This was going to be a real challenge, but a great opportunity if he played his cards well.

"Tell people what you like, but be prepared for his arrival. Also, he wishes for you to find out if the Blades have acquired any artifacts lately—specifically, one that might be stored at the arcane university. He knows that it is within the city walls, but not where. He very much wishes to get his hands on this artifact, and that will be a primary reason for his presence." Horace arched an eyebrow. Mehrunes was artifact hunting? He couldn't imagine how powerful the object would have to be to draw Mehrunes' attention and physical presence.

"You will, of course, make this worth my time," he stated. He was surprised when his visitor laughed, and what a nasty laugh it was. It rubbed against his nerves with its harshness, and he decided that he never wanted this man to visit him again.

"Perhaps you should ask our lord what he'll offer you. After all, he'll be here soon. I'm sure he'll indulge you." Horace kept a straight face as he stood from his seat and took a sip of wine.

"Derision is unnecessary," he calmly commented. "Can I interest you in a place to stay for the evening?" Please say 'no'. "Or perhaps you require food before departure?"

"Keep your stores. I am done here." Horace was happy to see the man heading for the door, and he held it open while his guest left. As the cloaked figure began walking away, he stepped outside with the wine glass in hand.

"Exactly how will I know him when I see him?" he asked.

"You'll know." And Horace shut the door, no longer aware of the cool breeze that swept inside with the action. This was going to be a long week. With a single motion, he downed the rest of his wine and decided that he needed another glass.

***********************

Portia read through the notes that Gilthan had given her and sighed. She wondered where he had learned all of this, for she had never even dreamed of the existence of chaos sphere or their ilk. Sure, everyone knew about the daedric princes. Children were raised being told that if they didn't behave, Molag Bal would get them, or that if they strayed into the woods, Clavicus Vile would appear as a child and trick them. Most of them were not particularly nice stories, and the princes were intimately involved in almost every aspect of life from history to art, and even events that she'd witnessed, like the madness of one of her former neighbors. That would be Sheogarth's doing, and his followers were absolute nut cases. Each daedra had worshippers, and Portia subscribed to none of them, especially not Sheogarth.

Gilthan's notes supplied her with information on the powerful entities that she had never before known since she'd never before paid attention to the daedra. According to his research, the daedric princes could assume human form to interact with mortals, although they usually didn't bother. For instance, Mehrunes did not favor humans since he preferred more powerful and violent beings like dremora, and so he deemed it beneath him to assume human shape. He was only rumored to have done so once, and it had been to make the chaos spheres. Of course, if he had transformed at other times, who had lived to tell the tale? Portia didn't imagine that many survived encounters with him, and so she turned to the next page of notes.

Mehrunes was destructive, but he maintained an orderly domain in the deadlands. In fact, compared to other daedra, he was extremely rigid in controlling his followers. They were trained fighters and enforcers of his will, and they dwelled in a city where merit earned them rewards.

"Some preferred to wander the human plane of existence, and they could often be found at daedric shrines," Portia read aloud. That, she had known, but what she hadn't realized was that Mehrunes was trapped in oblivion the majority of the time. Oh, he could leave, but his presence in this realm was never whole, and since the Septims had taken the throne, powerful wards had prevented him from leaving his realm. He rarely escaped, and Gilthan had left her a small note that suggested that Mehrunes was probably still bound to oblivion since he had not managed a large assault on the human realm yet. That revelation brought some relief to Portia, but she couldn't prevent a chill from running down her back. The thought of Mehrunes searching for her...

He's in oblivion. You're in a lovely house surrounded by guards. Summoning the resolve that had carried her through dark halls to seek a scroll and pendant, Portia flipped another page and continued to peruse the notes. Part of her knew that desperation, not pure bravery, had saved her, but then one hand lifted to touch the earring dangling beside her face, and she remembered her anger at Mehrunes' attack on her body. The anger was gone, but the determination to never break at the brute's feet remained. She was not weak, even if she had gone to the market and bought herself a discount sleeping potion this afternoon. She would struggle through, and maybe, just maybe, she'd keep her life.

Portia shook her head and refocused on the notes before her. She soon found herself immersed in their information, and despite her recent experience, Mehrunes' lore was strangely fascinating. Very little was known about him besides his involvement in Mournhold's destruction and some political tampering, but he was definitely an ambitious and tampering being. Gilthan recommended a book to her, and she decided to check that out later, but until then, she supposed that it was very late. Perhaps tonight she would sleep well since Mehrunes was locked away, and she did have that potion. The seller's advice had been to take the sleeping draught directly before bed and to carefully clear her mind. Normally Portia wouldn't have even bothered to seek help, but she did not know how much of her nightmares were her own doing or the chaos sphere's effects on her body. After all, Gilthan had warned her about a connection to oblivion.

"Here goes nothing," she mused, and uncorked a purple bottle. The liquid inside was oddly chilling as it ran down her throat, and the effects were almost immediate. Her knees wobbled, and she quickly slipped into bed. The window was open as usual, for she loved the breeze while she slept, and the soft blankets rubbed warmly against her chin. Never mind that the air was cool, for it reminded her of home, and there was something incredibly peaceful about that. She checked to make sure that the usual knife was under her pillow, and then she closed her eyes.

The dreams began almost immediately, and as she tossed and turned, the orange orb against her neck began to glow. Its depths swirled like fire, almost burning her skin, and the sensation would have normally awoken the sleeping woman, but the potion had taken effect. Portia was lost to the world.

She sat on the chair where she'd been tossed, but she could barely keep upright. Her hands were tied behind her, and one eye was almost swollen shut from a sharp slap across the face. Apparently the dremora interrogating her didn't appreciate her calling his master a sick bastard. It was the truth though. Who else would order his assistants to do 'anything necessary' to get her to talk? So far it'd be rather mild, but she wasn't fool enough to think that it would last. Perhaps she should just talk. She had nothing to gain by silence except maybe a twisted sense of satisfaction, and she wasn't sure that such a sentiment would override pure physical torment.

"I told you to speak, human," the dremora said, voice neutral. He clearly didn't care about his task one way or the other, and in the silence following his words, Portia ran eyes over his red and black armor. It was grotesque but suited his intimidating presence, and the equipment was highly sought after as the top heavy armor in Tamriel. Very few people could brag about owning such magnificent protection.

"How did you get into oblivion?" the dremora again asked.

"A spell," Portia half-answered, knowing that it wouldn't satisfy this being.

"Such a spell doesn't exist. Speak the truth."

"It is the truth!" Portia retorted. "Why don't you just feed me some tell-all potion and get it over with?" The dremora's face didn't alter from its stony expression, even when he hit her so hard that she fell from the chair. Her head was spinning, and she fought for consciousness. Damn her mouth, but aggressive comments were the only way to keep from buckling under this being's demands. She could feel the cracks running through her resolve.

"Human, Master Dagon wants this information, and he will get it. If you do not tell me, he will come to question you himself, and you don't want that." Portia rolled over, her swollen hands aching with pain from bindings that were too tight, and stared up at her captor. She knew this was a dream, a memory of what she had already endured. She knew that she was about to be hit with destruction magic, and yet she felt powerless to avoid the pain. She would wake up bleeding yet again.

Perhaps she could change what happened and escape this nightmare, but the thought was incoherent and fuzzy as the destruction spell hit her. Everything felt so real, from the cold stones beneath her to the smell of charred flesh. She lost her sense of reality, and yet it whispered from the recesses of her consciousness. Fight it, Portia. You can control your own mind.

She should be waking up about now. She half expected to open her eyes and find herself in bed, blood on the sheets yet again. Wet copper filled her mouth and dribbled from her chin, and she wished that the dremora would flip her onto her side so that she could spit out her own blood. He wouldn't. He never did, and it frustrated her.

Damn it, Portia. This is only a dream!

"Enough!" she yelled, and instantly the pain ceased. She slowly opened her eyes to find that the dremora stood frozen, and she quickly scooted into a sitting position, the stones hard and freezing beneath her skin.

It's a dream. The full realization made her smile in grim satisfaction, but she was also confused. On the rare occasions where reason won out over pain, the full realization of dreaming was immediately followed by waking up. That was how it worked, although she almost always woke up from the pain of her hip rather than consciously escaping. So why wasn't she awake right now? She couldn't even fathom how she was so coherent while asleep.

"Ouch!" she gasped as she stood. In dreamland, the mark on her hip was gone, but when she touched where it should have been, intense pain shot through her side. She was bleeding in her bed, but the pain wasn't waking her. "Damn sleeping draught," she realized. That had to be the explanation, and so she was trapped here for some indeterminate time, left to do nothing but curse the mage who had sold her the potion. He had warned that the draught worked differently for different people. Sometimes the drinkers were left dreaming of pleasant things, and others didn't dream at all. In both cases, a full night's sleep was guaranteed, and Portia wondered if that perhaps meant that you could have horrible dreams but not wake up. You would, after all, get the promised amount of sleep whether or not it was pleasant. She should have known better than to blindly trust a potion seller's word.

With nothing to do, she began walking, and she was amazed that none of the guards bothered her. They walked by her like she wasn't there, and what was even more puzzling was that she did not recognize her surroundings. When she relived her memories, she obviously only revisited places that she'd actually seen. This was definitely still oblivion, but she was in areas of the palace where she'd never wandered. To her left, she saw a strange statue of a human wrapped in chains, and she wondered how her dreamy mind had imagined it. Perhaps these images were being conjured by her subconscious, but there was no way to know her certain.

She paused beside an open room where two dremora were conversing in a strange tongue. Their voices were gruff and seemingly excited, but that was only a guess. They jabbered away, and Portia was about to leave when she caught the word 'Skingrad'. Her eavesdropping felt strangely real rather than fabricated as she moved closer to the figures, and she was shocked when one of the dremora laughed and said something in common tongue.

"We'll hold them." The other joined in the laughter. Hold them? Portia hadn't heard anything about an attack on Skingrad, but this was a dream, and it didn't need to make sense. Her feet continued moving, and then she found herself at his rooms. Her blood chilled and she stood facing his doors in trepidation.

This is ridiculous. It's a dream. She had taken one of his most powerful artifacts in retaliation and lived to tell the tale, so surely she could survive this. She steeled her nerves and moved forward, stepping into the familiar room that she knew belonged to Mehrunes Dagon. She nearly had a heart attack when she saw him there, pacing across the floor before his bed. Two of his arms were behind his back, and the others hung at his sides, clenching and unclenching. He only wore a black and gold cloth wrapped around his waist, exposing most of his body to Portia's view, and terrified at she was, she remained stock still and watched him. His perfectly sculpted, muscular form move back and forth as her mouth grew increasingly dry. And in her silent stance, she noticed for the first that Mehrunes Dagon moved like and had the habits of a human, even if he looked like a demon.

Then his head turned in her direction.

Portia stiffened. She couldn't help it. Even though this was a dream and not a memory, his presence seemed to suffocate her, and those black eyes was looking right at her, not through her like the other beings that she'd encountered here. Her heart pounded, and her hand unconsciously searched her waist for the dagger that was normally there, but Mehrunes did not move. He uttered something in the same unintelligible tongue as the dremora, and when he received no response, he continued pacing.

"Gods," Portia breathed in relief, wanting nothing more than to leave this place, yet she stayed and watched the lord of oblivion. She was almost afraid that moving would break the peace and make him attack her. She knew from firsthand experience that he was incredibly strong. She had never stood a chance at escape when he seized her that first time, annoyed to find a human in his personal space. She was surprised that he had merely roughed her up and then tossed her to his guards for questioning, for she'd half expected him to personally handle the matter, and yet, he had left. Perhaps other business had called. Ruling an entire domain had to be demanding.

Are you really thinking about this now, Portia?

She took a tentative step backward and prepared to leave. Standing in Mehrunes' room and contemplating his personal life and physical strength was not what she wanted to be doing. She backed away, but stopped when he suddenly stopped. Her heart began racing again, and she was unpleasantly surprised when he turned in her direction and approached. Like a frozen rabbit, her legs tensed while she remained still. He wasn't exactly looking at her, but his eyes were roaming the general area as if searching for something.

His large frame came closer and closer, and Portia couldn't help but back up now.

It's a dream, she reminded herself. If she could cut and tear at the real Mehrunes, she could handle a replication in her sleep. She stopped moving and refused to budge as the daedric prince halted not two feet from where she stood. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. One of his arms extended toward her, and she gasped when it grazed her cheek. It didn't exactly touch her, for his fingers sailed right through what should have been solid flesh, but she felt the contact. His skin was warm, but the nails sharp, and a strange burning sensation on the side of her neck accompanied his touch.

"What do we have here?" Mehrunes mused, voice low and thoughtful. Portia didn't understand what was happening, because this was a dream, yet it felt as real as any memory that she'd relived. Let me out. That's what she wanted, but she could not leave, and now Mehrunes was reaching for her chest, although he obviously couldn't see her. If he could…well, she didn't want to think about that.

His hand passed through her chest and left her tingling with an uncomfortable sensation. She spun on her heels and ran from his chambers, deciding to go before the dream grew any stranger. She kept moving until she found a dark corner where she sat panting against the wall, the feel of his hands fresh in her mind. She waited there for the draught to wear off, and she kept checking by jabbing herself in the side. Eventually the pain had to wake her, and it did, but not until the late morning hours. The potion had done its job; she'd slept through the entire night.