Okay, so to clear a few things up: I realize that the daedric script is actually just a substitution for the English alphabet, and that words are basically the same; however, it seems to me that Oblivion and Tamriel might have differences in language, especially since the Dwemer and Ayleid had their own languages. It makes sense that the dremora would speak something different and older than the common tongue. That's the route that I've taken.
Also, this is the beginning of a second phase in the story, and Mehrunes Dagon will be more active, and his perspective will become important. I'm not entirely satisfied with my first portrayal of his thoughts, but oh well. As for any other questions, just shoot them my way. Read, enjoy, review.
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Chapter 10
Arelius stood by the window, keeping an eye on the courtyard below. His wife had strict instructions, that if anyone came looking for him, she was to lead them through the courtyard to reach his chambers and office. That way he could see them coming, and at a time when the mages were requesting to see him, he did not take that advantage lightly.
"I have an audience with the Arch-Mage in several days," he stated, keeping half of his attention outside and half on the two women in his company. One was Tamil, who although in pain, had returned to walking. She moved slowly, and her red eyes sometimes narrowed in silent strife, but she was whole and anxious to return to work. Her Dunmer features focused on Arelius with the attentiveness that he expected, her head propped elegantly on one hand, and a few black strands of hair dangling in her face.
Portia sat beside the dark elf, her green tunic more striking in color when compared to Tamil's black outfit. She was equally attentive, but her eyes did not glow with the promise of future missions as the elf's did. She was the more reserved in action of the two, for Tamil would jump into a fight, whereas Portia would test the waters first. Tamil was also often bitingly acerbic just for the hell of it, but when given a direct order, she tended to respectfully hold her opinions and do the job. It was a sharp contrast to Portia, who openly stated her opinion despite rank, and who, while seemingly more passive, would outright refuse to do something with which she couldn't agree. Arelius valued both of them in their differences, and he thought that together they'd make a beautiful team, even if both preferred working alone.
"What do the mages want?" Portia asked.
"As usual, they didn't say," Arelius stated, his obvious distaste for working with the university showing through. "But I'm sure that it has something to do with the chaos sphere. Perhaps they've found a way to secure it." Portia frowned while one of her hands moved to touch the sphere that was warm against her fingers. She had grown accustomed to the earring and its energy, despite the disconcerting flashes of Oblivion and Mehrunes' moods that accompanied it, and so she was no longer overly anxious to be rid of it. In fact, she needed the sphere if she was to implement her spying plan, and Arelius knew it.
She hadn't shared her entire plan with her superior yet, for she'd only informed him that she had visions of Oblivion, and that they corresponded to events in Tamriel, but he understood her intentions. Beyond that, she kept details to herself, not wanting to discuss her meetings with Mehrunes or her sudden physical afflictions, and she didn't need to. She'd dropped a subtle hint that she'd speak to Arelius when she had something worth sharing, and he'd taken the message in stride, knowing that she wouldn't have said anything if she didn't plan on making good on her words. She would do this, but on her terms, which was why she had approached him in such a manner. It was amazing what two people could tell each other without so many words.
"I've spoken with a friend in the university," Portia stated. "And he seems to think that the sphere is safer with me than the mages. Corruption will be an issue at the university."
"It's valuable," Tamil agreed. "And we've already seen that Traven is willing to use his office for personal agendas. I'd rather not give that necromancer hater a power boost. Has the monk said anything?"
"He wants the mages involved to control the artifact," Arelius explained. "But I've mentioned Portia's vision ability, and he's agreed to allow us flexibility. Until the artifact is safer somewhere else, we are to keep it. Even then, the university might not be the place that we ultimately store it, but we are still discussing the matter. Under no condition are we to give the mages any leverage."
"So what will you tell them?" Portia asked.
"You have an inside source, but do you trust him?" Arelius asked, and she nodded. "Then use your friend to keep an eye on the university's progress or intentions. For my part, I'll keep the mages out of our hair, and both of you are to continue working as if they weren't involved. If any problems arise," he fixed Portia with a commanding stare, "You'll report them directly to me."
"Yes, sir," Tamil said, Portia echoing her.
"Then we're finished for the day," he continued. "Tamil, I trust that you received the letter that I left in your room," and the elf nodded. "You have your instructions then. Portia, you are free to do as you see fit until I need you, but I'd request that you keep me informed on your research. You will be more reliable than the mages, I'm sure." Portia wanted to make a comment at his underlining message of "don't disappoint me", but she stilled her tongue, and he must have sensed it, for he lightly smiled. "I've also spoken to the palace librarian, and she is to allow you to remove books without the proper authorization process. No one will know what you're reading."
"Thank you," Portia replied, now feeling a little more secure in her situation. Having the support of two fellow Blades was appreciated, and their discretion could be counted on. "I'll see you both later" she bid the others as she stood and left. Tamil soon followed suit, and Arelius was left in solitude. Lucretia would send a servant with lunch in a matter of minutes, and then she'd arrive to keep him company. He smiled and longed for a night off so that he could give the lovely woman the attention that she deserved, but tonight wouldn't be the night, and thank Akatosh for long-suffering wives. He stepped back from the window and tossed Traven's request in the fireplace to be burned once the chill of the night set it.
The university had given him the bare minimum of information on the chaos sphere, and he'd suspected as much, but his suspicions had only been confirmed by Portia, who'd filled in many missing details. He wondered if she was withholding anything from him, but he couldn't be certain either way. She knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't ignore any endangerment to her health, and while she might trust his judgement, she didn't like his meddling. And so any omissions on her part might be an effort to block his fatherly nature from kicking in, and so long as that didn't inhibit her work, he'd let it slide. He smiled to himself and knew that he'd have to wait Portia's silence out—let her get comfortable with his guidance again. She had trusted him enough to come back to his service, and he would have to trust her enough to handle her own affairs with Oblivion.
Once, when she'd been a new recruit, she'd have told him anything and everything. He could remember how her eyes shone with pride when she completed a mission, and how she'd expressed herself more openly. That had changed over time, and while it hadn't surprised him, he was a bit disappointed that she'd become so cynical. Blades tended to become more serious and skeptical after years of near-death experiences and long, hard nights, but he always liked the bright optimism of recruits. They were anxious to please and charge into combat, but those traits were, by nature, flaws in a job where patience and calculation were most prized. Portia had been no different, except that maybe she'd been a little more adoring of him than others, and for a time, he was convinced that she was infatuated with him. She had since grown into a perfect Blade, or at least she would return to being one once she got back on her feet.
A knock sounded on his door, and he knew that it was lunch. He turned to open the door, having already made a decision about his meeting with mages. He trusted Portia more than them, and so he would tell them exactly what they had told him: nothing.
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Portia had time on her hands, and she wanted to use it wisely. With her language book in hand, she found her favorite spot in the palace library and settled down to read. Sunlight cascaded down through a circular window above her chair, and she watched the sunbeams spread across the floor, illuminating a finely woven carpet and the tips of her boots. It was a pleasant afternoon, and one on which she hadn't been working, which was a bonus. She really was lucky that her life was going so well, considering that she was a wanted woman.
The daedric alphabet and words flowed by her vision, but there was one particular line that was giving her difficulties, and Portia glared at it in thought. She had seen that word before, but its meaning eluded her. She knew that she must have seen it in Oblivion, and so she thought about each room that she frequented, one step at a time. Not the bedroom, she decided, and not the courtyard. Perhaps on a statue—no, it was the throne. She had seen this carving on the back of the throne, and she quickly turned to the back of the book where there was a dictionary. Her fingers skimmed the page until she located exactly what she wanted: Doirtem. There was no equivalent in common tongue, but the explanation was thus:
The belief that the strong have a right to rule the weaker, and that they instill order in the world. Without strong control, there would no direction, and together, the weak and strong form a single-minded force under the ruler.
"Interesting," Portia mused. The concept sounded like something that Mehrunes Dagon would subscribe to, and she was guessing that he did if the word was on his throne. Perhaps firm order was necessary in a world like Oblivion, for she couldn't imagine the dremora without a controlling force. They looked like vicious demons, but their loyalty to Mehrunes kept them in line, and from what she'd read, there was a strong sense of community among dremora. In fact, the Deadlands seemed utterly unified and orderly, which would mean that Mehrunes did a decent job at ruling. Now there was a strange thought, and Portia found herself frowning. She wondered if Mehrunes was as brutal with his subjects as he'd been with her, for if so, decent was not the word for his reign. Any reign driven on fear was not her idea of an applaudable realm, but then again, she remembered how the dremora almost seemed proud when called to serve their master. Obviously, it wasn't just fear that drove them to his will.
"Ah," Portia gasped, a hand flying to her hip. The pain was back, and she lifted her palm to find that blood was seeping through her tunic. Damn, but this would not be a good condition to be seen in, especially since the blood took on the pattern of her wound. The bloody design now staining her clothing reminded her of the humiliation of being marked by her tormenter, and she sighed bitterly. For the rest of her life, this was what she had to look forward to, and it was his fault. What had he done to ensure that it wouldn't heal? There were times that the jaggedly carved lines almost looked like they might recede, but then they would open again, right before fresh skin overcame the scabs, and she knew that it was intentional.
Not again, she inwardly moaned as the temperature in the room seemed to spike. Oblivion tempted her, asking her to sleep and fall into its grasp, but she hated doing so under the sphere's influence, and so she refused. Too bad the heat wouldn't drop, and something settled in the pit of her stomach, twisting and turning, making her feel uncomfortable and a bit excited. It wasn't that she was excited, but Mehrunes was, and she could feel his mood descending on her.
"No," she whispered to herself as the chaos sphere's orange insides wildly swirled. She would not last long at this rate, and the rim of her vision was growing darker and darker. The book! She closed it and set it on the floor, knowing that she had little time left. Hopefully today would not be the day that someone else came to the attic, and that was her last coherent thought as the book's cover hit the carpet. Then the room around her was a tempest of colors and noise, her mind spinning as half of her entered Oblivion, the second half soon being dragged along for the ride.
…
…
With a pained gasp, Portia found herself laying on a cold stone floor, and for a moment, she saw nothing. She only registered the stone beneath her, warm air, and a fuzzy, deep noise that seemed to wrap her in a blanket. A hand blindly groped forward, touching something smooth and silky, and Portia focused on the feel of fabric between her fingers rather than the ringing in her ears.
"Being," a voice demanded. She slowly opened her eyes and rolled onto her back, hand still clutching whatever it had found. Mehrunes was staring down at her where she lay directly at his feet, and he was speculatively eyeing her unexpected resting place. "Damned thing," he snorted. "Dropping out of the ceiling...you're lucky that I'm in a pleasant mood." He was staring at her hand, or so Portia assumed from the angle of his eyes, and she quickly realized that she was holding onto the edge of his sheet. She was on the floor between him and the bed, and while he couldn't see her arm or hand, the tension that she was putting on the bed covering was obvious. She released and let the sheet fall back into place, but Mehrunes did not leave her alone. Instead, he crouched, two hands resting on the floor, and the other two on the bed. Portia felt trapped beneath him, and she wished that she could sink into the floor as she stared upward at him. In such an odd position, it occurred to her that he smelled faintly of spice and something muskier, which wasn't unpleasant, but unexpected.
"If I didn't know better," Mehrunes said, head tilted forward. "I'd say that you don't always choose to come to Oblivion. And why would that be?" He knew that she wouldn't answer, but he waited before continuing anyway. "Something pulls you here," he concluded. "It makes you feel vulnerable, doesn't it?" He chuckled and rose from his muscular haunches. "You are vulnerable." He didn't walk away, but rather stood there, looking at the bed's surface. Portia remained where she was for several minutes, and occasionally Mehrunes would reach out and move something on the bed, but she had no idea what. Her low advantage point didn't afford much of a view.
"Are you going to move, or do you want to annoy me?" he suddenly asked, and Portia responded by scooting out from beneath him and standing. She noticed that he was twirling a dagger between his fingers again, and the bed was strewn with clothing—expensive clothing. The finery looked like it was made for humans, and so Portia could not fathom what the daedric prince was up to, but he was still happy. Portia gingerly walked around him toward the large artifact table, and looked at his collection for a third time while he was busy. She was only thinking about touching an interesting looking ring when a snarl interrupted her.
"Don't," Mehrunes warned. Portia marveled at how easily he made a simple order sound like a death sentence. Not many could do that, and so she backed off, but not without deciding to express herself. She noticed an inkblot, quill, and piece of parchment sitting on the edge of the table, and she moved closer to see that the paper was a list of clothing. She snatched up the quill with determination once her side began aching again, for she was sick of his comments, and she'd been around him long enough to push the barriers of her security. With a few strokes, she finished the daedric word that she wanted and stepped back, expecting Mehrunes to investigate since he seemed impatient by nature. Instead, he waited, and meanwhile Portia felt a lifting sensation that signaled her approaching departure. She'd only been drawn into Oblivion by Mehrunes' emotions, and he was calmer now, so there was nothing to tie her to unconsciousness.
She closed her eyes and waited to return to her world while Mehrunes Dagon sensed her dwindling presence. With a sharp snap, she completely disappeared from his perception, and his only acknowledgment was a quick flick of his eyes toward the table. His visitor was a curious addition to Oblivion, and tonight had confirmed his suspicions: outside forces were brining the being into his world, but how that should be, he could not fathom. It was a problem that he'd spent hours considering, and dremora mages had scanned volumes of books looking for an explanation to no avail. It was a mystery that he was determined to solve one way or another, and he was sure that he'd have found a solution by now if he weren't so distracted.
His forces marched and readied themselves for combat while he monitored Oblivion's weakening barriers with relish. Whenever a tear in space grew large enough, he used is own power to widen the gap so that his armies could ravage Tamriel, and it was about damn time. He was sick of mortals running about their business without fear of the immortals—as if they were the masters of all before them—and their attitude plus that cursed pact that barred the more aggressive daedra like himself from correcting their habits, frustrated the lord of Oblivion. True, there were those that worshipped him, but he found that respect among humans was lacking, and he had a bone to pick with the empire for limiting his activities. For these grievances and his love of causing violent trouble, he would spread his domain and will, and just let the other princes try to stop him. Mehrunes Dagon liked power, and he had never claimed otherwise.
Making a decision, he selected an outfit from his collection and set it aside. He would be leaving Oblivion in a matter of hours, and the anticipation made it impossible to sit still, so he paced. He paced, twirled a dagger, and delighted in thinking that he was about to join the hunt. Yes, he was going to find that thief and make her pay for daring to steal his chaos sphere, wherever the bitch was hiding. He had thought that pinpointing the sphere's location would be easy, for it would be just like a puny, idiot human to try and harness the artifact's power, which in turn would resonate with his senses and lead him to the sphere; however, the expected power waves had been lacking. In fact, and perhaps more disturbing, was the frequent feeling that the sphere was not far from him at all. The sensation came and went, so strong at times that it was as if he still wore the other earring, and then, suddenly, he would sense it far away, in the very heart of Tamriel, where he had located it. Once there, tracking it down would be much easier.
Still, the entire situation was not unfolding as he anticipated, and being a creature of expectations, he found himself annoyed with the situation. Every day that the thief escaped his wrath was an insult that multiplied the offense, and if that woman had bragged about her steal...Mehrunes felt his temper boiling, and he suddenly wanted to go to his training room and grab his favorite ax.
At times his anger grew to the point where he exploded on some poor minion, but he felt it unbecoming to lose total control before his followers, so he tended to keep to his rooms when his mood grew darkest. At such times, he felt that damned being, and now he paused in his pacing and the dagger stopped spinning. He suspected that perhaps the being and the thief were connected, for how else would someone be drawn so strongly to his emotions, but he had a difficult time believing that, for the being stuck close to his side. If it was the thief, there was no way that she'd come close to him. It simply didn't make sense, and while he looked down on mortals, he didn't think that someone who'd snuck into Oblivion could be that stupid. No, there was another explanation, and his pacing resumed.
She could be very brave, Mehrunes thought, but that would mean that there was something to admire about the thieving wench, and he found the thought distasteful. Some of the princes prized secrecy or knowledge, even rape, but Mehrunes praised courage and audacity, for which he decorated any dremora who'd proven himself. He believed in merit, strength, and the ability of destruction to rebuild the world. Mortals and even other daedra mocked his philosophy, but being who he was, he didn't care. Unless the princes said something directly to his face at one of their gatherings, he let their comments slide, and really, although he hated to admit it, the others were as equally powerful as himself—not that he'd never place someone like Sheogorath on the same level as himself, but there were others like Molag Bal who would prove tough opponents.
"Simpering fools," he breathed aloud as he stopped at the foot of his bed. The princes held such power, and he could not understand why some of them expressed no interest in using it. He accorded them respect for their abilities, but his brothers sometimes annoyed him to the point of no return with their mundane discussions on mortal happenings, but without interest in meddling in them. They were often content in their own worlds, but Mehrunes looked out over Oblivion and wanted more. There were times that being in this palace bored him, and after centuries of going through a routine of ruling, a break into the mortal realm was welcomed. This was the most excitement that he'd had in decades, especially since he would walk another plane for blood. He wasn't keen to loosen his power, but for the sake of experience and finding that damned thief, he was willing to compromise.
He was going to find her and cut her apart as slowly as possible. The look of pain on her face when he'd marked her hip had been priceless, and then her fury at his handiwork...exquisite. The anger that must have existed to make that woman strike a daedric prince had to be outstanding, and he was a man who knew and admired the power of anger. It could drive the weakest person to greatness, and he had seen that potential in the thief. He could not deny how much her reaction and force had surprised him, and under other circumstances, he would have applauded her. In some sick way, he did, and he hoped that she showed as much spirit when he personally broke her. He didn't want it to be easy, and he certainly didn't want her to prove his previous inclination toward her an illusion. He sensed strength in her, as he did in that being, and there was no fun in taunting and battling someone weak.
What had that thing written anyway? He suddenly moved toward the parchment and growled when he saw the word that graced it: Urog. It was basically the equivalent of calling someone a bastard, but with a nastier edge. He chuckled and burned the paper to a crisp with a flick of his finger. It was a good thing that the being had left, or he'd have a few lessons in manners to dish out, and then he'd truly test the person's bravery to the limits. Whoever it was, he'd passed the test so far, and Mehrunes admitted that he was enjoying playing with the person's nerves. Life really could be dull, and then this being popped out of nowhere and trailed him. Unlike dremora, who unconditionally showed him respect, the being would get close, touch things, write insults. It didn't sit well with him, but it was refreshing in a strange way, and he had a convenient excuse not to apply punishment since technically he couldn't do any harm.
Mehrunes moved to a window and stared out at the comforting lava flows. So this was what the prince of destruction had been reduced to: inviting a pestering being to follow him because he was sick of his domain. It was laughable and pathetic, but the monotony would soon end, and so he relaxed and impatiently waited for the hours to pass. Sometimes he wished that the being would speak, for he was sure that the person was mildly interesting—not that he'd thought that at first. No, he'd been furious to discover another intruder in his quarters, for it was downright degrading to have someone sneak into a prince's personal chambers, but then the being had come back again and again. With no way to dissuade the presence, he had grown to tolerate it, and perhaps even look forward to having something to distract him in day to day life.
What would the being do once he left Oblivion? He put some thought into the question and decidedly did not like the results. He might be stolen from again, so that meant that he'd need to post a guard in his quarters at all times. What a nuisance, but it wouldn't stop him from leaving. Let the spirit do as it pleased so long as he was free from the stifling palace walls. He had property to reclaim, and Oblivion's wrath was nothing to laugh at.
