I altered the end of the last chapter. Please go read the new content, and enjoy the fresh chapter!
Chapter 35: The Best Blade
The morning was not promising, and if she stayed in bed until a servant came to ask if she wanted food, Portia wouldn't have cared, but relaxing wasn't an option. So she dressed and stood on her balcony, hands pressed against the cool, stone railing as she stared at the overcast sky and ignored the chill air. She could have fetched a cloak, but didn't, opting to remain with bare arms exposed to the air and developing goosebumps as she heard the bedroom door open behind her.
A servant was moving about her room, stripping the bed of bloody sheets, and barely concealing a huff of annoyance. Portia heard the sound and ignored it, knowing that the household staff was not overly fond of her for her strange ways. Back when she'd awake screaming, they'd nearly ran from her in the hallways, worried that she was a little unstable, and who could blame them? With a half-hearted sigh, Portia eyed the dull sun, or what little she could see of it since it was locked away behind dreary clouds. It was time to consider the worst.
If it's the worst, why am I not more rattled? Portia smiled humorlessly and leaned back against the doorway, brown locks keeping some warmth about her neck and shoulders. Last night, she had voiced what she'd been considering for some time, and that was the realization that whatever the sphere was doing to her might be permanent. Keeping or losing the artifact did not mean abating the strange pulses within her, or her bond with Mehrunes, both of which were difficult to imagine being muted. Maybe, once Mehrunes was back in the Oblivion, and assuming that the Blades won, she would remove the sphere, and everything would return to normal, but if it didn't...
Portia ran a hand through her hair to push it back over her head. With everything that had happened since she'd gone into hiding, she barely had time to grieve for Gilthan, and she knew that was part of the morose spells that she'd been undergoing, but it was difficult to formally acknowledge the elf's death. His absence was felt strongly enough as it was, and to place a tombstone would make the entire situation seem...Portia frowned, searching for the right word. Permanent? Ha, as if death ever wasn't permanent, but still, she didn't want to see a marker, and one that few would even notice at that. Tamil, Arelius, herself, and...Mehrunes—they would know and appreciate the elf's sacrifice.
As if to pull her from her thoughts, or perhaps triggered by her emotions, a small jolt from the sphere reminded her of the pressing problem resting on her shoulders. It was troubling, but not as much as she'd expected given her comments last night. She supposed that she'd grown used to the idea of being linked with the sphere over time, and so the shock simply wasn't there.
"You're finally accepting..."
She recalled those words and disagreed, for she'd accepted the pain of this job when she'd taken the scroll from Arelius—when she'd allowed herself to be pulled back into the Blades. Acceptance wasn't an issue, but truly understanding the intricacies of the magic affecting her was something else entirely. She'd suspected, and had perhaps unconsciously known, that the sphere had turned her into a different kind of player in this game, pulling her in deeper with each passing day. It seemed inevitable, for whatever else this game was, it was personal. Maybe it wasn't for Arelius and Tamil, but for Mehrunes, it had been since the beginning, and she recognized her own motivations in wanting to win.
"How could I not have noticed?" she asked herself.
"The price is yourself."
Personal indeed, but she'd been blind to not realize the extent of that until last night. She was anything but professional detached—not that she cared—but what of this price? Mehrunes' voice had been so thick, and his meaning so vague. Oh, she knew that he wanted to claim her and do gods knew what to her in retribution for her defiance, but there was more to it than that, for he treated her as an equal with one breathe before chastising her like a weakling with the next. This price...was it also the toll that the sphere was taking? When had she come to full awareness of its energy resonating with something deep within her?
If only Gilthan were here to answer questions.
"Why think so much about this now?" she self-depreciatingly mocked herself, sounding like the prince as she did so. The comparison irked her as she pinpointed the beginning of her vocalized knowledge, and it had begun with a simple inquiry into why Mehrunes didn't repulse her.
The bastard was just trying to ruffle your feathers, she told herself, but there shouldn't have been so much to ruffle. Gods above, but she certainly didn't find him repulsive, and perhaps she never had. When she'd first seen him, his power and command had overwhelmed and terrified her, and last night, when he'd been lounging, she'd thought that he cut quite an attractive image—the epitome of regal danger, which made sense since he was a prince, but nothing that she'd read had ever made Mehrunes Dagon sound attractive. Powerful? Yes. Vengeful, arrogant, blunt, ambitious? A hundred times yes, but not playfully cruel or attractive.
Don't think about that, AND you failed in your mission.
Portia walked inside and toward her bedroom door, the servant long gone. She reached for the door, and as she did so, she noticed a splash of color that stood out among the gray, stone walls. A painting hung beside her bed, and while she'd never before paid it much attention, she now stared long and hard at its picturesque landscape of trees and fields. It was common for aristocrats to decorate their homes with artwork, and the room that she'd visited last night had been no exception, but the image that she'd only briefly noticed behind Mehrunes' chair had been unusual.
Portia raked her memory for details of that painting, for she hadn't thought much of it at the time, but it had been jarring, which was the only reason that she'd noted it, however fleetingly. It was, after all, difficult to pay attention to art when a daedric prince, and a shirtless one at that, was sitting a few feet from you. Still, Portia mentally conjured the image, which had also been a landscape, but the shades had been darker, and the terrain mountainous with dark rifts and a storm blowing in from the horizon. She'd never seen its like before...
"Portia!" a chipper voice interrupted, and she opened her door to find a servant boy standing there with a ridiculously large grin.
"Hello, Pyrus," she greeted, relieved to have such an innocent visitor. The boy had taken every opportunity to serve her since her flight, for he'd apparently taken it into his head that she was some sort of heroine, escaping her enemies in the dead of night. She supposed that it was the stuff of dreams to a young boy, and if only reality had the same, happily-ever-after ending as a children's tale.
"I brought you the bandages that you wanted." The boy thrust a bundle of material into her hands, and Portia laughed at his eager face.
"Thank you very much. I hope that the other servants didn't give you a hard time."
"Oh, well," he placed hands on his hips. "They asked if the bandages were for you, and I told them that it was none of their business. Sometimes they say mean things about you." Portia patted his shoulder and placed the bandages inside her room before closing the doors for what would likely be the entire day.
"They say that you bring trouble here," the boy continued, keeping pace with her as she walked toward Arelius's study. "But I told them that it's not your fault. That's what Lady Lucretia told me. She says that you are very brave, and ordered the servants to show respect. But..." The boy was frowning at the floor as he walked.
"But what?" Portia asked, marveling at how easily children were taken into confidence. She wondered if she'd ever been so trusting.
"You see," Pyrus pouted. "My mother says that I should be careful—that things aren't safe here, and so I need to always be ready to run, but shouldn't I fight?" He seemed so confused, and Portia stared at him, blinking in consideration of his naive idealism.
"Sometimes it's better not to fight," she decided to tell him. "There are people who care about you, and if you got hurt, it would be very hard on them." The boy nodded, but still frowned.
"Then how can I be your protector?" Portia choked back a laugh, feeling remarkably childish in having this conversation.
"You are my protector," she assured, knowing that Lucretia had dubbed the boy as such, but only in jest. The poor child had apparently taken the notion to heart. "You can warn me if danger is coming, and that will do more good than fighting, but you need to have sharp ears. Pay attention, and stay close to home incase you're needed." The boy beamed, small chest puffing outward with self-importance.
"Yes, ma'am!"
"Portia, are you recruiting for me?" an amused voice asked, and Portia turned to find Arelius warmly regarding the scene. He'd probably heard most of the exchange.
"I was just getting back to work, sir!" Pyrus quickly blurted.
"Take your time," Arelius smiled. "And remember that you've important duties."
"Yes, sir!" The boy ran off, and Arelius walked closer, Portia's vision automatically moving toward his exposed forearm, where a faint scar remained. "Yes, even the great Arelius bleeds," he stated, having seen the direction of her gaze.
"I suppose," Portia agreed, now looking to where the boy had been.
"He would make a fine Blade," Arelius quietly noted.
"He's too young and idealistic," Portia argued.
"Others would have said the same of you," came the quick reply, but he meant it well, so she didn't pursue the argument. "I like recruiting the ones that aren't yet hardened. They're easier to train in conduct and combat with their eagerness and optimistic sense of purpose. Experience does the rest—teaching them to balance ideals and reality."
"Not everyone lives to learn from experience."
"No, but that's why the lighter assignments come first."
"Then they get the jobs that turn them into Portias and Tamils," Portia sarcastically replied.
"It's a process," Arelius unrepentantly stated. "And that aside, the boy might not want to be a mere servant forever." Portia knew that Arelius was only half-joking with that comment, and she turned to examine his placid features, steady green eyes, and dark hair. She was sure that she hadn't been the only female recruit to develop a crush on the man, which might explain why he'd never made an issue out of her adoration. She wondered if he'd ever been jaded in spite of his seemingly content and devoted behavior toward the empire.
"Shall we discuss more important matters?" Arelius asked, but not meaning it as a question. "Tamil will be a while yet. It's only eight in the morning." Portia joined the man in his private quarters, and noted that Lucretia had placed a very large tray of food on the man's desk. There was a note tucked beneath a peach, and he briefly smiled at it before sliding it into his desk.
"Help yourself," he motioned, but Portia politely declined, being much more interested in what needed to be discussed, or rather, what she wanted to discuss. She'd avoided Arelius since he'd delivered the news of Gilthan's death, but that was only because he reminded her of that night, when he'd spoken as one tactfully and professionally detached in delivering death notices. The lack of informal emotions had not sat well with her, even though his sympathies were sincere, for he might be able to quickly resign himself to loss, but she'd needed fire to temper her pain, and another had provided that.
Arelius began buttering a slice of bread, but remained quiet, as if he knew that she had something to say, or maybe he was simply giving her the opportunity to talk if she needed it. Either way, she sighed at his ability to ask for what he wanted without speaking. It was an art that she wished to develop with equal skill, but had yet to accomplish.
"I broke one of your first rules, sir," she confessed. "I let the job get too personal."
"Is it affecting your efficiency?" he questioned.
"No, but it puts your family in greater danger." Arelius leaned forward, hands folded across his desk as his thoughtful gaze met hers.
"This job was always more personal than usual, Portia. It was rather unavoidable given the damage that you've suffered, and I have asked a lot of you, but I must also ask this: are you concerned because of your involvement or someone else's?" Portia held his gaze, and noted that he was using his captain's face—the serious face that managed to be both concerned and analytical at the same time.
"Mehrunes won't just settle for the chaos sphere's return," she deadpanned. "I think he's had more elaborate plans since the beginning." She lifted her chin and frowned. "Why do you suspect the same?"
"The man who killed himself said that Mehrunes wanted you alive," Arelius admitted. "Portia, if this had not become personal for you, I would have been surprised. You lack the callous indifference to remain detached in circumstance like this, and that is not an insult." Portia nodded, secretly pleased that he was not upset with her. She'd seen him tear into other Blades for letting their emotions get the best of them. But they acted like fools, she reminded herself. Apparently Arelius trusted her to continue doing her job well, and she wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse, but she opted for the former.
"You were not concerned with this before," Arelius pointed out.
"I've seen and heard more since then. He's making it as personal as it can get," she softly replied, wanting to share the extent of the sphere's influence, but unsure if that was wise. Arelius was protecting her from the mages, and she didn't want him to question that decision due to her own problems. "Have you ever had an enemy like that, sir?" she asked, suddenly keen on hearing advice from a man who was far more experienced in this than her. He would not have been her first choice, but he could say the right thing when needed. For a moment, she felt like a recruit again, sitting in his office and politely requesting information or reporting on a job, and he'd give her that pleased look when she completed a task or sought more.
"Yes," he told her. "And it can make a job easier or harder. You must understand that everyone has jobs that become personal. That's not the question. The question is whether or not you allow personal vendettas to overshadow the larger goal. Anger can be a terrible factor in any battle. It makes you rash and stupid—more likely to fail. If you're angry Portia, you need to let it go."
"You mean about Gilthan?" There, the topic had finally been broached. "No, I'm not angry," she said. "Not anymore, and I can't make his sacrifice worthwhile by throwing in the towel. You've no reason to fear me running off again. I suppose you could say that this has become so personal that I can't walk away from it." There was no bitterness, only an honest statement that would make her boss proud, and she knew it. By the nine, it even sounded like something that he might say, and he must have been thinking that same thing, for there was a subtle, pleased cast to his face that could only be read through years of experience.
"Have you thought about declaring his death?" he asked her. "He deserves a burial of recognition." Portia sighed, feeling weary at the thought as she pulled a ring from her pocket and cradled it in her palm. Some part of her told her to wear it, but she couldn't, at least not yet. Gilthan had died, and instead of trying to tear Mehrunes to pieces for it, she'd found strength in the prince's words. The very idea sounded insulting to Gilthan's memory, and so she resisted the uncanny urge to wear the symbol of his once bouncy and chaotic life.
"I've no money, sir," Portia stated.
"I will pay for the burial." Her head shot up, and she wondered if he was doing this out of duty, goodwill, or to seal the possible rift that the elf's death had caused between them. After all, Arelius did not realize where he stood with her, for she'd been angry with him before. "Don't read into this more than you need to," he cautioned her. "I have always looked after those who work beneath me, and if Gilthan had left behind family, I would be responsible to look after their well being in his memory." True. Portia recalled how Arelius had found a new, less expensive home for the wife and child of the man whom she'd slain.
"Thank you, sir," she sincerely spoke, putting the ring away.
"And Portia," he added. "Anger at yourself can be as destructive as anger at another." She smiled, wondering how he would respond if he knew who had countered her on that note.
"I have my doubts, but...I know, sir. Sometimes I ignore your lessons, but I never really forget them."
"I expect as much from you," he stated. Of course you do. "And there is another thing that I'd like to discuss before we are interrupted." He lifted a small scroll from the side of his desk and passed it to her, Portia taking the parchment but not recognizing the wax seal on it. "It arrived this morning, and is another reason that I suspected how personal this mission was becoming for you."
That did nothing to assure Portia as she broke the seal and unrolled the scroll, eyes quickly reading through the short letter.
Dear Lady,
I have been unable to contact you for several days now, but I was told that you'd recently reappeared. I'm pleased that you have returned from your unexpected disappearance, and I'm sure that I'll see you soon.
Cassius
"Wonderful," she breathed. "I take it that you know who it's from."
"The seal is unfamiliar, but I can guess. Has being assigned to him been a problem? You're capable of handling dangerous tasks, but I did not foresee his interest in you, and you rarely speak about your encounters with him. It's none of my business, but if it will affect our goals, I demand to be told. The man obviously keeps a close eye on you since your return has not been made public yet." Portia handed him the scroll, not caring whether he read its contents or not, and collected her thoughts.
"We all know that Cassius isn't what he seems," she carefully spoke. "And he's very dangerous, but nothing that I can't handle. The goal was for me to get closer anyway," she pointedly reminded Arelius. "And it's been beneficial." He could not deny it, for Tamil might have uncovered Cassius's lies, but Portia knew the man well enough to keep him busy—that, and her reports on Cassius's knowledge of Oblivion and Mehrunes were central to them linking him to the Mythic Dawn. As for other suspicions...
"That's what I was hoping to hear," Arelius nodded. "Because we have two options: you can either go public again, or you can remain in hiding, for I can make use of you either way."
"But you're hoping that I'll stay public," Portia mused knowingly.
"I'd hate for my best Blade to back down from a fight," Arelius smiled. "But if you enjoyed your stay in the tomb..."
"No," Portia blurted, a firm set to her face. "I will not hide now that the mages can't touch me. He'll see it, Arelius." He's already seen it. She didn't know which 'he' she was referring to, and neither did Arelius, but the comment stood for itself, and when the captain looked at her again, his eyes were filled with an appreciative respect that made Portia sit straighter in her chair.
"Good," Arelius spoke. "Because Tamil thinks that our local killer is getting around through the sewers beneath Horace's house, and we're going to make our move this week."
"Do you need me for the job?" Portia readily asked.
"No," he said. "There will be no distraction, because they'll be expecting that after Tamil's last visit and the deaths. No, we're using a different approach." What? "All I need from you is a sharp memory. If you can recall anything of what Mehrunes' chambers looked like, that will be very useful, and in the meantime, don't use the sphere. The mages don't need a reason to attempt anything rash."
"They're still out there," Portia darkly commented.
"I wouldn't dismiss the possibility—not after the slap in the face that I gave Traven. Arch-mages are an arrogant species by trade."
"Shall I return to work than?" Portia furthered questioned.
"Not yet. Collect your equipment and keep close to the house. Once we confront the Dawn in their own headquarters, even if it's not violent, there might be a backlash." So he already assumed that Horace's manor was the location of their true enemies. Portia didn't disagree as she wondered what Arelius was planning, but whatever it was, she didn't need to be told twice to ready herself for dark hours.
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Why couldn't she just kidnap the bitch and be done with it? An Altmer with long, dark hair passed by Arelius's home with a jaw clenched in annoyance. It was interesting that Traven was desperate enough to grab the girl that he'd turned to her for assistance, and even better that he was unknowingly pitting himself against forces much darker than himself, but she didn't need this hassle. She especially didn't need a self-righteous mage blackmailing her, and that was what her situation amounted to.
The disgrace! Blackmailed twice in as many weeks. She had a mind to kill all of the bastards for so blatantly tampering with her affairs, but to Oblivion with that. Revenge required patience, and that she could manage. In the meantime, Traven's offer wasn't entirely objectionable, and if it had been, no amount of threats of imprisonment and expulsion would persuade her to work with that idiot. So she would wait and ensnare this woman when she had a chance, and he'd be indebted, which delighted her in that way that little could. She hadn't been this privately pleased since she'd gotten Traven into her bed. Of course, he'd been much younger and less dogmatic back then, but it still irked the man to know that he'd been intimate with one of her kind.
Oh, the stupid, arrogant mage.
"You'll get yours, Traven," she softly hummed to herself, elegant lips pulling into a sneer. She passed the house unnoticed, and it would remain that way until she wished it otherwise.
