Chapter 41: Unspoken Truths

Evening was drawing closer, the sun just beginning to sink beneath the horizon, and oranges and reds scattering across the underbellies of clouds. It might have been a beautiful sight, but its beauty was lost on Arelius as he strapped on his gauntlets. Lucretia was in bed, Portia was attending her, and Tamil had vanished immediately after bringing Portia back to the manor. He could guess where the elf had gone as his brisk strides led him toward the palace, and where she now went, there would be blood. Even if he'd ordered the dunmer to resist temptation, she would have ignored his words, and he wasn't inclined to deny her anyway. More blood would inevitably be shed, and it damn well wouldn't flow from his allies or family after tonight.

"Sir, what are our orders?" Arelius didn't even glance at the three guards accompanying him as the palace walls drew higher above them. He only had eyes for the large, double doors that would lead him to tonight's pre-festival activities, for his enemies were not at home, and he was certain that Horace would attend the event.

"We are here to arrest Horace Pantrov and Cassius Matrino," he told his men. "Use any and all necessary force if they resist." His boots loudly struck the marble floor as they entered the building, sounds of merriment drawing them forward, and other guards dipping their heads in greeting. Familiar with Arelius as they were, they stood ready, sensing that the palace captain was strictly on business tonight.

"Fan out," Arelius ordered. "You two, take that hallway and ensure that neither man slips by us. You, circle the edges of the party, but do not attempt to arrest either man without backup. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," three voices echoed, and they departed on their tasks, Arelius striding directly through a large doorway and into the midst of the revelry. It was a small party really, and more for talking and eating than dancing or drinking. There wasn't even music as Arelius cut through the crowd, eyes searching each face with grim determination as guests eyed him curiously. The tension in the air as he passed was most palpable, and he made no move to quiet it or the rumors beginning to spread through the crowd. Where was that slimy, son of a....?

"Can you believe that a captain of the guard would burst into my home like that?" a strong voice carried. Arelius parted a group of talking woman so that he could see the speaker, and sure enough, there stood Horace, handsome features twisted in disgust as he recounted his tale to several men. The fetters were already loose when the nobleman turned his head and saw the captain, shock lighting his eyes, and the drink drawing toward his lips stopping midair.

"Horace Pantrov," Arelius began, supremely pleased by the other man's obvious discomfort. "You're under arrest for conspiring against the empire, harboring enemies of the state, and attempting or assisting murder." Arresting someone had seldom been more satisfying.

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

Mehrunes downed another glass of brandy as he waved a servant away, annoyed that time was again dragging at another social event. He wouldn't have even come had Horace not argued the wisdom of being out of the house after the attack on Arelius, who had already accosted them once. The captain had avoided confrontation before, but now the game had changed, for Ruined Cloak had killed the man's wife, and these mortal soldiers and knights loved the idea of avenging someone as surely as his dremora did. In both realms, challenging and fighting to the death over some wrong was not unheard of, even if chivalry and honor had less to do with it than rage and indignation in Oblivion's case. After all, putting an opponent in a position of surrender and subservience was a key element in the strict order of the Deadlands, for respect and fear went hand in hand.

Bored, the prince began meandering back over to Horace, but his attention was elsewhere. There was a window cut high in the ceiling, and as soon as the last traces of sunlight vanished, so too would he, for Portia was waiting. He would either meet with or find her on his own terms tonight, and his blood and its inherent magicka hummed longingly with the thought. He wasn't entirely sure what he would do to her, but the uncertainty and numerous possibilities only sharpened his anticipation as he heard Horace harshly addressing someone.

"Speak of a daedra. You've already embarrassed me once, captain; are you here to do it again, and on such ridiculous claims?" Mehrunes stopped walking and wisely ducked behind a cluster of people, all of whom were watching the unfolding spectacle before them. So Arelius was here, and the man was actually clamping Horace's hands into iron bracers. The prince glowered, nearly breaking the fragile glass stem in his hands as he began melting into the room's shadows.

"Come quietly, prisoner," Arelius ordered. "Guards! Hold him while I find the other man." Mehrunes scoffed at the idea of being arrested by ignorant mortals who would quake in their boots if they knew his true identity, but he still retreated, knowing that his plans teetered on destruction. He needed to find Portia, and he needed to find her now.

"You," he pointed, pulling a server aside by the collar. "Tell the good captain that the man he seeks left with a woman. You don't know her name, but she lives in Talos Plaza." He thrust a bag of coins into the man's hands for emphasis, and then strode away, the other guests milling about in confusion and forming a human curtain to block his exit from sight. By the time his pursuers checked the hallway, he was long gone.


Someone was in the house. Of that, Ruined Cloak was certain, for he could sense the person's presence as he ascended the basement stairs. Perhaps his master and Horace had returned early, but he doubted that as he recalled Mehrunes' mood before leaving, for the prince had been short-tempered, impatient, and predatory. Even the servants had sensed and shrunk from the daedra's presence, and Ruined Cloak knew that the Imperial woman was to blame for the wild energy whirling about his master. His lord was planning something, and tonight the puzzle pieces would come together.

Ruined Cloak soundlessly sealed the basement door and stole through the house, checking each room for intruders as he went. Truth be told, he hadn't savored fresh blood in days, and was therefore craving an excuse to kill, for there'd been no time to collect from the woman with hair like black silk. The beauty had fought against him, but her attempts to fend him off with magicka had failed, and he was certain that she'd bled to death hours ago. If only his master's obsession hadn't entered the room!

Yes, his lord had an obsession, but Ruined Cloak wasn't one to disapprove. For one, it wasn't his place, and being fixated on an enemy made the kill that much more potent and memorable. It was a concept that rang true with someone who had taken countless lives, for he himself could remember few of his kills, unworthy as many of them had been. There was, of course, one woman whose heart he would love to squeeze, forcing her lifeblood to flow through his fingers, and tasting her essence on his tongue. When it happened, he would not squander the opportunity.

He stepped into the living room and found the fire crackling in its hearth, the heat passing across his cloak as a knife appeared in his hand. There should be no activity here, no...

"Looking for me?" His hood turned toward the voice to find a dark elf gracefully draped in a chair, a long dagger carelessly tapping against one of her knees. In the firelight, her red eyes glowed dangerously, and she'd even helped herself to Horace's alcohol, but the hooded slant of her eyes was misleading. She was far from sleepy or lethargic as she waited for a response, and Ruined Cloak almost laughed when she impatiently tilted her head. "Well?"

"I was about to come looking for you," his voice droned. "But you've saved me the trouble." He lunged, and she flew from the chair, neatly flipping over its back as his dagger sunk into a cushion. Stuffing tore free as the blade pulled out, one of his hands sweeping outward to knock the chair sideways, and giving him a clear path toward Tamil. She had her own weapons out—twin short swords—and she raised them from where she lurked on the room's edges, slowing circling him with the wall to her back.

Ruined Cloak turned in time with her, their uneasy truce broken only by the crackle of the fireplace as they waited upon one another. The seconds ticked by, feet silently moving, and weapons at the ready, the pace clashing maddeningly with the speed of Tamil's pulse, which Ruined Cloak could adoringly gauge in his imagination as his own heart remained steady. He would give her something to make her heart burst in reprimand for her arrogance in coming here.

With a sharp word, his hand raised and chains of fire flew from his fingertips, lashing outward like whips as they scorchingly swept across the room, but the elf was indeed fast. She dropped to the floor, beneath the seeking flames, and threw a dagger, the approaching glint of which Ruined Cloak caught in the firelight. With a mellow intake of breath, he looked down to find the blade imbedded in his torso, blood beginning to soak into his dark robes.

Grabbing the blade, he pulled it loose and dropped it onto the floor. If the dunmer thought that she could disable him with such tactics, she was sorely mistaken.


It was dark by the time Portia began her journey toward the imperial prison, and the city was coming alive with candlelight. Every window, step, and balcony was lined with candles, family members slowly taking turns lighting them, and others setting up large displays on the stone bases of neighborhood statues or around front doors. In an old tradition, patrolling guards stopped and used their torches to relight any wicks that had gone out, and occasionally music filtered onto the streets as people sang hymns to their ancestors or popular familial deities. It was a night where most people adopted a more solemn attitude to honor the dead, and as befitted Queen Mother's day, the palace would be alight with more candles than any other building.

"A blessing, ma'am?" a soft voice asked, and Portia turned to see a male beggar regarding her with large, brown eyes.

"What would you ask of me?" Portia asked, aware that the man was eyeing the two candles that she carried.

"Light one for the poor. We don't like to be forgotten just 'cause we've no family." Portia nodded and continued on her course, having refused to accompany Arelius on his mission once he requested that she take command of several guards and block the palace exits. It was a necessary task, but one that he could do perfectly well himself, as he well knew.

He just wants to push me, Portia thought, approaching the statue of Talos at the center of the district bearing his name. Already, the base was littered with candles of all shapes and sizes, and wax drippings collected in colorful puddles. It really was beautiful, especially the enchanted candles that emitted sparks or curls of colorful, fragrant smoke, filling the air with spice as people paid their respects. Within the next few hours, the entire city would dance with candlelight, and she too would add her contribution.

Portia paused in her journey, and set her two candles at the base of the statue. She'd wanted to light these at Gilthan's grave, but it wasn't yet erected, so she'd settle for this. Using another candle, she lit her own, the first for the beggars that had been murdered by the Dawn, and the second for Gilthan, who should never have died. The ritual was something that Portia hadn't expected to partake in, but Lucretia had insisted that she required little assistance, and Arelius expected his Blade to meet him at the prison. If all went well, he'd have two prisoners with him, and Portia could only imagine what would happen when Mehrunes looked to find her playing as one of his captors, and it was playing. No one believed that they could hold a daedra like him—least of all her—and she wondered what the consequences would be.

Death, her mind whispered, and she found herself relieved that she'd rejected Arelius's call for aid in the arrest. She would have gone, but not if it required leading other guards. She could see what her openly manipulative leader was attempting to do, and she did not appreciate that he'd played this card so soon after Lucretia's attack. Perhaps he'd thought that she would take up the duty out of obligation, but he was wrong on that account, and she'd let him know. As if her past and Gilthan's death hadn't already taught her enough.

Time to go.

She gave her candles one more, silent prayer, and kept moving, feeling encased in shadows despite the dazzling displays around her. Hopefully Pyrus was finding some cheer in the festivities, for before Portia left the house, Lucretia had been insisting that the manor put on a good show. With the nobility, it was a matter of familial pride to outdo one another. Stupid, if you asked someone like Portia, but she had more important issues to dwell on as she walked—Cassius, for one.

She was thinking about him when she sensed someone watching her, the conspicuous touch of prying eyes prickling up her back as she entered the market district. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw no one, but remained anxious to dispel the sensation through the more active nightlife of the merchants. Like the waterfront, travelers and younger people gathered here for the evening, lighting candles for homes and family graves faraway, or buying ale and drinking away the recollections that the festival summoned. The few people who continued to work this night ran small street stands, and several guards stood ready with buckets of water, knowing that the wayward crates of the market sometimes caught fire due to unwisely placed candles.

What if Arelius couldn't find Horace, Cassius, or both? Portia considered the possibility as the creeping sensation persisted, and it made her recall Mehrunes' promise to find her tonight. What if he was here? She kept her eyes peeled for trouble as she quickened her step, the center of the district just ahead, and near that, the bridge to the prison.

Cassius, Mehrunes. Mehrunes, Cassius.

"Hey!" Her cry was quickly cut off as she was violently yanked beneath a dark archway, the hand going for her sword waylaid by a spell that was quickly draining her energy. What the hell was going on? Someone was pulling her away from the milling people and into one of the small courtyards that dotted the city, but she could not make out her attacker's face, and as she attempted to call for help, no words escaped her mouth.

Swallowing hard, her sluggish limbs weakly struggled as she was unceremoniously dumped onto the grass, head hitting a rock as she fell, and making her vision erupt in pain.

"This should get Traven off of my back," a silky, feminine voice dripped, and Portia twisted her face upward, squinting into the faint light afforded by the candles that lined the courtyard's short walls and well. The black hair and tall physique...she'd seen this woman before. "Nothing personal, Imperial," the woman's voice continued. "You've drawn the attention of the wrong people. Too bad for you."

Traven, Portia inwardly sneered, hand itching to grab her sword, but the limb wouldn't respond. Instinctually, she opened her connection with the sphere, its power comforting her as the satisfied looking Altmer above her kicked her hand away from her scabbard. Damn this bitch, and damn Traven. There was no way that she could fight without control of her body, but the sphere was not bound by her enemy's spell. Perhaps...

Portia surrendered to the strengthening connection and felt Mehrunes' familiar spirit reach for her, his presence molding against hers with a possessive grasp. She didn't even fight him, but instead let him ensnare her in a risky gamble, for the promise of death was all too clearly stamped on her new enemy's face. She only had seconds to make a decision, and she was willing to bet that Traven having the sphere was likely little better than Mehrunes having it.

"You want me?" she taunted the prince. "Then come and get me, Cassius." She emphasized the name, and received a pulse of wicked determination from his end of the connection that momentarily blocked her awareness of Caranya. Then Portia was back in the courtyard, the menacing woman above her reciting strange words while holding an orb of light, and it sounded as though the altmer was talking to someone. Goblin's gall, but she couldn't be here when backup mages arrived. Arelius wouldn't even know what had happened to her, and this when he would be busy deciding how to handle his catch.

"I thought you had no magicka?"

Portia found the mage directly above her face, the woman leaning over her body with a sly, calculating edge to an already piercing gaze. One of Caranya's hands stretched out and touched Portia's cheek, sending a revolting sense of decay and death through her that made a slight smile form on the other's face.

"Necromancy is very potent," the mage whispered. "Perhaps Traven will let me have you once he has his artifact. I haven't had a healthy imperial for experiments in quite some time." Her hand emitted a dark burst of foul energy that washed Portia's body in a dull pain, the strangely numbing tendrils spreading from her toes to the tips of her ears. If she hadn't been paralyzed, she would have retched, and she felt bile rising in the back of her throat, the acidic taste making her inwardly curl in disgust.

"What is this powerful energy that surges inside of you?" the woman curiously asked. As a sharp jolt of pain made Portia's eyes water, the chaos spheres bite raced up Caranya's outstretched fingers, and made the woman rear back with a gasp. "Interesting. This must be what Traven is after." The altmer clutched her hand before shaking it, flexing the muscles as several words left her mouth, and Portia wanted to scream as torment engulfed her, eliciting another burst of chaos that made the candles flare brightly, and Caranya's eyes widen.

"Such power..." Portia knew that Mehrunes was drawing closer—had felt his pause as the pain hit her, and then his fervent searching. He was coming, and she wasn't sure if she should be relieved or horrified, but she tended toward the former as Caranya eyed her like some sort of specimen. "Where does that power come from?"

More pain washed over Portia, this time making her feel as if the skin was peeling off of her scalp, and in response, her body swelled with the counter-force of the sphere. It was almost too much to handle, and she was convinced that if the necromancer didn't kill her, the chaos would. Damn, but its power needed an outlet. It needed...

"Let's see..." but Caranya never got to finish her statement as Portia growled, eyes flashing orange as she surged to her feet with her hair whipping about her face. The energy burst from her, blasting off of stones, making them shudder, and slamming Caranya in the chest. The woman bit her lip to keep from yelling, and fell to her knees, but not before sending another spell at Portia, and the direct hit made Portia collapse, her lungs constricting in odd rhythms as she floundered for control. Even after she struck the ground, the spell persisted, and she continued to writhe, throat begging to scream.

"Make it stop," she mentally cried, causing a resounding growl to break the silence of her torment. She could have sworn that Mehrunes was right beside her, yet she could not sense him given the state of her body, and perhaps the sound was only within her mind. Fighting back tears, she pried her eyes open to find Caranya scowling down at her, the front of the woman's dress singed.

"Yes," the woman hissed. "I look forward to having an imperial again."

"Not this one." The biting voice filled the courtyard, surprising both woman as a large hand clamped over Caranya's shoulder and ripped her away from Portia. No longer able to turn her head, Portia could sense Mehrunes and his exploding rage but not see him. There was a sharp intake of breath, a strange, wet ripping sound, and then nothing—nothing but the distant chatter of voices, the smell of wax, and the stars glittering above. Mehrunes was still there, but what was he doing? Portia didn't like the idea of being at his mercy any better than that of Caranya.

"Sherkyn," his voice called. She felt herself being lifted into his arms, but she could barely keep her eyes open, her body so thoroughly fatigued. Head against his shoulder, she vaguely realized how incredibly vulnerable she was, but Mehrunes didn't seem to mean her any harm...at the moment. She told herself to fight unconsciousness and resist his hold, but she couldn't. She closed her eyes and drifted away as she was carried through the streets, no one looking at them twice as candles continued to flicker.

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

Her eyelids felt swollen and heavy, but the pain would not let her sleep, and so she groggily awoke to a soft pressure on her shoulder. It was actually a comforting sensation, and she soon discovered why as she saw a warm, wet cloth cleaning cracked skin on her right shoulder. Someone was cleaning the odd, magically inflicted wounds that she'd suffered, and damn but it did feel good. Of course...

Portia suddenly realized that she was propped up, half-laying on a soft couch, and that she was topless, her bare breasts open to the cool air of the room. Feeling exposed, she looked to her helper, eyes traveling over the tanned hands that cleaned her and up to the dark hair and watchful face of Cassius, who sat on a chair beside her. Not Cassius, she reminded herself, muscles tensing.

"Relax, my lady," he mockingly spoke. "I'm only tending your wounds." She remained frozen, unsure as to what she should do as the cloth brushed down her arm, soothing despite her circumstances. Where had he taken her? The room seemed familiar, and she quickly studied her surroundings to shockingly find that he'd brought her to her own room in Arelius's manor. By the Nine, if he'd harmed anyone...

"Lay still," he ordered, keeping his voice low. "We wouldn't want to disturb the rest of the house. I'm afraid that I'd have to kill anyone who interrupts us." So they were safe for now. Portia eased back onto the couch, noticing that the latch on her door was clearly locked, which gave her some sense of security as Mehrunes dipped his cloth back into a bowl of warm water. Part of her was horrified to know that this was the last place Arelius would look for Mehrunes, but it also meant that no one could be harmed for foolishly trying to detain him.

"What are you doing?" she asked, noting that the front of his tunic was open and revealed ample chest when he leaned forward to attend her. A prince was attending her; how strange. He'd tortured her once upon a time.

"Cleaning you," Mehrunes stated. "I am not overly skilled with restoration, as I'm sure you know." She didn't respond as one of his hands brushed hair away from her face, his fingertips almost feeling like a caress as they glanced over her skin. Goblin's gall, but she had kissed this man. "How long have you known who I am?" he asked, dark eyes glinting in the lantern light beside the couch.

"Days," she answered. "Although I suspected it for much longer."

"I was hoping to break the surprise myself," he purred, the sound seeming to vibrate from within both of them, and Portia's hand suddenly jerked, almost flying to her ear to see if the chaos sphere remained. If he took it, his power would be even greater than it already was. She couldn't risk that, but he didn't seem interested in searching her as he set the rag aside and moved to sit on the edge of the couch, one arm flung over the backrest, and the other playing with her hair as his body angled over hers.

"Where's the mage?" she asked.

"Which part of her?" Portia closed her eyes and let herself forget for a moment just who was touching her for the sake of sanity. She was oddly calm and assured in this current position, worried by what Mehrunes planned, but also knowing that he wouldn't let anyone else harm her. "No one touches what's mine," he told her. "But you're probably still denying that, aren't you, Sherkyn?" She said nothing as she breathed in his scent, both because it would mean nothing in her vulnerable pose, and because she was acutely aware of the scar on her hip as he gently pressed a hand against it. What could she say against his claim when she was topless and with his hand on her bare skin? Apparently he too knew the answer, for he chuckled at her silence.

"I am at your mercy, prince," Portia allowed. "But you're in a corner. Horace and your cover are gone. You can't stay here any longer." His smile dropped into a serious expression, his hand gripping the back of her neck and pulling her upward into a sitting position to rest against him. Her limbs were still weakened, and her face fell against the crook of his neck, his warm skin pressed to hers.

"It doesn't matter," he darkly spoke into her ear. "I have what I want and came for."

"You don't have the chaos sphere," Portia tried to deny, but he only smirked.

"Don't I?" Did he know? Was he bluffing? Portia couldn't decide as he angled her face up toward his, forcing her to stare into his endless eyes. "You've played the game well, Sherkyn, and I am a fortunate daedra to have you as part of my win."

"What will you do with me?" she breathed, well aware of the possessive grip that he was using and the spark of orange in his eyes. Gilthan's warning that he didn't want her dead repeated in her mind, as well as images of Mehrunes dancing with her, kissing her, taunting and stalking, dropping enigmatic comments about ownership and...her mind was a jumble as hot lips breathed against her neck, a firm hand sliding down her waist. She should call for help, warn the others—something, anything.

"You'll kill me," she stated.

"Don't fool yourself, mortal." Lips touched the skin directly beneath her jawline. "I'll do whatever I want with you, but not that." His lips had found hers, and after a long, slow kiss, he stood while holding her against him, forcing her to stand before lifting her, and carrying her to the bed. She could hardly believe that this was happening as she was dropped onto the mattress, her mind fixated on the prince as his heated gaze swept over her, his eyes carefully gauging her reaction as he tossed aside his tunic. There was no denying that he wanted her, and both knew it as Portia scooted back to sit against the headboard, stunned by the sheer intensity of Mehrunes' emotions as the sphere allowed her to share them.

"Don't bother running," Mehrunes warned, but it was a pointless warning. Portia's mouth ran dry as she again felt like the disadvantaged mortal running through his palace, but she was no longer that woman. She'd fought so hard to show him otherwise, and if she cowered now, if she subjected herself without a word, that would be reversed.

His belt hit the floor with a dull thud, and Portia felt heat rising in her body. Goblin's gall, but he had a splendid body, and she'd made that body bleed. If she could best him in combat, surely...

"Sherkyn," he breathed, joining her on the bed. "You belong more to my world than you could ever possibly know." His demanding and predatory mood pressed against her mind, overwhelming her as he pulled her down beneath him, and she was no longer surprised to find that the physical and mental closeness of their beings was familiar and natural. When her pants came off, she'd helped remove them, and when he kissed her, she kissed back, forcing him to contend with her as the lantern slowly extinguished and their bodies rolled in the darkness. She even allowed herself to run hands through his raven locks and down the curve of his spine, losing herself in and enjoying the power that infused their movements.

"Cassius," Portia breathed.

"No," Mehrunes hissed, grabbing her chin and holding her still as he drilled holes into her eyes.

"You can't control me," her mind sharply replied, legs locking around his torso as if to prove her point. "Don't think that this is my surrender."

"I wouldn't want this if it was," came the sarcastic reply, echoing through her head as his forehead came to rest against hers. "Now say it." Portia fought against him, but as his will battled hers, she could not deny that he was making her his with each kiss and touch. He'd wormed his way into her during this chase, and gods, but she couldn't resist arching her back into him.

"Mehrunes." The word escaped her, and he held her close, wickedly pleased. Beneath them, a small trickle of blood stained the sheet as a corner of Portia's hip scar opened, but she didn't notice the light sting, and right along with her blood mixed Mehrunes' sweat. In the darkness, they held one another, oblivious to the storm that swirled around and within them.