Chapter 43: Within Oblivion
"Your return has been expected, my lord," a dremora bowed while speaking daedric in his gravelly tenor. "The Valkynaz await your orders." The man straightened, and Portia studied his black and red armor as he in turn studied her, his red eyes glinting with curiosity as she remained at Mehrunes' side.
"Has any progress been made in my absence?" Mehrunes asked, his human form wavering. He grew taller, and two additional arms ripped free from his sides as his skin morphed into a fiery shade of red, lighter designs curling across it as if painted by an unseen brush. Portia could not stop staring at the familiar sight as the transformation ended, for the prince now looked nothing like Cassius, yet his voice remained the same, low timbre. She tried to refrain from gaping, but she knew that her face had betrayed her before she could look away. Still, Mehrunes didn't even spare her a glance as his servant explained the current situation.
"More Oblivion Gates have been opened, and the empire's forces are hard pressed to fight the number of daedra that have crossed over." Portia knew that she should not understand everything that was said given her recent introduction to daedric, but she was eavesdropping as easily as if the two daedra had been speaking common tongue. She wondered if that was another side effect of her connection with Mehrunes, but she wasn't about to ask him in front of this Valkynaz, so she instead cautiously scanned her surroundings.
Am I really here?
Her head tilted backward to look up at the chamber's high ceiling, the red-tinted windows at the top casting garish light off of the black walls with their angular patterns. She almost felt like an unseen observer as her eyes moved—an intruder forgotten by both Mehrunes and the dremora standing guard around the room's edges, and a spirit free to stick her nose where she wished. She had to remind herself that she was not safe this time around, for there would be no waking up in Arelius's manor, and she was hardly invisible. It was a wonder then that the fear she thought might affect her was distant, lurking on the edges of her consciousness as she heard whispers humming through the palace's foundations.
Curious, she listened closely to realize that what she recognized was not so much a sound as a vibration that seemed to run across her heartstrings, as if this place was alive and speaking to her. There were no words, but she was acutely aware of a heat flowing beneath her like one of the Deadland's lava flows, and as her glazed expression came to rest on Mehrunes', she saw that his chaos sphere pulsed orange in time with the rhythm of this world. It was a strangely compelling sensation, and her could feel it cradling her, borderline caressing her.
"And who is the mortal?"
Portia's attention snapped to the dremora, who spoke with obvious reserve, the creature refraining from expressing distaste over a mortal until gauging his master's intent. She imagined that learning to speak formally and only when bidden was a necessary skill in a society split into rigid ranks. What did these dremora truly think of her? She was curious, but her curiosity shattered when she recalled the numerous dead humans spitted and left as decorations along the walkway to the palace.
"This is Lady Portia Augustine," Mehrunes grinned, sharp incisors prominent as his lips parted. "Summon the Triunity, and have them sent to the throne room."
"As you wish, my lord." The dremora bowed and quickly departed as Mehrunes turned to Portia. His physical form was more intimidating than before, and that coupled with the dead bodies that she'd seen outside reminded her of how brutal this being and his minions could be. This was a dangerous world, and she only knew the barest details about surviving here, making her dependent on this man's mercy. She wasn't foolish enough to think otherwise—not after she'd signed herself away by agreeing to come here—and she dearly hoped that Mehrunes had spoken the truth when he claimed to respect her. It would likely make this experience much more tolerable, for she clearly remembered where she'd been put last time, when he'd thought nothing of her.
"Does this place bring back pleasant memories?" the prince mockingly asked. Portia met his challenging stare, making her realize that his eyes were the same impenetrable black whether he was in his rightful form or a more human one. When she looked into those bottomless wells of power, she could almost forget that the two of them weren't sitting inside of a theater, quietly conversing and baiting one another while sipping wine. It amazed her how little their personal dynamics had changed since his unveiling—a thought that hit her full force as sarcastic words bubbled to surface.
"Memories?" she asked. "I suppose. Shall I lead the way to the throne room, or would you like to?" He stepped closer, easily towering over her by a full foot now, and brought his face close to hers.
"Very clever," he lowly commented. "But I am master here, Sherkyn, and I advise you to remember that. I can always send you back to the dungeons, where you'll rot alone in the dark."
"Would you prefer my utter subservience?" she questioned. "Because you can't have it, even if I am your prisoner. I didn't give it to you before, and I certainly won't now that you don't truly want it." He suddenly seized her hair, painfully jerking her head backward to expose her throat as his hot breath rippled across her skin.
"What I want?" She gritted her teeth against the pain, feeling the eyes of the present dremora training on her as she refused to futilely struggle. "You'd best beware what I want," Mehrunes whispered. "If we were alone, you'd be attempting to hit me, but we're not alone anymore, Sherkyn. My servants are here, and you obviously don't want to be made a fool of in front of them. Neither. Do. I." He released her, and Portia sharply exhaled, her brain trying to rearrange the shift in their circumstances.
He was right, of course; she couldn't risk being made a fool of before the daedra, and especially dremora, for their world ran on respect and fear, and without it, she would be nothing but dirt in their eyes. Or worse, she realized, I'll be considered easy prey to torment. She would need to keep alert and stronger than ever to survive here for however long that was, for she was sure that the dremora wouldn't touch her so long as she was under Mehrunes' protection, but she was not entirely certain that he would declare her off-limits either. He was, after all, very much in favor of survival of the fittest, and he'd put her through tests before.
"I understand," she finally stated. "Shall we go...?" His eyes hardened, and the scar on her hip burned, as if a hot brand had been pressed against her skin. "My lord," she added, unable to deny his power over her as she stubbornly refused to express her physical discomfort.
"This way," the prince ordered, leading Portia through the palace's dimly lit corridors before arriving at two large, ornate doors that were covered in archaic lettering, armored warriors, and writhing bodies. Some of the figures were clearly screaming as their twisted bodies seemed to weave together, the warriors mercilessly cutting through them while golden script flowed among slashing blades and axes. Portia recognized some older variations of the daedric alphabet among the script, but she could not decipher them as guards opened the doors, and nor did she wish to dwell on the violent scene any longer.
"Home sweet home," Mehrunes grinned, striding into the newly revealed room. This area of the palace Portia clearly recognized as she stepped into the enormous chamber after him, her eyes drifting to the throne sitting at the room's far end. Mehrunes was already on his way there, his imposing form sweeping by the long rows of midnight black columns and towering windows that paved the way to his seat, flowing, red curtains stirring with the energy that surrounded him as he walked.
"What am I going to do with you?" he asked himself as he sat down, looking at home on the massive, black throne. Two of his arms rested on his lap while the other two laid across the throne's arms, and in nothing but a long, black loincloth, his muscled physique was on full display as he lounged. He leaned his head back, body relaxing as Portia stood before him, merely watching him live up to his title as prince. "You were nothing but a spirit," he mused aloud. "I had no idea that it was you for the longest time. You were bold to follow me."
"It was not entirely my choice," Portia confided, feeling swallowed by the massive size of the room. "I was drawn here by the sphere, just as I am now." Mehrunes studied her as she closed her eyes, Portia listening to the ever-present throb of energy that came from the sky, the walls, and especially Mehrunes himself. Why does this world feel so alive?
"Because it is sustained by the power that I have tamed," Mehrunes answered from within her mind, and Portia opened her eyes to find him seemingly lost in thought. "The very stones that you stand on were forged by my hands, and now that same power is part of you."
"It's warm," she said.
"The dremora feel it too, but to a much lesser extent. They are in tune with this plane, but not my creations. Most choose to stay here because of the void that they feel in other worlds, but their connection is nothing like what you're feeling." He must have sensed her unspoken question, for he titled his head and smirked. "Oh yes, Portia. I feel the mingling of myself, my world, and you. It flows in and out of your system so naturally that it doesn't even bother you anymore." Suddenly his smile dropped, and he snarled. "This is going to be very difficult to fix."
As if on cue, Portia became aware of three other beings, all dremora dressed in long, grey robes as they materialized from the shadows. Their dark, rough faces overlooked her to focus on Mehrunes, and as they formed a semi-circle around their master, and consequently Portia, they bowed low.
"You summoned us, our lord?" one with shockingly red hair asked.
"Yes," Mehrunes sternly answered, eyes wandering to Portia. "This woman has done something that I would have thought impossible, and I want it undone." He wants it undone, Portia privately mused, yet he did nothing to stop it in the first place. Their eyes locked, and she contemplated the extent of the truth behind his words, especially after he'd so adamantly laid claimed to both her body and spirit. His words and actions certainly contradicted themselves.
"Tread carefully," he whispered inside of her, and she quickly averted her attention to see that the three dremora were studying her.
"She feels...of this place," one commented.
"The sphere," another spoke. "How long has she worn it? And why is the mortal not dead?"
"Mortal?" the one with red hair snarled. "No mortal could withstand the sphere. She does not feel mortal." His eyes narrowed in consideration. "But the woman is of that world, is she not, my lord?" Mehrunes grunted in annoyed agreement and glared at nothing in particular.
"She is indeed," he slowly spoke. "I want your assistance in removing the sphere from her soul." Here the red-haired one actually paused, a peculiar look crossing his features before he schooled them back into a neutral expression. "You have something to say, Drengor?" Mehrunes' voice had dropped dangerously low, bordering on a growl as he awaited a response.
"It is only that your power is much greater than ours, my lord," the dremora carefully spoke while bowing. "I'm sure that you could kill the mortal and reclaim what is rightfully yours." Portia tensed, watching both the dremora and prince out of the corners of her eyes as Mehrunes drew an invisible circle on the arm of his throne.
"She is not to die...yet, and that is all you need know. You will aid me and breath a word of this to no one."
"Of course, my lord," the dremora again bowed. "The mortal is yours."
"My name is Portia Augustine," Portia interjected, forcing her bravery as her imagination caught a glimpse of the bloody fate that the dremora would likely have handed her. She had to remember that this was not her world, and from what she'd read, treatment here revolved around rank and power. For that, she could not solely rely on Mehrunes. She couldn't rely on his word to speak for her, and it was best to begin defending herself now. She had once told the prince that she would not cower, and even if she wanted to, doing so now would be detrimental. She could feel it in the questioning stares of the dremora and the warmth of Mehrunes' spirit washing over hers.
"She speaks daedric?" one of the dremora asked, startled.
"Yes," Portia scoffed, trying to mirror one of Mehrunes' disdainful glares as she forced her legs to remain steady. The prince could probably sense her discomfort and apprehension, but if he was the only one, she could live with that. "And you don't need to speak about me as if I'm not in the room." Mehrunes chuckled, cracking a few of his knuckles as he tilted his head toward the leading dremora, sending his servant a subtle smile that's message was beyond Portia.
"Let's begin," Mehrunes ordered. "My lady." Portia looked to him as he rose from his throne, the daedra taking a few steps so that they were no more than three feet apart. "Cooperate."
Do you really wish me to?
He never answered as the dremora began to chant, and the world quickly blurred into an indistinct collage of red, black, and bright light as her legs trembled. She didn't think that she could handle this a second time as Mehrunes began dissecting her spirit, laying bare her core where the orange energy thrived. It hurt, and if she'd thought that the world felt empty with its removal before, the sensation now made her want to rail and scream in protest.
Just let it go, she told herself. Look at what it's done to you.
"Sherkyn," Mehrunes' voice growled. "Why cling to my world?" She fell into the abyss as he rushed to grab her, holding her back from the edge as his fingers closed around the sphere on her ear.
"Cold," she breathed, unsure if she spoke aloud or only within her mind. "Silent. It's cold and silent. Where are you going?" His fingers remained tightly around the sphere, and again, she was unsure what was physical and what was not. The room seemed to plunge into ice as a sharp tug ruptured her chest. "I should let go," she painfully hissed. "But I can't."
"If you keep fighting, you'll die, Sherkyn. That's no end for someone like you."
"I'm trying!" she impulsively shrieked, making Mehrunes' motions jerk to a stop as she wrapped her fingers around his. "But I can't just stop. I haven't been able to escape this place for so long. Gods help me, but I wanted to let go—I want to let go, but the scar...no matter where I went, I always ended up back here after you marked me. I don't understand what happened when I went home, but now you're ripping me apart. I don't even know what you're taking, but if I lose it..."
The words flowed without her consent or understanding as she began to struggle in earnest, but Mehrunes was vicious in denying her any escape. She thought that maybe she was bleeding as the chanting around her grew louder, and suddenly hands were holding her down against the stone floor, which swelled with heat against her back. The dremora? Were they holding her down? Portia couldn't force them away, so there was no hope of standing to flee, but there was somewhere else that she could go. It drifted beneath her, beckoning her as she stopped fighting Mehrunes and reached for the other force acting upon her. She almost felt like she could sink into the floor as it enveloped her...
"Portia, no!" his voice yelled in warning.
"A mortal will not survive this," another voice spoke.
"Sherkyn! Don't defy me! Release it!" He was furious, the palace shaking with his wrath, but Portia didn't care. His thunder was the last thing that she heard before silence swallowed the world. There was only warmth and the ebb and flow of the Deadlands as she contentedly surrendered to wherever she had landed herself.
**************
"My lord?" Mehrunes stood over Portia's body and watched the mortal sleep, her hands twitching as dark hair splayed across the floor around her like a dark halo. Of all the idiotic, rash decisions that this human had made... "My lord?"
"What?" he spat, still angry at the woman for having successfully denied his orders yet again.
"She lives." The dremora sounded amazed as he laid a hand upon the mortal's forehead. "But for how long, we cannot know. She has..."
"I know," Mehrunes impatiently dismissed. "I do not need a lecture on my own world, Valkynaz."
"But how can she go where the souls are?" another dremora questioned. "Only our dead brethren experience the unseen rivers of the Deadlands, my lord, and she is not one of us. Nor has she died." Mehrunes didn't have an answer that he was willing to share as he crouched and lifted Portia in two of his arms. She slumbered on, lost for the moment, although he could easily dip within her mind to prod her. He did so gently, and she stirred, mumbling his name as he frowned.
"You may leave," the prince stated. "Now." The dremora bowed and disappeared as he began walking toward his private chambers, Portia in hand. What his subordinates forgot was that he, as this world's smith, had layered the dimension, inserting the pathway for lost souls beneath the surface. Unlike other daedra, he did not slay and encage mortal or immortal souls for his service or amusement, but rather reserved the potential for prolonged existence for his own warriors. They would die, rejoin the river of lava and energy that was this world's heart beneath the craggy, black surface, and be born again at a later time. The Deadlands were literally alive with their spirits merging and reemerging from its fabric, but this world's heart only beat because of its ruler, and Portia had now tossed herself into that mix. She was intimately entwined with Oblivion, and as she swam beneath its waters, what had been a small fraction of chaos within her soul began to grow.
"You've permanently damned yourself," Mehrunes told her, moving toward his bed and dropping her onto it. She hit the black sheets and snuggled into them, Mehrunes struck by the peculiar scene of this mortal female soundly asleep on his bed of all places. He'd dreamed of having her here at his mercy, but now that she was, he merely stood and stared at her, feeling her spirit glide against his, and wondering what the hell he could do about this. He very much doubted that he could take what she'd stolen, but Portia was his, so had he truly lost anything? Perhaps he needed to approach this matter in a different light, for she was correct on at least one account: he'd fed his world into her, intentionally drawing her deeper into Oblivion's web for the sake of his bid to own her.
And now she's mine. Forever.
She would never be able to turn her back on him now—not after surrendering her whole self to this place, and hence, also to him. He might even be able to access his full power through her after overcoming her resistance, which would be easier now that her spirit was inseparable from his own. He would have to wait and see how she'd changed when she awoke. After all, no mortal had ever merged with chaos like this, so the effects on her were completely unknown, but he anticipated a favorable outcome. To feel her traveling in and out of his body and mind as she slept, her soul his to summon and mold as his world parted to allow her passage...
"Vingeral!" he called as he moved to his room's opened doorway. A dremora soon appeared, ready to do his bidding, and the prince turned to point at Portia's prone form. "Have the guest chambers prepared for her; clean her up, and move her there. I want to be informed as soon as she's awake."
"Right away, my lord." Mehrunes didn't wait to see the orders executed as he stormed back toward the throne room. He had a war in Tamriel to win, and he'd been absent from its progress long enough.
*************
Portia opened her eyes and almost forgot that she was in Oblivion, but she jerked upright as soon as she realized that the silky sheets beneath her were not her own. She was laying on a massive bed with red curtains draped elegantly around it, the sheer, scarlet material enclosing her and obscuring her view of the room beyond, but not entirely as she waited and watched for some sign of life. Convinced that she was alone, she leaned back into the pillows and pulled the silk sheets up around her body, her forehead scrunching as she realized that someone had changed her clothing.
Gone were Portia's trousers and tunic, and in their place a soft, purple robe that sharply contrasted with the red sheets. It was tied loosely about her waist, the low-cut front immodestly dipping into her cleavage and drooping to the side to reveal a golden necklace inlaid with rubies. Matching bracelets adorned her wrists, and as her feet shifted, she realized that there were also anklets. And Goblin's gall, but even her hair was swept back into a high, crisscrossing twist that left her wondering why Mehrunes had ordered her appearance to be fixed thus. She felt like a damned queen lounging about in priceless gems, and perhaps in a prince's bed. No, he wouldn't leave her unattended in a room where he kept priceless artifacts, so she must be somewhere else, regal as it appeared.
"Five days, Sherkyn."
Portia knew that Mehrunes was there the moment that he stepped into the room, and she could see his outline pacing along the length of the bed. Had she really been in that...that place for so long?
"What happened?" she asked, her voice sore from disuse.
"Suffice it to say that you could be here a very long time."
"My lord?" a knock and voice came from some unseen door. "Azura is here to see you."
"Tell my dear sibling to wait," Mehrunes stated. "We will speak later, Sherkyn." Then he was gone, and Portia was left sitting still for quite some time, uncertain as to what she'd done and why she intrinsically knew that two guards were being posted outside of her door.
Okay, people, here's the deal. The semester is almost over, so I have a lot of papers to write. Updating will suffer as a consequence; however, I appreciate your patience, and thanks for all the reviews. I openly admit to loving them.
