Chapter 44: More than a Captive

"What do you want, Azura?" Mehrunes bellowed, two arms folded across his chest as he strode into the throne room. "Have you come to admonish me for meddling in Tamriel? If you have, your trip is meaningless, and you may leave." He did not particularly want to deal with his elder sibling, who stood before his throne in all her beauty, as audacious as she was striking. She truly was the most beautiful of the daedra with her slender, curving body, and long, flowing hair the color of fresh night with its various shades of blue. The dunmer liked to depict her as one of their own, but while her elegant features were similar to an elf's, her light skin and piercing, purple eyes were nothing like a mortal's. Now she stood before him, clothed in a long, flowing white dress as she patiently regarded him. She always had to be so damned patient and reserved.

"You always assume the worst of your visitors, Mehrunes," she observed. "Will you not even offer your sister a place to sit?" He really would have preferred to make her stand while he sat on his throne, but they were equals in rank, and he knew that blatantly offending her could have serious consequences. He had not forgotten how successful she'd been in aiding Nerevar and the Nerevarine, and she could be meddlesome when she wished, although he doubted that she could put much of a kink in his plans at this point.

"This way," he told her, indicating a side room where they retired to the comfort of ornate chairs, the seats overlooking a vast expanse of the Deadlands.

"For a moment, I thought that you meant to make me stand, brother," Azura commented, sitting and providing a sharp contrast to the backdrop of mountains and lava.

"I cannot help but suspect your motives for coming here when you rarely visit," Mehrunes replied. "A drink?" The other daedra shook her head with a slight smile, her hands folded daintily in her lap, and blue tresses cascading over her delicate shoulders. "Suit yourself." Mehrunes raised an arm, and within seconds a servant appeared with an entire flask of wine. He uncorked the bottle and drank directly from it, completely unconcerned with the amused smile that his sister wore. "Why have you come?" he asked.

"Perhaps I miss speaking with you," she softly spoke, lilac eyes searching.

"Doubtful," Mehrunes snorted.

"Really, Mehrunes, we haven't spoken in years. Now you're plotting war, and the rest of us have noticed. Do you realize that a few of your dremora slew a cluster of Sanguine's worshippers at his shrine?"

"So they did ask you to come talk to me," Mehrunes snarled. True, Azura was the only other prince that he wouldn't merely dismiss and kick out of his realm, but if they thought that she garnered special counsel with him, they had another thing coming. The problem with his siblings was that some of them tended to meddle with one another as much as they did with mortals. They'd created their own realms specifically to avoid such problems, but some of the princes were still damn annoying.

"They did not send me here," Azura promised. "Although Sanguine drank himself into a stupor and cursed your followers for about an hour. Knowing him, he's already forgotten the incident and found more people to join his parties." Mehrunes detected the subtle disapproval in Azura's voice and grinned, downing the rest of his wine and setting the flask aside.

"See?" he pointed out. "No harm done."

"If they had been my followers, I would not be so forgiving," Azura warningly commented.

"I'll leave your precious mortals alone," Mehrunes dismissed. "But that's not all you came here to say."

"No," she admitted, purple eyes growing darker as she crossed her legs. "Be careful that you don't overstep your boundaries, brother. The rest of us will not tolerate you asserting power over a realm that we have interests in."

"You cannot treat me like another Jyggalag," Mehrunes growled, sitting forward in warning.

"We wouldn't dream of it," Azura defended herself. "We know that you don't intend to hold Tamriel, but you're stepping on toes, especially those of the Nine. Surely you realize that they will not sit by and do nothing, and they have power in their own right, brother—dangerous power and influence among the mortals. There are also those of us who do not wish to see you eclipse our presence in the land, so everyone is watching. We've always been jealous creatures." Mehrunes sat back with a dark expression, Azura neutral and gazing prettily out over his world while he digested her words. Neither her warnings nor concerns were anything new, and he wouldn't change his plans for another prince, but her honest regard for his safety was something that he appreciated, however grudgingly.

"You've said your peace, sister," he stated. "And it changes nothing."

"Will you not even offer me the chance to spend the evening?" Azura questioned with a subtle smile. He definitely didn't like that smile. It was the mysteriously amused smile that she wore when privy to inside information.

"I know that you prefer the rooms of your silver palace," he lazily told her. "I won't burden you with my darker decor."

"Then it has nothing to do with the mortal that you put in my guest room." He glared at his sister, daring her to speak further, but Azura merely stood and dismissed herself. "I am surprised, Mehru." He bristled at the old nickname and expressed his distaste by standing to lord his greater height over her, but Azura was unimpressed, and carelessly offered him a goodnatured smile. "I'll be going now," she assured him. "But perhaps you will stop mocking me for my old friend now."

"You are mistaken," he bluntly told her, recalling his endless jokes about her pining after Nerevar. Whether she'd truly loved the man or not, she had done her best to protect him, and it was rumored that she was responsible for the passing of his soul into another body. To become so attached to a mortal was laughable, and yet, he could not deny that he intended to keep Portia for as long as possible.

"Perhaps I am wrong, brother," Azura agreed. "But then again, I might also see what you've blinded yourself against. Farewell." Mehrunes grumbled his own goodbye and watched Azura vanish, the stunning daedra leaving behind a faint trail of sparkling dust, as if a star had shimmered across his realm. She would not spread gossip about his guest as some would, but her knowledge still agitated him, making him seek out Portia's spirit. The human female was startled by his sudden attention, but quickly calmed, and he could envision her sitting at the vanity in her room, succumbing to the energy pulsing between them. As she silently queried after his interest, he withdrew, struck by the realization that the signature of her soul hardy felt like that of a mortal's any longer.

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Portia knew that Mehrunes was restless since his thoughts filtered through her mind, the growl of his displeasure rumbling along her muscles. Standing in a darkened hallway, she listened to his heartbeat, the sound seemingly pulsing in time with the blood fountain before her, and she wondered what had happened to offset his mood. She ran a finger along the rim of the fountain, the strange, black stone beneath her hands oddly glassy and cool despite its fearsome design. She'd seen dremora drink from these displays, but instead of being repulsed, she'd stood at a distance and watched with mild interest as the guards exchanged words and sometimes quietly glanced at her. They weren't talkative creatures and were imposing by nature, but they never threatened her, only treating her with aloofness. She highly suspected that would not be the case if she weren't being housed in Mehrunes' private wing of the palace, which was apparently an honor reserved for visiting princes.

Perhaps you could brood a little more quietly, Lord Dagon, she sarcastically thought as clap of lightning ripped through the air outside.

"Not now, mortal," came his swift response. Portia moved to a nearby window, her red dress grazing the polished floor as she stared out into the rippling red of Oblivion's sky, white zigzags of lightning now flashing around the palace. The storm charged the air with energy, and Portia had the urge to abandon herself to the wild, violent forces around her; to join the power of thunder and wind that called to her. There was something utterly captivating about the sudden storms in this realm, and she always found herself watching them, almost feeling where the lightning would strike before it even appeared. Under such circumstances, losing sight of the constant threat to her life and the victims that littered this land was possible, but was it truly safe to venture out in a storm like this?

"Even the weather follows your command," she softly spoke, finding a narrow door that opened onto a staircase that spiraled along the outside of a small tower. The steps were dangerously compact, but her footing was sure as she ascended, hair fluttering in the warm wind as she lifted her dress to move faster. For days, she had been trapped with nothing to do, but climbing this tower, she felt her blood pump as if she were about to enter a duel, the clashing of lightning reaching a crescendo as she began to pant from the strenuous climb. She knew that this was impulsive, but she didn't care as she reached a landing that branched unsupported across open air to another tower. Walking across such an open bridge was daunting, and she paused, but not out of fear, but the breathtaking panoramic view of mountains and glowing rivers that spread out before her. She refused to look down lest she lose her nerve, but cautiously walked onward to the center of the precarious bridge, eyes glowing orange and reflecting the lightning.

This place is called the Deadlands, she mused, but everything here is so alive.

"Very true, Sherkyn."

No, not everything lives, she quickly corrected herself, imagining the occasional bodies that she found strung up like trophies, burnt flesh hanging from mouths fixed in screams and grimaces. What had those people done to deserve such a fate? They'd likely only been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and remembering her own torture here, Portia was all too aware that this was not her world or even a pleasant world. But still...Portia lifted her chin into the thunderous wind and felt alive, the red silks of her outfit whipping about her, and her appreciation for this realm's intricate design apparent if not wholly approved by her own heart.

What have I done to myself?

She remembered falling into this world with more than just her body, and as if told by a whisper on the wind, she knew that Mehrunes had spoken the truth: she was far past the point of return, but she could still leave, right? If she found a way to return to Tamriel, this connection to Oblivion wouldn't stop her, would it? Even if Mehrunes followed her in spirit form, she did not think that she was doomed to remain suspended in this dark domain until death. Of course, Mehrunes was being very secretive about the entire matter, mostly choosing to ignore her.

Their daily lives rarely crossed, although Portia was almost continuously aware of Mehrunes Dagon as she found herself a comfortable prisoner. Perhaps he did not bother her because of his invasion of Tamriel and the hunt for the heir, but she also suspected that he did not quite know what to do with her. She didn't know what could be done about her situation either—not now that simply removing the earring wouldn't work. In part, she was pleased that she continued to frustrate the prince's plans, and if the mages found a way to separate her and Oblivion, she would then become expendable. Whatever Mehrunes' intentions, she had no desire to come completely under his mercy and power due to loss of the sphere.

"Beautiful."

Portia did not know where he was, but she felt Mehrunes' eyes on her, examining her defiant pose amidst the storm, which was rapidly calming. She heard a dremora call to her from the stairs, and she reluctantly followed him back into the gloomy hallways that awaited her. She had requested a dueling partner, and perhaps one had been found, even if she was wary of engaging a dremora. Then again, what did she have to fear after fighting Mehrunes? She descended the stairs and knew that whatever happened, she had to maintain a firm footing against her captors, showing them that she was not a helpless prisoner. If inflicting a few wounds would make the dremora view her as more than a pathetic, human guest, then she had nothing against a little bloodshed.

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"This is ridiculous," Portia seethed beneath her breath, storming toward the throne room. She'd been here for almost two weeks, and she hadn't seen Mehrunes for seven straight days, despite the fact that she'd been looking for him. Apparently, as a dremora had informed her several days previously, the prince was not some commoner to be interrupted at will, and someone of a lower station had to request an audience. Controlling her annoyance at being considered Mehrunes' subject, she'd done just that, registering her request with a Valkynaz who she knew to wait on the prince, and her response: nothing.

This is dangerous, Portia, her conscious warned, but she brushed it aside. She'd been playing on the safe side since her life depended on circumstances beyond her control, but as she'd fought in the training room today, she'd realized that playing it safe had never gotten her anything from Mehrunes. She'd always been forced to confront him or engage his aggressiveness head on, and she could remember his energy flaring no brighter or more alluringly than when they sparred with one another. Well, to the deepest depths of Oblivion with minding her step then, because she was sick of waiting.

"Portia," the dremora walking behind her blurted. "This hall leads to the throne room."

"I know," she said, stopping to look back at the dremora, who was small for his race, but his ferociousness in combat more than made up for his short stature. "Mehrunes and I are going to talk." She shifted her weight, wondering why this dremora had run to catch up with her, for she'd left him in the training room, where she'd assumed he would stay. Compared to the others she'd dueled, he was more talkative, but still very curt with her, clinging to the reserve that all his brethren showed in admitting her into their circle. She could still remember the first day of walking into the training hall with her ill-fitted daedric armor, for the dremora had snorted or guffawed in disdainful amusement, but she was earning her place, and she knew it by the way that they now nodded in acknowledgment when she entered the room.

"I figured as much," the dremora continued in his guttural tongue, and Portia could not remember his name for the life of her. "When you abruptly left while muttering about a bastard, we considered it."

"If you're here to dissuade me, you're wasting your time," Portia dismissed. Her mood was not improved by the weight of her armor, which although smaller than her first suit, was still heavy for her feminine frame. There was a spray of red across her breastplate, where she'd injured a slower opponent today, and a few dents in her armor where she'd learned a lesson or two as well.

"It's your funeral, human," the dremora grunted. "I came to return this." He held out a dagger, and Portia looked to her waist to see that hers was missing. "A warrior does not leave behind her weapons." With a reluctant hand, Portia reached out and accepting the gesture, surprised to be on the receiving end of the consideration. Although they avoided talking to her, perhaps she was making more headway with her sparring partners than she'd previously thought. She had bested a few of them.

"Thank you." The dremora stiffly nodded and left, Portia watching him retreat for a few seconds as she fingered the dagger. Everyday she walked into the training room, she wondered if today would be the day that she was killed and laughed at as the stupid mortal who challenged dremora, but for all that, she'd gone religiously every other day, especially if she'd been bruised in the previous round. This gesture...Portia smiled as she continued toward the throne room, standing taller and bolder as she pushed onward. Let anyone sense the worry that she felt when an opponent knocked her down or the fear of being trapped here forever at the prince's whims, and she was done. She had a very strong inkling that Oblivion did not give second chances very often.

"Human, what do you think you're doing?!" a guard outside the throne room demanded.

"Out of the way," Portia ordered with more bravado than she felt, pushing through the doors and into the throne room as if she owned this place. Complete audacity or some reserve? She questioned how she should behave in order to get her point across without risking her life, but then again, maybe there was no way around tempting fate. Mehrunes might want her alive, but he had his tolerance limits, as she well knew.

"My lord, I advise..." The Valkynaz who'd been talking to Mehrunes turned, face frozen in surprise as Portia made no effort to keep her armor from announcing her approach down the central path to the throne. The flames of the braziers lining her forward march seemed to jump and crackle brightly with each step that she took, and the the light sharpened the angles of her armor, making her look like war itself as she moved.

"What have we here?" Mehrunes mentally asked from where he sat on his throne, reclining with two hands steeped over his lap. Several dremora stood before him, their conversation trailing off as they too studied the new arrival, some scoffing as Portia removed her helmet and let her brown hair tumble over her shoulders. Mehrunes' face remained passive, although Portia could feel the interest pulsing through his body, his attention fixed solely on her as her green eyes attempted to pin him against the throne.

"You require something, Lady Augustine?" he asked, voice deep and mellow, like a storm gathering on the horizon.

"How nice of you to ask since you've been ignoring me for days on end," Portia replied, equally calm. "How long do you plan to keep me here?" The dremora exchanged glances, subtly distancing themselves from the two, who could have cared less given their intense focus on one another. Several dremora frowned in disapproval, but others smirked, no doubt thinking that Mehrunes would put Portia in her place, but she stood her ground, and Mehrunes merely tapped several fingers against the arms of his throne, face sternly studying his opponent.

"I'll keep you as long as I like," the prince stated. "And it's your own fault that you're here. I might grant you release if you return what's mine, but that's not a promise."

"You're not doing much to motivate me into being helpful then," Portia bluntly stated, aware that the prince's mood was stirring and taking on more dangerous overtones, but there was something else in his eyes that undercut her fear, for their dark depths swelled with an intensity that he seemed to reserve solely for her. She could almost feel his mind tossing her armor aside, his hands on her scars, and his mouth on her throat. With a shudder, she realized that she was seeing the fantasies rushing through his mind as he stood and approached her.

"You dare speak to me as if you're my equal?" he growled.

"I seem to remember beating you, my lord," Portia snapped, feeding off of his violent emotions. "It was I who had to fetch you a healing potion."

"LEAVE!" Mehrunes bellowed, sending the dremora from the room as Portia thanked the gods that her armor provided stiff support for her legs. When a daedric prince yelled, the sound truly reverberated around the room with an awesome power that left her feeling insignificant, but she could do this. All she had to remember was that she'd once pushed this being before her into a puddle. "You've grown used to being here, I see," came his smoldering comment. "You're no longer just a fish out of water, as you mortals say, but to dare come to my throne room and speak to me like..."

"An equal?" Portia finished. "You were just as arrogant and demanding before, Cassius, and not once did I cower before you. Maybe I'm at your mercy, but I'd rather die standing than be a prisoner for life. You won't ignore me." One moment Mehrunes looked like he might hit her, but the next he was smirking, standing so close to her that she could feel his breath on her face.

"Ignore you?" he hissed. "You're a stunning creature in that armor, Sherkyn, and I'm sure that you've been giving my servants a challenge. I wonder if they find you as much of a conundrum as I do..." Portia opened her mouth to speak, but she quickly shut it as Mehrunes invaded her mind, although it was hardly an outright invasion since she didn't attempt to stop him. "I've been doing myself a disservice by ignoring you, Sherkyn. I've been very busy these last few days. The heir will soon be within my power. Then your world will bow to me. How does that make you feel?"

"They won't stop fighting, Mehrunes," Portia stated. "Your kind have never successfully taken over our plane before."

"We'll see," Mehrunes darkly mused, stepping back, although his arousal was quite evident to Portia, who might as well have been naked. "Did you notice anything strange two days ago?" he asked her, face blank.

"Two days ago..." Portia tried to remember, but nothing stood out. "Nothing happened. It just rained." Mehrunes nodded, carefully gauging her reaction as the memory of his words from weeks ago was forcefully brought to the fore of her mind. Then she recalled it: how the dremora had stood at the windows, watching the rain and almost reluctant to venture out in it, which she had found odd, but then again...

"It doesn't rain in Oblivion," Portia realized. "You told me that, but then what happened?"

"You should be the one telling me," Mehrunes grumbled, clearly troubled, but Portia could not comprehend his meaning as he began walking toward a small doorway. "This way, Sherkyn," he ordered. "I'd forgotten how refreshing you are."

Not true, Portia thought, recalling the many times that Mehrunes had mentally contacted her, baiting her or sending out a strange draw that beckoned her, as if he desired her presence.

"Will you ever willingly let me go?" Portia again asked. "If I can bring myself to allow the sphere to be ripped from me, will you let me go?" He did not answer her as they entered a room with a large central table, the surface littered with maps and scrolls.

"This is the palace," Mehrunes explained, pointing to a dot on one map.

"My god, your realm is huge," Portia blurted, staring at the map with interest, her eyes moving with Mehrunes' finger. He pointed out large seas of lava, and hunting grounds, other towns and fortresses, Oblivion gates and watchtowers. Portia listened to it all with curiosity, almost forgetting that the man beside her was far more than the Imperial that had once taken her to dinner. The voice was the same, as was the attitude and personality, and focused on the maps as she was, his physical form was lost on her.

Why is he doing this?

"I can't plan war all the time," came the mocking reply. "And you complained that I've been ignoring you." Portia smiled at his sarcastic manner, quickly being reminded of the reasons that she'd found Cassius engaging to begin with, and he was speaking of his world with the pride that a father might take in describing his son. He almost seemed eager to show off his world and its order, and always, in the back of his mind, lurked the thought of removing her clothing. As those thoughts pushed to the foreground, Portia wondered if she would even attempt to refuse him—as if it would do any good—but she was spared the decision when a dremora interrupted them to tell Mehrunes that his presence was needed in settling a dispute.

Portia was dismissed, and she wandered back to her room, trading her armor for a gown as she flopped onto the massive bed that dominated the room. No matter how worn out she was after training, she could and would slip into the fabric of Oblivion and feel renewed, as if the chaos infusing her soothed the bruises. Maybe it was all in her mind, but she didn't care at the moment as she rolled onto her back to stare at the bed's canopy. Damn, but these sheets were soft, gliding beautifully across her skin, and making her wonder why Mehrunes' palace had such obviously luxurious and even feminine quarters. He'd given her the room of a queen, but she was hardly a queen, and now that she thought about it, the bastard had nullified the purpose of her confrontation with him.

He had evaded giving her an answer about her freedom and position, and for a moment, she allowed herself to crumble, picturing blue skies and the imperial city, hearing Arelius's insistent comments and the hawking of the market district. Perhaps the energy that she was losing herself in could offer some relief, but could she trade her world for such a sensation? With a sudden urge to feel grass beneath her feet, Portia closed her eyes and let a few tears slide down the side of her face. She'd never even lit candles at Gilthan's grave, and now hundreds more might be suffering as Gates of Oblivion opened. How much blood stained the grass that she longed to touch?

The flow of energy that infused the Deadlands called to her, begging her to let it take away her troubles, but she was already silently crying as she surrendered, and outside, the red heaven's released a light drizzle of pure water, silver streams running off of the black towers and turning to steam as they touched lava. Dremora watched uneasily, and all of Oblivion seemed to pause at the strange sight. Elsewhere, Mehrunes stood by a window and witnessed the strange phenomenon, concerned with the amount of power that had been transferred to his Sherkyn.


I'm back!! All of my schoolwork has been turned in for the semester, and it's time to finish this story. I hope that everyone is still waiting around to read the updates, and to answer some queries, I am being very careful and mindful of how I handle the ending, because I know that an ending can make or break a story. That said, there are only two chapters left, and they'll be coming very soon. Enjoy!