"Why do you insist on wearing your hood up?" Therion asked with disappointment. For a man with such carefully groomed side burns, he seemed oddly intent on hiding them from view.
Farengar stood, brushing off his robes.
"Get out," he said, holding his head high.
"Are you sure?" Therion asked, quirking his brow, "I wouldn't mind staying-"
"I would," Farengar snapped, giving Therion a glimpse of his brewing anger and mortification.
"Very well," the Dragonborn said, holding up a hand in peace. "I was only trying to help, Farengar-"
"Out!" he shouted, wrenching the door open.
"Gods, you are determined to deafen me, aren't you?" Therion said with an indifferent sigh. "It's not my fault you drank the damn love potion."
Farengar descended upon him, dragging him to the door with strength surprising for a mage. Therion put up no resistance save for the last moment. Whirling around to face Farengar, a roguish grin spread wide across his face.
"Was it so awful?" Therion asked, holding onto the door frame. "I, for one, had a delightful evening."
He savored the scowl on Farengar's face as he shoved him from the room. Therion stumbled back, watching the door slam shut.
"Come on!" the mer shouted with a laugh, trying the handle and finding it locked. "Open the door, Farengar! I'm not leaving without my armor. A god gave it to me. And not one of the forgiving ones, either."
Therion froze, a creeping sensation along the back of his neck. He snapped his gaze toward the Great Hall. The large room, which had been deserted all day, was now filled with people, all of them looking his direction. His audience included no less than Jarl Balgruuf, his housecarl, Irileth, his steward, Proventus, and a full escort of guards. As they returned his stare, Therion was suddenly acutely aware that he was standing before them with his shirt completely open and his belt half undone.
Irileth's eyes were open wider than he had thought possible, while Proventus was staring intently at what looked like a blank parchment, every scrap of his bald scalp flushed bright red.
The Jarl, for his part, just looked amused.
Therion stood up straight and flashed a smile, rubbing his chin as he tried to think. He could already hear the guards muttering about a "lovers' quarrel".
To hell with it, he thought, grabbing what remained of his mead and giving a wink heavenward, silently asking Nocturnal to pardon him for losing his armor.
"Good evening," Therion said, touching his brow with a flourish.
The Jarl nodded back.
The mer strolled away, hands tucked regally behind his back, in contrast to the disarray of his clothing. He saw little point in adjusting it and looking flustered, so he flaunted it. The best way to avoid embarrassment was to wear it with pride.
"Dragonborn," the Jarl said, and Therion stopped in his tracks. "A god you say?"
He looked back over his shoulder at the court of Whiterun.
"A jest," he said humbly with a courteous nod before leaving the hall.
If word got around that the Gods were handing him trinkets and armor, he would be up to eyes in thieves. Not to mention Nocturnal, infamous for her love of secrecy, might disfavor him for drawing attention.
He was not a devout follower of Nocturnal, but he knew better than to piss her off.
Walking through the empty streets of the Cloud District, he paused to run a hand over the tiny tree, Gildergreen. The sapling was growing stronger each day. For a moment he pictured it with ruby red leaves, glowing in the autumn sun beneath his bedroom window, somewhere far across the Abecean Sea. Shaking his head, he removed his hand from the bark and walked slowly back to his small home.
Therion smiled to himself, remembering the last kiss he had shared with the wizard, as he took a sip of his mead. The alcohol warmed his body against the cold and the taste reminded him of fond memories. Though he missed the Summerset Isle, there were times when Whiterun could feel like home. Tonight was such a night. The twin moons shone brightly in the night sky. He looked up, admiring the sight as he descended the stairs toward the empty street stalls and closed businesses.
A cloth was clamped roughly over his mouth, muffling his cry of surprise as he was pulled backward, forcing him off balance. Dropping his mead flask, Therion grabbed at the hand silencing him. His heart raced, alarmed by his inability to use his Thu'um. He felt himself being lifted up as a second and third attacker quickly grabbed his legs and torso, carrying him out of sight behind an abandoned house on the hill.
Thrashing with all of his might, he tried to escape their grip, though his strength seemed to fail him. He managed to throw a fire spell at the closest hooded figure before the man pinned his arms at his side. In the brief, illuminating light of his fire spell, he saw something which made his blood run cold; Thalmor armor. His original attacker forced the cloth into his mouth, gagging him, as he wrapped another cloth tightly around his mouth. The fabric in his mouth tasted bitter and unpleasant. Therion's vision began to blur and his body began to slacken, his muffled cries turning into distant and inarticulate moans as he tried to stay conscious. A dead or unconscious guard lay beside him, crushing his hopes further of anyone hearing him. He felt them bind his feet and hands, his arms forced painfully together behind his back.
Blinking hard, he moved his head side to side, trying to stay awake. He knew it was a losing battle as his vision began to darken. With all his might he made a final attempt to call for help, the sound barely audible to himself around his gag. The last image he saw was the hooded Thalmor putting a finger to his lips before he slipped into unconsciousness.