When Therion finally awoke, the room was quiet and still, lit only by the dull flame of a single candle. His breath caught in his throat, as he took in the small chamber, unsure where he was. Pulse quickening, his wide amber eyes swept the place, searching for Thalmor. The sight of Farengar, sitting stiffly in the chair beside him, took him by surprise. The tall Nord was sleeping awkwardly in his seat, his frame bent so uncomfortably, Therion surmised he could only have achieved sleep through a combination of sheer, prideful, determination and exhaustion.
Therion inhaled awkwardly, his breathing becomingly increasingly difficult. He tried to breath normally, but found his chest was tight. Each time he drew breathe, his upper body responded with aching violently, forcing him to breath in quick, shallow breaths, lending him to anxiety.
Wincing, he remembered his final evening with the Thalmor. Though he quickly tried to dispel the memory, he could still recollect the violent, forceful blows of justicar boots kicking his chest with, what seemed to be, remarkably boundless enthusiasm. Ondolemar had found them and intervened, shouting in outrage. An argument had passed between them as he had laid gasping on the floor, something about rank and status being yelled back and forth, when they were interrupted by a sudden commotion within the keep. Shortly after, he had awoken to find what seemed like half of Skyrim shouting in disagreement.
Rubbing his fingers together, Therion tried to summon his magicka. A weak, golden light, flickered erratically in his palm, refusing to obey his weary command.
Farengar's head drooped forward and slid from his shoulder, causing him to wake with a start.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked sleepily, looking disapprovingly at Therion's vain attempts at restoration. The wizard extended his hands, enveloping the mer in shimmering, gold light. "Apart from trying to kill yourself with exhaustion, I mean."
Therion relaxed slightly, a small sigh of relief escaping his lips as he felt the tightness in his chest begin to give way to the soothing warmth of the magic washing through his aching body. Farengar paused momentarily, letting his magicka regenerate, then Therion heard the spell resume with its familiar soft chimes. The wizard was clearly unsuited to healing magic, regularly pausing to recover his energies.
Therion was just able to comfortably draw a full breath of air into his lungs when Farengar stopped. Opening his eyes, he slowly pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed and look at the mage.
Farengar had slumped forward in his chair, leaning precariously to one side, dark circles evident beneath his closed eyes.
"Hypocrite," Therion said softly.
Startled, he watched Farengar drift slightly too far to the side, and dashed forward, catching the man just as he collapsed. He held the unconscious wizard in his arms, momentarily dazed.
Farengar's lean frame was sturdy and strong, unlike any other wizard he had ever encountered. That was the Nords for you, he thought, even their mages seemed to be built for warfare. Even through his thick, blue robes, he could feel the remarkable warmth of the Nord's body, compared to his own. Had Farengar been mer or any other race of man, he would have thought him feverish.
Reluctantly, he took one of the wizard's arms over his shoulder, and gently laid him on the bed to rest.
Therion stared into Farengar's face, suddenly unsure of himself... perhaps he was simply over tired and troubled from his recent experiences. However, as he gazed at the sleeping wizard, an overwhelming wave of protectiveness gripped him, the ferocity of his feelings catching him by surprise.
Of all the humans in Skyrim, Therion had always enjoyed Farengar's company most. The wizard's humorous, sharp wit and thoughtful nature, found Therion returning to Dragonsreach often. At first he had wondered if he simply found Farengar similar in attitude to his own people, but in time, he had found Farengar was uniquely, well, Farengar. Skyrim was a lonely place to be mer, but teasing the proud mage always made the days more pleasant.
Therion rubbed his forehead, baffled and slightly worried by the direction of his thoughts.
Developing legitimate feelings for a human was not a thought he had ever seriously entertained; his life was complicated enough.
He shook his head and laughed.
Well, he thought to himself with a low chuckle, it hardly mattered. Whatever his feelings were toward Farengar, more than likely, Farengar would be the last person in Tamriel to be aware of them. He was surprisingly dense about such matters. Furthermore, Therion would not remain in Skyrim much longer; he had a war to wage on his kinsman.
After a final glance at the sleeping wizard, he quietly left the room, emerging into the main room of the Sleeping Giant Inn, his folded Nightingale armor in hand. The Imperials beside the door turned to face him and, as they recognized his identity, saluted. One was a young man with short blonde hair, the other a more experienced looking veteran woman with braided, black hair.
"At ease," Therion said, closing the door behind him. "How long have I been out?"
"Only since this morning," the young man replied quickly, eager to please Therion. "Is there anything you require, Sir?"
"Yes," Therion replied, keen to get away from both of the soldiers and be alone. "A bath. You're both dismissed. Eat a hot meal, enjoy your evening, and return to General Tullius after you've rested."
"Sir!" the young man replied in protest as Therion turned to leave, "The General was very adamant that we remain at your side."
"What he means," the woman chimed in, "Is that the General will have both our arses on a platter if you walk out that door and get mugged. No offense, but you look like death warmed over. Sir."
Therion ran a hand through his short, gold hair. He detested relying on others and was in no mood for pointless social pleasantries, but he had to admit that even a mudcrab could give him a run for his money in his current state. Between thieves, Thalmor, vampires, and Gods forbid, dragons, walking down the street was taking one's life into their own hands. Little wonder Nords were the most stubborn, resilient race on the face of Nirn.
"Fine," Therion agreed, gesturing to the young Imperial. "You may follow me. And I will do my utmost to stay alive so the General doesn't toss you both from Castle Dour. You," he said, turning to the older imperial, "May stay here and see that my sleeping friend isn't disturbed. I'll return in a while."
Therion swiftly turned away and left the inn before either could argue, emerging into the night air of Riverwood, as the young Imperial soldier scurried after him to keep up. A light rain began to fall as they made their way toward the Riverwood Trader. Therion enjoyed the cold drops and open sky, having been cooped up indoors far too long, and happily let the rain fall on his bare skin. The soldier beside him kept staring at the him with such intense fascination Therion finally stopped in his tracks.
"Spit it out," he said more plainly than he meant to, too tired to muster his usual charm. Nothing like a week of semi-conscious torture to make a mer peevish, he thought to himself with bitter sarcasm. "What is it...?"
"Lorgren," the auxiliary replied, introducing himself. "I… That is… Everyone calls you 'Dragonborn'. I only just transferred here from Cyrodiil. The Nords in the Imperial City say you have the soul of a dragon and can shout words so powerful, they tear the sky apart! That you can shout a man to death, or bring them back to life!" Therion stared flatly at the boy as they resumed their walk, partly amused by the rumors and partly regretting letting him play bodyguard; his enthusiasm for talking seemed to know no bounds. "Some say you're Tiber Septim, reincarnated! We all thought they were embellishing, but then we found out the tales of dragons proved to be true, we started to wonder, what else could be? Well, when I arrived in Skyrim, many of the other auxiliaries confirmed a lot of the stories. And, well, I never thought I'd meet a living legend."
Lorgren grinned a bit sheepishly, watching the Dragonborn.
Therion stared at the eager faced child for a moment before he began to chuckle, then burst into hearty laughter.
"Sorry," the Dragonborn finally said to the confused Lorgren. "I'm just trying to imagine the- the old Imperials in the Elder Council, choking on that rumor… An Altmer reincarnation of their precious "Divine" Emperor… Oh that would be rich, I don't know who would want me dead more, every mer on Nirn, or the entire Empire," he held his sides, concerned that he might re-injure his ribs. The most delicious irony, he kept quietly to himself. He doubted Lorgren would appreciate hearing that he had personally sacked the Imperial Palace during the Great War. Cyrodiil was still rebuilding the palace.
"My soul is mer, Lorgren. Not Imperial. Not dragon. I am mer," Therion said firmly. Though he hated the Thalmor, he was still Altmer, a fact that many seemed to prefer to forget or ignore. "And I cannot raise the dead. That's necromancers. And the results are less than desirable."
Lorgren mumbled something and looked at his boots, walking with a bit less spring in his step.
Therion stopped.
After a moment, Lorgren turned back to look at him.
Taking a deep breath, Therion lifted his head up, shouting "Lok… VAH KOOR!" toward the sky. His thu'um echoed loudly, the force of his words creating a ripple of light as the air around him exploded in a loud 'crack!'.
The rain slowed, and stopped, and as Therion walked on, the dark clouds overhead dispersed, revealing the constellations and the shining twin moons.
Lorgren ran after him with a large grin on his face.