Author's Note: Thank you for all the wonderful comments! Translations at the bottom. Please enjoy.
"Paarthurnax?" Therion wondered aloud, eyes marginally widening.
"An oddly grandiloquent name," Farengar replied absentmindedly as he scanned the skies for the dragon circling somewhere overhead.
"This coming from 'Farengar Secret-Fire'?" the mer asked with a chuckle, as he tucked in his white shirt and collected his armor.
After a moment of carefully listening, Therion paused, before drawing a deep breath.
"STENFAH!"
His bellow shook the walls of the bedroom, nearly jarring Farengar into the window he was looking through.
Caught off guard, Farengar whirled around to face Therion, the source of the upset. It was easy to forget that voice could contain so much power. The half-naked Altmer dawned his enchanted armor as though nothing extraordinary had transpired, pouring himself into the perfectly fitted leather. Farengar watched him dress in the muted morning light, filtering through the high windows, as he pondered over that voice which felled dragons and brought men to their knees.
Even half dressed, Therion looked impressive. He was poised, muscular, and a literal breath away from unleashing that incredible power from between his lips. For a strange and perplexing moment, Farengar couldn't recognize him as the Therion he knew; that galling and mysterious elf who fascinated Farengar, often despite his best efforts. This Therion was a stranger whom looked impossibly unreal. Like a hero of legend from the old tales.
Invincible.
Reflexively, Farengar's eyes wandered over the jagged scars exposed above the elf's shirt. A stark reminder of Therion's frailty… and his mortality. He had the voice and soul of a dragon, but not the flesh of one.
Farengar tore his gaze away before Therion could notice. He had seen him scowling quietly at his scars when he thought the wizard wasn't looking.
"Someone you know?" Farengar asked when Therion didn't explain his shout or who Paarthurnax was. Disguising his jumbled and indistinct feelings of concern, he followed Therion downstairs.
The elf was grinning broadly in what appeared to be delighted surprise.
"Do you remember when I told you I have one friend in Skyrim?" Therion asked, before shaking his head and breaking into laughter. "Who do I think I'm talking to. Of course you remember. You probably remember the herb I picked during the conversation."
"Blue mountain flower," Farengar supplied without hesitation.
Therion glanced over at the wizard in curious amazement. Farengar's memory never failed to astound.
"Well," Therion said, pointing to the sky as he opened the door. "That's him, there."
Farengar stared in wide eyed amazement, awed by the sight. A large, gold dragon soared majestically overhead, circling the skies with ease and indifference for the many arrows whizzing past its body.
"You shouted something to him," Farengar said eagerly, his eyes keenly locked skyward as he spoke. "What did you say?"
Therion admired the spirit of excitement shining in Farengar's eyes. Dragons, herbs, magic - when presented by anything of scholarly potential, he suddenly became alight with enthusiasm. Therion wanted to show him so many wonderful things and watch that light of intellect and discovery burn. His expression softened as he realized the likelihood he would live long enough to do so was fantastically low. Every day he lived felt like borrowed time. A future with Farengar was a wonderful, albeit unlikely, dream. He couldn't help laughing out loud at the irony of it all. A mer worrying about outliving his human love. Ondolemar would probably chuckle at least a little, and he vowed to tell his cousin if they met again.
"A polite reply to his summons," Therion explained with a fond smile. "'On my way', or something to that effect. Paarthurnax has rigorously tried to explain the culture of the dov to me. Etiquette, especially."
Farengar gave him a curious stare, perhaps tinged with jealousy.
"I'm trying to imagine you sitting on a mountain top, learning manners from a dragon," he explained, sounding dubious.
Therion caught his meaning and sniffed a bit indignantly, momentarily looking every bit the stereotype of a haughty Altmer. There were times, he mused, when Farengar's preconceptions of adventurers could be tiresome. He didn't enjoy being lumped into the 'adventurer' category as a whole.
"I'm highly educated in proper, refined behavior. Both dragon and otherwise. More often than not, I simply choose to ignore it," Therion said with a private smile, cutting a quick path through town toward the market. "I only stand on ceremony with Paarthurnax. The exchange of greetings, for example. The amount of thu'um in your reply is important. Answering a dov with a weaker shout is submissive. Whereas, shouting back with a greater thu'um is issuing them a challenge or insult. Generally speaking, I'm outright rude to all other dragons," he added with a chuckle.
Doing up the straps of his black, Nightingale armor, he slid his hands through his leather gloves. They left his fingers exposed - an invaluable asset for retaining manual dexterity. Wriggling his fingers freely, he wrapped them around the Akaviri dai-katana hilt at his side, ready to face whatever troubles might come.
Paarthurnax landed at the same time Therion calmly strode across the town square, talons digging long gouges into the split-level stone pathway that met above the market and below the blacksmith.
The guards kept their bows drawn, but held their fire, watching the Dragonborn and the Dragon draw up to one another, gazes locked. Farengar felt compelled to stay back with the gathering crowd, staring at the proud, weathered figure of the dragon as though spell-bound.
"Drem yol lok."
The deep voice, ancient and powerful, seemed to come from everywhere; thrumming in Farengar's chest like the beat of his heart, echoing in his ears.
"Drem," Therion replied, his amber eyes meeting slitted gold.
"There is urgent news of arokon, trouble," Paarthurnax said, his booming voice directed to Therion alone, his piercing gaze centered on the Dragonborn. "The Kirsfahliil, Altmer, have found a weapon. Modokar kroved sil zun."
A commotion came from the back of the crowd, one Farengar remained unaware of until a Whiterun guard was ushering him aside to make room for a procession. The Jarl, and soon to be High King, Balgruuf pressed past the circle of bodies formed around Therion.
"This is the second time you've brought a dragon into a city," Balgruuf said in a rich, commanding voice. His bearing was remarkably calm, though he spared a glance toward some children hiding in the bushes to gape at the beast with fatherly concern. "I assume you have as good of a reason now, as you did before, Dragonborn."
A gout of smoke poured from Paarthurnax's maw as he gave Balgruuf an intent look, taking notice of the crowd of humanoids for the first time.
"Who is this, that speaks as kriisjor, ruler?" the dragon asked, his patient, articulate voice tinged with what might have been disapproval.
"Exactly that. This is Balgruuf. Bronjun," Therion said with a smile, repeating the word in Tamrielic like Paarthurnax often did, "The Nord King."
A rumble came from Paarthurnax's throat.
"You are not bronjun?" he asked, sounding surprised. "You are Dovahkiin."
Farengar saw the hint of a smile on Therion's lips.
"The politics of man are… nuanced," he said with a sly half smile. "You were talking about an Altmer weapon? A thing of devastating power, which defiles souls? However poor my grasp of dovahzul, this bodes ill."
"Geh. The Krisfahliil have trapped the souls of dovah within a Dilfahliil artifact. The power unleashed is... modokar. Devastating." The booming bass voice of Paarthurnax cast a spell over the crowd of people, pressed in to listen, less interested in keeping a cautious distance. "Through a hanuheim, vision, I watched as stone and earth burned, turning to ash."
The Dragonborn was the first to break the silence.
"Thalmor with dangerous Dwemer artifacts," Therion said with a sigh. "Just what we needed."
A deep rumble came from Paarthurnax's enormous throat as he leaned closer to Therion, inclining his head until his old, clouded eyes could see him clearly. He spoke slowly, his low, booming voice, filled with bitter sorrow.
"The dov cry out on the winds in faaz, pain. They reach out in their ahnak, agony."
Farengar's chest tightened, Paarthurnax's voice wrenching empathetic sorrow from himself, and he surmised, the crowd as well.
"I'll make the Thalmor regret their akir, aggression," Therion said with certainty, a dark glint in his eyes.
"Nox," Paarthurnax said, his tone grateful and intrigued. "Though it may be simpler to let the Krisfahliil, your kin, destroy the remaining dov... you still choose to intervene. To save the dov from destruction."
Therion nodded.
"Most swore loyalty to me. And I'd rather see their souls in their bodies, than used as weapons by the Thalmor."
Paarthurnax leaned back on his haunches and the Jarl, sensing a lull in their conversation, took Therion by the shoulder.
"Let us convene the jarls," Balgruuf said, directing his guards to gather the rulers of Skyrim. "You will join us, won't you, Dragonborn?"
"Of course. You know me," Therion said with mock enthusiasm, "I just can't get enough of these meetings."
The mer's eyes met Farengar's and he paused thoughtfully, then turned to address Paarthurnax.
"Stay awhile before you fly back to the Throat of the World, my friend. I'll buy you a goat," Therion said grinning, motioning Farengar over with a nod. "Allow me to introduce the Court Wizard of Whiterun, Farengar Secret-Fire. An avid student of Dovahzul. Perhaps you would indulge him some questions, in my absence?"
Farengar's eyes widened. A thousand questions formed on his tongue as he walked through the gawking crowd to stand beside Therion. At a loss for words, he stared up into the gigantic maw hovering over him.
To his utter surprise, he heard a deep sound come from the dragon; a chuckle.
"Bek. Very well," Paarthurnax said. "His pronunciation cannot be more appalling than your own."
Farengar felt weak at the knees. Not only was a dragon going to converse with him, but now that Paarthurnax had begun to relax, he was actually joking.
"He's a better student than I, though you may have to correct the poor habits I've taught him. I'm sure by the next time we meet, he'll be teaching me," Therion said, savoring the look of absolute joy on Farengar's face. It was an expression he intended to treasure to the end of his days. With a flourish, he bade them goodbye, paid the butcher for a goat, and left with Balgruuf and his entourage.
Farengar watched the massive dragon eat with fascination. Engrossed, for once he paid no mind of the crowd gathering around him, their curious eyes fixed on him and the dragon.
Paarthurnax devoured his goat. A process which took no time at all.
Once the ancient dragon had finished his dinner, he breathed a long gout of flame on the ground with a loud YOL! and laid down comfortably on the warm stone. With a content, and cat-like yawn, he looked the wizard over with slow, deliberate eyes.
"Tell me what words you know in our tongue, jul," Paarthurnax said once he was satisfied with his examination.
Farengar's fear evaporated at the opportunity to display his learning and gain more knowledge. He listed off what he knew one word at a time, Paarthurnax regularly correcting him. Therion, he realized in short order, had not been acting humble when he declared his pronunciation was nothing short of awful.
"Impressive," Paarthurnax said, after he had finished.
Farengar's heart swelled at the complement so much he felt as though his chest might burst.
"Few jul know this much. What do you wish to learn from me, a dov?"
One phrase leapt to mind.
"Hin voth, Zu'u mindok drem, lingrah vod vodahmin," Farengar said slowly, repeating the words carefully from memory.
"Hmm," Paarthurnax said, huffing thoughtfully through his snout.
Farengar, waited patiently, wondering if the pronunciation was beyond recognition. Many of the words he had learned from Therion had to be said in Tamrielic before Paarthurnax could recognize and correct them. Therion had never gotten around to translating this phrase, and intuition told him he would simply act inscrutable if he asked him to repeat it.
"Hm. Not bad, as poetry goes," Paarthurnax said finally, thoughtfully shifting his torn, leathery wings.
"Poetry?" Farengar asked when the dragon didn't elaborate, apparently lost in his own thoughts.
"He finally managed to pronounce something nalgask, properly," Paarthurnax said, and after a thoughtful pause, translated the phrase in his low, bass voice.
When he finished, Farengar stared at nothing. His body felt numb and far away. Even his perpetually racing mind was stunningly silent.
Therion had, in is his own inscrutable way, confessed his feelings.
With you I know peace, long since forgotten.
Farengar grappled with the words for what felt like a very long time, then set them aside.
He could work them out later.
Perhaps it was a mistake. Or, he was reading too much into it. As the whispering crowd around him most certainly was, he noticed with ire. And though it may have been his imagination, even the formidable figure of the dragon before him seemed to be looking at him with what might pass for intrigue. Reading the emotions of a dragon was difficult.
He focused his attention back to their lesson, while his mind inevitably trailed back to what he was trying to ignore.
Therion.
Was he trying to tell him... He stopped the thought, cutting it off before he could finish it.
It didn't matter, he told himself.
Sentiment, affection, devotion - they were all pure foolishness. Pleasant diversions for a time, but painful when gone. Love was the greatest lie of all, and he had no intention of falling for it a second time.
Given time Therion's infatuation would fade, and that was all there was to it.
Comforted with this thought, Farengar pushed Therion's words to the back of his mind and learned everything he could from Paarthurnax, the delight of new words replacing his agitation.
Therion arranged his face to look interested and then let his mind wander as Proventus began to drone on about finances. He had, at some point as a young mer, imagined Nord politics as infinitely more interesting than Altmer affairs of state. Perhaps with men dressed in pelts, entering death matches in arenas covered in snow, to decide the rations budget in some kind of battle royal. The corners of his mouth drew up as he imagined the pale, middle aged human steward locked in mortal combat over the cost of porridge.
Where there's politics, there are boring meetings, Therion lamented. Even in Skyrim. At least there's mead.
A tremor ran through his body, as his thin ears likewise detected the sound of wings.
And dragons, he added, feeling Paarthurnax's departure in his blood. The sensation of another dov was a strange thing; like a tingle of lightning running through one's veins. At moments like these he sometimes wondered if it was odd that he didn't find his powers strange in the slightest.
Pierce the veil of death and destroy a god, then suddenly you're jaded about everything, he thought with a silent chuckle.
"Dragonborn!" Proventus huffed in irritation.
"Yes?" Therion asked, raising an eyebrow. Though his face was still carefully masked, he had obviously missed a question aimed at him while his focus had been on Paarthurnax's departing emanation.
Proventus lowered his scroll to scowl at the elf.
"Are you paying attention?" he demanded impatiently.
"No," Therion replied with galling sincerity and a charming smile.
Jarl Balgruuf - High King Balgruuf, Therion amended mentally, though his coronation was a few hours away yet - made a noise which sounded suspiciously like choked laughter.
"Honestly, sometimes I don't know why we include you in these meetings," Proventus snapped, fixing Therion with the full weight of his disapproving stare.
"By all means don't," Therion replied, jumping to his feet. "I'll just be on my-"
"Dragonborn."
The High King's voice was neither demanding nor chastising. It was a firm tone that asked for his help with such respect and reasonability that Therion found he couldn't refuse.
Sighing, he sank back into his chair.
"Now then," Proventus said, eagerly tucking back into his scroll, quill dabbed with ink and ready to strike. "The feasibility of an assault on the Summerset Isle by sea. What are your thoughts? If we could produce thirty war ships, what losses would you project?"
Therion heard footsteps which immediately lifted his spirits before he even heard the door open, revealing the blue robed figure of Farengar. Therion smiled and glanced up at Farengar as he passed. The wizard ignored him as Therion expected, taking his seat and immediately tuning out the meeting to stare into the fire crackling away in the brazier at the center of the room.
"Thirty ships sounds great," Therion said, leaning back in his chair.
"Excellent," Proventus replied, looking at the next item on the list.
"If you're trying to kill the Aldmeri Dominion with laughter, it will certainly get the job done."
The steward grumbled and pursed his lips.
"And how many would you recommend?" he asked in a tone only a displeased accountant could.
"None," Therion replied, leaning forward. "Alinor is an island country surrounded by sheer cliffs, nigh impossible to scale by invading forces. Our naval force is second to none. If by some miracle you defeated the navy, the country would simply turtle its defenses and wait your forces out till the literal end of their days. It's an impenetrable fortress. Feel free to add the ship budget to the porridge column," Therion added helpfully with a small grin.
Proventus looked hopefully at the High King.
Balgruuf sighed.
"Don't add the columns, Proventus. The issue at hand isn't that we've saved coin on war ships. It's how to invade the Summerset Isle at all."
"Of course!" the small Imperial replied indignantly. "I simply wanted to move the funds into the miscellaneous section, carry the three, and there," he said, scribbling away furiously, intent on perfect accuracy.
Therion found he had to admire Proventus' dedication, however deplorable his tunnel vision.
"Our priorities are out of order. Preparing to invade will do us little good if we can't first find out where their weapon is, discover how it works, and how to destroy it," Jarl Merilis said, drumming her fingers thoughtfully on the table. "We're completely in the dark. We need to prepare a defense at the least. What about sending out reconnaissance?"
"You mean spies," purred Maven approvingly. "A grand idea."
Old Jarl Idgrod let out one of her cronish laughs.
"Anyone have an Altmer spy lying around somewhere? One that isn't a double agent, hm?"
Jarl Igmund rolled his eyes. "Well?" he asked the room snobbishly. "Isn't it obvious? Send the Dragonborn. Skyrim doesn't exactly have Altmer to spare."
His comment was met with grumbled annoyance.
The newly appointed Jarl Sybille intervened.
"The Dragonborn would be recognized in an instant," she said in a remarkably diplomatic tone. "And his strength may better serve us here."
Jarl Igmund snorted.
"That's the entire point, my dear. Disguise him and send him to the Summerset Isle. In the mass confusion of Thalmor evacuating Skyrim, one more won't be noticed. And no one could be a better fit for espionage with his powers. If he were discovered, he'd surely have an easier time escaping than any other elf. He could even disrupt things on the other side. How do you invade an impenetrable fortress? Why, have someone on the inside open the door for you. Simple as that."
Therion didn't know which aggravated him more. The man's sneering tone or the fact that he was right. And the Jarl only half knew how right he was when he described Therion as a 'fit for espionage'.
Therion shook his head.
"I'm too recognizable," he said with a dismissive wave of his hands.
Farengar looked up from the fire.
"We could use magic," he said.
Therion scowled inwardly. Of all the times he had to join the conversation, it would be now.
"We could enchant a group of Nords to accompany you, disguised as Altmer. They could follow your lead. Infiltrate the country."
Therion frowned. Farengar thought he was helping. He was trying to give him allies to keep him safe and the ability to see his home.
"No," Therion said firmly.
Farengar's eyes met his and the mage cocked a brow.
"There are too many variables," Therion explained. "And I'd fail spectacularly at infiltrating Alinor, undercover Nords or not."
Farengar held his gaze in thoughtful silence as the room murmured. Everyone was now in favor of sending the Dragonborn except the Dragonborn himself.
Therion was grateful to hear a guard announce the return of General Tullius, sparing him any further comment.
The General was welcomed in a fanfare of excitement, which quickly died to hushed whispers. Therion tried to peer through the press of bodies behind him. His delicate ears detected an odd metallic sound amongst the scrape of metal boots on stone. It was the clinking of chains.
General Tullius nodded respectfully to the assembly, then motioned to his guards.
"Apologies for taking so long," the white haired General said, removing his helmet. "But I trust you'll find my absence was worth the wait."
He looked at Therion as he spoke, to the mer's confusion.
Therion watched the guards approach and realized there was a man at the center, hands chained behind his back. He was hunched over. An Altmer, barely able to stand, wearing ruined Thalmor robes.
"Head Justicar Ondolemar," General Tullius declared.
Therion's blood turned to ice in his veins as he watched his cousin be dragged forward.
"The torturer of the Dragonborn," Tullius added in a severe, hateful tone. "We kept him alive so his sentence could be carried out before this assembly."
Translations
Dov - Dragonkind
Dovah - Dragon
Stenfah - advancing/on my way
Bronjun - Nord King
Drem yol lok - Greetings
Dream - Peace
Kriisjor - Anyone of high power
Arokon - Trouble
Modokar kroved sil zun - Devastate defile soul weapon
Geh - Yes
Kirsfahliil - Altmer, High elves
Dilfahliil - Dwemer
Hanuheim - Vision
Ahnak - agony
Nox - Thank you
Jul - Human
Nalgask - Proper