"There are few pleasures in life higher than having your company," Ondolemar said politely, a faint smile of amusement belying his words.
Glancing up from his book, Farengar spared him a wry look before engrossing himself once more in his reading. Ever since Ondolemar had awoken, the elf had been actively trying to strike up conversation. Despite every terse, cynical response Farengar gave, somehow his manners never faltered, and neither did his interest in talking. Farengar eventually had given up, ignoring the former Head Justicar entirely.
Eyes wandering to the top of his next page, Farengar couldn't help noticing Ondolemar over the top of the worn, red book cover. The shadows around his eyes had diminished, but there was still a gaunt look, betraying his exhaustion. Idly, Farengar wondered about Ondolemar's time spent as General Tullius' prisoner as he searched for traces of fear, tension, concern; any emotion at all, beneath the elf's perfectly refined, businesslike air. There was something disconcertingly calm about him, something detached, Farengar mused, trying to put his finger on what precisely struck him as odd about the elf.
Leaning forward, Ondolemar lifted a ladle from the pot cooking over the fire, gently blowing the steam away before tasting it. After a thoughtful look, he appeared satisfied and set to work dishing up two bowls.
Slowly and deliberately turning a page, Farengar ignored the stew offered to him.
"You've had nothing to eat all day," Ondolemar said, polite but firm. As the elf had spent the majority of the day snoring on the floor, spread out on a bear fur, Farengar was tempted to point out that this was entirely speculation on his part. Completely accurate, but speculation nonetheless. "You need to eat."
Blue hood shifting as he glanced down at the bowl, Farengar looked back to the elf with piercing sea green eyes.
"I don't trust you," he said curtly.
"At last, he speaks!" Ondolemar said enthusiastically, a broad smile forming across his thin, gold lips. "I would be surprised if you did, considering. However," he continued, drumming his fingers while persistently holding out the bowl with his other hand. "If I wanted you dead, I can, just off the top of my head, think of a dozen fascinating ways to kill you that require a great deal less effort than cooking you dinner. Ah! For instance-"
Sighing, Farengar grabbed the bowl, cutting Ondolemar off before he could have the chance to elaborate. Setting his book carefully aside, he marked the page, and tried a spoonful of the hot broth.
"What are you reading?" Ondolemar asked curiously, glancing around him to look at the novel. "Magic tome? Historical text?" He watched a curious expression flicker across Farengar's face.
Swallowing the food in his mouth before answering (a rarity in Nord culture, Ondolemar thought privately), Farengar replied, "A Dance in Fire."
"Mm," Ondolemar said simply, glancing thoughtfully at the book's carefully wrapped, paper covering.
Farengar was surprised as Ondolemar finally fell quiet, leaving both of them to eat in silence.
When they had finished their meal, Ondolemar vanished off into the former bandit camp, returning a short while later, two bottles of mead in hand. Taking a seat beside the wizard, he unstopped the corks before silently offering him a drink.
Farengar glanced at the mead, then took it, letting the warm liquid pour down his throat. Grateful for the silence, he idly rolled the glass thoughtfully between his hands, his mind wandering. Firelight dancing in his eyes, his brow furrowed.
"Tell me about Radac," Farengar said at length, breaking the silence.
Ondolemar took a drink of the honeyed wine, his expression remaining neutral.
"He is as Quaranir described him," he said evenly, recounting their earlier conversation. "The leader of the Thalmor; the Ascendant. He is immortal, invulnerable, and terrifyingly powerful. The strongest restoration mage in Alinor, and possibly on Nirn, it's rumored he can heal any wound, cure any disease - even resurrect the dead. A mer wholly devoted to reigning chaos and violence down on the mortal races, starting with you Nords. And, somewhere in the Dwemer ruins below us, he has my cousin."
Farengar made a soft, empty 'hm', staring solemnly into the fire.
"Really, you shouldn't worry yourself," Ondolemar said, frowning down at Farengar's blue hood. "I highly doubt they would go to all of this effort just to kill him."
"Yes, of course. After all," Farengar said turning a disparaging look up at the elf. "Therion being abducted by Thalmor torturers is just another Loredas afternoon for the two of you. But what, pray tell, are you not telling me?" he asked, thinking back on Therion's expression when he alluded to his exile and attempted murder of an immortal. When Ondolemar made no reply, he sighed sharply. "Where did both of you come by this infuriating penchant for mystery?"
"I'd tell you, but I'd have to kill you," Ondolemar said with a smile so galling that all at once his relation to Therion was unmistakably clear.
Scoffing, Farengar gave Ondolemar an annoyed look before turning away from the all too familiar expression to stare into the campfire.
"You can ask him, when you see him again," Ondolemar said in a warmer tone. "But it's not my place to say."
Watching Ondolemar take another drink, Farengar wore a thoughtful scowl.
"If we talk, time will pass quicker you know," Ondolemar said, swiftly changing topics. "Tell me how you met Therion."
Ondolemar started as Farengar loudly set his mead aside.
"I am not a talkative person," he said, his eyes flashing.
"This goes back to the not trusting me issue, I presume?" Ondolemar asked, casually drumming his fingers.
"You say you're a double agent, and you want peace between elves and Nords?" Farengar asked, cocking his head.
Ondolemar nodded.
"And how many Nords and Talos worshippers have you tortured, to maintain your cover? How many have you murdered? When General Tullius dragged you into the Moot to have you executed, I was elated. The sight of you made my blood boil. And then…" he waved a hand half heartedly, confusion mingling with aggravation. "Therion turned everything around. With poorly pronounced dovahzul. Fake poison," he said gruffly, shaking his head. "And suddenly he's thrilled beyond words. To see you." Gritting his teeth, he felt his fingers itch with magicka, destruction magic beckoning temptingly to him. "After you carved him up and left him for dead."
Realizing his hands were tightly clenched into fists, he tried to recompose himself. Exhaling slowly, Farengar consciously tried to stop his hands from shaking.
Ondolemar, on the other hand, remained unphased.
"Thank you, for healing him," the elf said after a moment's thought. "He told me what happened in the Thalmor compound that night, after I left. By the time I discovered a visiting dignitary had taken it upon himself to 'interrogate my prisoner'..." Ondolemar quietly folded his hands, eyes unfocused with the recollection. "Before I could resolve the situation, alarms rang out. We were finally under attack, just as Therion and I had been waiting for, but at the worst possible time. There were few options. I couldn't take him with me; he would have died, and it would have defeated our purpose. Nor could I stay. Therion demanded I leave. Saying he was terrified what a 'jester' would do if I stayed… I wasn't sure if he was delirious or using metaphor. He sounded quite literal and very serious.
"In the end, I lingered as long as I could - longer than I should have - to ensure the dossier remained on the table to properly rile Cyrodiil, and to see that the ones who broke my little cousin's ribs were… regrettably and unavoidably 'killed in the crossfire'. Which is how General Tullius managed to catch up to me in the end. When I finally left, I wasn't even sure he was still alive. I had no idea, until Tullius hauled me into your Moot."
Finishing his drink, Ondolemar quietly set the bottle aside.
"But I digress. Yes, I did 'carve him up'. And I've tortured and killed your people. I could tell you in great detail about my good intentions, or the ones I managed to save - all that rot. But my hands are not clean, they never have been. We needed eyes and ears in the Thalmor. Therion asked I do it, and my soul was already deeply tarnished at any rate, so I was glad to spare my colleagues the role. I should, I think, explain some things about myself," he said, unconsciously drumming his fingers once more. "I don't express emotion as others do. In part, this is because acting upset changes absolutely nothing. But, more at the heart of it, properly expressing outward emotions takes a great deal of effort for me. Over the centuries, I have learned to mimic others - better even. I am quite the actor. This 'skill' at being detached outwardly, it makes me ideal for subterfuge."
"Why tell me all of this? It inspires anything but trust," Farengar asked, giving him a sidelong glance.
"Because you seem under the impression I don't care about my cousin, due to my lack of outward concern. And honestly, I could look convincingly worried, but I have no desire to be disingenuous toward you. So, I am simply being myself, Farengar," Ondolemar said, with an open shrug of his palms. "Very few people know me. And there are exactly two people I care about in this world. Therion is one of those two."
Closing his eyes, Ondolemar thoughtfully folded his arms, leaning back against the wall.
"You've changed him, you know."
Momentarily taken aback, Farengar recovered, giving him a look of pure incredulity.
"I know that you don't believe me," Ondolemar replied without opening his eyes to see the wizard's expression of disbelief. "However, you should know that he is different. Or, rather that he is more himself than I've seen him in ages."
Pausing, he opened his eyes, cocking an eyebrow at the skeptical wizard before continuing.
"I know more about Radac than I let on. All of it second hand. From Therion," Ondolemar said, watching Farengar's disbelief wash away, replaced with curiosity. "Sometime ago, after the Great War, our little squadron returned home. By this time, the Thalmor had unopposed control of the country. They had seized control over every corner of Alinor through persecution and holier-than-thou, religious tripe.
"Therion, myself, and our comrades, found employment which put our… particular skill sets to use. And so began my career within the Thalmor.
"Therion, however, made somewhat famous from certain events during the war — affairs which officially did not happen — secured himself as Spymaster. This new line of service placed him directly under Alinor's self-appointed head of state Radac.
"During this period, much of my time was spent in Sunhold. Between training and rising through the ranks of the Thalmor, I saw Therion infrequently. Only on the rare occasions when business brought me to the grand, glittering capital city. And even then, he was always preoccupied.
"At first, this didn't strike me as odd. He has always been a difficult mer to get hold of. And what with juggling the nation's intelligence operations with his own plans of crippling its despotic government, well, I assumed he was swamped.
"Never did it occur to me that he was actively avoiding me.
"Eventually, something didn't sit right with me, and on a whim, I began to do a bit of spying."
Ondolemar paused, looking around, a pained expression on his face. Noticing the fire had gone low, he reached for the poker and began idly stirring the embers.
Farengar frowned impatiently at the interruption as the moment dragged on.
"By the Divines," the wizard muttered, waving a hand at the coals.
Ondolemar blinked in the face of bright red and orange flames as they suddenly leaped skyward like a dancer brought to life. Trying to dispel the after images from the sudden light, he was just going to complain about the heat when the roar of the fire died off, the blaze settling down to a comfortable size.
"You were saying?" Farengar prompted dryly.
Setting aside the poker with a reluctant sigh, Ondolemar exchanged a look with Farengar, the mage staring expectantly, waiting for him to finish his story.
With a short, heavy sigh, the elf reluctantly continued.
"I found out Radac was obsessed with Therion. The Ascendant had a warped sort of love for my cousin. Or as close as the psychotic mer can come to the emotion.
"Where Therion was, or is, concerned, Radac becomes a hypocrite. He disregards his own rules and beloved dogmas. Therion could worship Talos, not that he would, and Radac would merely be put out with him.
"As I continued investigating, I suspected Radac had a…" Ondolemar paused, eyes turning frigid as he chose his words. "Way of coercing Therion. An enchantment. A spell or potion, perhaps."
Farengar's expression changed, his gaze passing straight through Ondolemar.
The elf continued talking, but he was only half hearing him. Knuckles white as snow, Farengar was replaying Therion's voice from memory.
I've had this delightful potion once myself, Therion had said, eyes dark and angry.
As the love potion had stolen Farengar's self-control and freedom of thought, Therion had hid him away before Arcadia could find him.
Just temporary illusions. Created by someone who wants to force you to feel as they do. Painstakingly weaving fire by his side, Therion had sat, passing the time with him while the antidote tore his heart asunder. The feeling was so wretched, Farengar thought he might die from the pain of it. And after an hour, he had begun to hope he would.
Alchemical 'love' is not real, Therion had snapped vehemently, only last night. When the elf was still within arm's reach. He could still see Therion's amber eyes clearly burning with contempt and rage.
It's nothing more than mental enslavement, he had said, his gold fingers curling into fists.
"Several facts became apparent," Ondolemar continued.
Drawn back from his reverie, Farengar watched the elf begin to rhythmically drum his slender fingers once more in his personal habit.
"First, that Therion could not disobey an order from Radac. Second, that Therion would fight to stay enchanted. And finally, that he could, with great focus, leave out details if not pressed too closely for answers.
"Remarkably, Therion found small ways of opposing Radac, trying to undermine the mer's rule. Leaving out the whole truth whenever possible and somehow carrying on with his original mission, while at the same time, betraying it. He was living two lives, each trying to destroy the other.
"It wasn't until just recently that Therion spoke to me of the times Radac discovered him plotting against him. Radac was infuriated at these 'betrayals' as he called them. He never responded with physical harm. His warped idea of 'love' would not allow it. Instead, each time he asked Therion for names. And then, Radac would always say three words that still haunt my cousin.
"'Slit their throats.'
"Of everything Therion endured, being forced to turn his blades to the slaughter of his allies, confidants, and loved ones… was the the most difficult of all. The weight of that burden, nearly brought him to ruin."
Heavy silence descended as Ondolemar fell quiet, stilling his drumming fingers.
"The years Therion spent with Radac changed him. For the worse," Ondolemar said, the fire light ominously catching his gold eyes as he looked up from his hands. "We freed him from Radac's influence, but he was changed. Distant. More calculating. Colder."
The elf's voice dropped a pitch, the tone making the back of Farengar's neck prickle.
"Our grand revolution went terribly wrong. In the end, Therion was exiled by Radac, rather than executed. The Thalmor concealed how close we were to succeeding, further convincing the nation that a coup was mere folly. Bowed, but not broken, we rallied. Focusing our efforts here. Beginning with ending the civil war, engineered by the Thalmor."
Furrowing his brow at the claim, Farengar opened his mouth to interrupt, but Ondolemar intervened, waving his hand dismissively.
"Yes, yes, it was engineered. The Markarth Incident, Ulfric, Jarl Igmund, The Reachmen... The Thalmor needed you Nords to kill yourselves. Skyrim is the Empire. Should it fall, the alliances of men would be easily crushed beneath the boot of the Dominion."
The causal certainty with which Ondolemar discussed the total annihilation of the human race, was unsettling to say the least, as Farengar wondered at all the forces which might be conspiring against mankind in the dark. He quickly put a stop to the line of thinking, as he began to suspect too much time spent on that kind of reasoning would leave him huddled outside of Dragonsreach shouting at passersby beside Heimskr.
"Seeing Therion yesterday, it was like…" Ondolemar began thoughtfully, a small smile forming at the corner of his lips as he recalled the memory. "It was like being greeted by an old friend again for the first time in ages. He was… different. Like I had not seen him in… probably a decade or so," he said, raising his brows in surprise at the length of time.
Ondolemar met his gaze, an earnest intensity burning in his gold eyes.
"It's clear that around you, he can't help but be himself," Ondolemar explained. "And that was someone I had never dared hope to see again."
Staring into the fire, Farengar silently mulled the conversation over.
"Get out," he said abruptly, before adding, "The first words I ever said to Therion," in response to Ondolemar's perplexed look. "You asked how I met him."
"Ah," Ondolemar said, as he tried to read the wizard. Nords were a stoic lot. "Romantic," he added. "And what was Therion's reply?" he asked knowingly, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
"Get out," Farengar said flatly, barely glancing up from his notes to dismiss the visitor before turning back to his alchemy station.
The stranger, a tall Altmer man, folded his arms.
Wearing an odd assortment of armor and covering himself in more furs than most, he seemed at first glance to be a septim-less adventurer, new to Skyrim. Farengar quickly looked around his laboratory to see if he had left anything expensive sitting out.
To his disappointment, rather than leaving, the elf looked about the room, regarding him with interest.
"Pardon my interruption," he said with a charming smile, approaching his desk, barely visible beneath an array of sprawled out books, scrolls, and notes.
Farengar frowned at his expression. It was just a little bit too charismatic; a bit too likeable.
"You're the court wizard, Farengar, I presume?"
Without looking up from the three vials he was combining, Farengar gruffly said, "No, just rummaging through his belongings, wearing his robes, and mixing random vials together. The last few exploded spectacularly, so I'd suggest you leave now."
Craning his head to the side, the stranger looked past Farengar to the alchemy station.
"You're quite convincing as a wizard. I'd almost swear you knew what you were doing," the elf replied quickly. "If you weren't boiling that essence of spriggan sap…" he added.
Farengar's gaze shot to the alchemy station where a bubbling green liquid threatened to spill out of its glass.
Cursing, he quickly extinguished the flame with a flick of his wrist, saving the ingredient before it could over-heat. At the sudden motion, his precarious grip on the three vials faltered, one slipping from his grasp.
Quick as a lightning, a deft hand snatched up the volatile mixture before it could smash apart on the hardwood floor.
Surprised by the sudden, and oddly silent appearance, Farengar accepted the proffered ingredient from the elf, giving him a wary look.
"So, you have some knowledge of the alchemical art," Farengar said, putting the glasses aside.
"I dabble," he answered humbly. "Always nice to meet a fellow alchemist."
"Ah! That reminds me," Farengar exclaimed, picking up a ceramic bowl of blue, glittering dust. "Speaking of alchemists, I have some frost salts for Arcadia. She asked me to obtain them for one of her potions. Would you be so kind as to deliver the frost salts for me? I'm sure Arcadia will provide you some form of recompense."
The Altmer gave him an indignant look, as though this were quite beneath him.
"Do I look like a courier to you?"
Farengar swept a look over him.
"Well, let's see… travel-stained clothes, worn soles, blank and unintelligent expression… Yes, in fact, you do."
There was a look of mild disbelief in his visitor's eyes. A moment later, the corners of his mouth began twitching in the beginnings of a playful grin.
"Oh, my mistake. That will be 10 septims then, sir," he said, taking the frost salts.
Farengar almost smiled despite himself.
"You can see yourself out then? I don't have time for the tedious questions of adventurers. I have important research to be getting back to."
"Oh?" the elf asked, looking intrigued. "What research is that?"
Farengar sighed.
"Yes, that is the perfect example of what I meant," he said, already sounding distracted as he got caught up in his work once more. "I'm sure you'd be more entertained hacking something to death with that sword of yours. The Higher Art is very intricate - best left to scholars and thinkers."
There was an almost imperceptible twitch above the elf's left eye, but he smiled back, this time with an unreadable emotion instead of all of the charm Farengar had come to dislike.
"Of course, forgive my intrusion," he said. "I wouldn't want to distract you from all of that intricate 'magic'. Or whatever you wizards call it. In fact, I really only wandered over here in the first place to inform you of one thing."
"Oh?" Farengar asked, grabbing a stack of scrolls and walking briskly toward his enchanting station. "And what is-" he let out a sharp, sudden cry, dropping his papers as electricity coursed through his body, causing him to drop to one knee.
"You're about to step in your own Shock Rune," the elf said disinterestedly, casually leaned back against the desk, reading one of Farengar's books. "Oh, and I brought you this," he added offhandedly.
Setting the book down, he placed the Dragonstone — the missing cornerstone of Farengar's research — atop an artist's likeness of the fabled tablet.
"Nice meeting you," the elf said, flashing Farengar a gallingly cocky grin as he walked away, pausing momentarily at the door.
"My name is Therion, by the way."
Ondolemar's thin lips twisted into a thoughtful smile.
"Not everyone can appreciate Therion's unique sense of humor," he said, stroking his chin. "Did you resent him, for letting you walk into your rune?"
"My own sense of humor is also somewhat questionable," Farengar said, arching a brow in consideration. "But, I found it amusing. In an infuriating sort of way."
Ondolemar watched the Nord wizard begin idly tracing a pattern in the air before the fire, the gesture curiously familiar. The mer's eyes widened as the fire began to sway in rhythm with Farengar's hand movements.
"No one in Whiterun — maybe even Skyrim — keeps pace with me. Narcissistic, I'm well aware, but completely true. Every day, I am wretchedly bored," he said with a deep, loathsome sigh. "Cleverness and wit are not just undervalued in my country; they're treated as weakness or cowardice. A cultural attitude which, to a wizard, is aggravating to say the least."
Moving his hand with artful grace, Farengar began to weave the fire to and fro; forming a difficult pattern that Ondolemar had taught Therion over a century ago, perfectly mimicking his cousin's hand movements.
"Therion was not the first person to keep up with me," Farengar said, delicately balancing the flickering design in his hand, the fire casting a red glow across his face and hood. "But he was the first to surprise me. And once he appeared… well, let's just say I haven't been bored."
The pattern was snuffed out into black wisps of smoke as abruptly the ground began to shake violently. Thrown from his seat, Ondolemar tried to find his feet, watching the small bandit camp fall apart. Helplessly tossed from side to side, he had a distorted vision of bookcases, weapons, and bobbles falling down, while the thunderous commotion deafened his sense of hearing.
The tumultuous shaking ended as quickly as it had begun, allowing him to struggle to his feet, while the rumbling earthquake fading away.
"Are you alright?" he asked Farengar, watching the Nord push his way free from beneath a pile of crates, channeling a shimmering, white ward.
"Nothing that can't be fixed by magic," Farengar replied, dropping the spell shield and wiping a trail of blood from the side of his face.
"Good to hear," a voice said from behind them.
Spinning around, they were greeted by the golden robed figure of Quaranir, the Psijic monk wearing a grim expression on his unshaven face.
"I have located the Dwemer artifact," he said, not sounding pleased by the fact. "Along with the Dragonborn, the Ascendant, and a small army of Thalmor soldiers."
Momentarily interrupted as another earthquake shifted the ground beneath their feet, Quaranir snapped his fingers, levitating the three of them.
"As you can see, the Thalmor have discovered a dangerous use for the artifact," he said with a frown. "I believe they're attempting to literally tear Skyrim apart."
Clapping his hands together, the monk lowered them to the ground as the quake subsided to mere tremors, dying away to a low rumble and slowly fading off into the distance.
"Will the Psijic Order be able to assist us once more, as they did in Solitude?" Farengar asked.
"The Order is… torn on this matter. The Council of Artaeum has not yet reached a verdict," Quaranir said with a heavy sigh, looking weary. "Our duty is to help the world through times of strife through counsel, while observing the divine mystery of change."
"Even if that 'divine mystery' is watching the eradication of mankind, one race at a time?" Farengar asked disapprovingly.
"We are scholars, not soldiers," the monk said evenly. "I cannot force my brothers and sisters to choose, even though I myself cannot ignore the plight of men. Not even the Loremaster can foresee what my interference here may cause. Be it folly or valor, I will not allow Skyrim to fall," Quaranir said solemnly.
Farengar gave him an appreciative look.
"Can you get us down there?" Ondolemar asked, eager for action.
"Yes, that should be relatively easy," Quaranir said slowly, thoughtfully folding his arms and tapping his elbow. "However, the Dwemer artifact is closely guarded. The group of mages, and their layer of protection magic, will have to be dealt with. I believe the best course will be for the both of you to dispatch them and seize the crystal while I stop time and retrieve the Dragonborn. Freezing time leaves me capable of doing precious little else, much less while maintaining it around so many."
"And if your concentration over this 'time freeze' spell falters?" Farengar asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Then I had best teleport us out immediately, rather than leave us surrounded by an army. I can take us back to Artaeum if necessary, but that would leave Skyrim to be destroyed. So, whatever happens, we must obtain the artifact," Quaranir said, weaving a spell of light around them.
"Right, no pressure then," Ondolemar said, drawing his sword.
"Shall we?" Quaranir asked.
Without waiting for a reply, Quaranir spread his hands wide, causing the air to swirl around them. Shimmering momentarily, the three men vanished with a gust of wind.
Gray light greeted Ondolemar's eyes as his vision slowly returned to him. Taking stock of his surroundings, he looked across an enormous stone pavillion into the cavernous underground ruin of Blackreach. Mushrooms the size of trees glowed softly throughout the ruined subterranean city. Left breathless by the scenery, he forced himself to focus his attention on the small army of Thalmor soldiers and mages on every side of him, their glassy eyes staring right through him.
Making his way swiftly between the frozen mer with Farengar by his side, he hurried toward the source of a bright, blue light - a crystal levitated between a group of six Thalmor mages. Focusing on the back of the closest and tallest mage, he drew closer to the hooded figure, gripping his sword tight, and gracefully slipping between frozen soldiers like a specter of death.
Glancing back, he spotted Quaranir's bright robes moving between the Thalmor at the far end of the platform.
Quaranir was passing the the red robed Ascendant, sparing a fearsome glance at the powerful mer as he approached Therion. An unsettling chill appeared to run across his spine as Quaranir momentarily met Radac's frozen eyes and sinister smile.
"Therion?" he heard Quaranir ask in concern, trying to rouse his senseless cousin, the mer hanging dismally by his wrists. Ondolemar focused his gaze back and forth from his quarry and Therion. His cousin's shirt and armor missing, he forced himself to look away from his chest, knowing his handiwork of deep and terrible scars would be found there.
Watching Quaranir draw the knife from his belt and cut the ropes, he was relieved to hear Therion groan as he came around.
"Saving me twice in 24 hours, Quaranir?" he heard Therion ask, opening his eyes. Ondolemar smiled with relief to hear his voice filled with its usual, flippant, humor. "At this rate, I'm going to start to like you." He groaned, grabbing his sides. "I'm alright," he added unsteadily, replying to the Psijic's curious look.
"Certainly," Quaranir said with a frown, Therion grunting as his left arm fell free.
Quaranir looked toward the brilliant crystal and Ondolemar met his eyes. Noting a strain in his gaze, he frowned, wondering how much longer Quaranir could maintain his hold over the flow of time.
"Their artifact appears filled to the brim with dragon souls," Quaranir said, trying to cut Therion's other bond, beads of sweat forming on his brow.
The Dragonborn nodded, running his freed hand raggedly through his disheveled hair, looking drained.
"Not a pleasant process, I assure you," Therion said, sounding pained at the recalled memory. He rubbed his temples, before shaking his head. "But, Radac needed them, so it had to be done."
Quaranir quirked his head to the side.
"Pardon?" the monk asked uncertainly.
Ondolemar stiffened, his blood turning to ice in his veins. Grabbing hold of Farengar, he shoved him toward the mages and the artifact, spinning around and shouting Quaranir's name in warning.
Horrified, he watched the Ascendant's frozen smile broaden, the mer reaching forward and painfully grabbing Quaranir's shoulder.
"Neat trick," Radac said, indicating the frozen room.
Screaming in agony as Radac squeezed his hand tight, the dagger dropped from Quaranir's hand as electricity jolted through him.
Ondolemar was sprinting, watching the monk fall to his knees in agony. Ducking and weaving toward him as fast as he could, he was amazed as Quaranir painfully managed to raise his shaking hands aloft. Teeth clenched hard, he cast a brilliant ball of light into the air before collapsing motionless on the ground, black smoke rising from his golden robes.
Racing against time resuming its normal course, Ondolemar all but flew toward the fallen monk, their slim hope of escape resting with a mer he wasn't certain was even still alive. Color bled back into the world as the Thalmor began to slowly move, and he looked up to see Quaranir's mysterious orb of light shimmer and bob in the air for a split second, before exploding in a radiant shockwave, leaving nothing behind.
Too far away to intervene, he watched with dread as Radac stretched a hand over Quaranir's body. Gripping a ball of gold magicka, an ethereal sword appeared in the Ascendant's hand. Smiling wickedly, Radac drove the shimmering weapon down on his helpless foe.
One inch before the unconscious monk, the blade stopped with a thunderous crack, striking a barrier of solid, white light.
Radac looked up into the eyes of another Psijic, the gold robed Altmer standing between him and Quaranir, glaring at him with a look of adamant focus and determination.
Sneering back at the mer and his barrier, Radac released his bound weapon, letting it disappear. Raising a single hand, brilliant gold magicka spiraled into his outstretched palm, forming a ball of light which he cast against the shield, dust kicking up in its wake as the attack landed with a loud crash.
Furrowing his brow under the strain of Radac's assault, the Psijic Monk held both his hands out, placing the full weight of his strength into his shield, looking with concern at the fallen Quaranir behind him as his ward began to flicker.
Radac's gaze snapped upward as intense flashes of light filled the dark cavern overhead. All around the platform, the empty air above them was becoming dotted with levitating figures. Looking up, Ondolemar stared in awe at the sight of countless members of the Psijic Order, their gold hooded robes reflecting the rich magicka clutched in their hands.
Cracking his knuckles, Radac scowled before throwing another spell against the shield, forcing the Psijic to slide back several feet. Sweat dripped from his chin as he fell to one knee beside Quaranir. Radac tilted his head to the side, a smile on his face as he opened his hand once more, and the Psijic closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable.
Tackling him from behind, Ondolemar sent the attack wild, pinning the Ascendent to the ground. Chaos unfolded as the Thalmor and the Psijic Order clashed, hurling spells in all directions, sending flames raining down all around them with fiery explosions. Swords began to clash as, one by one, they no longer had enough magicka to continue the assault with magic.
Radac snarled, trying to escape from beneath the former Head Justicar.
"Thrynn," Radac hissed, turning his eyes up to meet Therion's. "Slit their throats."
Ondolemar's gaze snapped to Therion's, but he turned away.
Kicking a fallen soldier's sword up into his hand, Therion sliced himself free.
"I'm sorry, cousin," he said looking down at Ondolemar, amber eyes filled with tortured pain.
Drawing in a deep breath, Therion summoned his thu'um.
Ondolemar held the Ascendant up as a shield just in time, blocking the thunderous roar of RII VAAZ ZOL!
Radac slackened under the shout, apparently stunned. Leaving the Ascendant with Quaranir's savior, he picked up his sword and sprang forward as Therion did the same, weapons ringing as they locked into combat.
Craning his neck, Farengar watched Ondolemar take off toward Quaranir, his eyes widening as the monk fell. Farengar sprinted in a mad dash for the Dwemer artifact, watching as color began to bleed over grey hue, signaling that time was returning to normal.
Shoving a Thalmor Mage out of his way, he interrupted the channeling of their barrier and shot a blazing gout of flame from his hand at the what remained of the ward protecting the crystal. The spell fizzled, falling apart like glass shattering against a wall in slow motion. Thrusting his arm through the fragments of magicka, he pushed at the collapsing field, his fingers just barely out of reach of the luminous crystal floating within.
With a disorienting flash, time crashed back into the world, the bright colors and sounds assaulting his senses from all sides as a tight fist suddenly grabbed onto his arm, hauling him back before he could grasp the crystal.
Farengar had been attacked from behind numerous times. Reading books had placed a target on him as a child. As an adult, his wizard's robes had done the same.
Twisting his stance, Farengar forced his assailant into an awkward position, throwing up his arm and kicking the elf's legs out from under him. Sensing someone behind him, he swung hard, and he felt his fist rewarded with a satisfying crack of an elven cheekbone. Just as the blow landed, the elf he had struck loosed a lightning bolt, sending sparks crackling across the skin of his arm as his fist connected. Clutching their face, the Thalmor mage staggered back in surprise, blood pouring from between their hands.
Ducking a sharp spike from an ice spell, Farengar barreled down on another mage, slamming into her as he cast a paralyze spell.
With three of the Thalmor mages temporarily dealt with, he turned toward the remaining three standing behind the crystal. The tallest elf of the group was quicker than the rest, preemptively stepping away the moment he saw Farengar and, after casting a stoneflesh spell, he held up a ward spell in front of him. He only barely managed to withstand the deadly blaze of fire Farengar unleashed, felling his remaining comrades.
Farengar glared up at the tall, lanky elf.
The flames in his hands flickered out as Thalmor soldiers grabbed him by the arms, holding him against a stone pillar.
Bright flashes of light momentarily distracted them, causing Farengar to look up and see an army of Psijic Monks appear in the space above them. He refocused on his current situation after hearing the crackling sound of magicka coming from the remaining mage, who was towering over him wielding deadly, razor-sharp shards of ice in either hand.
Inhaling sharply, he struggled, warily watching as the icy spikes loomed closer.
Drawing back his hands, the mage smirked at him, letting the ice burst forth with a frigid blast.
Tensing, Farengar grit his teeth.
He felt the men on either side of him stiffen, before they gurgled and fell, clutching at the shards impaled in their throats.
The exceptionally tall elf gracefully unclasped his robes and shrugged his thin shoulders, letting his Thalmor regalia fall to the ground.
Snagging the Dwemer crystal as it fell, he tossed it to Farengar who caught it with a dumbfounded look.
"Talamagne," he said, introducing himself with a dignified nod and fiendish smile. "No time for pleasantries, I'm afraid. And if we could go ahead and skip past 'how can I trust you' and move straight to 'we're both going to die so let's fight back to back', that would be marvelous."
Fire and ice rained down from above, making them both duck, luckily causing them to narrowly miss bolts of lightning as a group of Psijic Monks shot through where they had been standing a moment before, striking down a group of Thalmor soldiers.
"Farengar," he replied, cautiously standing up.
Talamagne stiffened as the Nord held a flame spell in his face. He heard the deafening crack of a fireball beside his ear, and felt the scorching heat of the spell. Behind him someone screamed and he heard a sword land on the ground by his feet.
Exhaling nervously, he looked behind to see his would be attacker crumpled in a charred heap on the ground, and nodded his thanks.
"Therion mentioned you," Farengar said, returning the nod. Eyes darting around the battle, he mentally scrolled through the conversation in which Therion had mentioned a friend named Talamagne dragging him out of town and forcing him to drink a cure for his love potion.
"Good things, I trust?" Talamagne asked, moving to stand with his back to Farengar.
"He lamented breaking your arm," Farengar said, holding up a ward spell to deflect a stray arrow.
"Ah, yes. He wasn't in his right mind back then," Talamagne said with a thoughtful frown, blocking a barrage of lightning while Farengar fought off a soldier. "Speaking of Therion, I trust you're an associate of his?" he asked, hearing the soldier's death scream over his shoulder.
"Something like that, yes," Farengar replied. "There are two others here with me as well. A Psijic named Quaranir and a… well, whatever Ondolemar is."
Farengar started in surprise when Talamagne grabbed him by the shoulders, whirling him around.
"Ondolemar is here?!" Talamagne demanded. "Where?!"
A loud cry in dovahzul caught their attention.
Essence, tear, zombie… Farengar translated with a shudder, imagining what such a shout could do. Catching sight of Therion, he stared in disbelief, watching the elf bear down on Ondolemar.
"Farengar, was it?" Talamagne asked quickly. "Radac has Therion drugged with another accursed love potion," he said with a forceful breath as he watched the cousins fight one another. "Tell me, how do you feel about absurdly dangerous plans?"
Adopting a defensive stance, Ondolemar parried Therion's furious blows, their blades meeting with a thunderous ring. Switching tactics, he thrust forward, going on the offensive, and forcing his cousin to retreat. Pressing his attack, searching for an opening in his cousin's defense, he found himself falling into an old, familiar rhythm.
Century old memories of long summers spent sparring beneath glimmering, crystalline trees came to mind.
Watching Therion's nimble footwork was second nature, although now he was looking for an advantage, instead of something to correct. It was difficult to reconcile the grown mer before him, with the one of the past. He looked nothing like the child with eager, amber eyes; the short elf that had spent his youth chasing after him, mimicking him, idolizing him. And yearning, more than anything else, to impress his older cousin. Most of all with his swordplay, which he had watched Therion practice with fevered devotion from the moment he could hold a sword.
Twisting to one side, Ondolemar only barely kept ahead of a thrust aimed at his heart. Circling behind a soldier, he trapped the startled Thalmor between them, ducking and weaving to use him as a shield. After a moment he heard the soldier grunt and found Therion bearing down on him from above, his cousin agilely leaping over the collapsing soldier. Eyes wide, Ondolemar tried to dodge to the side, but he was a moment too late.
Shouting, he felt hot pain shoot up the side of his leg. With great effort, he awkwardly rolled to his feet, trying to fend off the deadly flash of steel that greeted him. Stumbling back, he haphazardly managed to put his sword up in front of him, barely avoiding a lethal blow. The blade pierced painfully through his shoulder, missing his heart by mere inches. Ondolemar hopped back quickly, tearing himself free of the blade, before Therion could slice him apart. The sword slid free from his shoulder as he leapt backward, causing his chest to begin dripping with blood.
Limping back, he breathed heavily, barely able to hold his sword up between them. His senses were heightened by the adrenaline coursing in his veins. Most acutely, he felt the blood running down his chest and back, and his leg burned with every step he took.
Smiling, he shook his head and began to laugh.
Therion paused momentarily, taken aback.
"You've gotten better," Ondolemar said, shaking his head.
Therion's face contorted in agony as he lunged at Ondolemar, causing him to wince from his wound as he barely deflected the blow.
"I'm proud of you, Therion."
His cousin's jaw tensed. Avoiding his eyes, Therion struck again, this time sending Ondolemar's sword flying across the room, disarming him. He loosed a firebolt from his hand toward Therion's face, forcing him to dodge the flames, allowing Ondolemar time to raise a ward.
"I thought it appropriate to tell you, since I raised you…" he said, feeling his magicka depleting quickly. "In the most irresponsible way a child could be raised. And despite it all," he said with a warm smile, "You turned out great."
Time seemed to slow as it had before under Quaranir's guidance. He could see Therion swing for his throat as his ward faltered, and he somehow managed to smile despite everything, watching as a single tear fell down Therion's cheek.
His trance like state was interrupted by the shock of a familiar voice screaming his name.
"Talamagne…?" he wondered aloud in confusion, looking around.
Mid-swing, Therion was consumed in a roaring blue gale of wind, and he screamed in agony as he was sent hurtling across the cavernous chamber. He slammed into the cavern wall, loosing a bestial cry of pain from his throat, before falling to the ground.
Therion's cries ceased and his eyes fell shut. He slumped unconscious, and Ondolemar found himself remembering to breathe for what felt like the first time in minutes.
Watching the blue wind dissipate, his his eyes followed it back to its source.
A tall figure towered over the fallen Thalmor and Psijic monks.
Shaking his head, he limped across the battlefield. Healing his leg with one hand and deflecting the attacks of random soldiers with the other, he cut his way through the remaining Thalmor, trying to catch a glimpse between the fighting and explosions of magic.
Pushing his way through a cluster of Psijics, Ondolemar found himself staring at Farengar and Talamagne.
"That crystal packs a punch," Farengar said, looking pale.
"It was meant to be channeled by at least six mages," Talamagne muttered weakly, stopping abruptly as he saw Ondolemar. He stared, mouth agape, looking over his wounds.
Ignoring the concerned look, Ondolemar walked up and grabbed him by the shirt. Pulling him down to his height, he kissed him passionately, ignoring the fighting around them.
"I take it you two know each other then," Farengar said wryly.
Talamagne finally pulled away with a grin.
"Who, this old mer?" Ondolemar asked with a chuckle, as Talamagne began healing him. "Never seen him before in my life."
A sudden commotion on the battlefield caught their attention.
Ondolemar craned his head, listening.
Things were suddenly quiet.
"FUS RO DAH!"
The shout tore through them. Scattered and dazed, they were helplessly thrown back at least ten feet. Groaning, Ondolemar saw Psijic Monks laying on the ground all around them. Dazed and unable to move, he watched Radac's red robes appear from the corner of his eye, the mer stepping between the bodies as his soldiers killed the disoriented monks. He silently cursed, spying a group of mages standing behind the Ascendant in black robes adorned with gold ornamentation. The Mor Mallari, his private inner circle of warrior mages. Quaranir had not been the only who had thought to call for reinforcements, he thought dismally.
Pausing curiously, Radac stared down at him. Therion approached behind the Ascendant, loyally following the mage as though he were his shadow.
Barely able to move, Ondolemar looked for his allies.
Farengar was starting to move behind him, the Dwemer crystal still clutched in his hand.
Talamagne laid beside him, not far away.
Numbly, he saw that he was pinned under a collapsed stone pillar, and he gathered his little remaining magicka as he watched blood pool beneath the mer's head.
Shakily, he stretched out his arm, gold light flowing from his hand and into the mer, it's glow as faint as Talamagne's remaining life force.
A boot crushed his arm and Radac loomed over him, laughing in sinister amusement as he struggled to reach Talamagne.
"Who is this one?" Radac asked, pointing at the unconscious mer.
"Talamagne," Therion replied, with an air of professionalism. "A powerful wizard. We served together in the Great War."
Ondolemar recognized he was trying to give the Ascendant enough details that he would not prompt him any further.
Radac snorted.
"I'd forgotten, I have to phrase myself carefully with you. Who is he to you?" he asked, adding, "And who is he to him? This cousin of yours, who raised you."
"Talamagne is a friend and family," Therion said, looking away from his cousin's pleading gaze. "He's Ondolemar's husband."
Radac sneered as Ondolemar snarled up at him, desperately trying to reach Talamagne with his spell.
"And this one, the Nord," Radac said curiously, pointing at the wizard trapped beneath his spell. "All of us Altmers but him. Who is he and what is he doing here?" He glanced at Therion. "That was not rhetorical."
"Farengar Secret-Fire. High wizard of Skyrim," Therion said, Ondolemar listening to him carefully feign disinterest. "I don't know why he's here."
"Hm," Radac said thoughtfully. For a moment it seemed as though he were satisfied with his answer.
"Who is he to you?" he seemed to ask on a whim.
Therion's mouth twitched.
Radac looked at him in surprise.
"Who is he to you?" he repeated, impressed at his resistance.
Therion looked down at Farengar, appearing unable to breath.
"Wait," Radac said, quirking a brow. "Is this Nord… in love with you?"
"I don't know," Therion answered quietly.
"...do you love him, Thrynn?" Radac asked in disbelief, staring at him intently.
Trying to hold his tongue, Therion looked away, before uttering a pained, "Yes."
Radac sighed heavily.
There was a loud snapping of fingers as he released the ward spell pinning Farengar.
Meeting Therion's gaze, Radac glowered at him in disapproval.
"Kill him," he commanded, the words simple, but a seething anger roiling in his tone as he looked at the Nord in blue robes.
Wordlessly, Therion stepped forward, watching Farengar rise to his feet. There was no point in pleading with Radac, he knew all too well. It made his commands more sinister. Steeling himself, he ignored the pounding in his head and sick dread in his chest. He had to focus to make the kill as quick and painless as possible.
Farengar was observing him with keen, watchful eyes, following his every step.
Drawing his sword, he paced cautiously around the wizard, while subtly reaching one hand behind his back.
In the blink of an eye Therion launched a dagger with pinpoint accuracy at Farengar's forehead.
There saw a flash of light and the sound of steel hitting stone as Farengar deflected the projectile with a ward spell. His sea green eyes swelled as he saw a black blur appear in front of him faster than he could react, shattering his ward with the quick thrust of a sword.
Warm lips met his as cold steel pierced his heart.
The pain within his chest was immeasurable, but he ignored it and the icy grip on his limbs, willing himself to make the most of every moment.
Summoning magicka from the Dwemer artifact clutched tight in his left hand, the immense power lit his arm aglow with searing blue flames and gave his eyes a surreal glow. Gripping his hand into an iron fist the crystal made a faint crack. Blinding rays of light shone through the fracturing artifact, before it shattered in a fiery explosion.
Therion and Farengar stood together at the center of innumerable dragon souls, the freed orbs floating around them like constellations of stars. Watching in fascination, the wizard saw the souls begin swirling into the Dragonborn's body with a roar of white light and wind.
Farengar began to cough and withdrew from their kiss, the movement giving him a clear view of Therion's face.
Forcing his weakening body to obey, he raised his arms and with faltering hands, tried to wipe the tears from the Altmer's gold cheeks.
"I... love you, Thrynn Lor'ellion."
He only barely managed to say the words before darkness and confusion consumed his mind. Therion lowered him to the ground carefully as he lost the strength to stand.
The elf watched as the life faded from Farengar's eyes. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he felt his body begin to burn as the rage swelled inside of him.
He unleashed a terrifying scream of pain and agony, causing thunderous reverberations to echo throughout the massive cavern, sending Blackreach into a violent convulsion, shaking it to its very core.