Thank you, everyone, for your comments! Scampers, I'm glad you clicked too Every time someone new strolls by this thread, I do a little happy dance. (You probably think that's hyperbole. Um.) Anyhoo, I'm not sure what happened today, but I raked through my landslide of random notes, and realised I had four new chapters-worth of stuff in there just waiting to be tidied up and posted. Yay!



The King And I

Chapter Twenty ? In Which We Gather The Threads


In the Ascadian Isles, on the flower-speckled grassland that sloped up towards Orvas Dren's estate, two travellers were having a polite conversation.

Solon was playing nice, Caius had decided. After their last exchange concerning Nenya, the mer seemed to have realised he was touching more nerves than necessary. They had moved onto the relatively impersonal subject of politics.

"I'm not surprised Dren is connected to Hlaalu, to be honest," Caius admitted. "After all, it's the most adaptable of the Houses ? and the one that came out of the Nerevarine business with the least losses. They're the survivor House."

"But some might say they survived by renouncing their roots," Solon disputed, always devil's advocate. "Telvanni pretend they don't exist; to them, Hlaalu's become a blot on Morrowind's history. Even Redoran have been distant in their dealings with them this past decade."

"Yes, but look where that got them, eh? All the casualties in the Nerevarine ascension came from Telvanni and Redoran. Bolvyn Venim took Nenya all the way to the Arena; rumours of that little altercation went all over Tamriel. And Talos knows what she had to do to get the Telvanni majority vote. It didn't take long for Archmage Gothren to meet his maker, did it? And?"

Caius suddenly stopped, mid-flow. Something was knocking on a door inside his mind. What had he just said that was odd?

? Archmage Gothren?!

He glanced sideways look at Solon, who was tightening the wire on his crossbow. It wasn't an inconceivably rare name, but still? could it be? And surely he wouldn't be on such good terms with Nenya, would he, if??

"Most Dunmer have an affiliation with one of the Great Houses, don't they?" he went on conversationally. "Through family, usually. You've never mentioned it. Do you have connections with any particular one?"

Solon turned to look at him, and suddenly Caius realised just how stupid he was to think that Solon couldn't see through him like a pane of glass.

"I have connections everywhere, Sergeant," Solon said with total inscrutability. "And as such, I have connections nowhere. You know how it is."

"Yes," said Caius. "Yes, I think I do."

He was beginning to feel deep as a puddle next to this particular quagmire.


*


Crassius was awash in a sea of tantalising ecstasy.

His meeting with the mysterious 'Goldenflower' had been unceasingly on his mind for the last three days; now, with the wait over, the excitement had not lessened one bit. In the light of the candles he had roguishly set on the mantelpiece, Goldenflower herself glowed like peaches and cream, a luxuriant swathe of blue silk chiffon draqed modestly over her blonde curls.

She had surpassed his wildest expectations. The woman was achingly beautiful, delicate as a kanet-blossom. She reminded him of a timid, wide-eyed doe. The way she looked at him with such trusting admiration, her cherubic rosepetal lips trembling with vulnerability, made his knees turn to water.

"Good Ser," she said pleadingly in a voice that was like falling silver, "I am horrified by the conclusion my predicament has brought me to, but pray believe me when I say I have no choice. My husband?"

"?is a dishonourable fool, my lady. Not to mention blind, that he could treat such a tender beauty with this callous contempt. To plot the theft of your rightful inheritance is nothing short of monstrous." Crassius shook his head, tutting. "You did just the right thing in coming to me, precious. But what is this horrifying conclusion you so haltingly speak of? Calm yourself, sweet Goldenflower. There need be no rash action now you are under my protection."

The lady twisted her small porcelain hands in her lap, as if wracked with guilt. She wore an unusual ring; it was strangely mesmerising. Two startlingly blue eyes peeped up at him through a thick haze of lashes, and Crassius' breath caught in his throat.

"I?" She raised her golden head in stoic resolve. "Forgive me, Ser. I must ask you to disclose to me the whereabouts of the? the Morag Tong."

Crassius was taken aback. The request seemed so at odds with her gentle nature; she must truly be terrified for her life.

He composed himself. "I am sure your situation is grave. But sweetling, if such drastic measures must indeed be taken, the Dark Brotherhood would serve you better. The Morag Tong are notoriously xenophobic. The notion of them accepting a contract from a Breton for a Dumner, a man of their own nation, is little short of fantasy."

She bit her full lower lip. "I did consider the Dark Brotherhood, but it is impossible. My, ah, husband? he has connections to them, you see. I cannot possibly go to them; he would know at once, and in any case they would never agree to harm him. The Morag Tong is my only hope. I thought if I had a recommendation from you, a Great House Councillor, then surely?"

"A complicated dilemma indeed. But my lady? let me take this burden from your shoulders. Such sordid affairs must not be placed at the feet of the fairer six. If this is the course you must pursue, then give me your husband's name and I shall arrange everything in the blink of an eye. You need not hear a single whisper of anything to distress you."

She buried her face in her hands. "Oh Ser, you are so gallant? if only I could, but I dare not! I dare not speak his name, even to you ? my champion, my knight in shining armour?"

His heart nearly broke for her. "You must not be afraid. You are as safe with me as an Elder Scroll tucked up in the Imperial Library. Truly, my dear, I would not wish such trouble on you ? let me be your champion in deed as well as word, and take this task on myself."

She came forward suddenly, rising from her chair and kneeling in front of him, her hands clasped beneath her chin in an attitude of prayer, the firelight reflecting off her ring. "Please," she whispered, the depths of her eyes threatening to drown him. A paper had appeared from nowhere in her hand. "Please, my lord, write a missive of approval I might take to the Morag Tong. It is all I need. My lord? Crassius?"

He was writing before he even knew what he was doing, struck dumb by the sound of his name on her lips.

"Thank you," she breathed, rising from her prostration and ghosting the paper away before he could speak. "Oh, my lord, I cannot thank you enough. You are my saviour, my saviour? I will come again at the wane of the week. Do not forget me, will you, my lord??"

Crassius found his voice. "No? no, sweetling, I don't believe I shall. But you must grant me this: let my guards escort you to a safehouse. It is one of my own, only a minute away. I will have men on the door day and night; no-one shall enter without my leave."

Her eyes filled with crystal liquid once more. "Such kindness? Ser, I don't know how I can ever repay you."

"The bell of your sweet voice is all the payment I need, my dear," Crassius crooned, threading her arm though his and leading her to the door. "All the payment I need."


*


In the dim light of the disused Corprusarium, six calcinators simmered their varying contents in unison. Above them, lengths of silk wound around their mouths and noses, bent Gwynabyth and Eadwyrd.

"This is amazing," breathed Gwynabyth. "Amazing! So complex? I would never have guessed how many ingredients went into making this before we broke it down. It's like a room that's bigger on the inside than it is on the outside."

"I thought poetry was my area," Eadwyrd smirked, adjusting the heat below the shallow dish.

"It's almost perfect," Gwynabyth carried on, as if in a trance. "The compound for enhanced strength and speed, but distilled so the effects of pain and mutation are all but eradicated?" She surfaced from her musings, sighing and shaking her head. "Pity it's not finished."

A voice rang out from the back of the cave. "Not finished?"

Their hearts in their mouths, the two alchemists whirled around ? only to see Dralasa step out of the shadows, a look of incredulity on her face. Eadwyrd groaned, passing a hand over his eyes.

"Would you mind not doing that? I only have one set of smallclothes, you know."

Gwynabyth pressed a hand weakly to her heart, which had made a valiant attempt to leap out of her chest.

"One day, Azura willing, you will actually be alert and ready to repel a surprise attack," Dralasa commented sourly. "Alas, that day has not come. What did you mean, "not finished"?"

"This elixir," Gwynabyth explained, flushing from the reprimand. "The one Fyr has been developing. It shows only six stages of distillation; the seventh hasn't yet been performed."

Dralasa narrowed her eyes. "You must be mistaken."

"No," Gwynabyth said, stung into bravery by the implication that her skills were not up to par. "I know an incomplete distillation when I see one. This formula needs one more stage to completely eradicate the negative effects of Corprus. As is, it won't keep the mental and physical deterioration completely at bay."

Eadwyrd had moved instinctively closer to his colleague in the face of Dralasa's harsh questioning; seeing the Dunmer's wry observance of this, he coloured and stepped away.

But it didn't take long for Dralasa's expression to dissolve into wicked glee. "Oh, this will be interesting. I wonder how long ago that jumped-up self-appointed 'Master' took this death cocktail?"

The alchemists exchanged an exasperated look. They knew better than to expect anything more than a curt rebuff to any requests for explanation.

"But I'm not sure I understand," Dralasa said, cocking her head to the side and regarding the bubbling calcinators.

"Oh poor you, that must be so frustrating," Eadwyrd muttered, provoking a snigger from Gwynabyth.

Dralasa ignored him with practised ease. "The Nerevarine was cured of Corprus, and rumour is that Divyath Fyr was the one to do it. How could that have happened with an unfinished elixir? Does this mean the clock's ticking on her, too?"

"That's different," Gwynabyth replied, siphoning some luminescent steam off one of the burners with a complicated-looking array of glass tubing. "I mean, I can't say for sure, because we've never seen the potion she took. But they're different concepts ? if hers was a cure, it be would designed only to eliminate the bad effects of the full, already-contracted Corprus. This is designed for use on uninfected people, to specifically infect them with only certain elements of the disease. You see the difference? If the Nerevarine hasn't exhibited any negative symptoms by now, it's likely she never will."

"So Fyr must have developed the cure first," Dralasa mused, "and has not been working on this new formula long enough to perfect it. But then why would he give the Master the all-clear to take it??"

The alchemists listened eagerly to this rare gleam of information. "Fyr is feeding his servants an unfinished potion? Is he using them as test subjects, or something?"

"Well ? no, not exactly." Dralasa looked troubled. "The thing is? I suppose you ought to know, really, in case I'm detained and you need to report to the Princess yourselves? Divyath Fyr doesn't seem to be here."

Eadwyrd was taken aback. "Not here?"

"No, and none of these servants upstairs ever seem to mention him, either. It's disturbing. By all accounts, he is an insular man. Minimal serving staff apart from his daughters, who don't seem to be around. I can't work out why his staff has suddenly tripled in size, or even what they're doing here in the first place. If I didn't know what a powerful mage he was, I'd suspect foul play."

"Foul play against Divyath Fyr?"

"It seems impossible. And yet? these black-robes appear to be a cohesive unit all of their own, operating under this self-appointed 'Master' who unfortunately seems to have helped himself to Fyr's medicine cabinet. He is making reports to a superior; I know that at least. Whether that person is Fyr or someone else, I cannot say."

"Well, if he's taken this formula, I don't fancy his chances," Gwynabyth said grimly. "The effect will be delayed, but it will come sooner or later, and when it does it won't be pretty."

"Too bad for him." Dralasa pulled her hood back over her face. "I'm going back up; I want to observe the servants with this new information in mind. Do you need any more supplies?"

"I think we're alright for the moment," Gwynabyth said with a grimace. Eadwyrd knew what she was thinking. She liked being stuck in this airless hole even less than he did.

"Keep going on that deconstruction," the spy ordered. "I'll be back tomorrow. Oh, and try to be a little less of an obvious target, will you? If I creep up on you again, throw a pestle at me or something. It vexes me that you're even more a pair of sitting ducks than I took you for, and that's saying a lot."

As she turned to go, Gwynabyth stuck her tongue out at her back. Eadwyrd smirked and smothered a laugh.

"I saw that," came the voice from down the dark tunnel.

~*~

Helseth shuffled some documents.

"You seem to be progressing well," he said amiably, as if he was referring to something as innocuous as planning a party. "I think Tel Fyr has served its use by now, wouldn't you say? I expect we can relocate to Red Moutain within the month. What's the status on the Elixir?"

"It has been a godsend, your Majesty," the Dreamer Master rasped, his voice shaking with unnecessary fervour. "A bounty sent from Ur himself to raise his followers back to glory."

Helseth raised a single eyebrow. Was it his imagination, or were the mer's hands twitching ever so slightly? "?Yes. Of course. You do remember, don't you, that I expressed the particular wish that the Elixir not be distributed until we had made a thorough study?"

"Oh, surely, your Majesty, surely," said the Master with feeling. "This boon must be reserved only for those of the highest order. Those like you and I, your Majesty."

Helseth's lip curled minutely, illustrating with graceful delicacy his distaste in being placed in the same category as the Master, who now seemed to be sweating profusely for no apparent reason.

"Mm," he replied noncommittally. "We have agreed, however, that although the promised effects are impressive, I will not be sampling this? concoction until extensive checks have been made. Once I join you at Red Mountain, I can oversee the process myself." It had been frustrating in the extreme to leave this most fragile alchemical work to the Dreamers, when it was clear his own skill far surpassed theirs. There was no way, though, that he could start keeping a room-sized still in the North Wing without someone noticing. It had been necessary for the Master to take the Elixir in order to give him the edge over Divyath Fyr, but although the advantages of the Refined Corprus were tempting, Helseth himself certainly wasn't going anywhere near the stuff until it had been proven safe.

A pity he hadn't been able to track down those Breton alchemists that he'd heard rumours of in Almalexia a few weeks ago, he thought with annoyance. He'd been keeping a look out for useful talent cropping up in the city, and from the whispers of his eyes and ears on the street, these two would be tipped for court alchemist positions when they completed their latest project. Alas, they seemed to have disappeared. He hadn't even found out their names.

The Dreamers would have to do, he thought with distaste, despite their lack of skill. At least they were loyal.

"Your Majesty, you and I shall build the world anew," said the Master dramatically in a tone that sounded suspiciously like adoration.

Aedra deliver me, Helseth thought in alarm. Perhaps a little too loyal.


*


Deaths were being bought and sold in the Balmora chapterhouse of the Morag Tong.

The chaptermaster had been accosted in the lobby by a Breton woman, to his immense surprise. He had begun to firmly but courteously refuse her when she slipped him a note from an extremely high-placed Hlaalu councillor. Intrigued, he had put aside his reservations for the sake of a short interview.

Five minutes had quickly become half an hour.

The woman was really quite something, he could grudgingly admit. He'd never seen such blue eyes. She was clearly of high birth. Her demeanour was graceful and imperious, which he approved of, but then just when her haughty attitude might have become tiresome, she showed a spark of tantalising warmth. He found himself drawn in immediately.

"May I suggest a hypothetical scenario?" she asked, her voice clear with authority.. "If I had a high profile target that in other circumstances you might be reluctant to accept contracts for, would the sum of the payment affect your decision?"

The chaptermaster gave a mirthless smile. "That would depend on both the contract and the sum, my lady."

She nodded, a small twitch of smugness playing about her mouth. "We shall discuss the sum first, I believe. I am sure you will find it satisfying. To begin?" she produced a soft velvet pouch from the recesses of her cloakand handed it over. His curiosity peaking, the chaptermaster undid the silken strings and shook the contents out.

A ruby the size of a kwama egg hit his palm.

For the first time in many years, the chaptermaster was shocked into silence. In the light of the lamps, the gem burned with iridescent fire. It had to be worth thousands of septims. He looked up at the woman, sitting serenely across the desk, and found he had no words.

"This is merely a sweetener," she said softly. "I will pay you as much again in gems and twice as much in gold. Three times as much. I have a sapphire that matches this ruby in size and lustre, if it pleases you." She stroked a hand through her blonde curls and her ornate ring flashed in the light, momentarily blinding him.

So dazzled was the chaptermaster, he forgot for a moment that the identity of the target would surely be proportionate. "And what of your contract?"

The smile spread slowly across her lips. "King Hlaalu Helseth."


*
*

RUMPLETEAZA....REALLY...

I mean, I DO know that Crassius is bisixually horny and Romantic in his (hehehe) queer way...but to be such a PRAT as the guy you've described is taking credulity, IMHO, just a little too far.

This part of your story sounds - I'm sorry - like a cartoon. Is the lady the damsel in distress to end all dames? Is Crassius so stupid...how did he ever rise so high in House Hlaalu if he's that gullible?

It's been my experience IRL that lechers never fall for the innocent virgin types...they, strangely enough, lose their heads only over - excuse my French - [censored]s.

Sorry to be so harsh. The rest of this chapter is so good that it only makes the Crassius episode all the more annoying!

Oh dear! I suppose I do use Crassius as comic relief. I intended it to be way over the top, but it clearly didn't work! There actually IS a reason why Goldenflower's speech and descriptions are so OTT damsel-in-distress, that unfortunately I can't say any more about because I will spoil it the surprise - but nevertheless, if you didn't like it, clearly I need to take note. Guess I'd better look at that bit again!

This may be the wrong thing to do, but as this chapter sort of follows on from the previous (and more importantly, may shed some light on some of the things you commented on, Foxy), I'm going for broke and putting it up now. Hope it's not overkill!




The King And I

Chapter Twenty-One ? For Blood To Be Thicker Than Wine And Iced Kanet-Honey


At six o' clock sharp in Mournhold, two new servants arrived at the Royal Palace.

One was an Imperial woman of middle age and tall stature. The position of chambermaid had been newly advertised, and although the woman's haughty expression and stiff posture belied such a humble occupation, her credentials were nevertheless satisfactory. She was sent to the laundry rooms immediately.

The other was an unassuming Dunmer, a welcome replacement for the steward who had fallen ill the previous week. Organising the Palace stores was a tiresome and complicated task, and the serving staff had managed badly in his absence. The Dunmer was rushed through the appointment, his papers given, and the cellar keys handed over with undue relief.

As it happened, neither of these new arrivals were aware of the other. If they had been, things might have turned out quite differently.


*


The Dren Manor loomed high, like a gloating bully.

Solon worked with swift efficiency. The lock on the manor's back door was well-made, but no match for his quick fingers. He held the lockpick lightly, as if it was a conductor's baton. After only two minutes, a soft click indicated his success.

"I'll scout the outside," the Dunmer murmured to his companion, checking a catch on his crossbow. "Dren's in Almalexia; the manor will be relatively empty. Try the lower levels. I'll keep the door clear out here, and meet you at the docks when you're done."

Caius nodded, moving away through the house with surprising silence for his build and age.

Solon turned and surveyed the estate. It was dusk, and most of the workers had finished their day on the land. Only few slaves remained in the most distant fields, gathering their crop into the cork-stores that clustered half a mile or so away. A quick once-over the perimeter should do it, he decided. There should be little to hinder them. Rounding the southern aspect of the tall granite exterior, he was afforded a view of the lakeside docks, glowing gently in the dimming light.

There was a boat moored at the nearest quay.

He stopped dead. It was a small craft, sleek and expensively made. He had seen it once before, and knew without a doubt to whom it belonged.

Without warning, a sudden burst of primal fear exploded in his chest. The strength of the reaction shocked him; he flattened himself to the wall like a hunted wolf.

"Galos."

Slowly, leaving just enough time to compose the feral wildness in his face, Solon turned to see Orvas Dren outlined by the dusklight.

"How lucky for you, Galos, that I decided to return from Almalexia earlier than expected!" Dren's voice was like the purr of a maneating tiger. "You would have come all this way and found me absent. I would not have you so vexed."

Solon didn't even need to look behind him to know that the bodyguards had blocked the gate to the docks. He felt a brief tug as his crossbow was confiscated.

"Shall we?" Dren said mildly, gesturing towards the manor.

He might have a chance against the five guards if he attacked by surprise ? at least, his subsequent injuries might not quite be bad enough to stop him escaping. But where to? There was nothing but plantation and parkland for miles around, full of Dren's employees, every hand taught to grab at his command? and by the time he had thought all this through, he was being shepherded forward and ushered inside the manor.

The door closed behind him, and the lock turned.


*


Dralasa Llethi was frustrated.

Tel Fyr's servants had proven infuriatingly discreet. They rarely, if ever, made casual conversation about their work or their master ? something she had learned quickly to emulate, although the necessity was irksome. How could you get information when no-one would talk?

At least Gwynabyth and Eadwyrd had identified the unfinished Corprus Elixir. It was the one sole progress between the three of them since they arrived. The self-appointed Master had disappeared three days ago, taking his mysteries with him. It wouldn't do. Dralasa had to up the game or her report to Morgiah would be sadly lacking.

There was a commotion at the door. Rushing out of the ground-floor lab, her eyes widening in excitement, Dralasa saw the approaching shape of none other than the Master, trailed by one of his lackeys. He had returned.

Was it her imagination, or was he walking strangely? Had the Elixir begun to turn already? Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. In the sudden flash of opportunity, Dralasa seized the Master's luggage and followed him meekly to the second floor. Surely he would say something of his travels to his companion.

Lady Luck was smiling, for once.

"We will be transferring the entire operation," the Master was ordering. "We no longer have need of this place; now the Dwemer and the Corprus Victims have been transferred, it has served its use. His Majesty wishes the whole Dreamer contingent relocated to Red Mountain to oversee the final stages."

Dralasa almost dropped the trunk she was carrying.

"Of course, Master," his companion bowed. "What are your orders with regards to Tel Fyr?"

"Seal the estate. I doubt anyone will notice Fyr's absence in any case, at least not for many years ? but we must be thorough. The tower will simply fall into ruin. Put out a rumour the place is haunted, that should discourage any stragglers." The Master turned and yanked the trunk from Dralasa's hands. "You may go," he told her abruptly.

She had no choice but to leave, head spinning.


*


The North Wing banquet chamber was full of the civil sounds of silverware on china. At a table that was ridiculously too large for merely the three of them, the Hlaalu Royal Family dined.

Facing the east: Barenziah. Her face was arranged into an expression of polite enjoyment. Against all odds, she'd worn a flower in her hair. It was a sad splash of colour.

Facing the west: Morgiah. The previous morning, she had finally coerced Helseth into agreeing to a meal together. He had been surrounded by courtiers; it had been impossible for him to refuse without making a fuss. She couldn't say where the urge had come from. There was an underlying ache that said if only she could get them in a room together, just the three of them, the last thirty years would melt away and things would somehow be alright.

Facing the north: Helseth. His stare burned into the bone china plate before him, but his mind was not on the food. His weekly meeting with the Master Dreamer had left him suspicious and disturbed. The man had acted oddly ? more oddly, that is, than the average Dreamer behaviour, which was abnormal at the best of times. While discussing Helseth's project, he had begun more frequently to use indelicate terms such as "conquest" and "glory" ? not to mention referring to the project as "our mission". Occasionally, his hands would shake.

It was most troubling.

Another bottle of wine was opened by a servant. Quite a lot of wine was being drunk tonight. They had run through three bottles already; it was something to do with your hands, and it made the tension that tiny bit more bearable.

Morgiah held her glass out for the elderly retainer to refill. Sweet Azura, it's like pulling teeth. "Brother, who was that charming young thing I saw you entertaining at court today? There are so many faces here I am yet to recognise."

Barenziah looked up in interest at the prospect of her son indulging in something as normal as courtship.

Helseth seemed to jolt out of some sort of reverie. "Oh? Lady Andoril's daughter?" He shrugged. "She's just debuted at court. Her mother seems to think that pushing her in my face two minutes will make me fall in love with her." He sniffed at his glass and wrinkled his nose. "This wine is corked. Othrell, open another one."

"She seemed pleasant enough," Barenziah said lightly, as the servant moved to dispose of the offending glass and fetched a different bottle from the sideboard. "And you should probably be thinking of marriage soon, dear."

"Oh good lord, not to that simpering creature," Morgiah snorted, as Othrell conscientiously tasted the new wine to avoid further complaint.

"I quite agree," Helseth disparaged. "If I wanted wide eyes and nodding heads, I'd keep a cow."

"Well, put her out of her misery, won't you? If she flutters her fan any more coyly I think her hand might atrophy."

Helseth sniggered. Morgiah caught his eye ? for one moment, they grinned at eachother, conspiratorially revelling in the childish delight of [censored]ing about some hapless social climber behind her back.

Then the servant died.

It happened quietly, as if the elderly retainer was determined to carry his lifelong duty of discretion and neatness even into death. He placed the new glass of wine carefully back onto the sideboard so it wouldn't spill, and then sank onto the floor with a strangled sigh.

For an entire minute, no-one moved.

Barenziah rose calmly from her chair and walked towards the body. Delicately, she turned the head to reveal a mouth full of sickly white foam. The limbs made jerking movements as the poison slowed in the bloodstream.

Helseth had frozen with his fork halfway to his mouth. His eyes, like raging infernos, turned on Morgiah.

"You? you?" He couldn't even say it.

She was nonplussed, utterly blindsided, before she realised in one horrible moment that he was accusing her. Barenziah narrowed her eyes and reached out for her son's arm.

"Helseth-"

"Don't touch me!" he screamed suddenly, throwing her off and for a moment looking quite demented. "You ? you-"

"I am your sister!" Morgiah shouted, sickly fear rising through her chest like a miasma. They had been smiling together,he had laughed with her? her fingers clutched the edge of the table, white at the knuckles. "How could you even-"

"You've been pestering me about dinner all week!" he bellowed, rising so suddenly his chair crashed to the ground. "What, are you going to tell me you wanted my company? I don't even know you any more! I don't know who you are!"

The words hit her like a sledgehammer, smashing her heart into a thousand splinters. She could feel the shards in there, piercing, bleeding.

"Helseth," Barenziah snapped, her face nearly as white as her hair. "Sit down and be quiet. How you could be so stupid as to turn on your family like this is beyond me; we three must stay united, not-"

"Don't you ever call me stupid!" The desert dishes, stacked neatly along the wall, descended to the floor in pandaemonium. "The constant undermining, the disrespect, always, all the time ? I am the King, I will not abide it!"

Morgiah was on her feet, blindly staggering around the table. She caught his arms, pulling him down; he lashed out at her, a terrible wildness in his eyes, like a bear in a trap. They fell to their knees amid the scattered silver and broken glass.

"Stop it!" Barenziah cried, the alien note of distress in her voice worse than any painful scream. "Stop it!"

His wrists were in her hands, her fingernails digging into the flesh so hard they almost drew blood. She forced them down, her face inches from his, filling his vision. "I am your sister," she hissed. "I ? am ? your ? sister."

Their harsh panting filled the room, a room in which silence now hung like an axe. For one awful, horrific moment, she thought he might cry. What she would have done then, she could not even conceive. But in the next instant he composed himself, the fire in his eyes dimming and his mouth forming a hard, emotionless line.

"Yes," he said dully. "Yes, I suppose you are."

The splinters moved in her heart again, stabbing, stinging. What if she told him, right now, all she knew? What if she laid it all on the table and begged him to stop and told him that there was no need, he had them, he had her, and they could start afresh and this would all be a forgotten nightmare? In a flash, flick-flick-flick, her mind filled with images she couldn't control or contain ? Helseth with bloodied fingers in a room full of broken furniture, Helseth on a dark dais with his head bowed, Helseth lying on a slab surrounded by candles?

Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

Coward. You think you are so strong and clever? You're a stupid little girl; you're a coward.

Hesleth, unaware of her mental struggle, was caught up in his own. "Who?" he rasped.

"I don't know, but we will find out," Barenziah said grimly. "Triple your guard. I'll put my own men on the doors."

Helseth stood up abruptly, burning like a sullen fire. He nodded once.

"Get rid of it," he said coldly, indicating the body of the dead servant. Without another word, he left the ruined room. The door slammed behind him.

Morgiah closed her eyes, heart thumping. "Did you do it?" Barenziah whispered, her features strained to breaking point.

Anger flared like a brand. "Of course not! That you even have to ask?!"

Her mother nodded. "Good. We will find out who did. I will round up the kitchen staff at once." She picked up her skirts to avoid the scattered food. "You should leave. I will send a man up to clean the room." And then she, too, was gone.

Morgiah knelt alone, surrounded by the debris of the meal she had worked so hard for Helseth to attend. Anger coursed through her like a snake; fury, confusion, fear. There was some new player in this game, something she did not have control over. Her skin felt unpleasant, prickly, as if she was being watched. Some new player wanted Helseth dead. How dare they, how dare they? He was not theirs to kill.

Her eyes fell on a ruined delicacy that had been flung from its silver dish to land on the gilt carpet. Iced kanet-honey, Helseth's favourite. She had ordered it specially when he accepted her invitation to dinner. The desert was soaking into the carpet now. Melted, ruined.

She got to her feet slowly, stepped over the sticky mess and followed her mother.


*


When you look into the night sky, you see Oblivion.

There is much to be learnt from this plane of secrets, where the daedra weave their domains and the dead pass like smoke on the breeze. Unlike Aetherius, Oblivion cannot be shaped by human hands. Form and face have no meaning here; all is fluid, all is inconstant. To perceive a person in Oblivion could be to perceive anything at all ? one man might be a green valley, another a hard bright sun, another a coloured room in a building you can't see in a town that never existed.

But there is the Doorway.

It is everywhere, or nowhere. It is never far away. It is both microscopic and so vast that it swallows the universe. And through it filters the smoke of the dead, slowly and eternally, out of the confines of the world.

Look: do you see?

At the precipice, a flame lingers. It is bright, so bright it hurts the eyes, like a knife that shears this realm of daedra and dead in two. This flame is strong.

It is clinging, with the injustice of an unworthy death and the strength of four thousand years, to the living side of the Doorway. For how long it has been clinging is irrelevant; time has no meaning here; the flame might have appeared a second ago, or six months, or a millennia. It endures. Souls have been trapped here before, oh yes, but nothing has ever clung by merely its own ferocious strength of will. Moment by agonised moment, it holds its brightness against the stream of smoke that pours, like a black hole, through the fabric of reality.

This flame has a secret to tell, a warning to give. And he will cling to the precipice of death until inch by inch, his four thousand years of experience will find him a way to edge back into life, and to revenge.



*
*

:clap:

I like that one, it was kinda short seeming but it was goooooood.

The one before had some holes in it I think, like why was crassius wrapped around that lady's finger so easily, (had to be magic, right?) and why any amount of treasure is going to convince the Tong to off their own king when they're the "honorable" assassin's guild.

I think I know who the mystery lady is, I'm not sure if I've thought of it by accident or if it's intentionally obvious, or if I'm just way off base but if she is who I think she is I would think she'd be a little more creative in getting rid of Helseth, unless she wasn't really trying to get rid of Helseth.

Aw crap, now I'm confused again, lol, but it's a satisfied kind of confused so keep it up

Right, just got your pm, so I've come straight across (You were right, I was certainly asking to be reminded when it was updated!) Now, I like to read these updates several times before I post comments usually, and I still plan on doing that, so expect my proper comments at the weekend - when I'm not quite as knackered as I am now

Just wanted to post a quick response to Mr Foxy's comments. There are so many examples of smart, intelligent, steely people, especially politicians which in a way Crassius is, undone by moments of indiscretion. Bill Clinton and his, erm, antics with Monica Lewinsky. The most powerful man in the world at the time, arguably, throwing it all away, just like that. The Profumo Affair in the sixties, where Profumo's relationship with Christine Keeler broke his career to a halt. These things happen, and frequently the question asked, is "How could they be so stupid? It's so out of character!" It would appear that common sense and steely acumen go out the window on a fairly frequent basis, so the Crassius scene I didn't really have an issue with.

However, having said that, I do think that a couple of minor alterations could be easily made to reduce confusion further. You frequently start these updates with an omniscient narrator, letting us know where we are and what's happening, before going into the scene itself. Perhaps, and I'm not saying actually do this, just a suggestion of things that could be done, a comment could be made about how large quantities of Telvanni Bug Musk, rumoured to be of a particularly potent brew, have been bought from alchemists around the land. In the Crassius scene itself, (where I notice that you use, almost exclusively, visual and auditory description) you could include his perspective of some of the delightful scents assailing his nostrils.

Maybe that's a little too clumsy, and I'm sure you can come up with something much more delightful and subtle, but between a little foreshadowing and extra description, and how surprisingly common events like this actually happening in reality are, I would argue that should resolve the issue for most readers. Hopefully. I know when a character does something which seems out of character it can jar, but considering how often people do act out of character, well...I just think it needs to be explained. Or at least hinted at.

Sierra, you are right, there needs to be more clues. I'm really glad Foxy mentioned it because I'm so immersed in this story that each and every clue seems, to me, like a foghorn - because obviously I know exactly what is happening. It's very useful to be reminded that I need to step back and evaluate it from another's perspective. But you're right on the money, as usual - there is another element involved here which explains much, if not all of this overplayed behaviour - it's not bug musk, but you're getting hot. My clue's in there, but I will do a bit of rewriting in the next few days to see if I can't make it a bit less garbled. (Edit: just made a couple of very small clue-changes to start with.)

I think I need to stop laying Crassius on with a spatula, too I get so carried away with his dialogue because it's gorgeously fun to write. I'm not surprised if it comes off as cartoonish sometimes. I mentioned way back that I'm very influenced by Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast, and like dikeens, Peake has a habit of making extreme caricatures of certain characters. Unfortunately I seem to have absorbed that habit! Crassius is turning more and more into Alfred Prunesquallor as time goes on...

Don't hesitate to slap my wrist when I get too stupid!

Having slapped you on the wrist, Rumple, I now offer thee a platonic, internet kiss on the forehead.

The dramatic tension between

"I quite agree," Helseth disparaged. "If I wanted wide eyes and nodding heads, I'd keep a cow."

"Well, put her out of her misery, won't you? If she flutters her fan any more coyly I think her hand might atrophy

and

Their harsh panting filled the room, a room in which silence now hung like an axe. For one awful, horrific moment, she thought he might cry. What she would have done then, she could not even conceive. But in the next instant he composed himself, the fire in his eyes dimming and his mouth forming a hard, emotionless line.
"Yes," he said dully. "Yes, I suppose you are."

The splinters moved in her heart again, stabbing, stinging. What if she told him, right now, all she knew? What if she laid it all on the table and begged him to stop and told him that there was no need, he had them, he had her, and they could start afresh and this would all be a forgotten nightmare? A darkness gripped her - in a flash, flick-flick-flick, her mind filled with images she couldn't control or contain ? Helseth with bloodied fingers in a room full of broken furniture, Helseth on a dark dais with his head bowed, Helseth lying on a slab surrounded by candles?

Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

Coward. You think you are so strong and clever? You're a stupid little girl; you're a coward

- is so tight and taught, and yet so natural, which is a sign of good, distilled and disciplined as well as brilliant writing.

As the writer and critic BSparrow told me, I personally have tendencies towards the verbose - the disease known as literary diarrhoea. You have managed to describe, and do it with an economy of effort that is not only a delight to watch but a standard to emulate.

So, my dear, THANK you for living to write all these...you have given me not only something to look forward to read, but also another treasure to look backward to for emulation in writing.

More later - it seems that my PM has just come to life with half a dozen PMs at once, including two from you! Ah, droughts and then downpours!!! :ahh

Now that I've read the Crassius incident again, two things strike me:

The woman's ring. And her voice.

Hmmmm.....

Oops, meant to post this reply earlier.

Damn work, why can't they pay me to sit at home, drinking a nice cuppa, and read and reply to fanfics I love. Surely there's somebody out there who wants to pay me to do that? (Any prospective employers who do fancy shelling out large sums of money for me to do that, please send me a pm! My rates are really quite reasonable.)

And, on topic , a new player has entered the game! Which I think we've been expecting, seeing as you'd made it clear that they (I'll keep it vague in case anyone else hasn't figured it out yet) would make their presence felt. This is going to get nasty, cruel, vicious, vindictive...oh nuts to it. This is going to be great! Morgiah? Devious mind. We like that. Helseth? Devious. KOW? Devious. Let's add a fourth equally devious mind to the mix. Heh, I'm seriously looking forward to seeing how they match up now. My chessboard metaphor might finally be out of date. This is more like Battleships. And who will sink first? I know who I want to sink of course, but how will you set this up?

I haven't a clue, and I love the fact I don't know. And the final entry of the second update? That has thrown me, I'm totally at the mercy of the author now. The writing of this story is great, but the plot and characters are - for me - beyond that. I just hate having to wait to find out. If this was a novel I would have eaten it alive by now.

SGM! :goodjob:

Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass. ~Anton Chekhov

I have now put your entire story (so far) into a file so I could read it like the epic novel it is- and so I could port it to my eBook. As an added bonus, since Word hates TES names, it caused the spell check to have a nervous breakdown.

Your work encompasses the promise of Daggerfall, which deals with the intertwined royal families of the entire Empire. And, as I have said before, I love the way you have managed to make the disparate parts of the Elder Scrolls series into a coherent, logical whole. I have always been taken by the idea that the "NPC's" in games have lives that go on, whether the player is there to see them or not. Beyond that, those characters had lives before the player came along to "shake the world". You do a masterful (mistressful?- probably not, sorry) job of giving those characters dimension and history that is only hinted at in-game. And you do it while telling a compelling, exciting story.

I don't want to get too deep into the weeds on this, but my English-major reflexes force me to ask- how do you keep track of all your characters and subplots? I tend to take a rather "organic" approach- I have always had the beginning and ending for my current story in mind- now I just have to connect the two?. Beyond that, I tend to write scenes that I know I want as they occur to me, even if they won't show up for several more chapters. (Different colors of ink are a wonderful aid to my scattershot approach). So much for not getting too deep- but? if you don't mind talking about process??

Finally, thank you so much for continuing to entertain us "through all panics since the Dragon Break," to paraphrase the motto of a local moving and storage company here at home. May St. Francis de Sales continue to smile upon you.

Thank you, everyone, for your continued kind words and support <3 I apologise for the slight delay, but I have been very ill the last two weeks and unable to use the computer much (poor Sierra's had the brunt of it And he's been unimaginably helpful. x). I had this mostly written, though, so it wasn't too much effort to put the finishing touches on and slap it up. I hope you enjoy. x


Haha, my spellcheck has just... given up. Seriously, after a certain point in my K&I word file, there's no red lines on anything. I think I broke it.

By the way, if you're looking for something other than forum-format, this fic is also posted http://www.fanfiction.net/s/2426308/1/The_King_And_I on fanfiction.net in a much easier-to-read format, because I'm not popping up between every chapter talking about whatever crap comes into my head. Although I guess most of you are used to that by now.

Your work encompasses the promise of Daggerfall, which deals with the intertwined royal families of the entire Empire. And, as I have said before, I love the way you have managed to make the disparate parts of the Elder Scrolls series into a coherent, logical whole. I have always been taken by the idea that the "NPC's" in games have lives that go on, whether the player is there to see them or not. Beyond that, those characters had lives before the player came along to "shake the world". You do a masterful (mistressful?- probably not, sorry) job of giving those characters dimension and history that is only hinted at in-game. And you do it while telling a compelling, exciting story.

I don't want to get too deep into the weeds on this, but my English-major reflexes force me to ask- how do you keep track of all your characters and subplots? I tend to take a rather "organic" approach- I have always had the beginning and ending for my current story in mind- now I just have to connect the two?. Beyond that, I tend to write scenes that I know I want as they occur to me, even if they won't show up for several more chapters. (Different colors of ink are a wonderful aid to my scattershot approach). So much for not getting too deep- but? if you don't mind talking about process??

Finally, thank you so much for continuing to entertain us "through all panics since the Dragon Break," to paraphrase the motto of a local moving and storage company here at home. May St. Francis de Sales continue to smile upon you.

Firstly: thank you very, very much for your comments. They mean a great deal!

Secondly: ooh, literary process chitchat! :hehe: When I was making notes for this story, I had the vague idea that I would start at the beginning and write chronologically. Haha, that went out of the window pretty fast. The very first scene I wrote was the epilogue. Basically, just like you, my building blocks were the beginning and the end. I had all my characters mapped out and I knew exactly how each one of their stories would finish, I just didn't know how I was going to get there. The middle has been a bit of a trial, to be honest - some characters seem to have a mind of their own, and have ended up in places I didn't expect. Sometimes I've let them do what they like, sometimes I've reined them back in. Things have more or less stuck to my (now very dogeared and faded) notes from 2003, albeit with a couple of surprises (one person has unexpectedly ended up dead, although in a rather heroic and dramatic way, so s/he's not allowed to complain).

I actually really like this "beginning and end" process, though, because every time I get overwhelmed and dispirited, I have the luxury of reading the end two chapters, and I think wow, I can SEE the finish line. It makes it exciting again, it makes me realise how much I want to complete this thing. I know it's only fanfiction and not really all that important, but I feel kind of proud of it. Is that silly? I don't know.

Which is what happened today ^_^ Hope very much that you enjoy!


The King And I

Chapter Twenty-Two ? Interlude Nine; What Became Of The Bargain


Firsthold, Summurset Isle, Sun's Dawn 3E 406. It is thirteen years before the present day. Morgiah is 30.


It is curious how quickly and drastically a life can change. How little time it takes for everything to be totally unfamiliar, totally alien.

She would get used to it, Morgiah thought. She must. She had to.

Travel by magic was always disorientating, and it was worse the further you were sent. There was no sense of distance. One moment you were in a place that had been your home for over twenty years, and then snap ? you were a thousand miles away, and everything was different, and it had only taken a second. It had been less noticeable with Scourg Barrow because the place always did seem like a dream, something she could wake up from and find herself back in her little study in the Wayrest Palace, the plush carpet and the newly-laid fire, the balmy air and the privet-maze just peeking through the latticed window.

Everything was different now.

It had been tricky to arrange the first leg of her journey to Firsthold. Barenziah, naturally, had wanted to give her daughter a proper sendoff. She had been confused to learn that Morgiah would not be travelling by sea ? after all, the Royal family owned some luxurious galleys, and it was by far the quickest and most efficient route. Morgiah had been made to spin some yarn about wanting to sightsee in Hammerfell and catch a boat from Hegathe, and hope to Stendarr her mother wouldn't penetrate the weak deceit.

Whether she did or not, she didn't comment. Perhaps she sensed her daughter's reluctance to involve her in her plans, and had backed off in respect of her wishes. Or, Morgiah thought with a rare uncomfortable squirm of guilt, Barenziah was hurt by her sudden coldness and had given up trying to play the loving mother. She hadn't wanted it to be that way, but what could she do? She could hardly tell her the truth.

She took a small retinue, including Karethys, and made a stop in the town of Thorstad near a big wooden house with a wrought-iron veranda. At one hour past midnight, someone in a dark cloak left the royal carriage to disappear through the wooden door, and did not return. The next day, the party moved on, and the Princess requested she not be disturbed, on account of feeling under the weather. The lights in her carriage were dimmed, and she spent most of a time with a cool cloth obscuring her face.

Karethys had been most useful, Morgiah mused. Dunmer were not a common sight in High Rock. It was lucky she happened to have one in her entourage who bore a remarkable resemblance to her in height, colouring and voice.

When she had materialised from the Thorstad meeting-house into Scourg Barrow, the King had been waiting for her. The Hall was empty; she could not even sense the liches that usually flanked the walls. Their absence had given the place an unusual atmosphere of expectation, of wariness, of warning. And then he had held his hand out to her.

The hand was gloved, of course, but she still felt as if lightning was crackling all down her spine when she took it.

In all their years of acquaintance, they had never touched. She realised she'd had the absurd notion that he might be insubstantial, like smoke; as if up to now, her meetings with him had been some bizarre fiction of her own making. With one touch of his incongruously normal hand ? oh, why was the normality so maddening? She was fighting the urge to scream at him, hit him, why was he so Akatosh-damned normal, it was enough to drive you insane ? with that one touch, it all suddenly became real. And for one moment, she wondered where the hell she was, and what she was doing.

It was too late, of course.


*


What she chiefly remembered of those first glimpses of Firsthold was the brightness. It was everywhere ? even the palest of sunbeams became a brand, refracted a thousand times through a myriad wrought-glass lenses; the walls, the towers, the minarets, the domes. All glass, all beautiful. All alien.

She was still recovering, blind and disorientated, when she heard the low murmuring of voices beside her. Her sight returned to reveal the tired, worn face of an Altmer man, regarding her with a mixture of concern and incredulity. He had the gaunt appearance of someone who has been pushed to the limit of physical and emotional reserves.

"But surely you have not brought her now?" The voice was soft and well-spoken, but currently strained to breaking point. "I agreed to your bargain, but really, this is too much! The poor girl cannot be exposed to this, it is simply not right! Couldn't you have waited until after all this is dealt with?"

"I assure you, she is not about to wilt like an unwatered rose at the mere suggestion of your predicament, Reman," came the acerbic reply. "The Princess is here for a reason. She happens to be integral to our project."

The Altmer's face coloured with shock. "By Arkay ? you cannot mean ? no, this is madness! You cannot endanger an innocent woman in such a way; I will not allow it!"

'Innocent woman', 'poor girl' ? she must look like a simpering idiot, Morgiah realised. Pull yourself together, you stupid creature. No wonder Reman seemed so appalled.

"Then your son will meet with a most unfortunate end," the King replied carelessly. "I will be taking my Amulet with the Princess' help or without it, Reman, and I'm sure you would infinitely prefer the result of her participation to mine."

He looked wrong in the sun, she realised. She found she didn't want to look at him directly. The daylight somehow diffused around him, making a haze of shadow that was unpleasantly difficult to focus on, knifing a sharp pain behind her eyes. It had not been this way in the candlelight of the meeting-room at Scourg Barrow. Different, everything was different. She turned away. Pull yourself together, pull yourself together.

She fell back on etiquette. "Your Majesty," she greeted Reman smoothly, making an elegant curtsey. He took her hand gently, as if she might break, pity in his brown eyes. She felt a sting of annoyance at his patronisation; it overpowered her unease, bringing clarity back to her mind. That was good; she needed it now.

"Amazing," the King said dryly. "All these years I've been lucky to get even a nod of the head out of you, Princess, and now you drop him a curtsey as if you do it every day. What, I wonder, would I have to do to elicit such courtesy?"

"Marry me?" Morgiah said lightly. "Look, shouldn't we be getting on? It's late."

He laughed, but though she usually loved the surge of power she felt in making him laugh, this time there was a deep timbre to the sound that crawled over the glass of the courtyard like a stalking beast. Why had it suddenly changed? Was it Reman? Was he putting on a show for him? The Altmer certainly seemed frozen, horrified by the casualness of their banter.

"With no further ado, then," said the King. His words fell to the ground like spiders. Reman had become paralysed, rooted to the spot in fear and revulsion.

The King of Worms raised his staff and began to score a symbol in the ground. Darkness seeped through the gash, like blood from a wound.

It had begun.


*


Morgiah ran.

Oblivion turned.

It was nothing like she had expected. The mind, when confined to the body, cannot visualise anything without two or three-dimensional form, but here ? here ? there was no dimension at all. Forms were ideas. Ideas created reality. There was everything, everything to experience, but you did not see, because there was no sight. You did not hear, because you had nothing to hear with? Yet she found, afterwards, that she couldn't describe it without using the words touch or feel or see. It was impossible.

Colours and lights flashed by, like frantic birds.

It was hard to focus, but she thought she was in a series of rooms. They poured by like water. Endless doors, opening and closing. She ran, letting instinct guide her. She ran with no feet, no body, no nothing.

Do not stop, echoed the King's voice in her head. Do not speak to anyone or anything. Do not stop, do not tarry, even for a moment.

He had left her at the threshold. He had become a thing of smoke, of shadow, something she didn't recognise, something she didn't know. A nightmare. His words were heavy and laboured, rasping like stone over stone, each one struggling to reach the air ? and yet there was a note of urgency in his tone that she had not heard before. If the very idea had not been mad, she would have thought he was anxious.

Remember the name: Tellanaco. Names have power. If you do not have the name, you cannot give him anything real, only make a meaningless puppet, a thrall. Remember the name and do not stop, do not tarry, even for a moment.

She ran.

Images flashed by, stolen glimpses through the doors that poured past her, fifty one hundred a thousand, like a river. There were things behind them. People, scenes, moments. There was the shape of a woman in a room where each wall was a different colour. There was a deep red glow and the sting of sulphurous heat. There was a garden, dark with fog, where things crept across oily grass. There was an endless dawn sky with the faintest pinprick of stars, or was it dusk?

And sometimes, she caught a glimpse of what was really happening, and knew that there was none of it at all, only an endless expanse where twilight shades of people fell past like the curved dome of a waterfall, inexorable, unstoppable.

On and on, flash flash flash ? but there was a door, and before she could swerve away, she was through it?

The madness of the river-flow images stopped for a moment, and she found she wasn't running any more.

There was someone here. The light was grey, dull ? it had a curious quality that blurred everything but the remarkably unremarkable man standing before her.

"Hello," he said pleasantly. "Are you looking for something?"

He had pale red hair and was dressed sensibly in waistcoat and boots, like a respectable shop owner. Or a banker.

"You look lost," he continued mildly. "Would you like some help?"

She hesitated, trying to remember how to speak.

He took a step towards her. "You're very odd-looking, did you know that?"

All in a moment, she tasted an acrid chemical tang on her tongue. A terrible fear gripped her ? and the King was screaming, screaming in her ear, do not stop, do not speak to anyone or anything, do not stop, even for a moment, do not stop, do not tarry, do not stop?

The man was smiling. She swiped out with hands that weren't hands, and backed away ? but he came forward, and the smile was wrong.

She swiped again, dodged, lurched to the side, and fell?

And then she was back in the river-rush, and she had to run or else be swept away.

She wondered how close to death she had just come. Or worse.

Doors, flash flash flash. She was forgetting what the real world looked like. Or was it the real world, after all? Was this place the real world, and the other one a dream, and everything she knew backwards?

She ran.

This wasn't right, she could feel it. She shouldn't be here. The rooms and doors were wrong; she would run through them for ever, on and on, until there was nothing of her left or until she came across someone or something else, and this time she wasn't quick enough. This was wrong. She must do something.

With a wrench that pulled her invisible heart from her nonexistent chest, Morgiah stood still.

A flare of light blazed around her, and there was a screeching, a terrible wail of metallic agony, as if the world was throwing its axis. The doors crumpled like tin; the walls writhed and screamed, and then?

Then it was all darkness, and the dusky shapes of the dead, and the thing that hung in the air before her. And it was quiet. Quiet like infinity.

The dead poured on.

The thing before her was a small lantern. It burned with a grim, faint pulse. Something about it reminded her of soldiers who take slow and shallow breaths, because their wounds are so great that even breathing is torture.

Below the lantern was a thing on a chain that glowed with quiet, appalling malevolence.

I am not afraid of you, she thought. I am going to speak. I am going to speak NOW.

Tellanaco.

The word came as if from a long way away. Her voice sounded strange, the ring of a bell; the name lingered and strengthened, rising, unravelling.

She had practised the Soul Trap spell many times in the last month, knowing she had scant time to become proficient and worrying it would not be enough. Her fears seemed insignificant now. She realised she was towering over the lantern, over the Amulet, over the dusky dead, over everything. She spoke the spell, watching it encase the lantern like a cage, lifting it up, the chained pendant falling away like a fish-hook losing its prey.

She reached out with hands that weren't hands, and took her First artefact. It tingled in her palm.

A word later and the Soul Trap was dispelled, its purpose served, breaking apart and evaporating like mist. The flame in Tellanaco's lantern shivered, and died.

Morgiah's laugh echoed though the abyss like a flock of birds taking wing.


*


What did I look like? she had asked him much later, when she remembered the words of the man in the grey room, and how Tellanaco had been a lantern, and the King's smoke and shadow at the threshold.

He had cocked his head to one side, and hadn't spoken for a long while. The Amulet gleamed under the fastening of his cloak. She thought he was smiling.

Finally, he put his glass down and steepled his fingers. What do you think you looked like?
[i]
I didn't pass a looking-glass, unfortunately, she had said dryly.

He had laughed at that. The laugh did not make her spine crawl, as it had in the courtyard with Reman. It made her glad. It was easy to forget how different it had been, that day in Firsthold.

But he never answered her question, and she didn't ask again.



*
*

At this juncture, I would like to contribute to the thread a http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v289/Rumpleteasza/Lame%20Art/omglights.jpg

How ironic, Rumpleteaza, that just when you have returned from an illness, I am in the beginning of one.

Yes, headaches, medicines, the full nine yards.

But your superb writing was better than Tylenol. And only those who are currently in the grip of the grippe will understand the significance of that.

I shall post much more later!

Oh no! Best wishes to you Foxy. I really hope you have a speedy recovery and are not in too much discomfort. x

LMAO!

Yes, I think that sums up the delicate mix of themes and subtle interchange of characters and their role in society quite perfectly...

Now, seeing as you have updated, time for me to get reading! It's treat time!!

P.S.

When you updated last time, you added two chapters here, and only one over at FF.net. So you're missing one in between - Chapter Twenty-One – For Blood To Be Thicker Than Wine And Iced Kanet-Honey

Hope you'll feel better soon Rumple

Really enjoyed your new chapters

BTW, Rumpleteaza, I had already looked over all your Deviant Art drawings, and THAT was the picture I loved the most...I close my eyes and I can still see the woman in form, but girl at heart, who drew that picture.

I just read chapter Nine. As I am planning to include Necromancers in the next chapter of my own fan fiction, this chapter proved to be an excellent source of inspiration.

Thank you, Rumpleteasza.

Good dialogues. Your talent for detail is also impressive.

Well now. That update was quite a change of pace, and quite a change of tone as well. Much darker, much faster, much more intense and really quite disturbing. I'm talking about Morgiah's race to collect the artefact of course. Specifically the meeting with...well, let me quote. You said it far better than I can.



I found that section in particular...how do I put this? It gave the shivers if I'm honest. That surface look of normality, with undercurrents of terror. A terror that can't really be seen. I loved the way you did this. No scary great monsters, with sharp claws attacking. Instead, someone who looks like a normal man, a banker even, but where everything is just that little bit off. That struck me as being much scarier than something ugly, jumping out. Fear of what might be, the unknown.

Really impressive. I've always loved this story - hell, you're well aware of that - but your writing has improved leaps and bounds. Combine that with your multiple plots, deceits and traps... It's so good, my response has actually had a focus for once.

I simply cannot get that scene out of my head.

MORE PLEASE!!!

This is becoming quite devious.

Thank you, Peleus and Forest! I feel a lot better


:lol: No matter how highbrow I try to be, that is honestly what this whole thing comes down to.


Thank you so much Sierra. I also find more horror in things that are familiar suddenly becoming not so, or things that look normal and aren't underneath, than monsters and teeth and claws (although don't test me on that when there's a T-Rex around, because I will be up that tree baby). The most frightening nightmares I've had have involved things or people I'm familiar with acting in upsetting and wrong ways. I also think it's one of the most chilling things about madness - which is relevant in that particular passage, if you have an inkling of who the man might be - because the most frightening thing about madness, to me, is that normality is no longer something you can rely on.

By the way, watch out for post Although not while Royal Mail are striking, of course.




The King And I

Chapter Twenty-Three ? The Burning Heart And The Burning Building


The Dren Manor comprised far more than the outside walls lead one to believe. Below the respectable upper levels, an extensive network of cellars, corridors and basemants ran far into the ground.

Caius crept along, cursing his jingling chainmail. He should have worn leather. Not that it seemed to matter at the moment ? the dark corridors appeared deserted, with lamps lit only at corners and junctures. Doors punctuated the darkness at regular intervals; whenever he passed one, he opened it a crack and checked inside.

He wasn't having much luck so far. He'd made a cursory sweep of the top floors before taking Solon's advice and heading downstairs. Morgiah had tasked them with finding and destroying Dren's spy reports, but these rooms seemed to hold anything but paper. Once, he opened a door on some grisly chair-like contraption with pincer attachments along the side. Shuddering, he moved on.

Just when he thought the cellars had been a dead loss and resolved to retreat back to the ground floor, he opened the last door and came face-to-face with what they'd journeyed all this way for.

His heart skipped a beat with despair. The room was vast, cramped full of shelves, every one piled to the top with sheaves of paper. He'd been expecting perhaps a deskful; this was more like an ocean. How the hell was he supposed to root out reports on Morgiah from this landslide?

There was the sound of steel sliding on leather behind him, and his agent training kicked in like a steam centurion. Drawing his shortsword with one fluid motion, he whirled round and felt the clash of blades sting all the way up his arm.

Two of them. Oh Stendarr, there were two of them.

He should have known Dren would never be so foolish as to leave the place unmanned. The two guards were masked, covered in supple boiled leather from head to toe. Caius was suddenly acutely aware of his aging chainmail and the gaps it left around his neck and arms.

One of them lunged at him; he parried instantly, noting with relieved surprise that his reflexes were up to scratch despite his long respite. The guards fought methodically; they were well-trained, but seemed unimaginative and predictable. They were evidently complacent in their advantage of numbers, and perhaps he could use that to his benefit? his thoughts went suddenly to a brawl that had broken out around him in the South Wall Corner Club two years ago?

The first guard yelped in surprise as his supposedly tired, over-the-hill opponent grabbed a nearby chair with the speed of a demented nix hound, and brought it down over his back with a crack that split through the room like thunder. He crumpled to the floor, and then Caius was on the second guard like a terrier.

The shelves of paper muffled the fight ? Caius could hear the ragged panting of his own breath, the grunts and thumps and clashes of fists and swords, but the sounds fell flat in the claustrophobic space. Taking full advantage of his bar-room experience, he slammed a mailed elbow into a masked face and was rewarded with a smothered cry. A white-hot trail burned along his left arm; he'd left himself open. Ducking and spinning round, he thrust his sword under the remaining guard's reach and into his belly.

Then there was only the flickering of the lamps, and the steady drip drip drip of blood.

Caius fell against the wall, gasping. Red stained the chainmail of his upper arm, and the knee he'd injured in service years ago was sending darts of pain up his leg. The two bodyguards lay sprawled at his feet, one run through, the back of the other's head bloody.

As he stood panting, the first guard's hand moved to grasp feebly at Caius' ankle, the bones of his cracked skull moving grotesquely as he did so. "Give me?" His voice was lost as he choked, a trickle of red running down his chin. "Give ? me?"

Caius understood, and knelt down to cut the mer's throat. His heart felt heavy in his chest.

He looked around the room. This mission had taken a severe turn for the worse; he'd killed two people, and there was no time to search laboriously through these shelves for any mention of Morgiah now. It would take hours; days, even.

By any means necessary, the Princess' voice echoed in his head.

He lifted the lamp from the bracket on the wall, took a last look at the bodies on the floor, then smashed the glass into the shelves and watched the flames engulf them.


*


As they escorted him to the top floor, Solon felt something odd. If he had to put a name to it, it would be anticipation.

He was used to enjoying people's company, of course. He enjoyed it in a very methodical, precise way, finding pleasure in observing their habits, their cadences. He was not, however, familiar with these things affecting him in any meaningful way.

He thought back to the time before he had left the Manor with Nenya. Admittedly, he could have been guilty of? encouraging Dren. Perhaps. Slightly. They had talked together on a number of evenings, and he had found the Tong leader intelligent and interesting. There was an intensity about his persona that drew Solon in.

In his deepest darkest thoughts, he admitted that he may have begun to respond in kind. At the time, this notion had been so disturbing that he had convinced himself attention from Dren was dangerous from a career point of view, rather than anything else. Nenya had given him the perfect excuse to turn tail and disappear. Pretend it had never happened.

Now, though, with the situation once again inescapably before him, he couldn't help feel a twinge of fascinated expectation, despite the niggling survival instinct that was whispering trapped, caged, trammelled. Perhaps, for once in his life, it was all right to not be fully in control??

"Leave us," Dren commanded his men. They retreated, shutting the door behind them.

"You've been running for a while," Dren addressed him inscrutably. "Urgent business of your own, or are you just trying out being a fugitive?"

Solon shrugged. "A free agent may go where they will, or so I understood."

Dren's gaze burned into him like a brand. "You left without a word. If I were an unreasonable man, I'd take that for an insult."

Solon's excitement faded a little. Dren's voice contained the same intensity he remembered, but there was an edge to it that hadn't been obvious before. Something unpleasant.

He opted for neutrality. "That's a rather personal reaction to a simple parting of colleagues."

"And a Princess' protection, too," Dren said very softly. "That was clever. I wonder exactly what service you are performing for her?"

Solon was silent; what could he possibly say? 'I'm here to ransack your spy reports'? Alarm bells were ringing in his head very loudly now.

"I expect loyalty from those in my employ." Dren was glaring now.

"I am not in your employ."

The words had hardly left his lips when Dren pushed him so hard that the breath was punched from his chest. Solon crashed against the wall, splintering the table behind him. The physical sally was so unexpected that his mind was completely erased of everything but the shock.

"Why? Why aren't you? Do you have some complaint about the way I treated you?"

Solon could only stare, blood beginning to ooze from a gash in his arm.

"If the Princess forced you to work for her you should have told me. I could have hidden you. What made you go to her?" He lunged forwards and grabbed Solon's wrist, twisting it in his grasp. The mer could only gape soundlessly.

The truth suddenly hit him like a wrecking ball: he had fatally misjudged. He, with all his precious scientific observation, had made a very big mistake. And now he was going to pay for it.

"You work for me," Dren snarled. "For me. You are mine."

He slammed Solon against the wall, and crushed their lips together.

Solon could taste blood in his mouth. His arm was pinned above his head and a dull ache blazed in his wrist. Dren's other hand came up and wrapped around his throat, crushing like a vice and digging his nails into the skin at the back of his neck. Solon choked as his air ran thin; his body seemed to come to life in sheer panic. He wedged his arm between them and elbowed the other mer viciously in the solar plexus.

Dren staggered away, gasping for breath. His eyes were like pits of fire, but a cold smile was starting to form at the corner of his mouth.

Solon raised a hand to his neck, checking methodically for damage to his windpipe. Calm? at all costs he must stay calm. He was stronger than Dren, and much faster. It was only the shock that was incapacitating him. Calm, calm.

Keep him occupied, his survival instinct whispered, beginning to function at long last. Keep him distracted. For Stendarr's sake keep him talking. You stupid, you stupid?"How did you know where I'd been?"

"Some of my employees still make an effort to oblige me, Galos. Especially when it comes to information I am offering a considerable reward for." He came forward again as if magnetically pulled. The smile became stronger. "Or is it Solon? You've lied about so many things, it's hard to keep them all straight."

Keep him talking. "You put a bounty on me."

"Of course."

"And who was lucky enough to claim it?"

The smile was wider now. "Someone claimed it all right, but I wouldn't call her lucky. Pleasant, was she?"

Solon stared at him, waiting for him to explain the nonsensical statement.

"What, you don't remember your little whore in Almalexia? We caught up with her just outside the city. She seemed reluctant to impart any information, but fortunately I am a persuasive man."

The dread slammed into him full force again, creeping up his spine like a spider.

Dren was close now. Slowly, he drew something out of his pocket and held it up, something that glinted like copper silk in the lamplight. His face full of vindictive triumph, he tossed the thing aside and he reached out once more, his hands closing around Solon's arms like pincers, pressing into the wound made by the broken table.

The object was a lock of hair, torn as if pulled from a head. Solon thought of Felara Ules' mischievous eyes, the confident toss of her curls and the wicked passion in her voice, and his heart felt like a dead weight.

Dren was leaning in. When he was close enough to touch, Solon's hand found the foot-long splinter of wood that had broken off the table in his fall. Numbly ? but why should that matter? He had been numb all his life ? he reached his arm around the Tong leader's back. Dren thought he was moving to embrace him, and a thrill of triumph crept over his face.

When the wooden spike found its mark, Solon knew he would remember the disbelief and betrayal in Dren's eyes for a long, long time.


*


In the light of a hearth-fire, Goldenflower gazed at Crassius like a plaintive angel.

"I did not wish for it to come to this," the lady whispered, tears brimming from her blue eyes. "It is a necessity. I ? I am so afraid?"

"Now now, my dear," he soothed, crossing to her chair and kneeling in front of her. He took her slender fingers in his, patting the back of her hand, his fingers brushing her ornate ring. "No tears; we can't have that! No one will touch you in the house I've put aside for you. My guards are on the door day and night. It is an unpleasant business, sweetling, and I lament that you insisted on arranging the particulars yourself ? I would have done it for you, had you allowed me."

She looked at him with shy gratitude, her glossy ringlets framing her face like a waterfall of gold. "I felt I could not hide behind champions to do this deed. Though I owe my husband little, my honour dictates that if I must truly do this thing, the order should come from me alone."

"Ah, so noble a maid!" Crassius extolled, rising from his position to take a bottle of deep crimson liquid from the cabinet. "Sweetling, you are weary and your heart is in pain. Take a little of this plum brandy; it will calm your nerves." Pouring a glass for her, he set it on the sideboard and helped her to a more comfortable seat on the couch by the fire.

"Now," he pacified, handing her the glass, "Drink deep, my blossom, and let go your worries."

She obeyed him, visibly trying to master herself. It seemed natural to put a comforting arm around her shoulders. She turned to look at him, her eyes full of vulnerable trust, and he simply couldn't resist.

Crassius tilted her chin up and discovered what the plum brandy tasted like.


*


News of the fire at the Dren Plantation spread fast. The workers panicked as the blaze crept from one building to the next; only very few had the presence of mind to send for help or organise a water-chain from the dock, and by the time the first buckets arrived it was already too late.

One of the more sensible workers was herding the rest into a cluster of cork-stores away from the smoke; another group futilely continued dousing the flames. A huddle of argonian slaves stood some way away, their eyes reflecting the flames without a trace of remorse.

An overseer stood as near to the burning buildings as was safe without catching alight, waving his arms to the others, and shouting, "The manor isn't empty! We must help! Come back!"

Caius was nearly out of the gates; the words hit him like a bucket of ice. Don't be an idiot, he told himself roughly, He's got it wrong. No-one was inside, least of all Gothren. He'll be at the dock as planned. But then who? Dren was away, and the only people left had been the two guards he'd killed.

He caught the arm of a mercenary making haste for the gateway. "Hey! You know what he's talking about? Who's in there? I thought Dren was out til Mourndas?"

The mercenary spat onto the ground; he had a split lip, possibly from the crush to get away from the blaze. "Came back early, didn't he? Saw him neck some mer up to the second floor, poor bastard. Canny looking thing ? dark hair, crossbow. Dunno whether they're out." He shook his arm roughly from the other man's grasp. "You'll be out an' all, if you know what's good for you." He disappeared into the press of bodies.

You fool, Caius thought, horror washing over him. You stupid, damnable fool ? you should have checked the building!

He turned back, running towards the flames that now reached twenty feet to the darkening sky.

The main entrance was impassable. He sprinted round the back to the rickety walkway that lead to the first floor balcony, felt it creak under his feet? the door was mostly glass. He smashed it with a mailed fist, and then he was inside, choking on blackness.

"Gothren!" he shouted, his voice cracked and rasping.

Squeezing his eyes shut against the smoke, he blundered through the first floor. "Gothren!"

Along another hellish corridor, feeling into the blackness with outstretched hands, tripping on some stairs, crawling up them, into another room? this was hell, this was utter hell?

There was a dark shape on the floor.

"Gothren!" barked Caius, stumbling and half-falling on the mer. But there was something terribly wrong ? Solon was sitting hunched over, and sprawled on the floor beside him was? surely not? Dren ? with a stake in his back?

"Solon!" Caius snapped, grabbing the Dunmer's arm and trying to drag him to his feet. "Get up ? we've got to get out of here ? what's wrong with you, for pity's sake? Come on ?"

But Solon was a dead weight, though he was alive enough ? his eyes were open, but they were numb and glazed, as if in shock. Caius hauled him up but his protesting knee screamed out, and the two of them fell to the ground. The floorboards creaked ominously; smoke was filtering through the cracks, and they were hot to touch.

Caius heaved at Solon once more, but the mer seemed incapable of independent movement.

"Get up, you stupid elf!" Caius raged, fear shooting through his voice. Solon looked up at him with blank eyes.

Caius hit him across the face. Hard.

It worked. Solon stumbled back into the wall and seemed to come to life; he spat out a mouthful of blood and limped to his feet.

"You bastard," he croaked, his voice coated with smoke.

"Shut up!" gabbled Caius, almost sick with relief. "No time! Got to get out ? come on, come on, you idiot ?"

He grabbed his arm and hauled him up. Solon did not look back into the room. Behind them, Dren's silent body had begun to smoulder.

They staggered into the dark corridor, supporting eachother in turn. Caius' knee was in agony. Tension lay like an iron bar across his neck and shoulders. It's alright, he repeated like a mantra, it's alright, we'll get out, we're nearly there? nearly there?

He felt the floor give way.

There was an awful moment when the sounds around him tuned out, and he realised exactly what was going to happen, and that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Then the sounds came back in a roar, and the floor collapsed.


*
*

Now I know why D.Foxy raves about your writing! Riveting!

:blink:


And...


( in a very small voice )

THIS is the girl I mocked for not knowing how to write dramatic, action scenes...???



Please excuse me.


I have to go and find something to beat myself up with. I think a sledgehammer will do nicely.