Misstress Teasza.... UPDATE!!
I hear and obey!
The King And I
Chapter Twenty-Five - HomecomingBarenziah came hurriedly through the door, pushing it closed behind her. She seemed agitated.
“What is it?” asked Morgiah.
“Eadwyrd Greenhart’s here,” she announced quietly, glancing towards the door. “He’s got some information from Tel Fyr – very significant information.”
Morgiah sat forward at her desk, the flare of excitement in her eyes barely concealed. “Well, send him in! What are you waiting for?”
“There’s something else,” Barenziah said. “Gwynabyth Yeomham is dead. He won’t say much. They must have broken cover.”
Instantly Morgiah’s spark died, dreadfully, stone cold. “Dead…?”
“Yes.”
A sudden rush of feelings – Bomba ‘Lurrina’s hints that there seemed more between the two than colleagueship, pity for the young man who would now have to learn a very harsh lesson, and guilt… most of all, guilt. Because if not for Morgiah, the girl would be alive.
She’d sent a healthy, happy young woman to her death.
There was no time to dwell on the iron-hard truth before a knock sounded on the door, slow and hesitant. Morgiah composed herself. “Come in.”
She hardly recognised the man who entered. Eadwyrd’s face was as pale as a sheet. Swallowing the guilt that now threatened to consume her, she stood and acknowledged him.
“Mr Greenhart, welcome. I am deeply saddened to hear of your loss.”
It would have sounded pathetic even without the added irony of the condolences coming from the very perpetrator. As Eadwyrd raised his head, for a moment she thought the platitude had been an insult too much to bear and that he would strike her – but he remained still, his eyes dull.
“Thank you, your Highness.”
She would have preferred the response to be barely-veiled hatred; this awful dumb blankness was somehow far worse. Still, she had to ask. Without the information they had gathered, Gwynabyth’s death would be worthless.
“You have some information for me?”
“Yes, your Highness,” he intoned emotionlessly. “Tel Fyr is overrun by cultists, formerly Dreamers, remnants of the Sixth House. There is an overseer who commands them, but their orders come from his Majesty the King. From what Gw–” he halted, swallowing, his eyes suddenly showing a flash of what was behind them – “what…
we… were told by Dralasa, Divyath Fyr has been killed, and a Dwemer who lived in his Corprusarium has been taken captive somewhere in Red Mountain. The Master Dreamer took a strength-fortifying elixir Fyr was creating, but it was unfinished and will probably poison him. The Corprus victims are also gone, but alive – they are being put to some use on a greater project. That is all we learnt. ”
She did not patronise him any further.
“Thank you, Mr Greenhart. Forgive me the wrong I have done you. You may go. I release you from my service.”
He left at once, ghosting out the door as if even the slightest movement caused him pain. Morgiah sank into a chair.
“I shouldn’t have sent them,” she reflected. “I should never have sent either of them. They aren’t spies. I should have saved the job for Solon Gothren.”
“Indeed you should have,” Barenziah said, compassionless.
A stab of anger erupted from Morgiah; Barenziah, watching, saw Helseth’s petulance rise in her in one of those rare occurrences. “Then pray, why did you not counsel me so at the time?”
“I am not your keeper, heaven forbid. I am merely your mother. I have had my own affairs to deal with. I think perhaps you have learnt a lesson; a hard one, of course, but at least one at another’s expense rather than your own.”
Her daughter practically spat. “That is no comfort! You think it should have been Gothren? He was miles away undercover at Dren’s Estate; it would have been impossible! Have you forgotten how vital it is to keep the number of those knowledgeable of this investigation to a minimum?”
“I have forgotten nothing. I merely thought you would be competent enough not to need your hand held at every turn.”
Morgiah’s hands were shaking. “Get out.”
Barenziah did so, bowing at the door.
When she had gone, Morgiah threw a crumpled page of her notes into the fire, and flung herself into the grateside chair. She stared into the flames for a long time.
*
Caius was at home with a bottle of Cyrodiil’s Best, getting well and truly smashed. When in doubt, there are few things that make more sense than getting pissed as a lord.
The fire had shaken him more than he liked to admit. When he’d woken, half-slumped in one of the Ascadian Isles’ most picturesque lakes, Solon had already cast preliminary healing magic on his leg. He was glad one of them seemed to have retained some presence of mind, at least. The fracture barely even hurt any more. Solon was good.
He’d been very odd on the journey back, though. Caius had had to point out three times that he’d forgotten to tend to his own bloodied, skinned shoulder before the mer even seemed to notice. He had been quiet; moody, even – which for Solon, was uncompromisingly odd. He had never been moody before. He gave the impression that he couldn’t be
anything other than Mildly And Disconnectedly Interested.
That it had something to do with Dren’s death was crystal clear, but Caius had been wise enough not to inquire, and Solon did not seem in the mood to divulge. Exactly what had transpired to produce the little scene in the manor’s top floor was a mystery, but the effects were undeniable. Dren’s death would send a shockwave not only through the legitimate channels of House Hlaalu, but through Morrowind’s entire criminal underworld. It was already happening. He’d seen groups of people whispering in taverns, meeting on street corners, chasing rumours. News travels fast.
Solon had gone on to Mournhold to deliver their report to Morgiah. Caius had felt a strange twist in his stomach as he took his leave; some nagging feeling made him suspect that Solon was traumatised – what a peculiar notion! – and needed company.
But he was useless at supplying comforting shoulders, he thought wretchedly. Caius was one of those people who, when their arms are filled with some tear-stricken seeker of sympathy, revert to panicked autopilot and find themselves awkwardly patting the unfortunate supplicant’s head like a pet dog. Unsurprisingly, people did not tend to seek solace in his arms.
He took another swig, reflecting briefly on how sad it was to be a Blade, a paragon of the Empire’s valour and virtue, sitting at home getting sozzled and wishing he was better at giving his co-workers hugs. Just as well he was alone, really.
There was a loud knock on the door.
There was no time for composure. Someone banged the door open without even waiting for a reply, and then there was a tall body silhouetted against the night, the
thump of a discarded pack, a tumble of yellow hair…
“S
hit,” Caius managed.
Nenya surveyed the sea of empty bottles with one eyebrow raised. “Cai. Are you drunk?”
“I always said you were clever.”
She laughed at that – a pure, joyful sound – and oh, it was better than music, better than churchbells, better than anything… he realised he was beaming like a fool.
She threw her cloak by the door. “Got enough to share? Can’t remember the last time I got drunk.”
“Grab a pew,” Caius said, giddy as a schoolboy. “What’s the lady’s poison?”
“Mead. I love mead. Got any Winterhold’s Finest?”
“Tastes like honey,” Caius murmured, seemingly transfixed by her mouth.
She looked highly amused. “You’re blatted, aren’t you? Yes, mead tastes like honey.”
“Oh yeah, and the mead as well,” Caius mumbled obliviously, selecting the correct bottle after knocking several of its fellows over. “Let’s see that famous Nord constitution, eh? You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
“Don’t you want to hear about my journey?”
He poured her a pewter cupful, miraculously without spillage. “Regale me, Nenya. I am agog.”
“Well… killed some goblins, talked to an orc, killed some zombies, talked to a lich. Oh, yes – and
didn’t talk to a mad old woman.”
“But talked to a Khajiit. And hopefully didn’t kill her.”
Nenya’s face cracked into a smile; she threw back her first cup of mead with practised ease. “Bomba? Oh, Caius, she’s… I can’t even explain. She’s wonderful. A real lady, you know. All elegant and graceful.” The mead suddenly hit her. “Hoarfather’s Beard. What is this stuff, chainmail-cleaner?”
Caius was frowning blearily.
“You’re a real lady.”
Nenya snorted, pouring another. “Oh no, not like her. She could flirt with Gortwog and everything. You should have seen it, no wonder they send her for negotiations.” She pondered, sipping rather than downing this time. “She’s…
sensual.”Caius sniggered. Somehow that word just sounded wrong coming out of Nenya’s mouth. She swiped at him. “See? Doesn’t work with me.”
“It works,” he said. “It works.”
Nenya shook her head, grinning. “And you? What did you make of my mate Solon?”
“Bloody annoying.”
Nenya tipped her head back and laughed. “You say that about everyone you like.”
“Yeah. By the way, have I told you lately you’re bloody annoying?”
She snickered. “Oh, I’m blushing, I’m blushing.”
“It becomes you,” he said recklessly, refilling her glass. He lifted his own in rather unsteady celebration. “Toast?”
She lifted hers, too. “Aye. What to?”
“Homecoming,” he said, clinking them together.
She smiled.
*
The evening wore on, and Morgiah brooded. A tall Imperial chambermaid came to stoke the fire, displaying curiosity verging on impertinence when she sensed her Highness’s foul mood.
The argument with Barenziah had left Morgiah restless and uneasy. Of course, she knew better than to blame her mother for lack of counsel – she was far past the age of needing constant guidance. But Barenziah’s cool put-down, as well as her dismissal of the importance of the death, rankled at her.
And there was the guilt; of course, always the guilt. It was obvious that Eadwyrd had been in love with the girl. She might as well have killed him, too. It had been a mistake to place them in such danger, a mistake that
she was responsible for.
And then there was the information…
Despite the anger and remorse flowing through her, the thought of the news Eadwyrd had brought prompted a little flicker of anticipation. Sixth House Cultists? Taking orders from
Helseth? What could he possibly be using them for…? And Divyath Fyr dead… it almost took her breath away. Accounts of his age swung wildly in span from mere hundreds to impossible thousands of years. Had Helseth really managed to kill him? And if so, how and why? Alas, if he truly was dead, there was no easy way to answer those questions.
Or was there?Her heart clenched, and the blackness seized her again – images, flick-flick-flick – there was that
other place, the waterfall of dusky dead, but it was different – a different time – it was not Tellanaco’s lantern she was reaching out to, but something, someone else…
The present came back to her like a battleaxe – she was leaning over the desk, breath ragged, herself again.
There
was someone who could get the answers she needed from Divyath. Bomba ‘Lurrina and Nenya would be back very soon now, and her message and gift would have been safely conveyed.
Hopefully, they would bring a different message back with them. One that might hold the key to the answers hanging tantalisingly before her.
*
Caius surfaced groggily, his head making insistent complaints to the rest of his body, which was protesting just as vividly in return.
It was full daylight – nearly noon, judging by the ferocity of the glare that beamed through his window. Not being unfamiliar with this situation, Caius sighed and began the process of remembering exactly what the hell he did last night, where he was now, and whether he might have any fines to fork out for.
He was in his own house, at least. That was something. Not always a given. He’d settled down for the evening, he remembered, with that Cyrodiilic brandy that had been burning a hole in his cupboard for the last month, and then…
His eyes widened; he shot up, ignoring the pain in his head.
Nenya.He groaned aloud.
Oh, Talos. He’d been drunk before she even arrived, never mind the state he must have been in as the evening progressed. The comments he’d made returned to his memory with sadistic clarity; had he really had to be so
obvious?He looked around cautiously. He wasn’t in his bedroom; he appeared to have fashioned some sort of makeshift nest out of a toppled-over drinks cabinet and half a blanket. He inspected it for a minute, then shrugged. It was a lot better than the memorable morning he had woken up in the Temple prayer garden to find three novices conspicuously trying to ignore him as they got on with their morning piety.
Rising slowly to his feet, registering with relief that the headache wasn’t quite as bad as he’d thought, he tiptoed to the door of his bedroom and peered through the gap.
Nenya was tangled in the bedsheets, sound asleep, her hair fanning across the pillow like a sunburst.
He drew back, suddenly hyperventilating. He didn’t – he couldn’t have – surely he wouldn’t…
No, he thought, calming down, different memories mercifully returning.
I just gave her the bed, that’s all. At least he’d managed to act the gentleman. He certainly didn’t feel very gentlemanly right now – the sight of Nenya in his own bed, her armour and clothes thrown haphazardly into the corner, was more than he could deal with at the moment.
He withdrew to the other room instead, making a valiant start on clearing up the mess. It wasn’t too bad; a few displaced pieces of furniture, a cracked goblet. Oh, and the bottles, of course. He was amazed at how many there were, even for him. As he worked, the memories continued to return – after half the mead was gone they’d moved outside, onto the roof under the stars. He seemed to remember commenting that her eyes were pretty. He cringed.
He had managed to make the room presentable, and even fetched back some new bread from the bakers before she emerged sleepily from the bedroom. When she saw his state of relative respectability she stopped short, looking down at her own blanket-robe and tousled hair with faint embarrassment.
“I’ve had a lot of practice”, he said by way of reassurance.
She snorted with amusemant, flumping down at the table and reaching for the bread. He poured her a cup of water and passed it over, feeling uncomfortably tongue-tied at the thought of his ridiculous proclamations. Would she remember? And if she did, would she pretend she had forgotten, just to make things easier?
He sat hesitantly on the bench as she found a pot of honey – he didn’t even know he’d had one, trust her to find it – and spread it liberally over her bread. She chewed silently.
He groaned internally. If she didn’t say something in the next five seconds, Sheogorath would have another mind to add to his collection.
It was four and a half seconds, as it turned out. “I was thinking,” Nenya said slowly, “I mean, I was wondering, whether you still wanted to come to Skyrim. I mean,” she continued hurriedly, “I kind of sprung it on you before I left. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to come if you didn’t want to. Just. You know. To make sure.”
Caius frowned. What was she getting at? Was she regretting asking him, or did she really just want to make sure?
“Do you want me to come?” He asked haltingly, resolutely examining the cup before him. Damn it, this was really,
really not his forte.
“Um,” Nenya said, putting down her plate and looking at the table just as awkwardly. “Yes. I do. I mean, I really do. Quite a lot.” She took a deep breath. “Caius, what you said last night…”
Oh, Stendarr.
Man up, old boy, he told himself, and looked her in the eye.
What he saw sent a jolt like a strike of lightning through him. She was blushing bright pink, and
smiling. Not a pitying smile, or a mocking smile – a shy, glowing,
happy smile.
He had known he was in love with her for a long time now. He wasn’t a green boy; he knew the signs. But his thoughts on the matter had always been to the tune of how he might hide it from her, how he must be careful never to take advantage of what was merely friendship on her part…
He had never in a thousand years allowed himself to imagine that she might love him
back.“I’ll come. Whatever you want, anything for you. Anything you want…” he was babbling, but somehow he didn’t care.
She cut the babbling off with a clumsy, tentative kiss.
She tasted like honey and fresh bread. He kissed her back, and it was like the sun rising on his life.
*
*
» Sat Feb 19, 2011 2:12 am 
