skyrimkinkmeme | Meme Announcements!

Meme Announcements!

ANNOUNCEMENTS: UPDATED 12/16/2017

Happy Holidays, fellow Kinkmemers! I have returned and have no reasonable excuse for my absence except LIFE. I will be working on updating the archives. If anyone sees anything amiss, please let me know.

I am also hoping to find another Mod and an Archivist.

The more dedicated people we have in this Meme the less chance of it dying. I admit that being the sole keeper of the Meme is not great for the fandom. If something were to happen to me, for good, this place would go the way of the Fallout Kink Meme. Let's not let that happen! If anyone would be interested in Modding/Archiving, please drop me a line. Thanks! <3

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“If you want Solitude to endure, choose Sybille. She’s the only one in the court who bothers to look at more than one side of an issue,” Therion gave the the Dunmer housecarl beside him a wry look. “And now I swear to do my utmost to stay awake. Apparently if I snore again, Irileth will not hesitate to send me on a more permanent venture to Sovngarde.”

There was a murmur of interest, while Erikur turned red in anger.

“This is mad! She’s a wizard! And not even a Nord!” he shouted.

The court wizards of Skyrim regarded Erikur with dangerous looks, as did all the non-Nord races, while the Dragonborn fixed him with his own cold expression.

“I am a mer. And a mage. Does that mean I don’t care about the future of Skyrim?”

Erikur raised his finger accusingly at Therion.

“You implicate me of treachery and now you twist my words! I’ve had enough!” he growled.

Therion started to wonder how far Erikur would take the insult to his pride, when to his surprise, Jarl Balgruuf leaned forward and stared the other man down.

“Choose your words carefully, Thane Erikur. I do not take threats made against my court lightly.”

Erikur, looking around the room, finally sensed the tide turning against him, and lowered his hand.

“Perhaps it’s time we put things to a vote,” Jarl Balgruuf suggested.

The vote passed with six in favor of Sybille and two in favor of Bryling.

As the moot finally adjourned for the evening, Therion slipped away, vanishing into the crowd.

Farengar, eager to leave the crowded room, departed the Blue Palace and emerged into the night air of Solitude. The jarls had lodgings in the Blue Palace, the guards in Castle Dour, while the rest of the various members of the courts had lodgings at the Winking Skeever. There was a moment as he left, that he thought he heard the sound of a tile shifting, coming from the roof of the Blue Palace, but he saw nothing as he looked up, and the sound vanished before he could locate its source. Shrugging it off, he slowly walked back to the inn with the rest of the departing crowd.

Farengar finally returned to the inn ahead of the rest of the delegates, but was surprised to see Therion seated in a back corner, sipping a drink and looking as though he had been there for some time. Giving him a bemused look, Farengar went to the bar to order a pint and dinner. The bard, a lovely Bosmer girl named Sina, finished the last notes of a jaunty tune and announced her next number; a personal variation on The Dragonborn Comes. Farengar glanced over to the titular character. The slow, soothing tune appeared to have a lulling effect, causing the Dragonborn to nod off as the bard plucked her lute, singing of his exploits in a voice sweet as honey.

“Our hero, our hero

Claims a warrior’s heart.”

Farengar watched as several Nords seemed to recognize the slumbering Dragonborn. The wizard frowned as they walked unsteadily over to him, surrounding the elf in the corner.

“Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, naal ok zin los vahriin,

Wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal!”

Farengar walked over swiftly, telling himself it was merely to ensure the thane of Whiterun wasn’t robbed or disgraced. From the way they stumbled and snickered, there was no mistaking their drunkenness. Before he could intervene, one of them swayed forward, grabbing hold of the Dragonborn’s Akaviri dai-katana at his waist.

Farengar staggered as he heard, and felt, Therion’s frenzied, resounding shout. In a blur of movement, the patrons before him scattered, thrown back, along with a table, and several chairs. Farengar saw Therion press the Nord whom had grabbed his weapon into the wall by the neck, reaching for his sword with his free hand, seemingly unaware of what he was doing. Lunging forward, Farengar trapped Therion’s wrist, preventing him from drawing his sword, while wrenching him away from the choking Nord. The man dropped to the floor, coughing and gasping.

From the time Farengar had first found his magicka as a boy, he had been fighting. He had been in more fights than he could remember. Children twice his size had gone out of their way to attack him, adults cheering them on. He had learned early on, out of necessity, how to trap an opponent quickly. Despite this, he had a difficult time keeping the elf under control.

Therion struggled against him as if his life depended on it, the wizard pushing his advantage, and pinning his arms, while pressing him into a corner.

“Dragonborn,” Farengar said sharply, seeking to calm the frantic elf before he could wrench himself free or shout him apart. The title had no effect, and Farengar’s stomach turned as he looked at the struggling elf, whose eyes were stricken with terror.

“Therion,” he tried instead, adopting a softer tone.

Farengar felt him slacken, and repeated his name several times until he ceased his struggles.

Looking up, he could clearly see the deep, dark circles around the elf’s eyes, as he watched him peer over his shoulder at the rest of the room, drawing deep breaths to calm himself.

Amber eyes swept back down to Farengar’s sea green, and then down to his hands, still pinning Therion’s arms to his chest.

Farengar released him, stepping away.

The patrons were looking warily at the Dragonborn, the mood in the air tense, until he stumbled a bit unsteadily, bending down to help up the men he had knocked down with his voice. They stumbled to their feet, and Therion stumbled with them, clapping a hand on their backs, while ordering them drinks from the bar with a friendly laugh.

Therion politely declined drinking with them, saying he’d had quite enough, and tripped a bit, draping an arm over Farengar’s shoulders for support.

Farengar looked at his arm and then back to the elf.

“You’re not actually drunk,” he whispered so no one else could hear.

Therion leaned his face unsteadily against Farengar’s hood, whispering into his ear, Farengar suppressing a shudder as the warm elf rested against him.

“No, but they don’t need to know that,” Therion said quietly. “They’ll forgive a drunken Dragonborn more easily than they will a panicked Altmer.”

“Mmm,” Farengar said, not disagreeing. “The point I was trying to make, is that you don’t actually need to lean on me for support.”

Farengar heard a chuckle from beneath his mask.

“No, but it’s much more convincing, isn’t it? Help me upstairs and I’ll make it worth your while…” Therion murmured. “I’ll teach you to speak some in Dragon.”

The wizard paused, considering.

“Against my better judgement, I accept your terms,” Farengar said.

He helped Therion walk, the elf stumbling along as convincingly as if he were actually hammered.

“Which room?” Farengar asked at the top of the stairs.

“Don’t have one.”

“What? We’ve been in Solitude for days, where have you been sleeping?” Farengar asked, opening the door to his room, adding, “Or, more to the point, not sleeping.”

Abandoning the drunk act, Therion nimbly sprang to his feet as the door clicked shut. Crossing the room, he fell face down onto the large bed with a content sigh. Rolling onto his back, he kicked his boots off and placed his hands behind his head.

“By all means, please, make yourself at home,” Farengar said sarcastically, dragging a chair beside the bed.

“If you insist,” Therion said with a chuckle. Pulling down his hood and removing his mask, he grinned up at Farengar from the bed.

“It’s not my place to judge a man for wearing a hood. But why the mask?” Farengar asked, wondering how he had wound up with the Dragonborn in his bed. He would have thrown him out, but the tired look in his eyes, combined with the fresh memory of his terrified struggle against his grip, made him sympathetic. Therion had looked genuinely scared for his life.

The elf shrugged.

“The people we rescued from the Thalmor were panicking at the sight of an Altmer. I decided to cover up a bit, lest my face make someone faint. More than usual,” he said with an impish grin followed by a yawn.

Farengar frowned.

“Don’t fall asleep in my bed,” he warned. “I don’t want to get my head taken off for waking you.”

Therion ran a hand across his face, trying to sort out the muddled memory from downstairs; waking up to find three figures looming over him, taking his weapon from him. It was all a blur after that anyway, ending with him in a corner, surprisingly pinned by Farengar. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he had heard his name.

Therion sat up suddenly, looking concerned.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I? Downstairs, when I...” he trailed off.

Therion was surprised by a faint smile gracing Farengar’s lips.

“No, you were easy to subdue,” Farengar said, embellishing the truth. “Even though I supposedly couldn’t hope to overwhelm you, ‘if I lived a hundred years’?”

Therion gaped at him, before grinning in surprise.

“I did say that, didn’t I? That was weeks ago, I’m surprised you remember,” he chuckled.

“I have a good memory.”

“Vahrukt,” Therion said.

“Pardon?” Farengar asked.

“Memory. Vahrukt. As I recall, I promised to teach you Dragon. I can give you the basics of pronunciation and a wealth of words, but grammar is something I’m still unraveling. It’s a largely contextual language. The alphabet contains thirty-four characters.”

Therion launched into a pronunciation of the alphabet, watching contentedly as he was immediately rewarded with the familiar light of excitement in Farengar’s eyes, so foreign against his perpetually cynical expression.

Farengar was a quick study and an attentive student, absorbing information like a sponge.

“Vir saag you ko Dovahkul?” Farengar asked, sometime into their lesson.

“How do you say ‘you’ in Dragon?” Therion repeated in Tamrielic. “You… don’t. Not exactly. It’s implied contextually,” he explained with a deep yawn.

Farengar considered his explanation, looking for a phrase he could try.

“Hm… Hin nis praan?”

Therion raised an eyebrow, astounded he had remembered so many words.

“I would take your meaning as, ‘You’re unable to find rest or sleep.’ To which I would reply, geh, or yes. Is there any limit to your memory?”

“Of course,” Farengar said. “There are, for example, a few alchemical ingredients I cannot remember all of the effects of.”

“A few… out of the hundred plus ingredients in Skyrim? Each with about four effects? Making some four hundred properties to memorize? That’s astounding!”

Farengar seemed to ignore the complement, glancing at the window.

“It’s getting late,” he said regretfully, aware they had somewhere to be in the morning. He would have preferred to continue their session. The sooner he slept, the sooner morning would come and the moot would convene. Divines. He could only hope it would only take days, not weeks, to choose a king or queen.

Therion nodded, rolling out of bed and retrieving his boots.

Farengar couldn’t resist asking, though he suspected he wouldn’t like knowing the answer.

“Where will you sleep?”

“Oh, I think on the rooftop between Bits and Pieces and Radiant Raiment. A bit cold, but better than waking up to a pile of corpses at my feet, and the guards chasing me out of town.”

Farengar paused, before leaning forward.

“If you’re having nightmares, I can brew a potion which would let you sleep-”

“No,” Therion said quickly, eyes wide. Farengar thought he saw him tremble. “No,” he repeated, more to himself than Farengar.

Farengar felt his heart wrench once more, at the look in his eyes.

“When did you last sleep?” he asked.

Therion shook his head and tried to smile.
“I catch a few hours here and there, in public places. The Thalmor wouldn’t attack me in a bar. It’s just not their style. And even with a location spell, if your target is above or below ground, pinpointing is difficult. And on rooftops, I don’t have to trouble myself with finding an exit,” he said brightly, but his smile was strained. “I haven’t slept for more than one or two hours at a stretch since Riverwood,” he paused, considering whether or not to say more. “I can’t tell you how relieved I was, to see you there, when I woke up. I didn’t know where I was, I could barely breathe. My heart was about to stop, until I saw you. Sleeping beside me, in what appeared to be the most uncomfortable chair imaginable.”

He wasn’t good at saying ‘thank you’, and Farengar would probably be uncomfortable hearing it, so he hoped his words conveyed his meaning and left it at that.

“Anyway, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Therion stood and padded toward the door.

“Why did you choose me?”

Farengar’s question stopped him. He turned to face the wizard, arching an eyebrow.

“You could have gone with Tullius, Brynjolf, the mad jester, Delphine, the creepy child… you know, I’m regretting being associated with this group of individuals the more that I list them off. But back to the point at hand; why choose me?”

Therion sighed, wondering how best to answer the question, and decided on a half truth.

“Hin voth... Zu mindok drem vodahim,” he said, with a warm smile. Someday Farengar would put the words together, with that indelible memory of his, but not tonight. With you I know peace, long since forgotten. “I feel safe, when you’re around,” Therion offered by way of explanation.

Farengar sighed. When he phrased things in Dovahkul he felt his resolve waver. Privately, he wanted nothing more than to listen to the exotic words roll from his lips in that wonderful voice.

“You can stay, if you wish.”

He almost regretted saying it, from the incredulous expression the elf gave him, tinged with optimism.

“As long as you remove all of your weapons, you may remain... so long as sleeping is all that you do,” he added emphatically, implying that he would throw Therion out of the room in a heart beat.

The Dragonborn smiled, setting his sword on the table beside the wardrobe.

“That’s fine. I’m too tired to do anything more than cuddle anyway,” he said.

Farengar frowned at him, which only made him laugh and smile in earnest.

“I’ll behave and keep my hands to myself,” he said, adding his bow and arrows to the table. Farengar watched Therion draw a pair of hidden daggers from his belt. And then from his boots. And then his sleeves. He watched in fascination as the pile of weaponry on the table grew. By the time he was done, Farengar counted no fewer than ten hidden daggers.

Finally, he slid off his armor, cast a lightning ward on the door as a precaution against any late night visits, and wordlessly slipped under the blanket on the bed.

Farengar blew out the candles, removed his shoes, and laid beside him, on top of the blanket.

“Don’t trust me?” Therion chuckled, shifting under the blanket to lie on his side, facing Farengar.

“Yes, although that’s besides the point. The cover makes me hot.”

“Mmm,” Therion replied sleepily, mumbling, “such a Nord.”

Farengar stared at the ceiling, his thoughts drifting.

“Dragonborn?” he asked, receiving no response.

“Therion…?” he tried instead.

“Hm?” came the half-asleep reply.

“Would you be willing to teach me more Dovahkul tomorrow? After the moot?”
“Geh, sure,” he said, reminding himself of Paarthurnax with his repetitive speech pattern, softly adding, “Pruzah vulon. Good night, Farengar.”

Yeah… If you could just abandon your life until this is finished that'd be great…
But seriously, I'm LOVING this and I just want more.

Rofl!
I'm glad you like it.
Doing my best to get most of it out there before I go back to work!

I just read all of this in one sitting and now I'm chomping at the bit for more. Your characters are so interesting and I love the dynamic between Farengar and Therion. Also, I am completely fascinated by Therion's back story...

Thank you very much, I'm glad you enjoy Farengar and Therion! They're a pleasure to write. I'm plugging away on the next installment and I'll have it up as soon as I can.

Not only did this have an opening line that made me burst out laughing, the sex was so hot I think I might have spontaneously combusted. I hope Thael likes roasted Nord.

Wow, that last scene left me with a huge grin on my face. You are doing such an excellent job, A!A!! Keep up the amazing work, I love reading this! I I F5 every day!! I shall wait forever for the next installment. :)

Still loving this. Can't wait for more. :)

I'm sorry you're F5ing all over the place! If you don't mind the email spam, you can follow Page 6 and get email updates (doesn't seem to be a way of following just one thread).
Trying to get more up soon. I'm halfway through the next installment.

Author!Anon, I kind of love you a whole lot. Well, as much as one can love an anonymous internet writer over the internet. I prowl the Delicious archives and it makes my day when I see this story has been updated!

Awww, thank you for the whole lot of love! I'm very flattered.
I will have more up tonight.

SUMMARY:
Therion finds the Court Wizard of Whiterun ensnared by the effects of powerful potion. The Altmer Dragonborn spends the evening with the grumpy, sarcastic mage, helping him, though taking every opportunity to tease him and enjoy the predicament. Events escalate as Therion's past catches up. Male/Male romance, bondage. M!DB/Farengar. Cicero, Ondolemar, and many more cameos.

TAGS:
es:skyrim prompt:filled char:M!PC race:Altmer char:farengar_secret-fire relationship:slash kink:bondage kink:oral kink:voice kink:magic kink:voice series:Therion

(Currently the story is tagged 'race:Breton'. I don't want to disappoint anyone looking for Bretons!)
(Also, the original prompt is still under 'Unfilled')
Thanks!

I like this idea. Especially with something weird like Sheogorath being that uncle the family is warned about. If you want to talk about it my fanfic is feistyt0t0.

The Companions all set out from the hall a few hours from sunset. Each one carrying something in tribute: Farkas held a training sword, Aela a bow, Eorlund held some kind of Nordic embalming tools, Athis had sword of his own and some dunmeri token and every other companions held something.

Vilkas followed some distance behind the others. He didn’t even feel like he should be attending. He hadn’t let her go to Kodlak’s funeral, why should he get to go to hers?

The Priest of Arkay was at the head of the group of Warriors as they headed off into the Forests of Whiterun. The newer members who never had the chance to meet Ariella stayed at Jorrvaskr.

Njada and Ria were already at the funeral site. That morning the Companions had set up the pyre; Vilkas hadn’t participated.

They made their silent journey through the Whiterun plains and then through the Forest until they reached their destination. Vilkas through the clearing was beautiful in the tragic way.

He hung back in the trees and everyone in attendance crowded close together waiting for the right time for the fire to be lit. The crow slowly grew as those from Riverwood came to join. They filtered in slowly but Vilkas would have guessed the majority of the town was in that clearing.

As the sun began to set Andurs, the Priest raised his hands and announced that the pyre was to be lit. Farkas and Athis both lit torches and then passed them on. Farkas passed his torch to Aela and Athis passed his to someone Vilkas took a moment to recognise.

Ralof, the first friend Ariella had made in Skyrim. Other torches were lit in the crowd but Vilkas stayed in the shadows.

Ralof and Aela moved forward touching their torches to the pyre. It took a moment for it to begin to fully burn but once it was alight Andurs began to speak.

“We are gathered here in the light of the Divines…” Vilkas tried to tune out. Not wanting to hear the words. “We gather as friends and loved ones to help this soul pass from our world to the next…” Vilkas wanted to physically clasp his hands over his ears.

“-alone in her final moments-” Vilkas put his hands over his ears, like a child would. He didn’t want to hear the words. He watched the scene before him instead. He would at least look if he couldn’t bring himself to hear the finality.

After this ceremony it would be the end, the absolute end. There would be no chance for him to see her again, no chance at redemption for himself. Seeing the ghosts of lost spirits wasn’t uncommon in Tamriel but after they did this her soul would be forced to move on.

Vilkas wondered about that while Andurs continued to speak with hands raised in the air. Vilkas could hear the Divines being mentioned by name and wondered if Talos would be mentioned. Ariella had sworn by Talos on a fair few occasions. “-her father, Akatosh-” Vilkas clamped his hands down harder.

Andurs looked into the fire while he talked. The priest had never known Ariella in life and Vilkas wondered if he was doing her justice. Vilkas didn’t have the right to be able to pass judgment on that though.

He looked over the faces of those from Riverwood. He recognised a few people, spotting Camilla and her brother in the crowd. They had linked arms and they both held the golden claw. Vilkas thought it was the actual claw for a moment but he soon realised it was a wooden carving. It would be a shame to destroy the real claw, that tomb would never be explored again otherwise.

The Riverwood citizens all had teary eyes as they listened to the ceremony. Even most of the Companions, the hardened warriors, had eyes filled with tears. Vilkas felt panic rise in him as he realised just how final this all was.

He thought he had accepted her passing long ago but it was still so real and raw. Panic rose in his throat and when Andurs lowered his hands Vilkas uncovered his ears.

There was some bustle in the crowd but eventually Ralof stepped forward. The seasoned soldier dressed in his Stormcloak gear, it was apparent to Vilkas he had some form of rank.

“I met Ariella before the dragon attacked Helgen.” He began, as he recounted his story people began to wonder over to the fire tossing their tributes in to be burned. “The moment I saw her I knew she didn’t belong in this war or this land but she was on the cart set off for execution anyway. When she came to the only time she spoke was when Hadvar asked for her name.” An Imperial soldier approached the pyre, throwing in what appeared to be a list. “When the Dragon attacked I knew I wanted to get Ariella out of there. She didn’t belong and I just wanted her to be safe.” Vilkas wondered how much of what he was saying was true.

“I’ve often wondered about why the Dragon chose to attack Helgen and I think it was because of Ariella. While she wouldn’t like thinking herself as the reason behind the razing of a city I think it was her Dragonborn blood that attracted the Dragon on that day. While the destruction was great it has been a blessing in disguise. Without that Dragon none of us would have known Ariella and her life would have been wasted on the block at Helgen.”

Lucan and Camilla threw the claw into the fire along with what appeared to be a letter. “If she had perished in Helgen none of us would be here today, none of us would have known her, none of us would have had our lives brightened by the tiny Breton from High Rock, a scholar who became a warrior, a Champion, not just for Skyrim but for each of us. A champion to me for helping me escape Helgen, a champion to my sister for alerting the Jarl to send extra guards to Riverwood, a champion to Hod for chopping wood for almost two whole days to pay back what she felt she owed and help us as a family.”

“A champion to me for returning my Claw.” Lucan shouted. The crowd chuckled a bit and soon almost everyone was calling out what she was their Champion for.

“A Champion for solving my love life.” “A Champion for helping me sort my books.” “A Champion for killing that giant.” “A Champion for saving my brother.” “A Champion for helping me with my pranks.” The voices bled into one and Vilkas could barely hear what people were shouting. The Companions began to approach the fire.

“A champion for Kodlak.” Aela said and the crowd settled down; the serious tone taking the funeral again. The Harbinger dropped the bow and a list into the fire and soon Vilkas felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Vilkas…” Farkas prompted. Vilkas nodded and picked up all that he had rested at his feet. There was a neatly wrapped parcel, which would come later but for now he had a copy of the book Great Harbingers and a bouquet of flowers, similar to those he gave to her in what seemed like a past lifetime.

It didn’t seem like it was enough, but he didn’t know what else to do. He felt all eyes on him as he approached the pyre. He threw the book in and then the flowers watching as they burned.

“That what was responsible for her death has been brought to justice.” Vilkas began to unwrap the package as Andurs spoke, his eyes never leaving the flames that were consuming his tribute to her. “And we burn it here today, not in a Breton tradition but in a Nord one.” Vilkas held up the troll’s head and everyone was silent. “We burn it in the hope that Ariella knows her death has been avenged.”

Vilkas tossed the head into the fire, Aela and Farkas threw in what else was found in the cave. It all burned, Andurs throwing something on the fire as he finished a prayer and suddenly there was a large burst of flame. It lasted only a short moment but it was spectacular. “Her soul is departed.”

And slowly everyone began to wonder back to their homes, knowing full well there would be one less soul in the world.

A/N:

*Translations at the end of the chapter.

*The song the bard sang in the previous chapter was taken from the brilliant and talented Malukah’s cover of The Dragonborn Comes on YouTube if you’d like to hear it for yourself.

-------

Farengar stirred, halfway between sleep and consciousness, suspecting it was morning. He heard the distant, muffled sounds of people leaving their rooms and exchanging greetings, confirming his suspicions. Cracking his eyes open, he blearily tried to marshal the energy to rise. He preferred late nights spent in quiet, uninterrupted research.

The sound of incoherent mumbling made him alert, as the Dragonborn beside him began to murmur quietly in his sleep. Farengar turned his head, listening to his unintelligible whispers in silent curiosity. Several words, odd and exotic, rolled off his tongue. Though he could not say with certainty, they sounded Altmeris, interspersed with Dovahkul.

"Nu... ae na... baene cendre. Aure... Frul Bron."

Therion’s murmurs grew softer, replaced with even breaths.

The Altmeris sounded pleasant to Farengar’s ears; subtle and refined. Its appeal was completely different from that of the ancient, ominous Dovahkul, although Therion’s voice could add a charming quality to any language. Words fell from his lips with a natural poise and grace, much like the elf himself.

Farengar stared at his parted lips, entranced despite himself.

He cursed his perfect memory, as memories of their first kiss replayed in his mind, recalling every detail with maddening clarity.

Swinging his legs out of bed he hurriedly put on his shoes, dispelled the rune on the door, and left, shutting it loudly behind him.

Outside of the inn, he let the crisp, cold air of Solitude wash over him.

“...you can barely keep your hands off of me…”

Therion’s voice played in his mind, clear and real as the night he had been tricked into drinking that damnable love potion.

Frowning at his traitorous memory, he tried to think of something else.

It was to no avail. The elf was still there in his mind - grinning.

Futilely, he chided his memory, silently ordering it to leave him in peace. As usual his mind ignored him; he had little to no control over the way it behaved. It stored and recalled vast amounts of information on a whim, occasionally moving too fast for him to keep up, and he had a puzzling time explaining it to anyone who asked what he meant. For now his mind seemed to have centered on the Dragonborn and there was nothing he could do to distract it.

He felt Therion’s breath against his ear.

“You’re actually quite handsome.”

He made a sound of frustration and stomped off, startling the villagers around him.

They looked at each other and shrugged, as the grumpy wizard stormed off.

“Mages,” one said to the other, shaking their head.

----------

Therion awoke to the sound of the door slamming. He looked at it nonplussed, before a slow smile crept across his lips. Rolling out of bed with a low chuckle, he dressed in his armor and set to work hiding daggers about his person, still feeling tired, but more relaxed than he had in weeks.

----------

“Gods, what a relief. I thought we’d spend the whole week choosing a jarl for Solitude. At least that much is behind us. Tell me, Dragonborn, what did Irileth say when she woke you yesterday?” Balgruuf asked Therion curiously, looking over at his dark elf housecarl in the distance. Delegates were trailing in, as Therion, Balgruuf, Farengar, and Proventus milled around outside with the guards from their hold.

“That if I embarrassed us by falling asleep again she wouldn’t hesitate to run me through,” Therion explained.

“And what did you say?”

The elf chuckled.

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

Balgruuf laughed heartily, while Farengar silently left to join Irileth, already at the table.

“All in all, yesterday wasn’t so bad,” Therion said, grinning at the jarl from beneath his mask. “The look on Erikur’s face was delightful.”

“Damn fool,” Balgruuf said with a grunt. “Threatening my thane and the Dragonborn, no less. I would have liked to see him try and fight you, in those fancy clothes of his.”

“Hm. I could try and rile him into it later, if the day starts to wear on,” Therion suggested sarcastically, “Give us something special to remember the moot by.”

Balgruuf grinned, then noticed Falk Firebeard, the steward of Solitude, ushering everyone inside to begin.

They all took their seats as Falk closed the door and took his place with the court of Solitude. Therion noticed Erikur’s now-former housecarl, the Altmer wizard Melaran, sat in Sybille’s old seat as court wizard. The mer looked quite pleased with his new station. Therion knew he’d had little love for his old employer, who had merely been a means of ‘paying the bills’ as he had once told him, while offhandedly mentioning Erikur’s seedier business practices.

Irileth leaned over, speaking to Therion in a whisper.

“If I notice you nodding off-”

“Yes, yes,” Therion interrupted good-naturedly, quietly whispering back, “I’ll meet my death at the tip of your blade.”

Irileth gave him a look of mild annoyance.

“Interrupt me again and you will. I’m going to help you stay awake today. If you nod off, I shall wake you discretely.”

Therion raised his eyebrows.

“Thank you,” he said honestly, though slightly perplexed. He added, “Yesterday you were quite adamant that I not disgrace the jarl in front of the moot.”

Irileth looked at him with her stern red eyes.

“Farengar spoke with me.”

Therion blinked in surprise.

“He pointed out that I should extend you some leniency,” she said solemnly, giving him a hard, and perhaps protective, look. “If you absolutely must sleep, I’ll rouse you if you begin to snore.”

Therion looked toward Farengar, but the mage was already trying to tune out the meeting, staring resolutely into the fiery coals of the hearth as he had the previous day.

“Before we may begin,” Sybille said from the head of the table, “Urgent news has reached our ears this morning. Late last night, the Thalmor Embassy was razed to the ground.”

“Ha!” Jarl Idgrod said, in an otherwise silent room. The rest of the jarls expressions remained solemn.

Sybille cleared her throat before continuing.

“This is one of but many Thalmor buildings which were struck in the past week. Escapees from various Thalmor prisons returned home, tortured to near death, to the horror of their families, inspiring these rash of attacks,” she looked across the table and met Therion’s eyes, “This, combined with growing outrage over the rumored abduction and torture of Skyrim’s Dragonborn, has sparked unruly mobs across the country.”

Therion sighed uncomfortably. Closing his eyes, he grabbed the buckles of his armor. At least he’d be able to say every ruler in Skyrim had seen him undressed; he would almost certainly be the first mer in history to be able to make that claim.

Jarl Balgruuf raised a hand, stopping him.

“It is no rumor. My court wizard, Farengar, retrieved my thane from one of their prisons.”

Therion gratefully removed his hands from the catches of his armor. He didn’t mind exposing himself, but he despised the looks of pity and revulsion.

“While there,” Balgruuf continued, “he saw first hand those tortured or left for dead by the Thalmor. I am told General Tullius, also bore witness to these atrocities.”
Sybille nodded before addressing the room.

“Overlooking for now that the Thalmor may seek vengeance upon Skyrim for being driven out of the country - a matter best left for the next high king or queen to contend with - I must consider what’s best for Solitude. As we speak, any remaining Thalmor are fleeing for the safest borders; Cyrodiil and Morrowind. However, those trapped here in the northwest are turning to Solitude. Leaving us the last bastion for the Thalmor and making us a target for every angry mob in the nation. I’ve increased the number of guards on patrol and for the time being, the Thalmor within Solitude have been ordered to remain inside their headquarters and not venture outside. None of them wish to risk traveling all the way to Cyrodiil in the current political climate and if the Summerset Isle decides to send a ship to retrieve their agents, but it won’t reach Solitude for a month at least.”

Sybille paused, looking around the room.

“What we decide to do with our Thalmor guests will have dire consequences. Given the overwhelming evidence of their crimes against Skyrim’s people, I would prefer to try them for their crimes. But as this country has just been through a civil war, I don’t wish to stir the sleeping giant that is the Aldmeri Dominion, least of all before Skyrim’s ruler has even been crowned. I will hold off putting any Thalmor to the axe. For the time being.”

The room was silent, everyone absorbing the meaning behind her words; war between Skyrim and the Aldmeri Dominion loomed on the horizon.

“In the interest of hurrying along these proceedings,” Sybille continued, “I move that we begin nominations. That said, Solitude nominates Jarl Balgruuf for High King of Skyrim.”

The Jarl of Whiterun kept his face neutral, but Therion could tell he wasn’t thrilled at the nomination, though neither was he surprised. Balgruuf’s expression grew more somber as the Jarl of Dawnstar echoed Sybille, naming him. Slowly, the jarls cast their votes all of them throwing their lot behind Whiterun.

Only Jarl Maven Black-Briar paused, giving a languid look at the assembly.

“In Skyrim,” she said, leaning lazily back in her seat, “The powerful make the rules. Might makes right, as they say. Who will the Dragonborn follow?”

All eyes turned to Therion.

Irileth groaned and kicked his chair.

“Balgruuf!” The Dragonborn shouted, startled and sleepy.

Farengar’s mouth twitched as he fought to hide the smile playing on his face.

“Riften nominates Jarl Balgruuf for High King of Skyrim.”

Only Balgruuf’s vote remained. Therion watched the jarl hide away his displeasure. When he addressed the moot, it was with the conviction and bearing of a high king.

“As Jarl of Whiterun, I nominate myself High King of Skyrim.”

------------

Proventus was over the moon, arranging meetings and scheduling for Balgruuf’s coronation. The eager Imperial seemed to have all of Balgruuf’s affairs well in hand, while the jarl himself appeared to be busy accepting the praise and congratulations of countless people, thanking each of them solemnly. Skyrim was in good hands. Therion only wished he could say the same for his own people.

He slipped away from the crowd, following after Farengar. The wizard had a head start on the mer, and Therion had to cheat just to keep sight of him. Bypassing the staircase entirely, he swung himself over the rail and dropped to the first level, nimbly rolling to his feet and making his way to the great doors. Outside he found the streets densely packed, forcing him to duck and weave through the crowd.

For a moment, he lost sight of the wizard.

Eagerly searching through the sea of bodies, he caught a glimpse of Farengar’s blue hood, only to lose track of him yet again.
Emerging from the Blue Palace’s courtyard, Therion hoisted himself atop the stone wall, peering over the crowd. He smiled, spotting Farengar in the distance. Running along the connecting wall to the second story of Thane Bryling’s house, he deftly leapt up and grabbed the edge of the roof before lifting himself up. Racing silently across the tiles, he hopped nimbly between the corner gaps, steeling himself when he came to the separation between the house and the Bard’s College.

A wide grin spread across his face, as he was reminded of days long past. He could still picture the great, glittering streets of Alinor city stretched out before him, filled with the aromatic smell of flowers blooming beneath Auriel’s crystal statue in the late spring.

The fondest memories of his youth were spent chasing Talamagne and Ondolemar across gleaming, crystalline towers and through impossibly high ramparts, trying to keep up with the older mer. They had always seemed one step ahead; a little taller, a little faster, a little stronger. He pushed himself hard to make up for his difference in age, trying to prove himself. They were always leaving on errands, with no guarantee of returning safely; he wanted to be there with them, watching their backs. He wistfully recalled Ondolemar chastising him after he broke his ankle on a particularly nasty fall. Talamagne had pantomimed behind his stern cousin, making him laugh, and feigned a look of innocence when Ondolemar turned around. He missed the both of them terribly and wondered how Talamagne faired back in Alinor. He could only hope he was well.

He focused his attention on the building before him.

The hewn stonework of Skyrim did not possess the same breath-taking, hypnotic beauty of mer architecture, but there was something about its solid, indomitability that made it appealing in its own right.

Vaulting across the gap, Therion grabbed hold of a wooden stanchion, heaving himself up and into the covered cloister of the Bard’s College. He made his way to the edge of the walk, where he spied Farengar unexpectedly turn and run flat out. The wizard flew up the stairs, heading toward the secluded edge of the Bard’s College that overlooked the towering cape.

Therion frowned, wondering what had caught his attention. Sprinting back the way he had come, he circled around through a short cut. Silently rounding the corner, he approached the amphitheater and spied a group of men holding and beating Solitude’s court wizard, Melaran.

“Damn Thalmor,” growled a huge, dark haired Nord, apparently the leader of the mob. “Your kind don’t belong here.”

“For the last time!” Melaran shouted angrily, struggling against the two men holding him, “I am not a Thalmor!”

Therion glided closer, moving behind a pillar and blending into the shadows.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Farengar demanded, marching up to the men. Electricity came crackling to life in his hands. “This is the court wizard of Solitude! Unhand him at once!”

The mob looked unimpressed. Three of them approached the Nord wizard while leaving the other two to hold Melaran. Therion silently resisted his first impulse, which was to bury arrows into each of their backs. Instead, he wordlessly cast a spell, watching the familiar shimmer of invisibility spread across his body.

“Why the hooded robe?” one of the Nords asked in a derisive grunt, the three of them circling Farengar. “You a witch-elf, too?”

Without warning, the large Nord lunged forward, ripping Farengar’s hood down from behind. Farengar spun around, taking advantage of his attacker’s hands being on his hood and not by his face. He swung his fist hard, causing the man to release him, clutching his nose in his hands instead as he staggered away. The other two rushed Farengar as their friend cursed loudly about his broken nose. Neither had a chance to do any damage as Farengar released the electricity held in his hands, causing each of them to scream and collapse, writhing on the ground.

Melaran’s alarmed shout caused Farengar to look up.

The two remaining Nords held Solitude’s court wizard precariously through the stone framework, threatening to drop him from the towering precipice overlooking the Karth River.

Farengar lowered his hands slowly to his sides, concerned eyes glancing carefully between Melaran and the three angry men picking themselves up around him.

Melaran’s bewildering, upside down view of the bay made his veins run cold with terror. He started in confusion at the sensation of being embraced by strong, invisible arms. Looking up, all he could see were the hateful stares of the Nords holding him.

“They deserve to die,” the blonde said, glaring at him, “All of them. After what they did to my son! To Ullen’s daughters!”

Melaran took one look into their cold eyes and knew they were going to drop him.

“ZUN HAAL VIIK!”

For a terrifying moment after he heard the shout, he thought he was falling.

The hands gripping his arms and shoulders involuntarily released him, as the men staggered beneath the weight of the shout.

At the same moment, Melaran saw the invisible figure encircling him appear, hauling him back to solid ground. Melaran, driven by adrenaline, gripped the dark figure back with crushing force until he was safely upright. As soon as his weight was back on his own two legs, he sagged, his body trembling.

Therion gently lowered him to the ground before straightening up and turning his eyes, bereft of emotion, on the men before him.

He could hear their murmurs of “Dragonborn”. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled his hood down, putting his pointed ears and gold skin clearly on display against his black garments. He glared meaningfully, daring them to attack.

The guards, long overdue, finally appeared and made their arrests.

Melaran was escorted back to the palace, leaving Therion and Farengar alone in the amphitheater.

“Zun, haal, viik… Weapon, hand, defeat?” Farengar asked curiously as he replaced his hood, shrouding his face once more.

“A shout to disarm and stagger my foes,” Therion explained. “I couldn’t pull him up, with both of those men holding onto him.”

Farengar nodded.

“I see now, why you’ve been wearing a hood and mask as of late. The masses can’t tell the difference between a Thalmor and a high elf, much less a Nord wearing a robe,” he said disdainfully.

They continued talking as they left the amphitheater and returned to the main road.

“For a robe-wearing, magic-wielding wizard, you sure can handle yourself in a fight,” Therion said with a whistle.

“I am a quick study. And growing up in Skyrim was nothing if not educational,” Farengar said. Anyone could have a strong body, in his opinion (and often did, in Skyrim at least). A cunning mind was a far more valuable weapon. He thoughtfully added, “Do elves distinguish between magic and physical prowess, as Nords do?”

“It’s different,” Therion said with a shrug. “Magic is as natural as breathing, to my kin. So no mer would underestimate someone just for being a mage. However, I wouldn’t exactly bet gold on a mer wizard in a fist fight either. Scholars tend to be soft. Present company excluded, of course,” Therion said with a fascinated glance. “I wonder,” he smirked, “How well you’d handle me?”

The wizard snorted.

"I already pinned you once, or had the mighty Dragonborn already forgotten?"

"I let you win," Therion said with a roguish grin.

"I doubt that," Farengar replied. "Or do you perhaps mean you didn't have the opportunity to cheat with your thu'um?"

"So, my thu'um is cheating?” he asked, his voice filled with mischief. “What about magic?"

"You may feel free to make use your magic," Farengar replied, cracking his knuckles with a faint smile. “If you wish to test yourself against me again someday.”

“Well, I am nothing if not irreverent. Perhaps I’ll try it sometime, when you-” Therion shimmered and vanished, pulling Farengar’s hood back, “-least expect it,” his disembodied voice finished.

Farengar experimentally swung a fist toward the sound of his voice, his hand passing harmlessly through thin air. He could cast Detect Life, but it was more rewarding to win without it. On a hunch, he spun around and swung again, his fist meeting air once more, but this time it was accompanied by the sound of quick shuffling and Therion cursing under his breath in surprise.

“That one almost got me,” Therion’s whisper fell on his ear, a hair’s breadth away.

“I missed you on purpose,” Farengar replied with deliberate arrogance.

“Liar,” Therion whispered.

Farengar chuckled despite himself.

“Why would I want to give such a handsome elf a black eye?”

“Handsome?” Therion laughed. “Appealing to my ego to win? Not that I mind; you flatter me.”

Farengar snorted in mild disbelief.

“I can scarcely imagine anything flattering you. My country literally sings your praises.”

“While I enjoy the attention of the bards, I prefer the praise of the more cunning and intellectual. From someone scholarly and perhaps stubborn. Preferably dressed in blue, and…”

Farengar felt an invisible hand grab his chin, while an arm encircled his waist, pulling him against a firm body.

“...rugged.”

Unseen lips pressed against his. He tried to remain still, lest he look odd to people passing by, as Therion began deepening the kiss. His rational mind wondered at what was happening, unsure what to think. He could push the elf away, but he didn’t particularly want to. Something bitter in his heart objected, saying it was too fast, undignified, and far too public for his taste. Not to mention the mysterious elf had too many secrets to possibly be trustworthy. But the feeling was postponed, as what was left of his rational mind thought, oh gods, what was he doing with that talented tongue of his.

Therion gently pushed Farengar backward into a small, private alcove, pressing him against a set of double doors, pausing to recast his invisibility spell before it could drop away. Returning his attention to Farengar’s lips once more, he kissed him hungrily, using his tongue in the way which seemed to please the wizard, while at the same time parting his robes and pressing a thigh between his legs.

The small moan which escaped Farengar’s lips was a delicious and slightly desperate sound. It made Therion ache against his leather armor.

The mer broke away to whisper in his ear once more, enjoying the effect it had on him.

“Nust aal hon…” he breathed, knowing Farengar could translate the phrase, someone will hear.

Therion smiled wickedly as the wizard shuddered at the words.

Farengar was done holding still in case the eyes of the world fell on him, while an invisible man made sexual advances upon him. He touched his magicka and disappeared into thin air, his illusion spell making a crack unlike Therion’s stealthy magic. He found the leather armor of Therion’s chest and moved his hands up from there, tracing the muscles beneath as he charted his hands along the unseen body. Finding his face, he stroked with his hands until his thumb located Therion’s invisible lips, and he felt the elf move his mouth around his thumb. Farengar let him suck on the finger momentarily before withdrawing it. Then he brought it back to his lips, tracing them.

Therion parted his lips, letting him invisibly trace and explore his mouth, repeating his movement from before when Farengar’s finger finally entered his mouth. Farengar roughly grabbed Therion’s chin, forcing him down into a ferocious kiss. Therion could barely focus as he searched his pocket. Pulling the correct key out at last, he nearly dropped it as he felt Farengar’s teeth graze his lower lip.

His invisibility broke as he opened the door and pushed Farengar inside.

The mage reappeared as Therion shut the door to Proudspire Manor behind them, and shoved Farengar up against it.

“So, who owns the house?” Farengar asked.

He felt the door lock behind him with a click.

“A handsome elf,” Therion chuckled, pushing Farengar’s robes down.

----------------

Therion's gibberish comes out in the form of several different tongues, because he dreams in multiple languages at a time. If you're curious, this is what he muttered (Altmeris constructed loosely from fan-made Reddit attempts to create Elder Scrolls languages):

Altmeris
Nu, ae na, baene cendre, aure
we, and, long time, important

Dovahkul
Frul Bron
Ephemeral Nord

I'm happy that there is an update, but that was pretty soul-crushing. I still hold out foolish hope that Ariella is alive somewhere. Keep up the good work A!A!

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