When Therion finally awoke, the room was quiet and still, lit only by the dull flame of a single candle. His breath caught in his throat, as he took in the small chamber, unsure where he was. Pulse quickening, his wide amber eyes swept the place, searching for Thalmor. The sight of Farengar, sitting stiffly in the chair beside him, took him by surprise. The tall Nord was sleeping awkwardly in his seat, his frame bent so uncomfortably, Therion surmised he could only have achieved sleep through a combination of sheer, prideful, determination and exhaustion.
Therion inhaled awkwardly, his breathing becomingly increasingly difficult. He tried to breath normally, but found his chest was tight. Each time he drew breathe, his upper body responded with aching violently, forcing him to breath in quick, shallow breaths, lending him to anxiety.
Wincing, he remembered his final evening with the Thalmor. Though he quickly tried to dispel the memory, he could still recollect the violent, forceful blows of justicar boots kicking his chest with, what seemed to be, remarkably boundless enthusiasm. Ondolemar had found them and intervened, shouting in outrage. An argument had passed between them as he had laid gasping on the floor, something about rank and status being yelled back and forth, when they were interrupted by a sudden commotion within the keep. Shortly after, he had awoken to find what seemed like half of Skyrim shouting in disagreement.
Rubbing his fingers together, Therion tried to summon his magicka. A weak, golden light, flickered erratically in his palm, refusing to obey his weary command.
Farengar’s head drooped forward and slid from his shoulder, causing him to wake with a start.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked sleepily, looking disapprovingly at Therion’s vain attempts at restoration. The wizard extended his hands, enveloping the mer in shimmering, gold light. "Apart from trying to kill yourself with exhaustion, I mean."
Therion relaxed slightly, a small sigh of relief escaping his lips as he felt the tightness in his chest begin to give way to the soothing warmth of the magic washing through his aching body. Farengar paused momentarily, letting his magicka regenerate, then Therion heard the spell resume with its familiar soft chimes. The wizard was clearly unsuited to healing magic, regularly pausing to recover his energies.
Therion was just able to comfortably draw a full breath of air into his lungs when Farengar stopped. Opening his eyes, he slowly pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed and look at the mage.
Farengar had slumped forward in his chair, leaning precariously to one side, dark circles evident beneath his closed eyes.
"Hypocrite," Therion said softly.
Startled, he watched Farengar drift slightly too far to the side, and dashed forward, catching the man just as he collapsed. He held the unconscious wizard in his arms, momentarily dazed.
Farengar's lean frame was sturdy and strong, unlike any other wizard he had ever encountered. That was the Nords for you, he thought, even their mages seemed to be built for warfare. Even through his thick, blue robes, he could feel the remarkable warmth of the Nord's body, compared to his own. Had Farengar been mer or any other race of man, he would have thought him feverish.
Reluctantly, he took one of the wizard's arms over his shoulder, and gently laid him on the bed to rest.
Therion stared into Farengar’s face, suddenly unsure of himself... perhaps he was simply over tired and troubled from his recent experiences. However, as he gazed at the sleeping wizard, an overwhelming wave of protectiveness gripped him, the ferocity of his feelings catching him by surprise.
Of all the humans in Skyrim, Therion had always enjoyed Farengar's company most. The wizard's humorous, sharp wit and thoughtful nature, found Therion returning to Dragonsreach often. At first he had wondered if he simply found Farengar similar in attitude to his own people, but in time, he had found Farengar was uniquely, well, Farengar. Skyrim was a lonely place to be mer, but teasing the proud mage always made the days more pleasant.
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timeasmymeasure
Re: Fire and Potions - 23/?
Date: 2014-07-05 07:22 am (UTC)Therion inhaled awkwardly, his breathing becomingly increasingly difficult. He tried to breath normally, but found his chest was tight. Each time he drew breathe, his upper body responded with aching violently, forcing him to breath in quick, shallow breaths, lending him to anxiety.
Wincing, he remembered his final evening with the Thalmor. Though he quickly tried to dispel the memory, he could still recollect the violent, forceful blows of justicar boots kicking his chest with, what seemed to be, remarkably boundless enthusiasm. Ondolemar had found them and intervened, shouting in outrage. An argument had passed between them as he had laid gasping on the floor, something about rank and status being yelled back and forth, when they were interrupted by a sudden commotion within the keep. Shortly after, he had awoken to find what seemed like half of Skyrim shouting in disagreement.
Rubbing his fingers together, Therion tried to summon his magicka. A weak, golden light, flickered erratically in his palm, refusing to obey his weary command.
Farengar’s head drooped forward and slid from his shoulder, causing him to wake with a start.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked sleepily, looking disapprovingly at Therion’s vain attempts at restoration. The wizard extended his hands, enveloping the mer in shimmering, gold light. "Apart from trying to kill yourself with exhaustion, I mean."
Therion relaxed slightly, a small sigh of relief escaping his lips as he felt the tightness in his chest begin to give way to the soothing warmth of the magic washing through his aching body. Farengar paused momentarily, letting his magicka regenerate, then Therion heard the spell resume with its familiar soft chimes. The wizard was clearly unsuited to healing magic, regularly pausing to recover his energies.
Therion was just able to comfortably draw a full breath of air into his lungs when Farengar stopped. Opening his eyes, he slowly pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed and look at the mage.
Farengar had slumped forward in his chair, leaning precariously to one side, dark circles evident beneath his closed eyes.
"Hypocrite," Therion said softly.
Startled, he watched Farengar drift slightly too far to the side, and dashed forward, catching the man just as he collapsed. He held the unconscious wizard in his arms, momentarily dazed.
Farengar's lean frame was sturdy and strong, unlike any other wizard he had ever encountered. That was the Nords for you, he thought, even their mages seemed to be built for warfare. Even through his thick, blue robes, he could feel the remarkable warmth of the Nord's body, compared to his own. Had Farengar been mer or any other race of man, he would have thought him feverish.
Reluctantly, he took one of the wizard's arms over his shoulder, and gently laid him on the bed to rest.
Therion stared into Farengar’s face, suddenly unsure of himself... perhaps he was simply over tired and troubled from his recent experiences. However, as he gazed at the sleeping wizard, an overwhelming wave of protectiveness gripped him, the ferocity of his feelings catching him by surprise.
Of all the humans in Skyrim, Therion had always enjoyed Farengar's company most. The wizard's humorous, sharp wit and thoughtful nature, found Therion returning to Dragonsreach often. At first he had wondered if he simply found Farengar similar in attitude to his own people, but in time, he had found Farengar was uniquely, well, Farengar. Skyrim was a lonely place to be mer, but teasing the proud mage always made the days more pleasant.