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ANNOUNCEMENTS: UPDATED 12/16/2017

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Re: Fire and Potions - 81/?

[(Anonymous)]

Warning! Some brief, but graphic depictions of violence in this chapter.


Therion’s eyes snapped open.

Throwing back his head, he gasped in a great, long breath, chest heaving, as though he were a drowning man surfacing for air. Violent shivers ran through his body, numb and cold as ice. Limply, his head fell forward, causing his gold hair to fall across his blurred vision of the dimly lit, stonework floor.

Staring wretchedly down at the dimply lit, stonework floor, he saw a dark puddle dripping beside his boot. Squinting down at himself, he found the left half of his chest bleeding.

Miserably exhausted and beyond caring, he sighed, letting his eyes slide half shut, shaking and drawing in labored breaths.

He flinched as a gold hand touched his chest, applying pressure to his stab wound.

Brilliant rays of light swirled around their fingers, flowing into his body, the spell bright as the sun.

Gradually, his shivering subsided, the magic breathing life and warmth back into his disturbingly cold body.

“Good to have you back among the living,” a familiar voice said. Chuckling they added, “I’m afraid my agent was over zealous. Chest wounds are all but impossible to heal. But then, we’ve done this once already, haven’t we, Thrynn?”

The Dragonborn tensed, a chill running up his spine.


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


“Thrynn! Can you hear me?!”

He blinked, eyes cracking open to sunlight. No, not the sun, he realized. Healing light. So bright, it made his eyes ache.

“Radac…?” he groaned, looking up at the Ascendant’s sharp, gold eyes, a stark contrast as ever to his black hair and red robes. “The Beautiful!” he shouted, suddenly coming to and sitting up. The extremists were getting away.

Sharp pain exploded in his chest.

“The others are pursuing them,” Radac assured him, applying pressure to his chest wound. “This needs attention.”

“How did they get into the Crystal Palace,” he muttered, as Radac helped him up. Thrynn sheathed the sword lying beside him, hesitating as Radac tried to support his weight. “Your robes-” he began, swaying unsteadily as he looked down at his armor, slick with blood.

“Are already red,” Radac interrupted with a frown, placing Thrynn's arm around his neck. “I’m much more concerned for you.”

Thrynn looked out through the decimated wall of the library at the city below as he walked along with Radac, clutching his chest. Within, he gazed sadly over the section of burnt books, still smoldering. The dead bodies of The Beautiful lying beside them brought him no satisfaction for the lost knowledge.

“It could have been a great deal worse, all things considered,” Radac said, trying to console him. “They had daedric relics of some sort, allowing them to teleport at will - never staying still for more than a moment. That you killed so many of them…” he made a sound of deep approval. “It was quite a sight.”

Thrynn managed to open the door to Radac’s chamber for him.

“Skill with a blade is prerequisite for my post,” he said humbly. Sighing, he added, “As is knowing these sorts of things in advance.”

Radac set him down in a chair.

“Not even you could have known they would do this,” he said, rummaging through elegantly carved shelves containing numerous crystal bottles. “Don’t hold yourself accountable; I do not.”

Thrynn looked down at his hands, his frustration not deterred in the slightest.

“I suppose if a mer is going to be mortally wounded,” Thrynn said, trying to muster a cheerful smile, “there’s nowhere better than in front of Nirn’s most powerful restoration mage.”

“I would rather be remembered for my alchemy,” Radac said disdainfully, handing him a potion. “I was born a powerful mage. My alchemy took countless centuries of study and application to hone.”

Thrynn scoffed as he drank.

“You don’t look over three centuries, at most.”
It was not idle flattery; Radac looked young and handsome despite his age, which was presumably advanced. No one was exactly certain how long he had been the leader of the Thalmor for, but it had been since before Ondolemar had been born at least; and he was approaching his four hundredth year.