“For the next three days, no more magic,” he said. “No more temple. Just rest.”
“But—”
“No exceptions,” Farengar said. “Or I really will dismiss you. Relax and… read a good book or something. But not a spelltome, for Oblivion’s sake. If you really need something to do, you can help me with my research on dragons.”
Olria’s face lit up. “Really?”
“Consider it an order.”
The woman looked unreasonably pleased at his demands. She picked up a cloth and finished cleaning her face and hands. The water in the washbasin was black. His apprentice moved to carry the water away, but he waved her off. Farengar would do it himself later. The woman was going to collapse any moment if she didn’t get some sleep.
“You can borrow my bed,” Farengar instructed. “Your room is unusable. I will have the servants clean it out tomorrow.”
“What about you?” she asked.
“I have more work to do,” the man replied, eyes straying to the desk full of half-finished letters. He felt his own weariness pulling at him. What a hypocrite he was.
“Thanks,” was her simple reply. The woman walked past him. As she did, she grabbed Farengar’s hand. “Wait – you’re hurt!”
Farengar blinked. He looked down at the hand she was holding. As if that was all the attention it needed, his poor burnt skin began to scream. The man winced.
“Let me heal it,” Olria said.
Farengar could already feel the glow of her magic. He yanked his hand out of her grasp. “Did you not hear a word I said?” he snapped. “I told you, no more magic. For three days. Not three seconds.”
The woman sheepishly hid her hands behind her back. “Sorry,” she said. Without another word, she ran off, disappearing into his room and shutting the door.
He watched her go. Besides, Farengar thought. After tonight, Olria failing to heal his hand would have hurt a lot more than scorched blisters.
The court wizard summoned his own magicka, watching the redness fade and the puffy, dead white skin fall away. He folded and unfolded his healed hand, the new skin feeling tight. Then, he sighed, sitting back down at his desk. He had more missives to finish. The sooner they were in a courier’s hand, the sooner he would have what information was out there regarding the dragons that plagued Skyrim.
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timeasmymeasure
“The Spring Wind That Blew Through Dragonsreach” F!OC/Farengar Secret-Fire, 2c/?
Date: 2013-09-24 03:48 am (UTC)“But—”
“No exceptions,” Farengar said. “Or I really will dismiss you. Relax and… read a good book or something. But not a spelltome, for Oblivion’s sake. If you really need something to do, you can help me with my research on dragons.”
Olria’s face lit up. “Really?”
“Consider it an order.”
The woman looked unreasonably pleased at his demands. She picked up a cloth and finished cleaning her face and hands. The water in the washbasin was black. His apprentice moved to carry the water away, but he waved her off. Farengar would do it himself later. The woman was going to collapse any moment if she didn’t get some sleep.
“You can borrow my bed,” Farengar instructed. “Your room is unusable. I will have the servants clean it out tomorrow.”
“What about you?” she asked.
“I have more work to do,” the man replied, eyes straying to the desk full of half-finished letters. He felt his own weariness pulling at him. What a hypocrite he was.
“Thanks,” was her simple reply. The woman walked past him. As she did, she grabbed Farengar’s hand. “Wait – you’re hurt!”
Farengar blinked. He looked down at the hand she was holding. As if that was all the attention it needed, his poor burnt skin began to scream. The man winced.
“Let me heal it,” Olria said.
Farengar could already feel the glow of her magic. He yanked his hand out of her grasp. “Did you not hear a word I said?” he snapped. “I told you, no more magic. For three days. Not three seconds.”
The woman sheepishly hid her hands behind her back. “Sorry,” she said. Without another word, she ran off, disappearing into his room and shutting the door.
He watched her go. Besides, Farengar thought. After tonight, Olria failing to heal his hand would have hurt a lot more than scorched blisters.
The court wizard summoned his own magicka, watching the redness fade and the puffy, dead white skin fall away. He folded and unfolded his healed hand, the new skin feeling tight. Then, he sighed, sitting back down at his desk. He had more missives to finish. The sooner they were in a courier’s hand, the sooner he would have what information was out there regarding the dragons that plagued Skyrim.
***