bardofthewest:
“My Prince, I… I want to make an offer. My brothers they… well, you know how nobles are like, we think we know what’s best and then they get killed. It’s all stupid, really,” he braved looking up to Sheogorath once more, the black veins, the sickly air of Oblivion in his lungs, all familiar, all comfortable.
“My Prince, I want to keep my brothers safe. They’re all I have. I know it’s a very… very burdensome thing I ask of you, so I will give you something in return,” and here, he paused, frightened, almost, but there’s a look of determination in his eyes, “My soul, for yours to have, to do as you please.”
For a moment, madness is silent.
Sheogorath’s eyes halve as he regards the boy, fingers arching to meet under his chin, head slowly tilting. Regarding him - no, scrutinizing him.
“It is a lot ye ask of me, laddie, and I don’t make these deals lightly. Why don’t we go somewhere more - businesslike?” On the last syllable, their surroundings changed. The room resembled that of a banker’s office, flanked by shelves of documents and scrolls, smelling of ink and the hard tang of coin. He seats himself in a green, high-backed chair behind an imposing wooden desk, leaning back and gesturing for Camille to sit before him.
“Yer soul, for the love of yer brothers. Aren’t ye a sweet thing? Now, I’m not one t’grant immortality all willy-nilly!” He briefly makes a face, as though biting into a peppercorn, before chuckling. “But to protect them, I can do. No arrow will meet their heart too deep, no sword’ll separate head from neck.” Of course, that didn’t mean swords and arrows wouldn’t penetrate flesh, tear apart muscle. Oh, they’d know pain. It simply wouldn’t end their little, mortal, mayfly lives.
Not that the boy needed to know that.
