There were too many reasons to go through with it.
A letter wouldn’t do, not for this sort of news. It might not even make it. Gods knew she hadn’t written since she had arrived and that had been months ago. There was no way of knowing where she was—predictability had never been a virtue of hers.
And his son.
He didn’t want to see him, not really, the scars that he hadn’t even seen healed made him feel sick and sad and guilty, but it wasn’t that, most things did that. It was the knowledge that Ioannes didn’t want to see him, and that was a desire to be respected.
If he went, he would not inform his son.
If he could find a reason to go. A reason and a way. That was the trick, wasn’t it?
He’s the one who seeks the Inquisitor out this time, and he is the one with the luxury of time. Animosity aside, there will be no tricks here. They are both Illusionists, and it is hard to beat one at his own game.
“I am calling in my favor, Lamaenor.”
"Is that so, Father Apsinthos? And what do you, by all accounts a fine and righteous mer, require of me?"
"I need a position. A post or an assignment. In Skyrim."
There are very few certainties in the world for a mer like Ioannes. This is the only one to be relied upon.
There is nothing after death.
It is cessation. Of pain, but also of thought. Of need, but also of breath. Of hunger and thirst, addiction, love, calculation, religion and morals, hatred and sickness. The ultimate equalizer. A thing to be respected and learned from, unaffected by beliefs and untouched by politics and war.
There is nothing after death.
His face is cold.
He had been improving.
The illness had scared him more than he’d ever admit. He had been to die again. It was a redemption, of a sort. A resurrection, yet another debt to Celedil, another death staved off.
His hands are shaking.
He’d been better. Eating, sleeping, could pass for something other than an animated skeleton.
There had been work to do. The constant, all-consuming entropy of boredom had been ground to a halt with the dead-speaking, forensic study, a thousand questions opened up. His mind was occupied, thoroughly, for the first time in months, and as a consequence he had hardly touched the drug.
His back is still straight and he’s still standing.
He had been better.
He had tried.
He can’t even remember the last thing he’d said.
Numbly, he sits. He can't even look at the boxes. He can't look at the neatly lined-up contents. He feels sick and cold and the scars burn.
Commander Celedil had always told Ioannes that he was an extraordinarily talkative mer. Wouldn’t shut up, he said, always had something to say in any situation, to anyone, even if--especially if--it was poorly judged or insulting. Constant chatter was like a condition with him, questions, insults, monologues to himself.
retiredthalmor replied to your post: Lamaenor knocks
“Ioannes,” Lamaenor smiles softly, eyes twinkling, “It is good to see you,” he eyes the mer quickly, “You look.. well”
There's a stab of hot emotion, not quite panic, not identifiable, but not fear, not really. Not now. His posture does not change and he even gives the Inquisitor a smile.
It goes nowhere near his eyes.
"Inquisitor Lamaenor. How fine to see you again." His voice is even and he refuses to allow even a shred of customary disconcerted fright to find a home in his brain. "Another friendly visit, is it?" His eyes skip across the two young Thalmor, younger than he is, probably, in the way that most people regard rodents.
Lamaenor knocks on the cottage door, decidedly merry. The two Initiates behind him are nervous, eager, it is their first mission and they keep their specilizations close to the surface, lets it dance over their finger tips. Lamaenor would be more irritated at them being so /obvious/, if he wasn't decidedly /merry/. It was always good to do some catch up with old... acquintances.
Th knock is unexpected, but they always are, and he turns from his work to answer. He is quicker than usual. The pall of sickness still lies on him like a shroud but he's been eating, sleeping, even less gaunt. The house has been pulled from its state of chaos into one that almost manages to teeter on the edge of tidiness.
Shhh me and Sys were talking about Amon and 'Tail shhh. I still have these prompts saved I guess some will be written and some drawn uwu.
FOR SYS.
I didn't even re-read through this I'm so sorry I'm out of it today
Amon makes no sense to 'Tail. None at all. Amon, if you want to think of it a certain way, has it far worse than he does. No one- not even herself, he is pretty sure- knows exactly what she is. She has the teeth of an Orc, mixmatched eyes and skin that seems to be a combination of several things. Her hair makes no damn sense at all, and 'Tail would know because he's been jealous of hair his entire life.
And she doesn't....care.
People refuse to look at her, or they literally stop and stare (the thing 'Tail hates most), and she doesn't seem to notice. Or, she doesn't see it worth her time.
How can she do that?
People in the villages and cities stare at them as they go by, and 'Tail reflexively pulls his hood as far over his eyes as he can and tries to calm his breathing. Tries to get his heart out of his throat. Why do people stare.
Amon, however, shambles on. Only focused on the house of the poor sick or injured bastard that needs her healing.
'Tail says her healing because even though she is training him, he is no healer. He isn't smart enough. His magic fails. He keeps trying to wield it like fire because he gets nervous and impatient. Fire is easy to let go of. It always has the same result. Hard to mess up fire. Fire just burns, that's it. But if he messed up a healing spell he could do more damage than good, and he can't handle that because he knows he'd fail. He almost always fails. It's a given. Amon is persistent, though, and teaches him anyway. To be honest, he'd rather stick to holding folks down and telling them things will be alright.
He's pretty good at it. One of the first jobs they have when he's under her employment is a Nord child with a broken arm. His parents are wary at first. The father even has the balls to ask if he and Amon are 'clean'. Amon says something clever that must reassure or shut the man up, but 'Tail doesn't catch it because he had ringing in his ears and was trying to tell himself not to start shaking. The kid is nicer than the parents.
He has tears in his eyes, but his lips are in a tight line. Trying not to cry completely. Trying to be a brave little trooper. Amon starts inspecting his arm and the kid lets out a yelp and he can't hold back the flood gates anymore. 'Tail gets on one knee and smiles at the boy, and tells him he's being brave.
The boy was much quieter after that. Still shook and whimpered a bit. But 'Tail talked to him and he wasn't as afraid anymore. He didn't even notice when Amon had finished. 'Tail patted his shoulder and showed him.
"See? Good as new."
'Tail is feeling pretty good until the parents refuse to make eye contact when it's all over, and they pay less than he thinks Amon should have gotten. They rush the little boy away as fast as possible.
"That ain't enough gold." He says as they're leaving.
"Gold is gold, Tiny."
"Yeah but they didn' pay yuh enough fer-"
"They payed us enough."
He blinks at her. Is she blind? Didn't she see how they reacted to them? He can smell it, even. She isn't bothered in the slightest. They stop at an Inn for a few hours to get something to drink and eat, and 'Tail tries to hide the fact that he's pouting. He chews the inside of his cheek when he isn't drinking his mead and tries to get the sour look off of his face. Act natural. Amon sees right through him, of course. Which pisses him off.
He doesn't like the lighting in the inn. It makes everything too red. The candles bounce off of his scales and it's too damn bright. He hates that color. He chugs the rest of his drink and the small daze it gives helps a little bit.
Amon doesn't care and he doesn't understand how she does it. People look at 'Tail and he prances about as if on show, but inside he wants to vanish. He shouldn't be looked at. He's disgusting. The scales and teeth and claws are disgusting and he wants to apologize to everyone.
Amon walks with her head held high and her feet steady. Her mismashed features and wonky eyes don't bother her a bit. She has more important things to do than worry about what idiots think of her.
'Tail is jealous. He wants to be able to do what Amon does.
