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“Love, please, stop — !”Lightning crackles through the air; deafening snaps that leave burn marks on the ceiling in the shape of furious stars. Cynric doesn’t care about the sot, or the reek of burnt wood, or the fact that he’s risking injury skirting around Marcurio’s protective ward.“Why is he doing this?! Why, out of all the curses laid upon my life, why him?!”Fuck, how much wouldn’t he give to have an answer for that? To solve every worry that weighs down on his sweetheart's shoulders? “Marcurio, please — ““Have I not suffered enough!?” Marcurio’s palms meet the table with an enraged cry that drowns in the whiplash of blinding white energy; tendrils of lightning slither across the polished surface, leaving black traces like rivers on a map. Out of all the days to receive awful news, at least they did on laundry day, meaning Cynric doesn’t have to put out a burning tablecloth. “What more can I do in order to be at peace; must I travel to the pits of Oblivion to earn a chance to breathe?!”Out of all the emotions rushing through Cynric, fear isn’t one of them, which one day will probably put him on the receiving end of a lethal blast. He couldn’t care less. All he cares about is getting past the damn ward that stands between him and Marcurio before their home is turned to cinder.“Sweetness. My beloved, please.” Cynric steps closer to the table, shuddering when stray wisps skitter up his legs. “We’ll sort this out, okay? We’ll… find a way, I promise.”Marcurio’s hands curl into fists so hard the blood drains from his knuckles. More energy dances across them like frantic torch bugs, some memorialized on the table. “An entire province away. Even then he won’t leave me alone.” Sparks skitter across his figure, wandering up and down his robe. “Must I drown myself in the Sea of Ghosts to be free of his claim?”“Don’t talk shit like that. No one’s drowning anywhere.” Cynric moves up to the shield, placing his hand on the buzzing layer of magic. It’s surprisingly solid despite the flowy appearance, like glass but somehow more flexible. “You can drown in my eyes, but that’s it.” The shield throbs with Marcurio's anger, but Cynric isn’t deterred. There is a soft, loving man behind all those emotions "Please, love, let me in. Let me comfort you."Marcurio stares Cynric down with such ferocity he fears for a second that he'll be targeted with one of those flaming bolts. Instead, thankfully, Marcurio wipes his face with a sigh, allowing the shield to fizz away."Hey, handsome," Cynric coos, stepping into the space between his love and the blackened table. "We'll figure this out, okay?"Marcurio’s amber irises slowly return from enraged darkness, followed by the tension fading from the air when Cynric rubs his arms, shuddering when a few sparks dance across his hands. “All I can do is wait for him to pass.”“Y’know — ““No, we’re not hiring the Dark Brotherhood.”Cynric huffs. “I’m just saying, we could make that happen faster.”“I doubt even their skill will keep the evidence off of us. He’s got friends and colleagues in places so high even the eagles can’t reach them.” Marcurio heaves a sigh. “I knew this day would come at some point, but I hoped it never would. I don’t even know how to prepare for this.”“Yeah.” Cynric wraps his arms around Marcurio’s waist and pulls him closer, waiting for the wizard to slowly relax in his embrace. “Is it because of your new spot in court?”“I can bet the entire house on it.” Marcurio exhales with his entire body against Cynric’s. “I have no clue who told him, but news like this travels fast between those who are interested. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got people keeping an eye on me to report back on my career.”“He must know how amazing you are, then.”Marcurio snorts a bitter laugh against Cynric’s neck. “I can be the Archmage and he’ll still find faults with me. There is no winning against a man who hates you.”Despite already knowing all the nitty gritty details of Marcurio’s despicable father, hearing more doesn’t ease the urge to either perform a Black Sacrament or plunge a dagger into the asshole’s back himself.“Well,” Cynric kisses Marcurio’s shoulder, “I think that you are amazing, fantastic, and gorgeous, and you have come such a long way already. You don’t need to prove anything.”Marcurio inhales shakily. “Do you really?”Cynric pulls back enough to meet Marcurio’s anxious gaze and gently cups his cheeks. He can’t imagine what is like to be torn apart by the parents who are supposed to protect you from harm, but, gods knows, he’ll stick every little piece back together.“Yes, my sweet, I do. You are astonishing, and I love you, and there’s nothing you can do to change that. No matter how many inkwells you break or how many kettles you explode.”A coy smile grows on Marcurio’s lips as he breaks eye contact, which still makes Cynric’s heart swell. To think that such a bashful man was hidden beneath that stone-y persona. “Thank you,” he tells Cynric’s feet, “for being so gentle with me. I… don’t always feel like I deserve it, but I appreciate it very much.”“Hey.” Cynric nudges Marcurio’s chin until their eyes meet. “You deserve nothing but the best, and I’ll do what I can to give you that, y’know? You’re worth it, always.”Marcurio chuckles, his cheeks turning adoringly red as he starts squirming. “Oh, you and your words.”“All true.” Cynric leans in a little to ask for a kiss, letting Marcurio decide if the moment is right, only to melt when their lips meet. He’s so soft, so delicate amidst all that terrifying power.So precious.With Marcurio’s mood somewhat improved, Cynric tries to rescue their dinner from the bottom of the pan while Marcurio bemoans the blackened furniture, though without much luck. Most of it is burnt after being forgotten about when Marcurio blew up over the letter, so he discards the idea of cooking, instead venturing outside to fetch them hot meals from the tavern. When Marcurio tries to take responsibility for the ruined food, Cynric shoves a chunk of braided bread into his mouth. Not entirely appreciated, but it gets the job done.Still, as much as Cynric tries to keep Marcurio's mood afloat above the abyss of hatred, he can only do so much with the situation grinding his gears to the same degree as his beloved at this point. Enough that he only registers Niruin talking with him when he's slapped on the shoulder."Hm, what?""I asked if you're going to join me for practice or not," Niruin repeats with a sigh, "but you've been staring at the mildew the entire evening, so I'm guessing you're not interested.""Sorry." Cynric rubs the sand from his eyes and leans back in the chair, pushing it up on two legs. "Things are a bit messy at home, I just… don't know how to solve it. Makes it hard to focus, that’s all."Vex snorts, still focusing flipping her favorite coin across her knuckles. "Did that pompous asshole finally grow tired of you?""Of me?" Cynric throws a few coils of hair over his shoulder. "Perish the thought!" He grins when Vex retches. "Actually, I'm not the problem, believe it or not.""I sure don't," Brynjolf chimes in from the bar with that half-amused half-don’t-joke-about-such-things spark in his eye. "Though, I'd suggest not letting whatever clouds your mind cloud your work. We can’t afford to get sloppy simply because other parts of our life are unstable.""Nah, 's nothing like that." Cynric balances on the chair, swaying back and forth. "His useless ass of a father is coming for a visit. Sent a letter when he was already on the road, so barely gave us a heads up."Niruin shrugs. "So?""If you think Marcurio is an arrogant prick, his father is the epitome of fucking disdain." Cynric puffs a sigh. "The only good thing he ever did was putting my man in this world. Hey, can you sit down? You're stressing me out. ""Fine, fine, so dramatic." Niruin rests his bow against the table, gently like it might shatter if handled too roughly, before taking a seat on the opposite side. "Don't we all hate our parents to some extent?""Not all of us." Delvin looks up from studying the amulet Vex brought in today under a lens. "My old folks did only well by us.""Didn't they think you're in banking?""I was." He meets Vex's raised eyebrow. "For a while. They'd probably approve of where I am now as well. No matter what, they still supported us through everything, put food on the table and a roof over our heads. Tucked us in and all that.""How adoring," Vex deadpans, returning to focus on her coin. "Is the father loaded at least?"Cynric exhales a long whistle. "Definitely. Guy's some fancy councilor and investor for some guild in Cyrodiil, got his dick up everyone's ass over there." In the corner of his eye, Brynjolf stirs in interest. "Doubt he's an easy target, though. He'll be crowded with security.""We never get much of a challenge down here." Delvin puts the amulet down and folds his arms, eyebrows knitting together in thought. "Would be a shame to let the opportunity pass.""Only with approval," Brynjolf adds, meeting Cynric's gaze. The whole tavern heaves a frustrated sigh. "Family, no matter what we think of them, is off limits.""Yeah, yeah, I'll ask him." Cynric returns to watching water trail down the mildew-dotted wall, humming. "He'll probably say no out of fear for everyone's safety."Vex groans. "Oh, please, how bad can he be?"Latent anger stirs in Cynric's stomach recalling all the stories he's heard. "Well, for instance, Marcurio's sister got upset one time when they traveled as kids, bored and whiney or something, and their father responded by dragging her out of the carriage, leaving her on the side of the road." He meets Niruin's bewildered stare. "Told her to snap out of it and made her walk the rest of the way. Didn't make it back until after nightfall, all dusty with bruised knees, and he told her off for being such a mess.""Wait, his own daughter?""Oh, yeah, he doesn't fucking care who it is. Marcurio told me that in order to get an esteemed spot at the Mages Guild, you need to show some skill in each school of magic, then I guess you specialize in the one you're most proficient in." Cynric taps his empty tankard against the table, needing something to busy his hand with when everything grows too tense. "Marcurio sucked at restoration, like, badly, he couldn't heal a needle prick, which meant he’d be accepted into a lower… I don’t know, tier or something, which, obviously, his fucking asshole of a father couldn’t accept."Niruin shifts uncomfortably. "Bet he got a trick for that as well?""Sure did. The fucker broke his arm."The cistern falls quiet, save for the occasional drop of water hitting the stagnant reservoir.Brynjolf is the first to find his voice. "He what?""Yup." Cynric sets the tankard down with excessive force. "Broke his arm, locked him in his room, told him he wasn't allowed outside until he learned how to heal." He looks over at Vex, her hard features contorted in a deep frown. "If he can do that to his kids, what the fuck do you think he'll do to us?""I suggest we be wary of this man, then," Delvin agrees, nodding to himself. "People with the power to treat others like that are rarely good for business. Especially their own flesh."Brynjolf nods as well. "Agreed." He looks at Cynric, who tears his gaze off the wall to meet his boss'. "More importantly, will you be safe?"It's always a bit touching when Brynjolf gets that 'worried father' - syndrome going over his thieves, knowing they're more important to him than just business."I… I honestly don’t know. Probably? Marcurio said he'll try and keep the asshole away from home, probably drag him around the keep or something. I suggested we ask the brotherhood to pay him a visit, but… " He shrugs. "That'll just lead them back to us. I don’t know how we’ll play this one out.""Well, if you need help, lad, let us know, yeah?" Brynjolf leaves the bar to stop by Cynric, pushing him to sit properly by the shoulder. "We're not the brotherhood, but we can do our best to keep an eye out on the both of you."Cynric pats Brynjolf's hand with a "Yeah, yeah," but he appreciates the thought. For many of them, this is the only family alive, and Cynric knows they're all Brynjolf has. He’s got even more doting after the whole business with Mercer, watching out for them whenever they’re out on dangerous jobs. It's a little sweet."So, um." Niruin knocks a knuckle against the table, an uneasy expression in his gaze when it meets Cynric's. "How did it go? Healing his broken arm?"Cynric tilts the chair back on two legs again. "Took him two days. No food, no potions, just water and desperation to not be left for dead.""You think he'd do that? Let him starve or exhaust himself to death?""Yeah, definitely. If you can't place your stock in a guild, they're no good anyway." Cynric grips the tankard until the old, swollen wood creaks. "Wasn't the first or the last time shit like that happened. The fact that he’s still pursuing his dreams and getting up in the morning is a fucking miracle.""Oh… I see." Niruin fiddles with his bowstring, plucking it absently while Cynric tries to come up with a solution to the upcoming issue for the twentieth time today. "You know, I probably would be an asshole too if I grew up like that."A few patrons nod in silent agreement, and Cynric refrains from pointing out that most of them are assholes too. Lovable assholes, but still assholes.Not that it solves their problem, unfortunately.“Hey, can we talk?”Brynjolf looks up from his numbers. “What do you need help with?”Gods, the man even has all of them figured out just by words or tone of voice. Maybe he is their secret father after all?“I just… Can we keep an eye on Marcurio? I probably won’t be able to be around much, and I’ve got that exchange coming up next week. Maybe it won’t interfere, but, y’know.” Cynric lifts his hands in a shrug. “I don’t know what will happen when that guy gets here. Marcurio is panicking over the whole thing, so I can’t imagine what this will do to his health, and I don’t want to risk anything happening.”Nodding as he listens, Brynjolf pushes his ledger aside before lacing his fingers beneath his chin. “I hear you, lad. Bet it’s not easy on either of you and if this man is as heartless as you describe, then… Well. I can ask Farnil to follow them. Her sister still works in the keep, so it shouldn’t be much of a fuss to get her inside.”It’s not a solution to all issues, but some tension loosens from Cynric’s shoulders. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”“Of course, lad, it’s the least I can do. We’re all family here, and I’ll be damned if we don’t look out for each other.”Cynric chuckles. “Alright, papa thief, no need to get all sappy about it.” He dodges a flying coin with a laugh. “Fine, fine, I’ll go now. Thanks again.”“Maybe you should go home, Cyn. Take the night off.” Brynjolf moves the ledger back when Cynric frowns at him, already flipping through the pages. “Look after Marcurio. Sounds like he’ll need the support.”Stunned, Cynric slowly takes the words in, shaking his head when they settle. “But we’re planning the brewery heist tonight?”Brynjolf waves him off. “Vex can fill you in on the details later. There will always be coins to collect; family comes first.” He looks up with an eyebrow raised. “Unless that’s too sappy for ya?”Such a parent.“Nah, just sappy enough." Cynric doesn't dodge in time for a second coin to hit him in the chest. “Fine, I’ll be out of your hair. I’ll tell Marcurio his father-in-law said hi.”Brynjolf’s deep laugh echoes throughout the cistern as Cynric leaves the sewers, eager to get home and scare the shit out of his fiance who isn’t suspecting him until sunrise.
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“Do you have a moment?”Marcurio looks up from his report on potential energy pockets in Riften's marsh, finding Jarl Leila standing near his desk, hands on her back. Her gaze sweeps across the piles of documents before landing on him; weary with dark circles, she looks as tired as he feels.“Of course.” He drops the quill into the inkwell before turning his chair towards her. “How may I be of service?”“Anuriel mentioned that you want to speak with me?”“Oh. Yes, yes. I…” Marcurio's palms grow clammy despite having practiced in his head the entire day. “I have a request, if I may.”“Yes?”He wipes his hands on his thighs, swallowing dryness before proceeding, “Archmagister Vedius of the Council of Mages is planning a visit to Riften. In fact, he is traveling here at this moment, and I wanted to ask if… If it might be possible to invite him as a guest to the keep?”Jarl Leila's eyebrows rise as he speaks, then drop down into a frown when he finishes. “Vedius, you say? So, family?”Hoping she wouldn't pick up on it was too high of a reach, clearly. “Unfortunately,” rolls off his tongue before he knows any better. He quickly clears his throat, ignoring the jarl's inquisitive sound. As familiar as she comes across, this is not a topic to bring to work. “Father, to be precise, though I'm not requesting this as family, but rather concerning his position. As cozy as the inn is, I'd rather not… Um.”The jarl hums. “It might not be the best place, no. I'm sure we can arrange something more suitable. Also, having such a highly esteemed guest? The news will travel fast that we had the honor, and no doubt be a thorn in Winterhold's side.” She nods as she speaks, unclasping her hands to rub her weather-worn cheek. “I'm curious about the reason for his visit, did he mention?”“No, though it's undoubtedly connected to my new position that you so kindly bestowed upon me.” Marcurio lightly shuffles the nearest pile of documents into a neater pile, as if talking about the man will summon him into existence to berate him for being messy. “He probably wants to ensure that I don't soil the good family name. Maybe enjoy the local wine.” He forces a smile when the jarl frowns with worry. “Anyhow, I doubt his visit will be very long. He's a busy man, so I'm estimating a few days at the most.”“I see. I'll have Anuriel prepare a room for his arrival, and ask the Black-Briars to deliver a bottle as a courtesy of the hold.” She smiles when Marcurio heaves a sigh of relief, though her eyes still worry. “You have been nothing but a skilled asset to the court, Marcurio. I'm glad you accepted the position, and I'm certain Wylandriah appreciates your work as well. I hope you are proud of your accomplishments.”Marcurio adjusts his documents one final time to hide the wave of sadness rolling through his chest when imagining how nice it must be to grow up supported. Jarl Leila's children are hardly perfect, nor does she pretend they are, but she treats them with respect, treats them as individuals with their own passions, not so much as puppets of her own goals.Marcurio pushes the thoughts aside to face Jarl Leila with a smile. “Thank you, my jarl, you are too kind.” He bows his head. “I will forward any news of his arrival.”
The days since receiving the letter have been bizarre. Like they're waiting for the end of the world to arrive at their doorstep at any second. Marcurio tries to drown himself in work, but every time he manages to get into it, his mind switches between the impending meeting to potential ways it will go. Most importantly; what if he finds out about Cynric?“Well?” Cynric takes a seat next to Marcurio at the kitchen table, placing a steaming cup of tea in front of him. “What did she say?”“She graciously agreed.” Marcurio takes the cup in both hands, inhaling the pleasant scent of raspberry. “He'll reside at the keep, so that relieves me of having to warn Keerava about having to serve a pretentious racist with the power to bring her entire establishment down if she looks at him wrong.” He taps his fingertips on the cup. “I'll probably stay there as well, pretend it's my home. The last thing I need is for him to invade our house.”“Good. That's… That's good.” Cynric sighs into his tea; he's been incredibly supportive with this whole mess, constantly encouraging Marcurio not to fear the worst, that they'll handle any potential bad situation that arises. If it wasn't for him, Marcurio would have torn his hair out by now. “The guild is interested in him.”Marcurio chokes on a sip. “No, absolutely not. It's far too dangerous.”“Yeah, I told them that any approach probably won't come with a pretty bow on top. Still, I get them; it's a big fat fish coming right to our doorstep. It would be dumb to not take advantage of it.”“You put a hand in that man's pocket and it'll be the last thing you do. I'm not letting you do that.”Cynric puts a hand on his arm, gently squeezing it. “I won't.” He steals Marcurio's hand to kiss. “Isn't there something? Anything to make use of his visit?”“He'll be surrounded by servants and guards, so approaching him directly is a death sentence.” Marcurio sips his tea with a hum; he couldn't care less if his father gets robbed of every thread on his body, but not at the expense of someone else. “He's a collector, like most nobles with too much gold in their pockets. Anything that no one else has, he'll try and get his hands on. Especially alcohol.”“Really? Hm.” Cynric plays with his fingers with a thoughtful frown. “I'll forward that. I'm sure Brynjolf can think of something. Hey.” He kisses Marcurio's hand again, smiling encouragingly when their eyes meet. “We'll get through this, okay? I've got your back.”“I know.” Marcurio leans across the table where Cynric is quick to meet his lips in a soft kiss. “Thank you. I'd introduce you to him if I didn't love you so much.”Cynric laughs, deep and sweet. “Mh, true love is not wanting your father to blast you out of existence. You're so romantic.” He kisses Marcurio's smile. “Whenever we get the time, I'll bring you home to my parents, and they'll teach you how it's supposed to be done.”“The bar to cross isn't very high.” Marcurio sips more tea before taking Cynric's hand in both of his. “Honestly, my biggest fear is him finding out about you. I can deal with the repercussions, but if he targets you, then… Then I don't know — ““Hey, don't worry about me, okay? Let's focus on you getting through this, and I'll make sure people keep their mouths shut. We'll be fine.”With no better plan, Marcurio tries to trust Cynric's words as the days roll by, finding a semblance of calm until a courier seeks him out at his desk in Mistveil Keep.Wylandriah looks up when he rises, pausing her careful distribution of pulverized birch bark into a glass disk. “Is it your guest?”“Yes.” Marcurio smooths his robe out, not that a lack of wrinkles will make a difference; there's always something to complain about. Reluctantly, he also removes his engagement ring to keep in a drawer, immediately mourning the loss. “He's… Please, don't approach him. He's not a, um, people person.” And a cruel racist toward every non-human race, something he does not wish upon his colleagues.“Oh. That's a shame.” Wylandriah puts the spoon down next to the disk. “Well, we can't all be social butterflies, right?”“Right.”"Before you go, did you get a chance to meet my sister this morning? She'll be staying a few days to help me organize the alchemy storage room."Marcurio racks his mind for anything; most days have passed in a blur with all his thoughts occupied by the inevitable meeting. "I... don't remember. I'm sorry." He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. He remembers meeting Farnil during the winter holiday last year, so he should know her face. "I'll gladly greet her later if I ever see freedom while he's here.""Ah." Wylandriah smiles flatly, concern mirrored in her mossy green eyes. "Well, if you see her digging around the storage room, don't blast her; she's supposed to be there.""Yes, yes, good to know." Marcurio pats his colleague on the shoulder as he walks past toward the main hall. "I'll see you later, I hope."A warm breeze welcomes Marcurio outside in the evening sun, though the pleasant weather does nothing to the dark cloud hanging over his head as he crosses the dying plaza, where stall owners are busy closing for the day. All he needs to do is take his father to the keep, then… Well, hopefully, he'll see whatever he's here to invest, then leave in the morning.An entourage of seven people is busy unloading an ornate carriage at the stable when he exits the city; some are dressed in robes, others in armor, all wearing that familiar crest. Inhaling, Marcurio approaches as one of the servants opens the carriage door.Down steps a tall, elderly man with short, silver-streaked brown hair, a neatly trimmed goatee circling thin lips pulled in a permanent expression of disdain. His sunken cheeks and dark eyes add to the joyless aura following him like a second shadow, penetrating every particle of positivity one might feel, drowning you in darkness.What little courage Marcurio had collected on the way over is swept away with a cold wind that settles like a mangy beast in the pit of his stomach; weak, lonely, scared, always balancing over an abyss of disappointment. Like he's back to being twelve years old and holding back tears, trying to heal each burn his father dotted on his arm before receiving another, only to be hit across the head when not producing a result fast enough.Marcurio clasps his trembling hands on his back, forcing a deep breath before plastering that stale old smile on his lips.“Archmagister.”Mecilvus Calvario Vedius regards him like a supposedly priced cow with a sketchy owner, narrow eyes searching for flaws. He snorts with disgust.“What, did you become too prestigious to call me ‘father’ all of a sudden?”So, Court Wizard is a good enough title to be related to, apparently. Maybe he should feel honored?“No, of course not.” Marcurio bows his head. “Father.”“It's like I didn't raise you at all.” Mecilvus strides past him towards the gate, silver embroidered deep blue robes fluttering in the mild breeze. A familiar scent of bergamot and rosewood sticks in his nose. “Walk with me.”“Yes, father.”Marcurio takes his father's side as they walk through the gates, followed by his small army of scarcely paid servants. At least they arrived when most citizens have retreated back home for the evening, so he won't have to live through the shame of “noble asshole parades through the town”. It's a small victory, though it doesn't come with any sense of joy.Mecilvus takes in their surroundings as they walk down the main road, nose wrinkled. “Tell me you've organized respectable lodging.”Imagine being greeted with a ‘hello, how have you been?’ once in his life.“You'll reside as a guest to the jarl in Mistveil Keep. She's arranged for your arrival,” Marcurio gestures for them to cross the plaza, “and will ensure that your visit is pleasant.”His father remaining silent is usually a good sign, meaning he's currently got nothing to complain about, though it only lasts a few seconds before he insults the city's structures, the smell, the air, the uneven ground, the rumors of thieves, and stagnant sewers. It blends into a distant buzz, disappearing entirely for a moment when Marcurio spots Cynric by the wall surrounding the keep.Maybe they are out making plans for another heist? Or did the news travel fast enough that they decided to watch Mecilvus' arrival?Next to who might be Brynjolf, having seen the man only a handful of times selling scummy wares at the market, Cynric leans casually against the wall, laughing at something when they make eye contact.The mirth dissipates from his face, exchanged for a frown that Marcurio would love to kiss away, though it only adds to the misery of how long these days will be without his beloved joy. He imagines what it would be like to introduce this obnoxious, kind-hearted man to a caring parent who'd be excited for his sake.“What a pitiful example of a palace. Is this truly the pride of the jarl?”Marcurio turns away before his straying gaze catches anyone's attention. “Yes, father. No, it doesn't challenge the Imperial Palace. Yes, the Arcane University is a splendid example of architecture.”Servants and inhabitants of the keep stir with curiosity as the entourage arrives in the throne room, still alive and buzzing with the jarl and her court, everyone stopping what they're doing to spy on the visitors.“My jarl.” Marcurio bows before the throne. It's been a couple of years since he acted as his father's announcer, the only difference now is that he barely has the energy to do it with any speck of enthusiasm. “Archmagister Vedius of the Council of Mages.”Jarl Leila regards his father with less disdain than he deserves while the court murmurs. “Welcome to Riften, Archmagister. It's a pleasure to have you as a guest in our modest city.”“The pleasure is all mine, jarl.”Marcurio almost chokes on his own spit when his father bows his head, which is all an act to appear respectful, but seeing him do anything but look down on others is rarer than getting struck by a falling star.They exchange pleasantries about the travel, organized commodities, what Riften has to offer; all crusty dry conversation until the jarl mentions Marcurio's work.He resists the urge to cringe like a snake when she compliments his knowledge, how beneficial his skills are in regards to arcane advice, how he's assisted with suggestions to train their battlemages to grow more powerful; she says these things like there aren't hundreds of people more skilled than him, which his father knows very well.Mecilvus raises a slim eyebrow at the praise, then glances at Marcurio who meets his gaze with a smidgen of hope that maybe, maybe, this is the moment he's done good enough to earn a nod or a pat on the shoulder.“It pleases me to hear that my son isn't a complete embarrassment. It's the least I expect from all the time and money I invested in his education.”Clearly, any sort of acknowledgment is still too much to ask for.The court erupts in heated whispers; Marcurio only makes out fragments of the family relationship reveal, which doesn't come as a surprise that they latch on to it like leeches. He can't wait to be the talk of the month.“He is nothing of the sort.” Jarl Leila’s eyebrows knit together; she even looks offended on his behalf, which is… Well, not sweet necessary, but nice at the very least. “Quite the opposite. News of his work spreads far outside our city walls.”“Is that so?” Mecilvus snorts a laugh. “I'll be interested in reading this astonishing work of yours, Marcurio.”Lovely.He only gets a brief moment of peace after his father has retired before he's summoned to join the man for dinner. Wylandriah offers some sympathetic words as he leaves his room, having heard the whole thing go down earlier, which does lift his spirit a smidgen as he enters the guest room. Her door is always ajar, should he need it."I see you are too ashamed of your family name to even mention my existence. Care to explain yourself?"Marcurio looks up from his plate, the first bite stuck on his fork. At least he got to sit down before the interrogation began."Sorry?"Mecilvus glares at him over the rim of his wine glass. "Don't play stupid with me. Why did everyone look so surprised?"
Because being related to you is nothing but a curse and no one knows who you are.
"Mentioning our relation might've given me an unfair advantage, given your highly regarded position." Marcurio dips the piece of meat into the pool of gravy. "I need to make a name for myself; not rise with Vedius as my only accomplishment.""Please, Marcurio, don't be such an idiot." His father chuckles, shaking his head in amusement before giving Marcurio a patronizing smirk. "We both know you'll attain nothing without a ticket."But he has. He was invited to Riften by first name, then rose to this position without ever being asked about his past. Cynric never asked either, never cared. Why is that so difficult to believe when he's done nothing but reaching for his father's untouchable standard? Hasn't he tried hard enough? Maybe his achievements aren't that grand, all things considered."I aspire to reach your greatness by my own volition," rolls of Marcurio's tongue in defeat because it's useless to argue, because he'll never be anything but a failure, "so that I can carry our legacy with as much pride and honor as you have."Shockingly, Mecilvus goes quiet for long enough that Marcurio finally gets to eat, which means he's either fuming or moving on due to a lack of arguments.“Have you made allies with the court?”“I've only had this position for a few weeks, so no. Not yet, but — ”“You'd be better off back home; we already have all the necessary connections there for you to reach a more respectable position.” Mecilvus pauses to eat, so Marcurio takes the chance as well, even getting a sip of wine before the next attack. “When are you getting married? There won't be any legacy unless you produce an heir.”Imagine if he could tell his father that he's betrothed to a wonderful person who adores him despite his irrational need to scrub stains off the counter, despite exploding in rage over feeling inadequate as a human being, despite struggling with intimacy; that someone loves him no matter his mood or energy level, who supports him through every abstract project he takes on despite knowing nothing about the topic.Imagine his father accepting whomever he loves because the priority is him being happy.“I haven't searched for any suitable partners yet.” Marcurio stacks a few grilled asparagus stalks on his fork to not have to see those narrow eyes burn through his skull with disappointment. “As I said, I was recently given this position, and it's occupying a lot of my time. I take this work very seriously, but — ”“You should be equally focused on finding a suitable mate to keep the bloodline alive. Didn't you receive my last letter about Lady Ophalene?” Mecilvus puts his cutlery down with enough force that the scared, lonely child inside Marcurio winces in fear. “You're getting older, and I am not letting you waste the potential of strengthening the family lineage. There are several good families in Cyrodiil with strong blood that we can take advantage of.”Imagine being able to say ‘no’.“What about Mae? Isn't she engaged with that… arcane consultant you arranged for her to marry?”“Maesaria has been removed from the arrangement after it became clear that his family isn't part of the aristocracy like they first claimed. They're nothing more than disgusting peasants.” Mecilvus shakes his head with a disgusted snort that's loud enough to drown out Marcurio's sigh. And here he hoped Mae would carry the curse of producing an heir. “Besides, you are firstborn, and with that comes responsibility. I already have a couple of good candidates in mind.” His tone drops a few octaves. "You are planning on marrying, aren't you? Or did I fail to bring up a proper man as a son?"'Proper man' translating to a man who wants to marry a woman. If Marcurio says no, does that mean Mecilvus has two daughters? No, of course not; he'll have one daughter, and Marcurio will either be disowned or killed in a mysterious accident. Mara, if Cynric hadn't helped him overcome so much of his own phobia, he'd still shudder at the idea of bonding with another man."No, father, you did not fail." The words feel like dust on sandpaper in his mouth. "I will marry."
Just not anyone you'll ever meet.
Mecilvus exhales with relief. "Good. The last thing I need is to have a defected child. Keeping your reputation pristine in your absence is hard enough. People are judging my lack of grandchildren already, and it's getting embarrassing."Who cares about the fact that no one asked to be either firstborn or burdened with the responsibility of putting a child into the world. Perhaps the idea of it wouldn't be as repulsive if it came naturally, also not including that the child will be born into a family whose sole interest is using you for their own gain.“Well?”Marcurio rinses the dryness away with a sip of wine. “I'll make sure to consider it.” Before his father finishes chewing, he adds, “How is the council business?”As always, redirecting the question back switches the focus to his father's favorite topic; himself, and how everyone else is an imbecile, in turn letting Marcurio zone out with the occasional nod. It's going to be an interesting topic to bring up with Cynric at the dinner table; how to get out of an arranged marriage. Perhaps the idea of hiring the Dark Brotherhood isn't as out there as he thought.When Marcurio is finally excused from his father's presence a few hours later, he leaves the room with a gaping wound of sadness in his chest.Despite making a name for himself as Court Wizard, apparently, his next goal should be to join the Arcane Council, Skyrim's equivalent to Cyrodiil's Council of Mages, also getting a foot into the inner circle of the Mage’s College despite already having taught destruction there for several years before settling in Riften. He needs bigger, better goals, more ambition. He should never settle, always strive for more knowledge and, most importantly, power.Never good enough.He lingers by the balcony railing long enough to regain some strength, exhausted from being reminded of how useless he is without the family name. The last years since seeing his father have been a bigger blessing than he realized now that the demon is back to deplete his will to live.Was it always this bad? Was he always this hateful, or was it so common that he didn't notice?Instead of running into Cynric's arms as he'd prefer, Marcurio retreats downstairs, dragging his feet through the empty banquet hall to the servant's area. He and Wylandriah have upgraded accommodations suitable to their titles, though the bed will be desolate without his joy reaching for him to get beneath the cover.A hushed ‘psst’ catches him off guard, enough so that he stumbles into the wall next to his bedroom door to muffled giggling.Peeking out from the room next door is Wylandriah, her bright eyes shimmering with mischief in the lantern fire. “Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you.”Marcurio huffs quietly, though it's hard to stay mad at her when she grins like that. “I'm sure you didn't.”She shrugs innocently, then jabs a thumb over her shoulder, whispering, “Want to join me and Farnil for a glass of whiskey? You look like you need one. That man seems awful.”Marcurio shushes her as if his father can hear her across the keep. “He's… a handful.” He should probably go to sleep, though nothing is inviting about his stale room or his empty bed. “Sure, why not. I might complain a lot.”“Oh, don't worry.” Wylandriah winks. “I have quite the stash.”This is an awful idea.“Ah, to oblivion with it.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Even with half a bottle of whiskey flowing through his veins, the emptiness is the same.The chasm splitting his soul is no less void, no less gaping, no less crumbling. Marcurio hoped it would help at least a little, just enough to take the edge off, but the gods weren’t kind tonight. Instead of stumbling into bed like a giggling fool, which was the point, he can barely dredge up the energy to appreciate the long conversation and laughs he shared with Wylandriah and her sister or feel relieved to have shared his frustrations.It’s not fair to anyone that he’s sulking when having such a lucky lot in life, yet, it’s hard to experience himself as anything but a shell made for breeding another powerful heir into a family that will drain the child of all will to live.Is that all he’s good for? Wylandriah said it’s not true, but if none of his achievements so far are good enough to earn even a pat on the shoulder, then…Maybe there’s some truth to it? What Marcurio hoped to be a one, maybe two, night stay is drawn out to a third, a fourth, each day his father spends reading through his work, scoffing and rolling his eyes, each disappointed side-eye chipping another bit off the self-esteem he’s worked so hard on building up. Not even ‘Elements and the Material World’ that he wrote after studying the relationship between destruction magic and physical matter is worthy of a pat on the shoulder or a nod. Nothing.All his work means nothing.As the fifth day draws to an end, Marcurio drags his feet down the stairs after another dinner, another interrogation, more reminders that he won’t make it anywhere without a breeding mate and a spot at the council, more dents leaking confidence like wine through a cracked vase.He falls against the door to his room after closing it, again facing bare walls and an empty bed welcoming him to cold nothingness. He misses home; the scent of tea in the kitchen, the bookshelves, the silken sheets that Cynric curses over.Cynric.Marcurio rubs his eyes as weariness mingles with helpless longing. Mara, he misses Cynric more than a drowning man longs for air. “How much more of this?” he asks the empty wall, the taunting cold bed, the window — wait. Did he open the window this morning?“Odd.” He crosses the room and reaches for the handle, only to freeze in place when a cool breeze blows against his neck, chasing up behind his ear, ending in a cheeky hum. The sunset blurs as tears collect in his eyes, alongside an impossible mixture of exhaustion and joy.Slender arms wrap around his waist, nimble fingers tangling with his, a smile rests against his neck.“Do you know,” Cynric whispers against the small hairs standing on end, “how beautiful you are in the sunset?”“Oh, you.” Tears chase down Marcurio’s cheeks. “I’m sorry I haven’t been home. It’s been — “But Cynric shushes him, buries his face against the crook of his shoulder, holds him against his sturdy chest. “I know. I’ve heard.”“Oh. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” Marcurio rubs his thumbs over Cynric’s hands, tries to rub some of his scent off to carry in his pockets.“How are you holding up?” “Just fine,” he wants to say, “Don’t worry about me” , but he screws his eyes shut as more tears reflect the dying day on his skin. “Not too well. Maybe I’m too weak to handle criticism. Maybe I’m not man enough as it’s called. Maybe it’s bad blood. I’m tired, Cyn. I’m so tired.”Cynric kisses that favorite spot beneath his ear, nuzzles it. “You are not weak. You are the strongest person I know, and you will get through this. I’m here with you, always. Never forget that I’m at your side.”“I won’t.”Marcurio opens his eyes to the stripe of reds and oranges melting across the horizon, then looks down at his empty hands. Turning, he faces the empty room, the bare walls, and the taunting bed, remembering that he opened the window to air out the sadness. If he pretends hard enough, the scent of Cynric’s leather armor and chamomile hangs in the air, offering little consolation as he gives in to exhaustion. It feels like a lifetime has passed when Marcurio leaves the keep, hand held high to shield his eyes from the piercing light like a vampire crawling out of a dusty crypt. Even his bones creak and whine like unoiled wagon wheels as he walks down the polished steps in his father’s shadow.Mecilvus’ complaints buzzes in the background, distant like a bee searching for flowers across a field as they maneuver the crowds basking in the heat. ‘Market trip’, says the note secured away in Marcurio’s pocket that he found sitting by the door this morning. The only reason it made sense is because he recognized the handwriting, a distinct “I hate this swirly fucking lettering” type of writing.He knows the thieves have plans for his father’s visit, though no whispers have reached his ears. They can empty Mecilvus’ pickets and ransack his luggage — Marcurio couldn’t care less — but hopes they took his warning into account. Whatever they have in mind he prays they’ll be smart about it, though the prayer is rudely disrupted when someone bumps into his shoulder.“Oh, sorry about that! Are you okay?”Years ago, Marcurio would snap an insult at anyone who dared exhale into the air he breathes, which comes with the ‘too good for you lineage’, but nowadays he’s grown out of that obnoxious behavior. Instead, he swings around with an “it’s alright” on his lips, though it falls to the ground when meeting a pair of glittering grey eyes.Cynric grins cheekily, face mostly hidden beneath his hood, clearly amused at Marcurio’s surprise. It takes restraint not to throw himself at the man and kiss his lips swollen.“Ah -- it’s quite alright, thank you.” Marcurio throws a glance at his father, who seems to have forgotten about his existence already, busy ordering one of his servants to go purchase delicacies. One of his guards, however, is watching Cynric like he’s waiting for a reason to put a blade through his chest. “No harm done, but I’d suggest watching your steps next time.”“What a relief!” Cynric’s eyes gleam with mischief, which calls for caution on a good day, so his ugly note must mean they have a plan. “Hey, you look like a man of good taste. They’re auctioning out some exclusive wine over by the tavern. I’m sure it’s to your taste.”Marcurio doesn’t get a chance to respond before Cynric scurries away into the crowd, resisting the urge to follow suit. Hopefully, it’ll only be a few more days at most.The thought of anyone being dumb enough to auction wine in Riften, with the Black-Briars’ fiercely protected monopoly, is absurd. Though, when they circle the market, there sure is a stall lined with tall bottles where a man is shouting out prices. The same man who usually sells obscure wares like Falmer elixirs, Nirnroot salves, and troll toes that stood with Cynric by the wall the other day.
Oh, clever boys.
“Exclusive bottles imported from Blacklight!” rings across the crowd, “Made from the finest frost grapes of the region! Enjoy for a crisp refreshment, final bottles of the season!”True to himself, Mecilvus’ full, hawk-eyed attention is set on the stall; a stranger wouldn’t spot it, but Marcurio knows what intrigue looks like in that disapproving gaze. Biting down a grin, he follows his father to the front row where they are welcomed like old friends.“Ah, I know a man of class when I see one!” Brynjolf gestures at Mecilvus with open arms as if showing him off to the passing market-goers, maybe making him seem more important. “Welcome, my good sir, please, feel free to browse our wares.”One of Mecilvus’ guards approaches first; pompous in his polished armor, one might catch an impressive tan enjoying the sun reflected in his presence. “It’s ‘lord’ to you, peasant. State your wares.”Unfazed, Brynjolf proceeds to loudly declare all the highly alued and very legal ingredients in this supposed luxurious batch of wine; grapes slowly maturing beneath a layer of frost, combined with crisp winter apples, some berry Marcurio has never heard of, topped off with a sprinkle of elderflower. It’s impressive, really, the way he speaks of this product like he grew the ingredients himself; as if his entire livelihood is distilled into these bottles that he’s molded with his own hands. While not caring for the criminal lifestyle his fiancé clings to, Marcurio is no less giddy over the fact that his father might be splurging gold on fake luxury wares.Feeling bold even, he peeks around Mecilvus’ shoulder. “They look quite fine indeed.” He meets Brynjolf’s gaze, receiving a flashing bright smile. “I know of the brand, but I’ve never seen it with my own eyes. Quite the rarity, I’ve heard.”Mecilvus scoffs. “Since when do you know anything about quality? You never showed any interest in my collection.”“Seems this young man simply has a keen eye! However, you, my good lord,” Brynjolf points at Mecilvus, eyes glittering with a perfect display of excitement, “might be even more interested in this.” From behind the counter he produces a huge bottle with the same label, at least twice the size of a normal one. “This is our pride and glory! Twenty-three years of age, this is our priced beauty, carefully aged wrapped in silk.”Marcurio would almost fall for it himself if he wasn’t aware of the scheme; Brynjolf goes on to praise this apparently marvelous bottle like his life depends on it, how rare it is, the taste one of a kind, there won’t be another for several years; all the right words to trigger an arrogant noble into a dumb deal.Sure enough, Marcurio needs to contain a burst of amusement when his father starts stroking his neat beard. “Name your price.”Brynjolf’s ability to keep a straight face is admirable, though he’s been wrangling weird goods on the market for as long as Marcurio has lived here, so the theatrical display is probably well practiced by now.“This beauty,” Brynjolf pats the large bottle, “will be auctioned. Luck so have it, we’ll be starting soon!”How convenient.While Mecilvus gets to inspect the bottle and pretend that he knows anything about it, Marcurio looks around the market for Cynric, hoping to catch a glance at his beloved again before he’s forced back into the keep for lunch with his father. Preferably, a dragon could swoop down about now, but they are rare now that the Dragonborn has saved them. Imagine missing them for a distraction.Soon the auction begins, which surprisingly draws a small crowd. The price starts off at an absurd five hundred gold before quickly rising to over a thousand with his father in the forefront continuously raising the price. He appears to come off on top as no one challenges the idiotic sum of two and a half thousand gold when someone brushes along Marcurio’s shoulder. “Three thousand!”Marcurio’s veins freeze over when Cynric’s voice rings over the crowd. Praying it’s a part of the play he side-eyes his fiancé, who grins at the gasping crowd. He’s still hidden beneath his hood but carries himself with a sort of dignity Marcurio doesn’t recognize. More akin to acting, but Marcurio can’t help the intrigue. Cynric is always handsome in his lithe, agile form, but adding the proud stance, the square shoulders, the highly held chin? Well.Well.Let’s just say he’d rather walk his man back home.Worrying that Cynric’s offer, which must be fake otherwise he’ll enjoy paying that off himself, is too high, his father quickly latches onto the competition.“Going once, going twice… and sold, for five thousand four hundred gold to this distinguished lord! A mighty fine win, congratulations!”It takes several deep breaths for Marcurio not to laugh; instead, he too congratulates his father on the win, praying this bottle will remain sealed forever lest he’ll have to endure whatever concoction the sewer rats have cooked up.As they prepare to leave, Marcurio’s heart skips with fear when Cynric approaches them, bowing with dramatic flair before his father. “A fine battle, my lord. My sincere congratulations.”Mecilvus eyes Cynric with the same disgust he does everyone else, which shouldn’t affect Marcurio as much as it does when anger sizzles to life in his chest. That he dares glare at this wonderful man he doesn’t even know, and never will have the privilege to.“Had it been a battle, it would’ve been hard to win. I can’t imagine anyone in this filthy place holding any sort of value to their name.”Marcurio bats down the urge to roll his eyes, instead meets Cynric’s with a silent plea that he leaves. The last thing Marcurio needs is for Cynric to catch the bad side of someone who’d use their children as human shields without guilt.“Of course.” Cynric bows again before stepping aside. “Maybe next time, I’ll be lucky enough to fetch such a fine bottle for myself.”Mecilvus scoffs in passing, leading the way for some other useless purchase, letting Marcurio throw a final glance at his beloved before following his father around like a loyal birding.He survives another hour in the market, followed by an excruciatingly boring lunch where he’s interrogated on his latest work before finally being released to get back to his desk. Wylandriah looks up when he plops down on his chair. “How are you holding up?”“Barely.” Marcurio rubs his face, tries to wring the tired itch from his eyes. “I’ve encountered leeches that are less draining than that man.” He opens the drawer where his engagement ring sits in the darkness, reminding him of the uncomfortable emptiness on his finger. Soon, he’ll be able to wear it with pride again. “If everything goes according to plan, he’s leaving tomorrow, and I can go back to my normal life.” “Marcurio.”The tone in his father’s voice triggers something latent; something cold that digs claws into his stomach.Marcurio clenches his hand around the fork. “Yes, father?”“Who is Cynric?”Frigid winds sweep through Marcurio’s chest, wrapping around his neck in a choke hold. Was it really too much to ask to keep one smidgen of happiness to himself; one that won’t be ripped from beneath his feet?“I’m sorry?”“I asked Cecere to inquire about your status in the hold. Apparently, someone mentioned that name.”Of course. Of course he’d have someone go collect gossip; why didn’t he think of that? He’s never trusted Marcurio’s word for anything, especially not when it comes to keeping the family name clean.“That’s interesting.” Marcurio forces himself to eat another piece of meat, trying to ignore the twist around his stomach. Someone means one person. Cynric said he’d work on ensuring people stay quiet, though he should’ve figured that wouldn’t apply to everyone. “And what did they claim about this person?”“That you are involved with this… man in some filthy, sickening relationship. That you have a house, and, even worse, rings.”Imagine making a beautiful, loving partnership sound so despicable. Just talking about it has Mecilvus looking at Marcurio like he just rose from a rotten mire, meaning age has done nothing to root out the hatred for any kinship that isn’t between men and women. Though, that is the least important problem. “I do own property,” Marcurio admits, figuring he needs to give up something to protect his beloved. “Though I only stay there during the weekends, since my work needs much attention. Speaking of, how is Lady Arcus’ vacation home coming together? Last I heard, they had to renovate the entire foundation due to water damages.”Marcurio jumps when his father slams his palm on the table, rattling cutlery. “Do not dare change the subject! How can you be so careless that someone is spreading filthy rumors about you? Have you completely lost your pride?”Breathe.“Oh, no, of course not. There will always be rumors going around, especially in a city this small. Frankly, my reputation here has improved considerably since my arrival, so I don’t care for such trivial matters.”“Trivial? Trivial?” Mecilvus digs his spindly fingers into the polished tabletop, eyes narrowing into slits. “Have you lost your mind, you idiot? Rumors have single-handedly brought down entire families, and you dare sit here and act like you are above them simply because a bunch of peasants think highly of you?”Always the idiot. Always the moron, the brainless fool; just like thirty years ago, just like now. Never good enough.Cynric never talks to him like this, quite the opposite; constantly reminds him how intelligent he is, that he’s loved, admired, important. That he is good enough. “Riften is nothing like the Imperial City, just like Skyrim is nothing like Cyrodiil. The hierarchy works differently here, and so does the value of your rank.” Marcurio puts his cutlery down with dread coiling up his spine, tries to find a touch of courage beneath all the layers of fear. “Riften’s most powerful family has been rumored to do all sorts of absurd things, but that changes nothing. So, no.” He laces his trembling fingers together on the table. “I am not worried about our name in this city.”Not knowing what to expect, Mecilvus laughing sure wasn’t on the list of possible outcomes. It’s not a joyful laugh, though; it’s cold, bitter, harsh like coarse salt rubbing into each nick of the skin.“This is why you will never amount to anything, you imbecile. You have no ambitions, no willpower, nothing that will lead you to the top.” His father yanks the napkin from his lap, throwing it onto the table with a disgusted snort. “You are a disgrace, Marcurio, a worthless idiot that has been nothing but a waste of my time. I knew letting you come here was a mistake.”Old emotions resurface from years of this, this constant belittling, growing up to be the reason for all tragedy in the world.Mara, it’s tiring.“I like it here, it’s -- ”“You’ll be returning back to the estate with me.”“What?”Mecilvus rolls his eyes. “Did you lose your hearing alongside your wits? Clearly, you’re not achieving anything of value in this filthy hole, and the Council of Mages will have new openings this spring.” He takes a sip of Black-Briar wine, which is one of the few things he’s complimented. “It’ll be a perfect solution to get you somewhere, and there are far more suitable marriage propositions -- ”“No.” The word tumbles off of Marcurio’s tongue and hangs in the air like a spectre, like something unnatural, beyond the realms of imagination, at least by the look of his father.“Excuse me? ‘No’?”“No.”Mecilvus snorts. “In case you misunderstood, I did not ask.”“And in case you misunderstood, I refuse.”The tension thickens to a sludge over the table, thick enough to take a bite out of. “Care to explain why yourself?”Marcurio knows a threat when he hears one. His father doesn’t want an explanation, he wants an excuse and submission, something Marcurio has bowed to countless of times to escape punishment.Imagining Cynric is at his side, hands on his shoulders, Marcurio straightens in the seat. “I am not leaving Riften. Not for a seat at the council, not for a spouse — not for you.”Mecilvus laughs. To the untrained ear, it might appear mirthful, and not the laugh of someone rolling their sleeves up. “I had hopes that you’d grow up during your stay in Skyrim. That you’d grow out of that small, idiotic brain of yours and achieve something memorable.” He steeples his fingers beneath his chin, arms exposed down to his elbows. “I invested a lot of time and money into you.”“I did not ask for any of it.”The service folk stir nervously along the wall, exchanging glances when Mecilvus rises from the chair. “Shame,” he sighs, and that old fear rushes alive when tendrils of energy skitter along his father’s arms, memories of electricity wrenching his muscles into screaming knots of pain. “I hoped you’d be smarter than your miserable sister. Seems your mother can’t even breed proper heirs. I suppose it can't be helped.”Ear-splitting crackling has the whole room jumping; blinding bolts of energy launches across the table like starving snakes, twitching and jerking, enchanted clothing hissing on impact of fighting the magic back.One second, two, three, four seconds of stunned silence, of Mecilvus gaping in bewilderment at his son whose trembling hands cradle orbs of sizzling energy; three of them, fist-sized, dancing gently between him and his father, the conduits he learned to focus part of his magicka into so he doesn't need to pull from the energy pool inside each time. They're just there, hovering like small ghosts, emanating a low, sizzling hum,.Marcurio can’t discern the line between fear and anger at this point; it’s all messy adrenaline pulsating beneath his skin, clenching his jaw, freezing his feet to the ground by the tipped over chair. He can't recall noticing it falling when he sprung up. “Do not speak of my sister like that,” he hears himself saying through immobilized panic. “I will not stand for it.”“You dare.” Mecilvus teeth creaks from the gritted force. “You dare lash out at me?”No, he doesn’t. But Cynric does, and the child inside him crying in anger does, so he raises his hands again, orbs spitting angrily. “I am not following you anywhere, definitely not back into that pretty cage. When you leave, it will be without me.”“Is this what Skyrim has done to you? Are you one of those barbaric Nords now, throwing a fit at every chance of development?”“Skyrim gave me a life that isn’t leashed onto someone else’s unreachable standard.” The incoming blast isn’t as subtle as Mecilvus intends since Marcurio can read every muscle twitch on his face, and the old man again gawks when Marcurio simply absorbs the flash of energy up into the hovering orbs. They squirm for a moment as if they need to get used to the power increase, then settles, hovering, humming, dancing.“What did you do?”Marcurio latches onto his father’s puzzlement like a leech, sucking confidence into his hollow state. “If you cared enough to actually read my work, you would’ve known I studied the concept of energy absorption for three years. With enough skill, one can encapsulate fire with fire, ice with ice.” He increases the level of magicka flowing into his palms, and so the size of the orbs. “Energy with energy. It’s a fascinating topic.”Something akin to fear flickers in Mecilvus’ beady eyes. “So, you’re not completely useless.”“No. As a matter of fact, not at all. Did you take into consideration that I taught Destruction Magic for several years, that I’ve cultivated my skill instead of flashing it like a pretty accessory to gain respect?” Anger slowly warms the fear from his veins, making him bold enough to stick his chin out. “I fought dragons, father, and won. Consider your chance.”Out of all the things to make his father quiet, Marcurio didn’t expect threatening him would be successful. He tried in his youth, in attempts to be anarchistic, throwing fire bolts in rage that were deflected back in a rain of excruciating pain.“You’ll waste your potential in this hole.”“Gladly.”Mecilvus’ hands form fists, wild energy skittering across his knuckles. Seems Marcurio isn’t the only one struggling to keep his magicka at bay when emotions take over. “If you are so godly and powerful as you claim, you’d do more good with the council. You could teach them — ““I’d rather die.”While the response might be exaggerated, Marcurio would do many unethical things to flee his father’s grasp. Years back, he’d lower his head and trudge back to Cyrodiil, but it’s not just him anymore. It’s Cynric, and there are no bounds to the lengths he will go to stay at that obnoxious man’s side.It feels like an eternity where they glare at each other, blue-ish energy jumping through the air like a miniature siege where war machines catapults sizzling ammunition across a field, waiting for the opponent to lay down their arms.“You will become nothing.”“I am something, father. Just nothing you’ll ever approve of. And I’m sick of fighting towards your impossible standard.” Marcurio breaths through the mess of emotions, of fear and anger and sadness. “I’m never returning to the Imperial City. This is my home now.”Mecilvus expression is as stale as ever, always the hollowed out stone, the cold marble, but something in his gaze grows tired.“Fine.”
Defeat.
“Live your useless life,” he goes on, gesturing at the keep with that familiar disdain. “Rot away beneath the thumb of weaklings. Though, heed my word, child.” He points a spindly finger at his son, who recalls only being called ‘child’ when trampled into the ground. “This will be your downfall.”“I’ll gladly take a downfall over you.”Seeing his father wounded, of all the things, throws Marcurio off enough that the orbs fizz out of existence. It comes and goes with the snap of a finger, the emotionless mask quickly growing back, but it’s enough to spur guilt in Marcurio’s stomach.“You may leave now,” his father says, like the keep is his own and not that of a jarls, breaking eye contact. He walks over to the door while Marcurio struggles to come back from shock. “Go waste your life away.”
‘Did I make it?’
Each step across the room is one taken on fragile ice, the weak foundation creaking beneath Marcurio’s weight as he approaches the door, eyes locked on the freedom through the old frame. The pit of his stomach freezes when his father inhales once they are side-by-side.“Remember,” he tells the narrow space between them, gaze drilling into Marcurio’s temple, “that you made this decision yourself. Don’t come crying to me when the consequences chase you down.”Part of Marcurio wants to apologize; the old, trembling fear urging him to beg for forgiveness before the storm grows to a hurricane.“I know a threat when I hear one,” he grits out through the fear, “and I am more than capable of defending myself.” Marcurio meets his father unyielding gaze, finding a sense of sadness in them. “You’d know that if you cared about me.”He leaves then, and the door gently closes behind him, like some regretful barrier forming between father and son that, despite hating each other, always have been together in the sense of family.Grasping the handrail not to collapse down the stairs, Marcurio battles the wave of exhaustion when realizing he’s out. He’s out, at least for now, at least until his father’s ego have healed and the next attack comes. “Marcurio?”Stepping across the threshold to his own home has never felt as refreshing, not even when returning home from days or weeks wading around a bog, which seems to happen far too often. It’s nothing compared to seeing Cynric launch himself from the couch, parchments scattering into the air like a flock of scared birds, vaulting over the plush armchair to tackle Marcurio against the door. Once the gleeful shock has ebbed, the beautiful view of Cynric blurs.Nimble fingers wipes tears from Marcurio’s cheeks. “What happened?”“I don’t know.” Marcurio laughs amidst the confusion, trying to comprehend the conversation, the power display, the snarky battle. “I said no.”“Yeah?” Cynric kisses his wet cheek, buries a hand in his hair. Marcurio considers pinching himself just to make sure he's real this time. “To what?”“To going back. He told me to go back and become something.” He takes in all the beautiful features of Cynric's angular face, every little spot and crease. "I think I attacked him as well."Cynric's eyes widen with an intrigued sound. "Did you stab him?""Oh, nothing so tame, I cast an energy bolt at him. He, um, didn't take it too well, but I think I got my point across.""I need the entire story."Marcurio laughs and sniffs all al once. "I'll do my best to recall, though I am far too tired today." He digs his fingers into Cynric's shoulders. Home. "Mara, I've missed you so much."Cynric pulls him a little closer, foreheads pressing together in the smothering heat. “I've missed you too, every fucking day has been a pain without you." They stay like that for a moment, Marcurio finally getting to inhale that scent of comforting familiarity. “So… what happens now?”“He’ll leave tomorrow, I’m sure of it. I’ll wave him goodbye, wait for anther set of threats, I suppose. And then, um.” Marcurio runs a hand up Cynric’s spine, tries to collect confidence from the scent of chamomile. “Maybe we can… move ahead with our life? Together, I mean. Us.”To Marcurio’s despair, Cynric pulls back to look at him, frowning rather than reading his mind like he'd prefer. “What do you mean with ‘ahead’? Not ‘move on’?”
‘Mara, grant me strength.’
“I... I’d like us to get married, if... If that's no too much of a bother.”Cynric’s jaw drops, which is always an amusing sight, though it doesn’t beat that blinding grin or those shimmering eyes. “Really? Like, really, you want us to marry?”“Y — yes, well, it’s preferable to officiate the ordeal before my father signs my name on a contract with some poor, unassuming woman." He toys with Cynric's shirt not to start squirming. "I won’t put it past him, judging by how I rejected him today. He’s not one to take lightly to failure, so, I mean, preparation is... preferable. Just in case.”“Oh.” Cynric smirks when Marcurio’s face burns hot, voice dosed in amusement. “That’s all there is too it? Just ensuring you won’t be married off?”“More or less.” Marcurio clears his throat when Cynric chuckles. “I... Well, maybe I’ve thought a lot of you while being away, and missed you, and… possibly come to the conclusion that I very much want to stay where I am.” He dares peek at Cynric's gorgeous gray eyes and the gleaming joy looking back. "Always."“Is that so?” Cynric dislodges Marcurio's hands from his clothes to hold in his, pecking little kisses to his knuckles. “Well, I just so happen to want to stay where I am as well. Always.”Relief floods Marcurio's body with the force of a waterfall, nearly taking his legs out from beneath him. “W — well, that's... That's good. What a pleasant coincidence.” Marcurio holds his breath as his father climbs into the carriage, hands on his back, afraid he might regret accepting Marcurio’s refusal at the last moment, but they both remain silent. Mecilvus barely looks at him before the carriage rolls down the road away from Riften, back to Cyrodiil to lick his wounded ego.The peace won’t last forever, because if there’s anything Marcurio was taught growing up, is to never give up. His father is unlikely to let this slide, but it’ll take a few weeks to return to the Imperial City and stoke whatever fire needed to get back at his son for wanting a life of his own.“I’ll be ready,” he tells Cynric as the thief steps out of the shadows to watch the carriage disappear between the trees. “I’m not going down without a fight this time.”Cynric loops an arm around his waist. “We’ll be ready.”How could he ever give up a life like this, with this resolute, obnoxious, loving man at his side?“Yes. We.”That would be the only thing to make him an idiot.