Marked
  Turbuggy  

Dried lips parted in a sharp gasp, which was followed immediately thereafter by a pained groan. The mer shifted slightly, as if attempting to escape his suffering, though his efforts were in vain.

“Forgive me.” the Guildmaster spoke, his tone hushed, empathetic, apologetic. The cloth in his hand was wet with warm water, with which he cleaned his patient’s extensive burns, “I know, I know.”

Iacerius’ eyes did not open, instead squeezing tightly shut as the fabric made contact with his raw skin, causing shockwaves of pain to burst forth over its surface. His breathing was unsteady, shuddering, each intake nearly a wheeze as he struggled against the agony. He shouldn’t be here, he knew. He should have been dead. He would have been dead, if it hadn’t been for…

“Please, wait!”

“Give me a good reason why I should not strike you down where you stand?”

Iacerius’ hands were held up in front of him, a universal sign of surrender. Despite his attire— tell-tale garb of the Worm— the Altmer’s face held an expression of fright, of a raw desperation that gave Galerion pause. Though the mage did not draw back his staff, nor allow the arcane lightning to fade from his fingers, he did not strike. Not yet.

“Speak!” he prompted once more, urging the other to make his case quickly.

“You. You are Vanus Galerion, are you not?” his voice wavered in fear, “The Mages Guildmaster?”

“I am.”

Vanus’ cold, distrustful gaze made the necromancer’s heart beat hard against his chest. So hard in fact, that he feared it may alert his fellow acolytes, “Please,” he begged, “I need your help.”

“Easy, my friend,” the mage soothed, “It will help, I assure you. It must be done.”

Careful hands, calloused by years of hard labor, applied a thin layer of a strong-smelling topical over his wounds. Of its name, or its origin, Iacerius knew not. He knew only that Vanus had assured him of its importance. Perhaps, were he more lucid, he would have asked after it. Pondered its ingredients, as his dear brother may have, years ago. But the room was a dream, the voice of the Archmagister a distant warble, as if distorted by water. Perhaps, once he was settled once more, merciful sleep would allow him a fleeting escape from his torment.

“Come with me!”

“What?!” the Dunmer’s face was a mixture of shock and fury, “You’ve gone mad!”

Iacerius stood in front of his friend, the only companion he had found during his time under the Order of the Black Worm. Azarlas had been a fellow initiate, years ago, steadfast and eager to climb up the ranks. They had spent most of their training years alongside one another, saw each other through more than one shared assignment. The Dunmer chided the Altmer for his weak stomach, his hesitation towards their hands-on tasks. More often than not, Azarlas seemed more than willing to leave the other behind, if it meant things may turn out in his favor. Perhaps they had not been as close as Iacerius had been led to believe.

“I can’t stay here any longer, Azar! This place, it’s killing me! Every moment I remain, with each horrific act I commit, another piece of me is taken. I fear… I fear that soon, there won’t be enough left to fix.”

“You’re a fool, Iacerius! A fool and a coward!” Azarlas snarled, his face contorted in a way that resembled a hostile animal, “Can’t you see what power there is to be had here?! Are you so blinded by petty morality, that you would toss away your chance to rise above your peers? There is so much left to be learned! So much forbidden knowledge to leave behind!”

“I don’t want power! I have never wanted power! I only wished to see Serioniril again, if only for a moment! You know that!” the Altmer’s voice was filled with emotion, the kind that, unwilling to be contained, spilled forth into his words. His entire broad frame shook with fear, with hurt, “You can come with me, Azar. We don’t have to stay here! Galerion will—“

“Leave! Leave with your mage if you so desperately desire. But I will make you regret it!”

Exhaustion denied him the strength to prevent his head from lolling forwards. He was held upright as his wounds were bandaged, sealing the wreckage of his body away, like a tomb, filled to overflowing with nameless regret. His chest heaved with the effort, expelling the remnants from shameful lungs.

“I’m… tired.” the raspiness with which he spoke would have surprised even Iacerius, should he have truly heard it. His mouth had simply moved, as it had before, attempting to perform the motions. His voice was nearly inaudible, and the energy it took to utter the simple phrase sapped the strength from his form.

“We’re nearly finished, now…” the Guildmaster assured, as he wrapped one of his patient’s scorched hands, “You may rest, soon.”

“Fiend! Have you such desperation, you lower yourself to theft?!”

Iacerius had never seen Mannimarco in person. His mere presence elicited an overwhelming feeling of dread— one this lowly acolyte had never once experienced before. He was petrified to his very core, certain his fate had been sealed the moment the King of Worms had arrived at the Nest.

“Theft requires the presence of property. I see no property here!” Galerion shot back, only righteous fury behind those bold blue eyes. How he stood before Mannimarco, unwavering, Iacerius would never understand, “These people are not yours to keep!”

A wave of lightning; vibrant, wild, dangerous, exploded forth from where the Archmagister stood. Shambling thralls convulsed, shrieking with guttural, unnatural voices, before collapsing into heaps of rot and marrow. The steady thrumming of retreating feet was masked by the cracks and snaps of guild magic, as mages from all walks of life fought back the horde, in an attempt to aid their founder— and the deserter— in their escape.

It didn’t make sense, no matter how Vanus attempted to understand it. How had Mannimarco known where to find them? The Guild so often ran these raids undetected, wiping the Worm Nests clean of their inhabitants before word ever had a chance to leave their walls. And so much effort for a single acolyte? It was unlike him, Galerion knew. The King of Worms, desensitized and disconnected as he was, clearly wished to make a statement. A statement addressed to both Guildmaster and defector alike.

From the most powerful necromancer in Tamriel, neither expected the burst of arcane flame.

“Drink, my friend. Even a sip, if you are able.”

The glass felt cool against Iacerius’ lips, and the water soothed his dry throat. A few drops ran down over his chin, and dripped onto the blankets that had bunched in his lap. Vanus wiped them away, satisfied enough with his compliance. Lowering the wounded mer back against the pillows elicited another groan of pain, and a stiffening of sore muscles. Another soft apology followed, along with the careful brush of the Arch-Mage’s fingertips, as a few stray locks of brown, sweat-dampened hair were removed from his patient’s face.

Silence permeated the room for a long, suffocating moment. Ragged, unsteady breathing was all that could be heard between the two, as Vanus looked over the form on the bed. Iacerius’ eyes were closed, his mouth parted ever-so-slightly. Despite his best efforts, Galerion knew that a broken mer lay before him. A mer that would bear the mark of the Worm until the day the flesh fell away from his bones.

Footsteps interrupted the silence, as the Guildmaster fetched a well-worn novel from the bedside table. As he sat on the edge of the bed, he opened it to a bookmarked page.

“Shall we continue where we left off?”

Though he got no reply, he began to read aloud.