Some Stories Are Tragedies
  Turbuggy  

They say that somewhere, just beyond our reach, there is a thread that connects us to our soulmate. Perhaps it is a single piece of Kenarthi’s tapestry, weaving hearts together like fine silk. Perhaps it is simply a connection, a tether of sorts, like the soul to the body, that compels one to find a missing piece of oneself, to make oneself whole. Perhaps it is nothing at all. 

It had started subtly. A slight blanching of his face, a few late mornings, a slight loss of appetite, a tickle in his throat.

“Mannimarco, do I look pale to you?” Vanus was leaning forwards, one hand against the vanity as he gently pulled the skin of a cheek downwards, scrutinizing his appearance.

The former Necromancer glanced back towards him from his spot by the wardrobe, where he fussed with the ties on his elegant black and purple robes, “Slightly. Though I must remind you, you have been remaining awake rather late into the night as of recently.”

“You noticed that?” he lowered his other hand to the vanity’s surface, leaning back again and looking to Mannimarco proper.

“Of course I did.” the Worm gave a huff, and he, too, turned towards the other, his clothing now perfectly hugging his form, “Do you not think I can feel when you get into bed?”

“...I believed you asleep.”

“Yes, well. I am not so deep a sleeper not to be roused by the jostling of the mattress.”

Vanus sighed deeply, and looked back to the mirror, giving himself another once-over, “I’m sure you’re right. I’ll join you earlier tonight.”

They should have noticed that something was wrong far before this. Both of them should have. Or, perhaps, Galerion had, and had simply kept it to himself. That was more likely, Mannimarco thought. He recalled each excuse, each explanation, each “I’m alright” he had been given over the past month. Even when his partner had grown paler, and had developed a cough, Vanus had insisted it was those late nights, the stress of the Guild. He always blamed the stress.

“Vanus?”

Mannimarco stood now in the doorway of their attached master bathroom, wherein Vanus knelt over the washbasin, breathing heavily. The Worm had heard the sound of retching as he had entered the bedroom, and had come upon him as he was catching his breath. The old wizard glanced towards his partner, blue eyes having dulled, his face sheet white.

“I’m… alright.”

"No, you are not."

Vanus looked away again, swallowing hard. He tucked some white hair behind his ear with a shaking hand, closing his eyes for a moment as Mannimarco approached.

“How long have you been feeling like this? Has this happened before, as of recently?”

“...Twice.”

"Vanus."

“I’m sorry.”

Apologies were cut short by another wave of nausea, and the Arch-Mage was clutching the basin once more, his entire body straining with the effort. Mannimarco knelt, then, and pulled back his hair. Though the Mer heaved, it seemed there wasn’t much left to expel. He coughed, giving a soft groan as his muscles eased, unsteadily wiping his brow with the back of a wrist.

“We need to take you to the healers.” the scarred face of the Worm held an expression of concern, his tone firm but uncharacteristically soft.

“No. No, I… I don’t need a healer.”

"Vanus—"

“It’s just some… some flu, Mannimarco. I would think you had seen me vomit quite enough times as a boy to understand.”

"I don’t care." came the slightly exasperated response, though he attempted to regulate his tone, “I want to be certain."

Galerion grumbled quietly, closing his eyes a moment as he breathed. He wanted to protest, to tell him that he was overreacting and that he just needed a week or so to recover, as these things so often went. But he felt so… tired. Weak, as though his body had been sapped of energy.

“...Very well. Just to be certain.”

Just a flu, they had said. Stay hydrated, rest, and avoid exertion. Vanus had known that this would be the case, and had delivered the news with such a self-satisfied smirk, that Mannimarco would have been furious, had the Guildmaster’s face not been so sickly pale, his eyes so glassy.

"A flu?!" Mannimarco shouted, "You have been sick for over a month! That is not a flu, Vanus!”

Galerion rubbed a temple, furrowing his brow and closing his eyes, “Mannimarco, please. I’ve done what you wanted. I cannot change the answer simply because you do not like it.” 

"Clearly they haven’t the intelligence to—!"

"Clearly you cannot accept that you are wrong."

The former Necromancer had to hold back a snarl of frustration as he looked upon Vanus’ flat, unwavering gaze. There was a fire in his own golden eyes that no doubt the Arch-Mage could see, though he doubted it would sway him. The Mages Guildmaster was nothing if not stubborn. He had to be, to get where he was.

"Fine." came the hiss, dripping with contempt, “If I cannot reason with you, have it your way."

With that, Mannimarco stalked off, locking himself away in the bedroom. Vanus, arms crossed over his chest, just gave an indignant huff, and headed for his study. There was no need to slack on his paperwork, simply because he felt a little under the weather. 

A soft groan, and the opening of bleary blue eyes, the Mer having been roused by the placing of a blanket over his sleeping form. Vanus peered up from his desk chair, into the face of the Worm, illuminated only by candlelight.

“I hadn’t intended to wake you.” he spoke in a low tone, apologetic. It had been a few days since they had seen one another truly, having done their best to avoid it. Galerion had spent most of his time in his study, when he wasn’t knelt on the floor of the bathroom, and Mannimarco stuck mostly to the master bedroom and living room, opting to read, and to brood.

“...What… time is it?” his mouth was dry, throat like sandpaper.

“It is late, Vanus. An hour past midnight.”

As he had passed the Archmagister’s study, pacing about on a sleepless night, he had noticed the door ajar. It had been tightly locked since their disagreement, and the sight compelled him to open it, just a hair’s width, and peer inside. What he had revealed was Vanus, slumped in his chair, fast asleep, one hand still loosely holding a quill, dark ink now dried to its tip. He had sighed, then. Had fetched a blanket from the spare bedroom, where the Guildmaster had taken up residence; and had returned to cover him. Now, they stood, face-to-face once more, as they always did. It was always only a matter of time.

“...Come to bed?”

Galerion was silent a moment, looking up through half-lidded eyes at his partner. Slowly, they closed, and he nodded. Take me to bed, my love, he thought, hold me and never let me go.

"Mhh…"

"Easy, my dear,” Mannimarco, with a gentle hand upon the other’s shoulder, coaxed Vanus back against the mattress, "easy."

A soft cloth was dipped into a bowl of water, the ice within clinking softly against its sides, wrung out. A mug of tea sat nearby, its steam drifting lazily into the air. One spoonful of sugar, just as Vanus liked it. The cold against his forehead made the old wizard flinch, as the former Necromancer mopped the sweat from his brow. A week had turned into two, and Mannimarco could only watch as his love’s health declined. It wrenched his heart, to look upon him there in bed, cheeks flushed with fever, hair plastered to his clammy skin. He could eat very little, drink very little, and he hadn’t the energy most days even to rise, let alone to walk. His muscles ached, his head ached. It was a pitiful sight, a condition unbefitting of the Great Mage.

Mannimarco had decided that those Guild healers were imbeciles. They knew nothing, dared to turn a blind eye to their Guildmaster’s suffering. He was a healer in his own right, far more capable, more intelligent. He would fix this, he vowed. Galerion would recover, and return to his place as the hero he was, the voice of magic in Tamriel, of open books and unlocked shackles. They needed him here, he knew. His Guild, Nirn. How would Nirn go on without him?

He needed him here.

"Rest, my love.” he soothed, stroking a gentle hand over Vanus’ greyed hair as the old wizard coughed, “All will be well. I promise you this.”

Bleary eyes cracked open, roused by the feeling of a soft chuckle reverberating beneath his ear. Vanus slowly looked up at Mannimarco from where he rested his head against his partner’s chest, wrapped protectively in blankets, cradled in the former Necromancer’s lap there on the couch. The scarred Mer held a book up with one hand, the other arm remaining securely around Vanus’ shoulders.

“...What… are you reading?” he asked, voice low, sounding sleepy.

“Ah, Vanus.” Mannimarco lowered the text, looking down at the other and raising his free hand to stroke his hair, “Hello, my darling. Did I wake you?”

Galerion gave only a slight confirming sound, closing his eyes again. The Worm sighed softly, running fingers through the long white locks, “I’m reading a mystery novel, of all things."

“You used to… love those as a boy…”

“As did you.” he smiled in his reverie, “Though we always deduced who the culprit was far before the reveal, didn’t we?”

A faint smile appeared on Vanus’ tired face, too, “We did…”

Mannimarco trailed his hand downwards from the old wizard’s hair, to instead rub the base of his neck, looking upon him, resting there against his chest. How his pallor made the Worm’s heart ache…

“Tell me how you’re feeling, Vanus.”

“I’m alright… comparatively so.” he shifted, just a fraction, coughing into the blankets, “I’m merely weary. A little sore.”

A nod. It wasn’t exactly the clean bill of health Mannimarco wished it could be, but at the very least the mage had ceased tossing about in a feverish fit, for a time. That was an improvement, no matter how small. He prayed it would last.

“You may go back to sleep, my love, if you need.”

"...Maybe.” he said, pulling the blankets a little tighter around himself, “...Won’t you read to me, Mannimarco?”

“I’m nearly halfway through the book, now, Vanus.”

“That’s alright. I’d just… like to listen.”

A pause, wherein which the former Necromancer considered. He continued to rub his love’s neck, hoping to alleviate some ache, if he could.

“Let me begin over.” pages turned with the use of a small amount of magic, returning to the opening chapter, “I believe you will enjoy it.”

Vanus was dying. Mannimarco knew this, yet he refused to allow himself to admit it. No potion, no spell, no herbal remedy he had tried could cure the Arch-Mage. He felt helpless. He couldn’t imagine a life without the Mer by his side. Not anymore. Not after he had finally found him again, had left everything behind to reunite, to interlock their hearts in a beautiful finality, where they were always meant to be. Holding Galerion’s hand now, so much like the skeletal remains he had grown so accustomed to, it made him wish they had spent more time with one another. Made him wish he had been better. Been the friend, the lover, that Vanus had deserved. He liked to think that somewhere, in another life, he had been.

Galerion didn’t deserve this. He was far too good, too pure for such suffering. After everything the King of Worms had done, it was the Mages Guildmaster who now tossed and turned with fever. Who lay, uneating, undrinking, in their shared bed, his life slipping far too quickly from his grasp. If karma truly did exist, it must work far differently than Mannimarco had been led to believe.

"Oh… I… love this song…” Vanus’ voice was nearly inaudible, weak, and sounded pained. It took so much effort to speak, that he had to catch his breath.

“I know.” the Worm smiled softly, the living room illuminated by the warmth of the fireplace. The auditory illusion he had cast sent soft notes cascading throughout the room, enveloping them in a comforting familiarity, “I showed it to you.”

A faint smile appeared on Galerion’s gaunt features, a ghost of the bright expressions that used to light up his beautiful golden face, shone outwards and lit up the room with the goodness of him. How Mannimarco longed desperately to see it, just once more.

“I loved… to dance to it.”

“You did.” there was a lump in the former Necromancer’s throat, “You were terrible.”

Vanus gave an amused hum, his eyes never opening, “I was not.”

“...I know.”

Raising from his spot on the couch, then, Mannimarco gathered the old wizard into his arms, blankets and all. He held him against his body as though he would break if he squeezed just a little too hard. He hoped Vanus couldn’t feel the slight shaking of his hands, as he brushed some damp hair from his face.

"Will you honor me with this dance?"

With his head resting wearily against the Worm’s chest, he listened as his heart beat in time with the music. Another quick flash of that exhausted smile, gone too soon, "Of course."

Mannimarco recalled their first, as they moved about the room. Vanus, so much younger then, so bright and eager and full of life, had been nervous to try. So worried about failing, but so desperate to learn. He had talked the young noble into teaching him, and yet he had still had to coax him into beginning. It’s a waltz, Mannimarco had said, just follow my lead, and don’t step on my feet.

The melody rose and fell, and the two of them swayed, carried for a moment to another time, another place. A place where things were better, where they were happy. Perhaps a beautiful ballroom, the both of them dressed in finery. All eyes were on them as their hands pressed against each other’s bodies, passionate gazes  meeting as their feet moved in time with the music. It was a waltz, after all.

"Please, just a sip.” Mannimarco sat on the edge of the bed, holding a cup of water to Vanus’ pale lips, trying to coax him into drinking. The mage simply moved his head aside with great effort, eyes never opening.

"Vanus, my love, you must—"

“Stop.”

The word cut the Worm like a blade, deep in his chest, deep into a part of him that only Vanus could reach. His scarred hands were trembling as he drew the cup away, looking upon the figure in the bed. It didn’t even look like Galerion anymore, the old wizard having lost so much weight, his features so sunken and gaunt. The illness so mercilessly ravaged his body, leaving only a shell in its wake. He looked so much like a corpse, so much like the men, the Mer, the once-living, the once-loved, that Mannimarco so callously tossed aside, nothing more than pawns in his game. He thought of Vanus, his beautiful, radiant Vanus, lying there on his altar, and he wanted to vomit.

“You are dehydrated, Vanus.” the words felt hollow, bitter on his tongue, “You need to drink.”

"Can’t." his voice was a wheeze, a croak, a painful endeavor that left his chest heaving. He coughed, and the mere sound of it was agonizing, "Won’t… stay down. Anymore."

Mannimarco knew he was right. No matter how little he tried to drink, to eat, no matter how slowly, he just couldn’t stomach it anymore. The former Necromancer couldn’t even turn to potions now, as the Guildmaster’s body simply rejected them, making Galerion feel worse for the effort. He could feel his throat closing, as tears threatened to spill from his eyes. But no, he had to put forth an air of confidence, of strength. For Vanus.

He placed the cup on the bedside table.

For a moment, the two simply existed in the silence, in one another’s company. For a moment, it seemed that perhaps the old wizard had fallen asleep. He had been doing that so very often as of late, and Mannimarco had grown used to their conversations being cut short. Then, in the stillness, he spoke, "I’m not… ready."

The Worm hesitated, “For what, my dear?”

“...To die."

For the first time in many, many centuries, the very mention of death caused the King of Worms to freeze. He couldn’t breathe, he was suffocating. Neither Mer had spoken it aloud, perhaps hoping that if they pretended it didn’t exist, that the outcome was impossible, that it couldn’t be true. The words felt so concrete, so heavy, that Mannimarco felt them settle atop his chest like boulders, crushing him. 

"You are not—"

"Don’t." slowly, he shifted his head back towards the former Necromancer, "Don’t… lie to me."

Thin, deft fingers, so trained in the art of death, raised to his cheek, coming back wet. Mannimarco wiped the tears with his sleeve, biting them back once more, cursing himself for his weakness. There was no need to cause Vanus any further distress, he thought. But the pain in his chest was too much, too blinding, and he simply hadn’t the willpower.

"Manni…"

That childhood nickname, spoken in a voice so weary, so hoarse, it pained Mannimarco so. A hand, lithe and weak from sickness, turned to present its palm, though it never rose from the bed. The former Necromancer took it in both of his own, without hesitation, giving it a gentle squeeze. Vanus could feel his lover’s hands shaking. He slowly opened his eyes, looking up at the other with a gaze that seemed to pass through him. Those eyes were dull, the light within them, the one that burned so intensely, was nearly extinguished. So unlike the brilliant blue they had once been. So unlike the brilliant Mer he had once been.

“...I’m afraid."

"Then don’t go."

But Mannimarco, of all Mer, knew it wasn’t that simple.

Galerion’s eyes closed once more, and the Worm felt fear of his own. But he could see the shallow rising and falling of the Mer’s chest, saw his brow crease in misery.

"Are you in pain?"

“...Yes."

"Where?"

"I don’t… know."

Mannimarco wanted to scream, wanted to curse the Divines and the Princes alike, curse this world, and whatever fate allowed such suffering to befall such a vallant beacon of hope, a soul so pure, so good, that the Worm was sure it would burn his flesh, were he to hold it. With their hands clasped this way, it was the closest he could get.

“Tamriel needs you, Vanus.” he croaked, in a voice that was not his, but entirely his, “Your Guild needs you. I need you.” tears stained his cheeks, “Will you just leave that all behind?!"

“...I’m sorry...” the genuine guilt, the hurt in the Archmagister’s voice pulled a sob from the throat of the King of Worms— emotion he thought he had long since rid himself of. Emotion he no longer knew how to handle— if he ever truly had.

“No, Vanus...” he raised his lover’s hand to his cheek, pressing the palm against it, holding it there as though it would keep the Mer from leaving him, “Forgive me, I… I didn’t truly mean…”

Mannimarco’s words trailed off, and for a moment, he squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to look at Vanus’ sickly pale face, didn’t want to see him like this. Didn’t want to remember him like this. But he couldn’t look away for long. Not when he knew he may never see those blue eyes open again.

He felt weak movement under his palms, felt the old wizard stroke a thumb over his cheek. A poor imitation of the way he used to caress his face as they lay together in the evenings, or how he woke him from his sleep, cup of coffee in hand, an offering. The thought of never waking to his warm smile again tore him apart from the inside.

“It… will be alright.” Galerion soothed, coughing, swallowing dryly as he forced the words from his lips, “You are… strong. Intelligent. Resilient. You… can still make… change.”

Resilient. It was funny, Mannimarco had always thought the same of Vanus. So resolute and unwilling to fail, to fall, to die. And yet…

“I can’t do it without you.”

“You can.”

“...I will.” he lied.

The King of Worms slumped against the wall of his cell, the magically-charged shackles that held his arms behind his back filling his ears with a soft hum. But he didn’t truly hear it. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel much of anything, anymore. What was the point? There was nothing left for him here, nothing left on Nirn, nothing left anywhere. He had abandoned everything he had built for the Mer that could move mountains if he tried, and he had lost him, too.

Lay with me, he had asked, and Mannimarco had obliged. Laid in bed all night long, his arms wrapped around Vanus’ weary form, holding him close as they did each night prior, never would again. He listened to the slow beat of his heart, felt the shallow rising and falling of his chest, felt his life in his hands. In the morning, Galerion was gone.

And the tether was broken.

Their items lay strewn about the room when Mannimarco had sent the projection, knocked from side tables and vanities in a fit of emotion. How dare he die, how dare this world take Vanus from him, how would he go on without him, why did this have to happen? He had sunk to the floor, hunched, wailing and screaming in fury and anguish.

Then, he had stood, had collected himself, and had contacted the Guild.

Vanus Galerion is dead, he had said, his face red and eyes swollen, the Great Mage is no more.

Naturally, they had thought he had done it. Thought he had finally gotten the upper hand against his old foe. Mannimarco knew they would. Had deliberately held his tongue, refrained from defending his innocence. They hadn’t known that things had changed. They hadn’t known that for the past five years, he had lived secretly, loved secretly, within Vanus’ home. They hadn’t known that for a short moment in time, they had been happy.

A swift death was too good for him, they had said, it must be a public spectacle. The King of Worms himself, who had murdered Archmagister Vanus Galerion, among countless others, was to be hanged. Sitting here in the tiny, dingy cell, its grey stone walls a cold reminder of his emptiness, Mannimarco knew these shackles could not hold him. Knew that if he wished, he could easily overload them, could effortlessly break through the protective wards that surrounded the prison. But he did not. Instead, he sat, and reminisced on better times.

“What are you making?”

Mannimarco had only spared a glance towards the boy, who was dressed in his brand new Psijic uniform, with his short brown hair and big blue eyes that captivated him, made him feel a strange stirring in his gut, a feeling so foreign and frightening.

“It is tea, Trechtus.” he huffed, irritated by the serf’s constant questions, “Haven’t you ever had tea?"

“No.” was the reply, small, sheepish, his eyes downturned.

The noble scoffed, "What? How is that possible?”

“I wasn’t allowed.”

There was a pause, wherein young Trechtus wrung his hands nervously, sparing a few quick flickers of his gaze back to his roommate, and the cup in which he was stirring. Mannimarco waved a dismissive hand towards the supplies, as he placed his spoon down.

“Then have some now."

“...I don’t know how.”

The older boy rolled those golden eyes that Trechtus loved so very much to steal glances of, and he sighed in defeat. “Here,” he said, frustration in his voice, “like this.”

Water was boiled, tea leaves were steeped, and a single spoonful of sugar was added. For sweetness, Mannimarco said, it was far better this way. The serf boy took in every movement, every step of the process, memorizing it and filing it away in his Altmeri eidetic memory. When he was handed the tea, he blew upon it, took a sip, and his face lit up in a bright smile.

“It’s very good!” he exclaimed, looking up at Mannimarco with glee, “Thank you, Manni. I won’t forget.”

“Don’t call me that.” he grumbled, sipping his own tea as the two of them departed the kitchen, side by side.

Vanus’ funeral was today. He had heard the guards speaking of it, just outside the heavy iron door of his cell. It was to be a grand, open event, to which men and Mer from all across Tamriel were welcome to come and pay their respects. Even Queen Ayrenn was attending, they had said, the young noble devastated by the news of his passing. Mannimarco could only scoff. Devastated, indeed. She could not possibly know the meaning of the word. She hadn’t known him like he had. No one had known him like he had. And now no one would.

The thought of hundreds of bodies, all crowded together, eyes hungry to look upon his lover’s lifeless form caused the former Necromancer’s blood to boil. They would cry, he thought, and speak of how good he had been, of how much they would miss him. But they had not— could not— know him. They would feel no loss, no gaping hole where his presence once was. Not in their hearts, not in their souls. Not like he would. They would grieve his actions, his work, his intellect, and nothing more, until he, like those before him, became only a memory. Mannimarco hoped it would be a memory befitting of his legacy. Vanus deserved that much.

Golden eyes squinted and blinked in the light, as the darkness around him was lifted. The bag was unceremoniously removed from his head, and the rope slipped around his neck. Apparently, they had wanted to see his face. Had wanted to watch him writhe, watch the life drain from his eyes, as he had so many of their kin. He couldn’t blame them.

Looking out on the crowd, he counted how many Guildrobe-clad mages he saw. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen… It was nearly endless. So many people, so many lives changed by Vanus’ work, by his beliefs, and his willpower. He could only imagine what Tamriel would look like, had Galerion not departed the island of the Psijics. If he had not existed at all. Would Mannimarco have made his ascension? Reached some level of Divine power? Become a God? It didn’t matter. What was Godhood without Vanus at his side?

Mannimarco had expected a large gathering, and yet, it still seemed so vast, stretching back through the streets. He didn’t deserve such recognition. He didn’t deserve to have his name on so many tongues, so many minds. He didn’t deserve to be known this way, to have a reach that matched that of Vanus Galerion. He had done no good deeds. This world was not a better place with him in it. Not like Vanus. Never like Vanus.

"Execute him!" they shouted, "Justice for Galerion!"

And Mannimarco agreed. Perhaps, with his death, the loss of the Arch-Mage would be balanced, and Nirn would go on. He could hope.

The executioner’s hand gripped the lever, as he looked up at Mannimarco, the King of Worms, “Any last words?”

In that moment, he was Mannimarco, the young Psijic boy, and he was Mannimarco, the Guildmaster’s love, “I will see you soon, my darling.”

The floor gave way under his feet, and he was nothing at all.

"Look!" someone had shouted, and the cheering had ceased.

"Look!" someone had shouted, and all eyes returned to the gallows.

"Look!" someone had shouted, as a figure materialized, ghostly in appearance.

It was Vanus, they had said, it was Vanus.

He stood there, his back turned to the crowd, as if they had not existed at all. "Come to me, my love." he had beckoned, holding his arms out to the corpse of the Worm, from which a second figure stepped, "I have missed you so."

"And I, you, my dear." Mannimarco had replied, embracing Galerion, just as before.

Their forms had wavered, then, translucent blue beginning to flicker and wane, but still they did not part. In the middle of the town’s courtyard, on the doorstep of the gallows, the two held each other one last time as their images melted into a shimmer of magicka, rising lazily to the sky. Glittering in the soft sunlight, until it was gone.

Or so it is said.