Anathema, chapter 2

Anathema, Chapter Two

The last time he'd been at Green Emperor Way, it had been quiet. Peaceful.
Of course, last time there hadn't been a group of protesters outside the palace.
Perhaps Kurz had been right about those future assassination attempts. He'd read about the protests: now that the honeymoon period of 'thank-gods-we-survived' was over, people had realised they were an Empire without an Emperor, and lashed out at the Elder Council's decision to assume control. More, Modryn felt, because they needed someone to blame than anything else, and the likes of Ocato conveniently filled that position. He didn't envy the man.
Pushing his way through the group – if he edged sideways, the sharpness of his iron shoulder-guards did most of the work – he finally reached the front, to where the Palace guards were cautiously keeping the crowd at bay. He showed them his interview slip, received a nod of approval, and was allowed inside.
Surprisingly, his next destination was right in front of him – just outside the Council Chambers, where someone had thoughtfully set up a line of chairs. Several of them were occupied by the other waiting candidates, from fidgeting Legion soldiers to anxious mages, scribbling down Alchemy formulae to keep their nerves at bay. But all, he quickly realised, were dressed for the occasion: immaculate steel armour, fine silk robes. Neatly-combed hair and clean-cut faces. And all, he also realised, were staring at him strangely, almost incredulously. When he glanced down at the old, weather-beaten cuirass he wore every day, it was apparent why.
Well, it would just have to do. Hopefully Ocato wouldn't judge too harshly on first impressions.

So far, he was not terribly pleased.
Perhaps he was judging too harshly on first impressions. Still, such things were important, and he had to at least get on with his future bodyguard. So far, no-one fit the bill: Legion soldier after Legion soldier, each as bland as the last. That, or absent-minded mages, more concerned with their own magical research than doing their job. He needed someone cautious, vigilant. Granted, Legion soldiers were vigilant, but by the Nine, they were dull.
"How many more candidates?" he asked the nearby scribe with a touch of weariness. A whole afternoon of interviews, and he was not one step closer to his goal. What an utter waste of time.
"Just the one, sir. Modryn Oreyn."
"Ah yes, from the Fighters Guild. Recommended by the Guildmaster, wasn't he?"
"That's correct, sir."
"Who is the Guildmaster? I'd heard there was a new one fairly recently."
"The Champion of Cyrodil, Chancellor."
Ocato paused, frowning; "The Champion? I thought he was the Arch-Mage?"
"He's that too, sir."
Granted, all that adventuring and saving the world would hone the mind and body, but still... "He can certainly multi-task. Anyway, send Oreyn in."
"Sir." The scribe left the room. And not a moment later, he saw Modryn Oreyn for the first time.
Admittedly, he had not been expecting that.
He did, at first, think the wrong person had wandered into the room. Probably because the Dunmer looked so very different to all the others, from the grim, no-nonsense expression on his face to the armour that looked as though it had seen a war or two. And...the Mohawk...
He planted himself in the chair beside Ocato without waiting to be invited, nor did he offer a hand for the Chancellor to shake, instead crossing his arms over his chest. And with a sharp, stern tone that matched his appearance perfectly, announced: "If I had known I was being interviewed last, I would have brought something to read."
It was a decidedly unorthodox conversation-starter, and Ocato found himself taken aback, though not appalled. At the start of the day he might have been, considering the Dark Elf crude and uncouth; but it was late afternoon, he was very tired, and in all honesty, the change from the mundane politeness he'd so far encountered was rather refreshing.
"My apologies," he gave as his reply, "There were a lot of candidates to interview first-hand. I couldn't entrust the task to anyone else."
"Sensible enough," Oreyn nodded, as if in approval, "Then we'd best get on with it. Do you have questions to ask?"
"That is how interviews normally work, yes."
Modryn looked quite surprised at the reply – as was Ocato. He normally chose his words much more carefully...after all, his sarcasm could be seen as quite cruel when it was taken the wrong way. But Modryn did not seem the type to be easily offended. Sure enough, the warrior's answer was not angry in the slightest, though decidedly blunt: "I've never had an interview. You don't need one in the Guild; if you're no good at your job, you wind up dead. Or hopefully escape with all four limbs and enough sense to quit."
Ocato wagered the Dunmer had also never learned What Not To Say In Polite Company. But there was something about that uninhibited frankness that appealed to him, probably because he so rarely encountered it.
"But how would you know?" he asked him, "Clearly a lack of skill was never a problem for you. You're Guild Champion, after all."
"Even I was a novice once. But I learned to fight before I joined up – you have to, really. It's not as forgiving as the Mages Guild."
"No, I suppose it isn't," the Chancellor conceded, and glanced down at the weapon at Oreyn's hip, "A mace? Everyone else has had a sword so far."
To which he received a snort; "Swords are nice and flashy and all, but they're useless against even half-decent armour. Whereas blunt weapons...well, the end result might be messy, but it gets the job done."
"It must be heavy, surely."
"I barely notice it anymore," Modryn shrugged, "Besides, I just wear less armour. It balances out."
"Unusual. Most fighters I know put defence above attack."
"Most Legion soldiers, you mean? A full suit of armour looks impressive, and it can save your life – or condemn it, if you can't move fast enough to avoid an attack. But I'm not fond of light armour, so I stick to the heavier stuff, just less of it."
A smile curled at the corners of Ocato's mouth, "You know, a candidate came in earlier wearing a full daedric suit..."
"Daedric?" the mer sounded as incredulous as he looked, and no wonder. Such armour was meant for the dremora, and one dremora had the strength of at least three men, "He must have been huge."
"Actually..." it was improper to gossip, but to hell with it, he'd had a long day: "He was wearing it to impress. Had a few feather spells to hold the weight, I think. Only they'd run out by the time the interview finished, and he couldn't get out of his seat."
Now an Imperial wouldn't have laughed; he knew this with absolute certainty. They would have either shown concern for the armour-wearer's well-being, or taken offence to the loose-lipped story. But Oreyn was not an Imperial – he was a mer, and like all mer, found the anecdote rather amusing. Just a low, subdued chuckle, but it was enough.
"In the end, I had to fetch him some strength potions. I'd have hired him for entertainment value, but I do need to find someone who can do their job-"
"Chancellor! Chancellor Ocato!"
He glanced up, just in time to see a young and evidently new messenger hurry into the room, without so much as a knock on the door first. For such rudeness, he expected at least an emergency, but instead got: "The Minister for Health and Safety wanted to talk to you about-"
"You interrupted me for that?" he frowned, displeased, "I thought I made it clear to everyone: no disturbances unless someone's found another Septim heir-"
"But, but, he said it was really important. It's about the Palace floors, he wants new legislations put in place-"
"Now really, this is no time to-"
"-Before someone gets hurt, so he wanted to discuss it before the Council, and-"
"Hey," Modryn cut across the talkative messenger effortlessly, silencing her at once, "Sod off. We're busy."
And Ocato decided then and there that he would hire the man.
"Actually," the Chancellor spoke, rising from his chair, "Our interview has come to its end. However, messenger, you may inform the Minister for Health and Safety that I must regretfully decline his proposal for a meeting due to a prior engagement."
"But-"
"Though I'm certain his talk on the proper safety standard of floorboards is no doubt fascinating, these floors have been around since the Ayleid age. They shall certainly last another millennia or two," Ocato told her, "And if the good Minister still thinks otherwise, he is quite capable of dealing with the problem himself. That is, after all, what he is paid for."
Logic was a truly marvellous thing – the main advantage being, it was impossible to deny. Her argument clearly lost, the messenger stopped insisting her cause, mumbling a goodbye before slinking off. After her departure, he turned back to Oreyn: "You needn't sit. The interview is over now."
"But..." the warrior frowned, apprehensively standing up, "You didn't even get on to any of the proper questions."
"Proper questions?"
"Asking me about my philosophy on life, things like that."
"Oh, but I did. Do you not remember?" Ocato replied, with just a touch of slyness, "I asked you about your choice of weapons and armour. You explained that you were willing to sacrifice form for the sake of function, and that efficiency is the most important thing. That tells me everything I need to know."
Modryn looked the odd combination of annoyed at the trickery, and yet unwillingly impressed – or perhaps Ocato was just imagining things, as the look only lingered for a second or so; "Then what about your magic? The only thing that tells me about you is that you're book-smart."
"You would need to know which schools of magic I specialise in, and which spells I favour. For the record: Mysticism, Alchemy, and Destruction, plus enough Restoration to get by," the Chancellor told him with a secretive smile, "You can dwell on what that says about me as I show you around the Palace."
"I suppose it could mean- wait, show me around the Palace? I thought you had a prior engagement?"
"I do. Namely, giving you a tour," said Ocato, leading Oreyn out of the room, "After all, I'd rather like you to be my bodyguard. So you'll need to know where everything is."

Modryn was momentarily stunned.
He had the job.
He'd turned up in battered armour, his comfortable-but-inelegant leathers – hell, he hadn't even shaved properly this morning. And he had the job.
"So this is, of course, the Council Chambers," Ocato began at once, effortlessly sinking into the role of chirpy tour guide – but then, it was hardly surprising that a politician should also be a good actor, "As a bodyguard, you need only accompany me at open sessions, which can be freely attended by the public, up there," he pointed upwards to the second floor, and the balcony that overlooked the Chambers, "Just in case of assassins among the crowd and such."
It immediately struck Modryn how casual Ocato sounded. Surely the thought of danger around every corner, or people wanting you dead, would be a terrifying prospect. But he could only assume the Altmer was so accustomed to it that it simply didn't bother him anymore.
"And if we head outside, I can show you- oh," the sound of shouting and general chaos made itself known to both of them, "The protesters must have gotten in. But we don't really have time to wait for the guards...you don't mind passing through them, do you?"
He shook his head. He would have thought Ocato would be the more reluctant to face the crowds, but evidently not.
He had to admit: being the High Chancellor took some steel. No sooner had Ocato stepped foot outside the Chambers when he was spotted by the group, and anarchy erupted. Several of the protesters were hauled off by the Palace guards as they attempted to throw themselves at the mer; whether to actually attack him or just get up close and personal, he didn't know. He found himself automatically stepping between Ocato and the crowd, just in case one managed to get past the security, though no-one did. But he couldn't stop the furious shouting:
"Usurper!"
"You just want more power!"
"You'd crown yourself Emperor if you could!"
"Azura," Modryn murmured to himself, with a glance over at the Chancellor; his pace unhurried, head held high, face emotionless, as though he simply couldn't hear the jeering. So it remained until they reached the silence of the second floor, and he could make himself heard, "They're not exactly kind to you, are they?"
"It is to be expected," if Ocato was at all stung by the insults, his voice did not betray it, "The person in charge is always to blame for one thing or another."
Whatever other opinions Ocato had on the protesters, he kept to himself. No other words were exchanged, beyond Ocato's explanations of each room as they went up another floor, and another, and another. As brief and brisk as it was, it was still well past sunset by the time they reached the very top of the Imperial Palace.
"And these are my quarters. As you'd be required to stay close by, you would sleep in the adjoining room, just there-"
"Ocato."
The High Elf stopped abruptly. And it occurred to Modryn that he should have perhaps called him 'Chancellor', at least, but he had the habit of forgetting his manners. In any case, he'd gone and said it now; Ocato looked rather surprised that someone had actually referred to him by name.
"Before I make any decisions," Oreyn continued, because he'd already established in his mind that this would be the deciding factor, "I have a question for you. Answer honestly, and I'll take the job. If you lie – and I'll know – I'm going straight back to the Guild."
To Ocato's credit, he did not look nervous in the slightest, as most would when confronted with such a blunt ultimatum. But then, he knew that unemotional, unaffected mask bureaucrats wore from his days back in Morrowind; "Go on."
"How did Evangeline Beanique really die?"
Suppressed as it was, he saw the Chancellor tense. Most would have missed it, but Modryn was adept at reading the unspoken, to both anticipate an opponent's next move, and outside of battle, to detect any dishonesty. He could see the hesitation, the natural instinct to lie, and immediately prepared himself to turn around and return to Chorrol. But then:
"...She was murdered," Ocato said quietly, "During the theft of an Elder Scroll."
Given the numerous fabricated excuses in the newspapers, Oreyn knew Ocato would never say such a thing unless it were, for once, the truth. And since the Chancellor evidently trusted him enough to tell him the real story, Modryn figured he could return the favour. Before he could voice this, however, Ocato continued:
"I'm not looking to replace Evangeline – my bodyguard, yes, but not her. And though she was very dear to me, I know she was not as vigilant in her duties as she should have been," he sighed, though not just for the sake of sighing, but with an actual exhaustion, as though this were the first time he'd been able to speak about her so freely, "That's why I'm looking for someone different; a fighter rather than a mage, someone actually cut out to be a guard. I don't want anything else stolen, and I don't want anymore people hurt."
Modryn was wordless for a moment or so – in truth, surprised at the raw honesty he was seeing before him. It was completely unexpected from the likes of a politician.
"That won't happen," he said at last, voice low and tinged with Morrowind rasp, "Not while I'm working here, at any rate."

As soon as Modryn entered the Chorrol Fighters Guild, he was surrounded by people.
"Well?" the Porter was the first to speak, as wide-eyed and eager as a puppy, "How did it go?"
"Did you get the job?" asked Kurz.
Modryn gave him such a solemn, serious look that the Orc was actually ready to offer his condolences. However, he couldn't keep it up for very long, and a grin found its way onto his face: "Just how incompetent do you think I am, Kurz?"
"You did get it! I knew you would!" he crowed at once, in even higher spirits than Modryn himself,  "Sit down, sit down. I want to know all about it."
"You lot don't half like your gossip," the Dunmer grumbled, though with no real heat behind the words, and allowed himself to be guided to the dining table, "Fine, fine. What do you want to know?"
"What was Ocato like?"
"Alright, I suppose. For a politician." He remembered the questions about his mace, which he'd answered unthinkingly, not knowing just how much of himself he was giving away, "Clever bastard, though. I'll have to watch out for that."
"What questions did he ask you?"
"Was he as impatient as everyone says he is?"
"Is he handsome?"
"One question at a ti- wait," he frowned at that last one, asked by Sabine Laul, the Guild smith, "What does that have to do with anything?"
"A lot of people say he's very good-looking, especially for his age," she shrugged nonchalantly, though it could not disguise the curiosity in her eyes, "Any truth to it?"
"Well I suppose he's – I mean, reasonably – in a way – look, I don't know, alright?" he finished at last, more embarrassed than he would have liked, "I wasn't paying any attention to his appearance. I don't even know what qualifies as attractive by Altmer standards."
"Really tall and really yellow," Kurz told him.
Modryn rolled his eyes; "Your knowledge of world culture never ceases to astound me."
"Hey, it's more than you know."
"Oh, stop squabbling. We're supposed to be celebrating Modryn's new job," said Sabine, before the Dunmer could formulate a no doubt blistering reply, "I say we break out the Tamikas and have a party."
"Actually..." Modryn held up one hand, "I can't stay for that. I can't stay for anything, since I'm technically supposed to be in the Imperial City right now. I just came back to say my goodbyes."
The Porter blinked owlishly, "You're...you're leaving?"
"Well I have to, don't I? I can't guard Ocato in Chorrol," Oreyn told him, "You said it yourself, remember? I'll be living in the Palace. I still have to stop by my house to collect my things."
"That's the downside of working for the Chancellor," said Kurz sadly, "We'll miss you, Oreyn."
A little uncomfortable at how sentimental this was getting, Modryn resorted to his famously brusque sense of humour: "What are you talking about? You can steal my job now, like you wanted."
It worked, at least, and Kurz gave a toothy grin, "Ooh no. I had a look at the paperwork. The Guildmaster can do that himself."
"I thought you'd say that," the warrior answered smugly, turning to the others, "And stop looking so depressed, all of you. I can still write letters and visit occasionally."
"I don't know," Sabine worried her lower lip doubtfully, "Bodyguard is a full-time position. I can't imagine you'll get an hour off, never mind a day or two."
Modryn glanced away. He had known, of course, that he would have to move to the Imperial City, but merely viewed it as a change of scenery. Confronted with the reality of actually leaving the Guild behind, it was far more painful than he'd anticipated. It was, after all, his home; he had a separate house in which to sleep, but the Guild was where he spent his days, and truly felt at ease. To know that he might never be able to see it again...
Homesickness was a strange thing. He'd moved Province from Morrowind to Cyrodil without so much as a glance back, but the shift from Chorrol to the city – which wasn't even that far away – weighed down on him in an entirely unfamiliar way.
Having said his goodbyes, and declined the offer of a drink or four, Oreyn departed the Fighters Guild, travelling down the ever-familiar path to his house. Admittedly, he had no problems leaving this behind: it was just a little wooden shack, a strictly luxury purchase so he didn't have to sleep in the Guild hall. Or rather, lie awake in the Guild hall, kept up by the snoring of the other members.
Letting himself into the modest dwelling, it took only a glance to realise how little he owned. Certainly, there were the odds and ends necessary for a house, but nothing that would not be provided at his new residence. In the end, it came down to a neat bundle of clothes, a spare mace, and a repair hammer. The only other thing he could bring along would be...
Well.
He'd never actually intended to become an artist. But what with his temporary expulsion from the Guild – which he'd tried to view as retirement, to make himself feel better – he'd taken up painting, because that was what retired people did. But even though he'd gotten his job back fairly quickly, the brushes and paint pots and other such supplies still remained.
It wasn't like he'd need them at the Palace. If he was going to be an ever-watchful bodyguard, he wouldn't have time for such hobbies. Even so, it was a waste to leave them here, when he'd barely used them...
After a moment of thought, he added everything to the bag.