Lament of an Angel

If it had been just about anyone else, Gelebor would have wasted little time in very sternly correcting them. As it was, the old guardian could, at least, see aspects of the funny side of Dust's frustrations, despite his deeply rooted offense at the spouting of the unhallowed tongue. "You know, around a Knight-Paladin of Auri-El, you probably could not have picked a worse language to attempt to disguise your potty mouth with." He sat down by Dust, offering the Breton an open arm. "Come. Speak of what ails you. And please, no more cursing."

Awake [ Gelebor! ]

While concern clearly etched itself upon the weathered countenance of the ancient mer, Gelebor did not suppress Diana's attempts to walk once again. While it was important not to force sudden movement too soon, lest it simply result in more damaging effect, to not at least permit a chance to view the progress made in one under his care would be to potentially slow their continued recovery. Thus, the old Falmer gladly shouldered the weight of the shaky steps of the priestess as and when she needed the support. Despite his instinctual will to do so, he took care not to attempt to take the entire weight off of her feet, knowing well that this was something she desired to do for herself. "Of course we may converse," Gelebor warmly assuaged, suddenly stooping in order to catch Diana before she hit the floor. He gave a gentle smile before straightening out to his full height, inviting her to lean upon him as he spoke. "Do not concern yourself with the where, the when, or the how. I am simply glad that you found your way here, and that you are recovering well." A warm chuckle escaped the lips of the holy mer, though that laughter carried with it a knowing essence, rather than one of scorn or mocking. "There is far more to the Chantry than the mortal eye can see, Diana. What you view is but a fraction of the hallowed structures contained within. If you should so desire, I would be glad to speak further of this sacrosanct place with you -- And perhaps show you more, if your strength will permit it."

A thought just occurred to me. When you kill Vyrthur in Dawnguard, Gelebor says he’ll stay at the Chantry to keep it free of the Betrayed. Thing is… He’s alone in that venture. Totally alone. So, Dragonborn, with that in mind… Who do you think ended up having to lay their own sibling to rest after you killed them? You arsehole.

Though the calling of his name interrupted a silent vigil of quiet meditation and prayer, the Knight-Paladin loathed that interjection not. The relief it presented far outweighed the apprehension sparked, however brief it had been in its tenancy, before his brain registered the origin of that hoarsely uttered sound. "I am ever present, Diana," he warmly assuaged, slowly rising to his feet amidst the protesting sounds of the creaking of his ancient joints. "Even if my sworn oath did not bind me here, I would not have left you be." The old Knight-Paladin's already weathered brow further creased upon noticing the unstable gait of the enfeebled priestess, a concerned frown cracking the uneven surface of that ivory countenance. He knew well that recovery was not an overnight process, but even in the wake of regained consciousness, the Snow Elf's heart remained wrought with a concern that he would not openly project. It was not his place to potentially guilt another with his own feelings or worries regarding any given subject matter, after all; he was here for counsel, not to be counseled himself. "Please..." Gelebor gently urged, shifting to Diana's side as quickly as he could manage. "It would not do for you to cause yourself a further mischief, in the wake of your continued recovery." He offered her his arm to lean upon, a gentle smile evening out the furrows of his concern. "We may converse further, once you are comfortable -- Do not push yourself too soon."

He sounds like a most decent fellow, indeed. I hope to meet him, if it would not be an inconvenience for such a meeting to be arranged. [ Gelebor barely bats an eyelid at the mention of the mer's age - After all, he is thrice that figure himself. ] The void? [ He cants his head to the side, brow furrowing as he contemplates the riddle-like phrasing of Chira's explanation. ] Hmmm. I believe I understand, somewhat... But Padomay? Sithis? What claim has he, to your soul, and how are you here?

Then nurse your worries elsewhere. Sustain yourself with what you’ve made. What good is it to nourish heresy?

Because I understand you now, more than I did before our... incident. I realise now that my assurances were little more than a mockery to you, and for that, I am truly sorry. Why should I not offer you kindness? If you think I would give up on you, despite that which has come between us, you are in err.

I see. Well, fresh faces and old friends alike are always welcome, here. Company is a precious commodity that I am always grateful to entertain, and I would be certain to ensure your father's comfort, should he encroach upon this hallowed place. Knew what? [ His expression melds into a quizzical quirk of a brow, followed by a gentle cant of his head. ] I feel I am missing something, here.

There is a logical explanation for all your postulations, regarding my brother. Regarding the chill of his embrace? It is not abnormal for a Snow Elf to be cold to the touch, on occasion. Cryomancy comes naturally to those born amongst snow and ice; when one has lived as long as we, frost freely flows through and within us. As for never seeing him eat? We are stationed at very different parts of the Chantry, and rarely do we cross paths. Just because I do not see him leave, does not mean that he is not eating. And why should I see him leave from the Wayshrine I guard? He is the Arch-Curate, after all. Now, the age observation... I admit, that puzzles me somewhat. I am the younger brother, he is the older one. That said, I have certainly put my body through considerable stresses, in my time, and many penances weigh heavy upon my shoulders. I surmise that it simply manifests as this aged, lined, and sallow skin, for my father was much the same. ... Not physical? [ He frowns. ] What are you talking about?

A curse laid on him by the Betrayed is my surmise. Certainly, ever since the Inner Sanctum fell, he has not been the brother I once knew and adored, for even his very embrace is as cold as his algid heart. I still love him without question, but to see him languish as he does grieves me beyond words. Special? I suppose it is as good a descriptor as any to use. It is Auri-El's Bow, said to have been carried into battle by the Divine Himself. It is my duty to ensure that only His champion lays claim to it, and thus, here it rests. Sadly, the Wayshrine that shields the bow is sunken, sealed with magic beyond even my casting capabilities. It seems the Arch-Curate does not wish for me to lay my hands upon the hallowed weapon, though I know not of what he could possibly hope to achieve by hoarding the artifact as he does.

Are you comparing the Arch-Curate to a cursed creature of the night, spurned by the light of the sun? Heretical, yes, but furthermore defiled and profane? Still your tongue, for I will not hear it. He is not what he was. Do not approach him, lest you intend to fight him for possession of the bow.

Crass. Brash. Either word suits the purpose of your sentence, as far as my knowledge of the common tongue stretches. Either way, I must insist that your meeting does not take place. It is for your own good.

[Vyrthur halts in his advance, still, again, and cold] I will let them rot wheresoever you leave them. Keep it, that it does not go to waste. There is nothing that you have that I desire.

[ Finally, he draws his gaze upwards, expression wrought with concern. ] Can we not set aside our differences for one meager moment? Will you not even humour me, and at least attempt to consume something out of what I have made for you? I never see you leave to scavenge, or eat at all... I worry about you, Vyrthur.