#jormag may be a little out of character for that time frame

[i-mybrunettelady]

----- 1334 AE

Liv offered to come. El remembers Liv’s whiskers trembling, as they often do when he’s annoyed, but doesn’t want to lash out; it’s always been one of the charr’s greatest mysteries, how he manages to keep his annoyance from fanning into rage.

“I can go there alone,” El said, pulling on his too big fur-lined coat.

“There are Elder Dragons,” Liv pointed out. It was cold in Lion’s Arch, but El dreaded how cold it’d be in far Shiverpeaks.

“I want to see Aurene. See what’s so special about her. See what’s made Caithe abandon all sense of normalcy and betray us for an Elder Dragon. Besides, Alysannyra wouldn’t risk Trahearne’s life. She can do few things right, but that she cannot allow herself to fuck up.”

“Alright,” Liv sighed. “Don’t get yourself in danger, though. I’ll worry.”

Liv offered to come, El turned him down and now he is heaving alone in the cold shithole that is Eye of the North, trying to chase away that special aftertaste of vomit that only an asuran gate can produce. But he has to see Aurene, has to see what drove Caithe to betrayal. Because it feels like betrayal, because every Elder Dragon comes to be big and green and scream in his mind, and willingly joining the oppressors of mortals on Tyria cannot feel like anything but.

He senses Trahearne before he sees him, deep in conversation with Aife. There’s a noticeable weight of worry in him, worry he keeps hidden and cannot shake off.

“El,” the Firstborn greets, brow shooting up in surprise. His glow isn’t as noticeable as it was before.  “What brings you here?”

“Aurene,” El says curtly.

“Hello, Elandrin,” Aife says with a smile. “How did your self-defense lecture with the saplings go?”

“Lecture with the saplings? Aife, my dear, you can’t have found a worse replacement.” Trahearne shakes his head in disbelief.

“I agree,” El adds. “Don’t think it was my idea. Oh no. Canach and I had a bet and how in the Pale Tree’s branches could I refuse a bet?”

Trahearne pins him with a fond, but serious stare. “How much money did he milk out of you?”

“Enough for two masterwork daggers,” El sighs sadly. “In my defense, nobody got burned. Badly. I don’t envy you Luminaries.”

“Good thing you’re not a luminary,” Aife laughs. “We’d all be ash by now if that were the case.”

“Aife, wait here a moment,” Trahearne suddenly says, going around the table to stand before El. He lowers his voice and asks, “Are you sure? There’s Jormag too-”

“They’re all evil things,” El says harshly, squinting. “But I can handle myself. Thorns, you’re like Liv. I’m not a defenseless little sapling, I survived Maguuma by myself!”

“Jormag whispers,” Trahearne frowns. It’s a strange expression. El feels anger with an equally strange undercurrent of guilt radiate from his friend.

“I should know how to defend myself from dragons whispering in my head,” El bites out angrily. He’s capable, strong-willed. What’s another Elder Dragon?

Trahearne purses his lips. El feels his annoyance beat against his own, and he’s ready to argue if need be. But ever the calmer man, the Firstborn doesn’t take the bait. “Just beware,” he says with resignation, turning to go back to Aife. “They don’t play fair and minds like minefields are at most risk.”

El bristles. “Your dearheart told you that?”

“Yes,” Trahearne says. “If only you two could get along, my life would be a lot simpler. You’re more similar than you’d like to admit.”

“Never let a wrong ripen into evil,” El says sardonically. There’s conversation all around him, sylvari projecting fear and excitement in equal measures, grunting of the charr, laughter of the asura. Blades clash and people who look important - a white-furred charr with tattoos beneath her eye and a big, darkhaired norn, a short-haired human and Logan Thackeray, a floating mass of energy that talks for fuck’s sake - all converse in words he doesn’t quite get.

They’re all here because Alysannyra gathered them. Maybe he even asks her where she got a floating magical being so he could get one for himself.

He turns on his heel and moves towards the corridor. There’s a curious sense of ancient magic lingering in that direction. That’s when he sees her. She’s translucent, white, on her throne of pale crystals, smaller than he expected her to be, but with a long neck and a soothing voice. El hates it, hates how kind it seems, how gentle, when all dragons do is destroy. There’s no kindness within a dragon.

She’s deeply engaged in a conversation - argument - with a charr who doesn’t sound like a charr. Alysannyra sits beside them, purple eyes attentively looking between them, as if waiting for an opportunity to interject. She looks on edge, there are dark bags beneath her eyes, and her legs keep bouncing, like she’s about to run and needs to be prepared at any moment.

Just as she’s about to open her mouth, the charr turns to El and speaks in that smooth voice, “Ah, a visitor!”

“Elandrin?” Alysannyra asks, standing up. “What are you doing here?”

“Sight-seeing,” he says deadpan.

“Please,” she shakes her head. “My day’s bad already, don’t-”

“If you think I’m here for you, you’re an idiot,” he says honestly. “I’m here to see your elder dragon. And Jormag, it would seem.”

“Hello, sylvari,” Jormag says sweetly, a sudden shift from their firm tone from earlier. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

“As long as you don’t call me fodder,” he all but hisses, managing to rein himself in.

“No,” Jormag replies, “that’s my brother’s role, but my brother is dead. You’re marginally more defensive than that compatriot of yours who resides here. I do not see the reason, really.”

“I will not be swayed,” El bites out. “I won’t accept anything you offer, you frigid lizard.”

“Do not antagonise Jormag,” Aurene says and it’s as if crystals fall from her mouth when she speaks.

“Aurene, let me handle this,” Alysannyra says gently.

“But, mother, he-”

“I know what he said,” her champion replies. “And I know he stands by that still. But I ask you not to fight my battles for me. It’s...” She waves her hand.

“Hypocritical of you, Champion,” Jormag tsks. “She just wants to protect you. It’s her choice, after all.”

That seems to have hit a nerve. “Shut up,” Alysannyra hisses.

Mind like a minefield, El thinks. It burns to admit Trahearne was right.

“I’m Elandrin,” he says. “Elandrin Aien. I’d rather be that than sylvari.”

“Of course, Elandrin Aien,” Jormag replies. “I’ll call you whatever you wish to be called.”

“Do not listen,” Alysannyra says, “do not engage. Jormag wants that. They cannot be trusted.”

“You’re protective of me?” El frowns.

“No, I value my own life and mental health,” she bristles. It’s as big of a compliment as she’ll ever pay him and a nearby sylvari chokes on his drink and stares at him. “And besides, Trahearne will end me if anything happens to you. You’re very dear to him.”

“How lovely of you,” he says. “Aurene, you say you like mortals, no?”

“My mother and father are mortals,” the dragon says. “I love them. All of them.”

“You do not make minions? Little Aurene-imbibed underlings?”

“None.” Aurene sounds confused by that line of questioning.

“How do you know that won’t change? How can you be sure? What’s your goal in pretending to be kind?”

“Pretending? I’m not pretending. I do not wish mortals harm. Elandrin, what is the purpose of this?”

“He’s distrustful because of Mordremoth,” Alysannyra explains, crossing her arms. She taps her heel on the ground. “My advice would be giving up. He’s set in his ways. He won’t listen in the best of times.”

“There’s no good in Elder Dragons. Only things they’re capable of are evil. I wanted to see what turned Caithe to your side.” El shakes his head. “False promises.”

Aurene keeps quiet.

“Mind your words,” Alysannyra warns. “It’s my daughter you’re speaking to.”

“And you’re the greatest traitor of them all,” El continues, “if this creature is your daughter. It’s all you could ever do. I knew it would happen, but he didn’t listen.” She closes her eyes, reaches out for her magic, taps her foot against the floor harder and mumbles to herself.

“Mind your words,” she repeats, with more firmness.

“Elandrin!” Trahearne’s voice booms from the hallway. He’s angry. “Is that why you came here? To insult?”

“If need be,” El replies.

Jormag laughs. “What a lovely show you mortals make,” they comment.

“And you, Lyss? Threats?”

“I’m a mother,” she says. “I was just defending her honour.”

“You two are impossible,” Trahearne mutters. “I’ll discuss this with both of you if I have to, and I clearly do. You’re behaving like saplings.”

“Tell you what, Aurene,” El says, eyeing the dragon. “Save Tyria and I may yet believe you don’t plan out imminent destruction. If not...” He shivers at the thought of the Mists. “Save the world, Alysannyra, and I’ll think you a little less of traitor.”

“Of course,” she says, holding his gaze. “It’s what I do. With or without your thanks.”

"With or without my thanks," he mocks. There's an admission of fighting back that wasn't there when he called her a murderer two years ago.

He doesn't know how he feels about it, so he turns to leave. "I'm returning to Lion's Arch, Trahearne. Call for me when you want to talk to me. I'm sure I've heard it before but..."

He doesn't wait for any replies. There's someone who would actually be happy for him in Lion's Arch.