She had a surname once. It was a century ago, a time when she would hand out a smile to any who laid eyes on her, but she had one. She had not forgotten it, despite her constant desire to. It was a name that etched itself distinctly on the brightest wall of her mind. So she buried it. Buried it deep beneath a countenance of bitterness, never to see the light of day again.
At least that had been her thought at the time.
It was common knowledge that people changed throughout the course of their lives. It wasn't something that could be helped. A child had little say when they lost naivete to experience. It was imminent. Even if they didn't forfeit all of it, they would some. You could gnash your teeth and narrow your eyes all you wanted, but it wouldn't stop the tides of change from sweeping you under. The only thing you could do was learn to breathe the tides, or drown. That's how she looked at life; you either struck the nail on the head or missed it be a landslide. It's how she tolerated the two-hundred years called 'her life'. It was how she handled the knowledge she would live several hundred more years.
Dunmer. Her race. Fascinating to some, detested by others. A bittersweet life that few could evade. She even hated her own existence. In her youth, she would have proclaimed the blame lied on the men who undressed her with their minds and saw her nothing more than something to bed. She would have blamed the women whose eyes spat venom at her every time she passed them on the street because she attracted those responses from men. They all judged her, they all made her miserable and wishing death would come to her before she could feel nothing, so it was their fault, not her's. However, with years came new-found wisdom and understanding that hardened her. It wasn't their fault - it was her's. It was her fault that she allowed their taunts and their gazes to drag her down and hate the life she had been given. It was her fault she didn't stand up for herself and instead allowed self-pity to be the core of her existence. It was her fault for not fighting the men who undressed her, who treated her like a thing rather than a person. Only she realized this too late. By the time her maturity greeted her, she was already a violated husk that was almost impossible to save. There had been very few pieces left to pick up, but she did so anyway. Instead of fitting those pieces back to their original image, however, she fitted them into a bitterness that ran off all things related to morality. She killed. She killed without regard for others' worth and purposes, viewing them as overfed mistakes who'd had their fair share of oxygen already. She felt nothing after the first few weeks. She couldn't. To feel was to face her brokenness that she knew she had neither the means nor the strength to heal. And that was something she couldn't afford.
As fate's games always ran, the Brotherhood had found her before a year had bid adieu. Later than she assumed they would.
She'd heard plenty about them; a guild of notorious cutthroats; a brotherhood of blood-drinking assassins; a band of men in women who flossed with intestines. They had plenty of titles given by the good people of Cyrodiil, though the most common was 'Dark Brotherhood'. Such a simple title that was backed with terrible power and horrendous tales, stained with gore and death. The things of evil and nighttime that left children sobbing in their pillows and adults trembling in their boots. She loved it. She found the prospect of being part of them an appealing idea, though not one to be actively nourished. Her pride wouldn't allow her to go seeking them herself. Oh, no. They had to come to her. They had to want her, perhaps need her, not vice versa. She was not about to be seen as a flower that could be stamped on and plucked again. She was going to be seen as a danger, with hands spotless because she was that good at killing and obscuring it.
When they came to her in the dead of night, she gave them the honor of initiating her into their numbers. She was welcomed with open arms that caressed her, but would just as rapidly slit her throat. It was a fact that made her eyes glitter in wonder and heart race with exhilaration. She gained a reputation that made them both wary and proud at once. She climbed their ranks to 'Assassin' with the skill of someone who was bred to only assassinate. Perhaps she was. Perhaps this had always been her calling and she had been too oblivious to heed the tune that beckoned her.
Then she met him. She'd lived long enough to recognize a vampire when she saw one. Crimson eyes thirsting and haunting your every breath. Cold, lifeless flesh that couldn't have been from this world. Fangs as sharp and deadly as the most masterfully forged blades. She'd met one once before. The bloodsucker had made the mistake of believing her blood was a handout. They walked Oblivion now.
His young face did not dissuade her into the trusting assumption that he was only recently turned. There was a shimmer in his eyes, behind the hunger, that only surfaced after being swallowed by life's lies and surviving the ordeal. His manner of step only came to those who had accepted the fact that they weren't going to lose their burden, so instead had to learn to carry it. And when he smiled, so softly one might miss it, it could only be that of a man who no longer believed in fabled 'purpose'.
Vicente Valtieri.
Arveila's long-fingered hands slid around the base of the tan cup, bringing it to her lips to sip the chamomile tea. The liquid chased away the present chill as it entered her body, calming any aggravated nerves she had left. A ghost of a smile snaked across her mouth as she lowered her hands to her lap, nursing the tea.
It was quiet in the Sanctuary this evening. A fresh heap of contracts had come to Ocheeva the previous day, promising pay and elation to those willing to partake. Having just completed a satisfactory one herself, Arveila consented to not receiving another and letting the others be kept busy. Specifically Gogron, who had been breaking things more than typical and tiring Ocheeva's patience to a raisin. This left only herself, Ocheeva, and Vicente, the latter never leaving home as it was.
The silence was beyond welcomed. As much as she relished a bloody murder, there was attractiveness to relaxing in a space void of Gogron's drunkenness, Antoinetta's ceaseless mouth, and M'raaj-Dar's loathing scowls. She was fond of them, but she had a hard time tolerating their childishness. She was far closer to Teinaava, Tahlia, and Telaendril, who could participate in serious conversations without resorting to that idiocy. But she was even closer to Ocheeva and Vicente. She could sit with them, listen to the scratch of quill on parchment for a time, and leave content. No word need be uttered. Their presence alone was sufficient.
She closed her eyes, picturing the suave Breton bent over his desk, filling paperwork out, occasionally stealing a glance at her from the corner of his eye.
She felt her smile widen, without permission, hardly registering it.
She was almost certain he was aware that she noticed him doing it. Still, he not only never brought it up, but continued to do so. He was confident enough to know the feat didn't bother her. His assumption would be correct. It had, in fact, the opposite effect. It made her...glad. That's what actually troubled her. Such a sensation was not permitted to be free of the chains she had every emotion confined in. The chains she so delicately created; believed to be indestructible. Yet there it was, frolicking about as if it never knew a day of incarceration.
She let the smile transform into a frown, instinctively tightening her grip on the cup.
She'd discussed this with Ocheeva a number of times over the course of the year. Ocheeva was one of only two beings she trusted with such things. With anything. Though still cautious, weighing her words with considerable forethought before deliverance, Arveila slackened her guard around her. She permitted herself to open up a little with her. She discovered it was, surprisingly, enlightening. But she knew better then to give into the temptation of fully dropping her walls. No matter how genuine; no matter how trustworthy she seemed, she could still do disastrous damage if Arveila was not careful. She had to keep stable walls intact, for the sake of retrieving sound permanence.
Following her explanation, the Argonian surmised that Arveila was, as she feared, attracted to him.
This was never supposed to happen. Attracted. The word was toxic.
It took a hefty load of self-control not to panic, but she managed it.
How could she have been foolish enough not to see it occurring? Even after all these years, she still hadn't perfected her behavior management? It was disgusting. And to a human, albeit immortal one, no less? Lady Azura curse her further for this. This was the uprising of her torment she believed she had outrun, influenced by Molag Bal himself, she thought bitterly. The consequence of her own follies.
She was not aware that her hands had been violently trembling until she felt liquid wet her sleeves. She composed herself as best she could and stilled her hands, setting the cup on the wooden table in front of her. Sucking air sharply through her nose, she sank back in her seat and closed her eyes.
It was a raw enticement to abhor Vicente, but to do so would only expand her relapse. It would be a repeat of her youth. It was not his fault - it was her's once again. Besides, she wasn't entirely convinced she could so such a thing, even if she gave into the prompt. Yet, even so, by not indulging, she only further proved her growing care for him. This was also a route of relapse. No matter what she did, she was damned.
It was as if Molag Bal was breathing down her neck. She could almost feel his hot, ragged breath toying with her skin, coaxing out ripples of goosebumps. Her palms perspired; her heartbeat picked up at an aggressive rate. Dread ran its claws along her walls, scratching the surface until sediments fell away in threat of cracking beneath the pressure.
With a gasp, she flung herself from her seat, shins slamming into the table and sending it toppling. Instinct was faster, and before it could tumble, she steadied it with both hands. The cup of tea, however, was not so lucky. It fell and shattered against the floor in a mess of liquid and shards, noisily disturbing the stillness of the Sanctuary. No ear would be left untouched.
She cursed under her breath and lowered to her knees, the expected sound of doors being flung open and hurried footsteps from the stairway greeting her in turn.
Lovely. She leaned over to grasp the largest shard in her right hand, then set it in her other palm, just as Ocheeva came up beside her. She felt the Argonian's startled gaze residing on her as Vicente arrived, expression no different.
"What on Nirn happened?" Ocheeva demanded, her voice a combination of constrained surprise and interest. In the corner of her vision, Arveila noticed her eyes slightly narrowing as she absorbed the scene, her mind beginning to comb the possibilities. The expert mind of an intellectual assassin.
"An accident, nothing more," Came Aveila's monotonous, low-toned answer. She avoided their faces and kept her focus on gathering the shards, more for the intent of not letting them perceive what was in her expression than concern for mess itself.
"You're lying," This time it was Vicente who spoke. Damn vampire. His gentle voice regarded her answer in the same manner he might regard a child on the verge of a tantrum. A child. A blush crept to her cheeks, borne of anger, stiffening her posture. She knew they would notice but cared little now. She was not adolescent who needed to be consoled or supervised by the likes of him! To make matters worse, she was happy he wasn't satisfied with it. There was something gravely wrong with her. Anger and happiness at once? She must be mad.
"Arveila," Vicente hissing her name. It only broke through her thoughts because it held such serious tones, stark contrast to the gentleness. She shook her head and blinked rapidly several times, surfacing from the depths of her mind. With that came the distinct sensation of pain, and something warm; thick and sticky on her hand and dripping down her arm in trickles. She dipped her chin and looked at the hand that held the shards, only to find it clenched in a fist that was wet with crimson. Blood. There was a small puddle below it that was periodically flowing outward as more drops fell. An instinctive reaction to Vicente's statement. A fault of her's.
She mechanically opened her hand, rewarded with a round of intenser pain and further blood flow that made her flinch, despite herself. She now saw that a portion of the broken pieces had at least grazed her hand, while others were actually embedded in the dark flesh. Far more painful than necessary. This would at least be a hindrance to her duties, possibly a setback. Quite infuriating.
She looked at Vicente, reminding herself of what he was and what his reaction could be to the sight of blood. He was very much a self-controlled one of his species, but even the most disciplined vampires could be driven wild at the presence of blood. As would be expected, his whole body was fighting against the urge to come devour from her. He took two steps back, jaw set and eyes slit dangerously. His pupils were dilated and his nostrils flared as he exhaled jaggedly from them, then inhaled the scent of blood. Quivering, he jerked his hand up to cover his mouth and nose, as if in a futile attempt to escape the lure.
"By Sithis," Ocheeva whispered harshly. Acting quickly, she cautiously came to Vicente and took him firmly by the shoulders, turning him toward the stairway. As typical with Argonians, Arveila could not make out the Executioner's reaction to the display by her face.
It all happened so hastily. Vicente seemed to be regaining his composure as he permitted himself to be led, albeit stiffly, to his quarters. Then it was as if someone turned a handle. Halfway down, there was a small cry and then a slam, as if someone had been shoved roughly into a wall. A minor vibration shook the foundation as further proof. She scarcely perceived the sound of running steps before he was there, baring his alabaster fangs in her face and seizing her by the throat, controlled solely by the beast that lusted for her blood. She felt like a doll as she was violently lifted from the ground and smashed into the nearest pillar, feet dangling helplessly and pain exploding through shoulders in promise of bruises. Her heart raced; her lungs screamed in protest at the robbed oxygen. She desperately clawed at the hand around her throat, silently begging for rescue. It was a hopeless endeavor; her shredded hand still bled and made it all slippery. It didn't affect him at all.
Gone was the gentle, polite man she'd come to call a friend.
Darkness danced at the edge of her vision, the rest captured by the sight of his crimson eyes, vacant of the warmth she could still picture him originally having. A looming force reared its head in the furthest wall of her mind, far too familiar, and far too close.
The sight of his pointed fangs coming to her throat sent her over the precipice. She was consumed by icy terror that stole away her reins and left her pleading frantically to Sithis and the Night Mother for her pathetic life. She parted her lips in a silent scream, then some foreign moisture slid out of her eye and traced its way down her cheek. Then numberless more came and she felt her body heave in confined sobs.
His fangs grazed the right side of her throat where his fingers weren't present, applying pressure until breaking the tender flesh. The beast of was toying with her; delaying things for the delight of it. Perhaps torment made the blood tastier.
Now the darkness was there. Its tendrils came, enveloped her mind in a wretched embrace and left all things blurred beyond comprehension. At first, she didn't even notice when the grip on her throat was suddenly gone and she found her cheek against the cold stone floor. However, she did when her lungs were shrieking in relief as they once more expanded with the blessing of air. But she wished she hadn't, because with awareness came pain. It wasn't enough to restart with the tears that had ceased, but it was enough to make her miserable and praying for unconsciousness.
Perhaps Azura felt pity, or perhaps the Night Mother decided to coddle her child, for Arveila received her mercy and was held in the comforting embrace of unconsciousness.
A/N: Welp, this was originally going to be a one-shot. Then when writing, all of a sudden I had this and realized Arveila's tale couldn't be featured in a simple one-shot. She needed a short story or series of one-shots at least. Besides this, she'll also be present in another Oblivion Dark Brotherhood fanfiction I have in mind. I just, you know, have to write it. Pray my writer's block doesn't return and that I keep this up.
I'm not entirely sold on the title. But, uhm, we'll see! Perhaps it will grow on me. x3
Be warned: I didn't proofread it very much, so it could easily be tainted with errors, grammatical or otherwise. Please don't flame me... I can handle gentle criticism, but I don't do well when someone is harsh or blows up in my face. I'm far too sensitive, I'm sorry.
I hope it's readable, and perhaps even enjoyable. Reviews are adored and rewarded with cheese from Lord Sheogorath himself. ^^