~ THE COLOR OF NIGHT ~
"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptised in blood and fear..." -The Black Sacrament
At the sound of his voice she stirs, and wakes-
"Come, Anara."
Capstone Cave, west of Bruma. By night.
"Speak."
The word lingers in the chill air - not quite a command, but more than a suggestion. And accordingly, the proposition is made.
The meeting takes place in secret and shadow, since both parties value discretion above all. The man who, for want of a better word, must be described as the host, has long, thin fingers which move ceaselessly as he talks, the tips tapping lightly together, twining restlessly around each other, caressing the crude makeshift desk in a sinister, slow dance.
It might have been unsettling, but his visitor is a man not easily unsettled. Having declined the offer of a seat, he stands as motionless as if carved from stone, tracking every movement with eyes that are watchful yet calm.
The girl at his side holds herself still and straight, her physical posture carefully mirroring his, but she is young and for all her efforts she cannot quite duplicate her master's absolute self-possession. Now and again her face betrays her emotions - a flicker of curiosity, a hint of uncertainty – as she listens to the man who summoned them here, to this lonely bandit's outpost. The one who is still speaking, explaining what it is he wants of his guests.
Although his height is obscured by the fact that he is seated, the speaker is unmistakeably one of the fair folk, the High Elves, tall and spare with elegantly pointed ears. Hair dark enough to emphasize the sallowness of his skin is drawn neatly back from angular features. His robes are a deep russet red, the color of dawn, but the other man's are the color of night.
"…know that your services are in continual demand, but this particular assignment is a…unique…opportunity."
The man in black says nothing, but merely gazes at his host, a wordless invitation to continue. Or so the host assumes. He can see very little under the shadow of his visitor's drooping cowl. So he leans forward and speaks the name:
"Emperor Uriel Septim."
At this the girl is unable to contain a gasp; the man lifts his head abruptly, and the flickering candlelight gives a fleeting impression of strong, elegant features and straight dark brows over brown eyes designed for expression, but rarely allowed it. Now, though, they are narrowed with something like shock and incomprehension.
The one in red chuckles softly, pleased at finally eliciting a reaction.
"Yes, unexpected, is it not, my friends? I am of course aware that this will be an especially, ah, challenging task given the protection that surrounds our noble sovereign, but I feel certain that your organisation is capable of carrying it out."
Silence. Contemplation.
"And there is more," he says, leaning forward. "His sons must die as well. All three of them - the line must be utterly destroyed. The payment will, of course, be proportional to-"
"No."
The word is startling in its finality. Caught out of mid-sentence, the one in red freezes, his fingers ominously halting their dance in mid-air. "...I beg your pardon?"
"No," says the other again, simply.
The host leans back in his chair. His fingers curl around themselves and become still, clenching, crushing.
"Your reluctance puzzles me, Speaker. I thought that you and your young apprentice would be only too eager to offer up a quartet of royal souls to this Sithis of yours."
When the assassin makes no response, he presses; "Have I misread history? Was it not your order who slaughtered Savirien-Chorak and his kin all in one night, ending Akavir's rule-"
"-and ushering in this same Septim dynasty, under which we have grown and prospered. Tell me - why should we wish to bring it an end now?"
The one in red frowns deeply. "My resources are considerable. The compensation would be more than generous, I assure-"
"There are not enough septims in Cyrodiil to persuade me to accept this contract."
As their host's features tauten with anger, the girl's gaze goes from him to her master and back again, unsure of what to think. This rare joint venture is unfolding very differently from her expectations.
She answers to no-one but her Speaker, roaming Cyrodiil at his command, executing the contracts he would entrust to no-one else. Her orders come in written form: a to-the-point letter outlining each assignment, along with the brief words of praise that were the nearest thing to intimacy in this solitary life of hers. And she carries out each task faithfully before going on to the next, always alone. But twelve hours earlier, she had lain down, tired out from her latest kill - a heavily-armored Legionnaire who had fought her till his last drop of blood - and when she awoke, it was to find him standing at her bedside in a reprisal of their very first meeting; that mysterious, beloved figure who had dominated her life for so long.
"I do not take kindly to having my time wasted-" The man in red is on his feet, striding over to them, standing far closer than politeness allowed. The man in black doesn't move an inch, showing no sign of fear even though the disparity in height means he has to tilt his head back to look the other in the eye.
"Anara." Without shifting his gaze, he addresses his companion, "Wait for me outside-" He does not need to speak the second half of that command, and guard the entrance, aloud; he knows that she will understand him perfectly. "This will not take long," he adds, and she, with a hard look back at the Elf, turns to leave.
They stare at each other as the door creaks shut behind her.
"Do not threaten me, Raven Camoran. That would be foolish- Oh yes," adds the one in black softly as the Altmer stiffens, for he has given neither his name nor his affiliation- "our Mother sees all."
He does not raise his voice in the slightest, but there are shades in it dark enough to give even one of Lord Dagon's pause.
"He must die!" Camoran's own voice is unsteady with passion. "Him and his miserable heirs - this contract must be fulfilled!"
The assassin shrugs smoothly. "That is your business."
"It will soon be everyone's business," whispers Camoran. "If you will not help us, we will find another way."
The assassin stares speculatively at him. "Yes…" he says. "I expect you will."
Camoran shakes his head slowly, as if in disappointment. "Perhaps you anticipate retaliation from the authorities? Strangely fearful for a brotherhood which has been tolerated in practice for centuries…"
The assassin speaks with exaggerated patience: "We are tolerated, Raven Camoran, because so many of those in power have need of our services. That tolerance would end the instant it was realised that we were responsible for the Emperor's death. We would be hunted from Solstheim to South Point, and that is reason enough."
"Then your refusal stands?"
"Yes."
Camoran nods slowly and sits back down, folding his hands. Now that he's certain his request has been denied, there is only one possible response.
"Kill him," he says flatly.
The assassin has been expecting as much, and his blade is free of its sheath before the Altmer has finished speaking. He backs up one, two, calculated steps, giving himself room for manoeuvre.
They come at him from the shadows in a swift, deadly rush. The first has barely got to within striking distance when a lightning-fast clash and twist of metal sends his sword spinning away to stick quivering in the table at which his leader sits. Camoran's sharp intake of breath is lost in the subsequent whistle of steel and the moist sound of tearing flesh.
The body slams against the far wall, throat yawning red. There's just time for a wheezing gurgle, the air bubbling from all the wrong places, before the light in his eyes goes out.
The second attacker fares little better. She manages, at least, to parry the first slash, then the second, and retaliate with a lethal two-handed blow of her own. But even as her trusty mace comes down, her target is gone in a dark blur, and the spikes cleave air instead of flesh. The mace is heavy, and the downstroke pulls her off-balance.
She is not given a chance to recover. Never let an opponent get behind you, her old blademaster was forever telling her, and now she knows why. A swift, precise thrust of the assassin's blade, so quick that she barely feels the impact, but the result is unmistakeable: a sudden warmth spreading out from her spine, accompanied by the most curious weakening feeling, as though a sluice gate had been opened through which strength and sensation drain from body and limbs. All at once the mace is too heavy to hold, her legs won't obey her, and as she pitches face down into the dirt, she just has time to be thankful that she won't feel the sword as it severs her head from her shoulders.
As the assassin turns purposefully towards him, blade slick with his comrades' blood, the third cultist, new to the order, finds that promises of Paradise seem suddenly pale beside the more immediate prospect of pain and death. Faith and nerve failing him, he bolts for the door. This proves a mistake. He bursts from the cave only to find himself facing a literal nightmare, all made of lashing hooves and hellish crimson eyes.
Three things happen simultaneously: the girl, a little way off, turning with one hand going for her weapon and death in her face; the demon-horse rearing up over him; his scrabbling fingers hitting the trigger of his crossbow, more by luck than skill. But the shot goes wide and there's no time to reload, and as the creature's shape blacks out the stars above him, instinct takes over and he drops the bow and throws his hands across his face. It won't do him any good.
Inside, the black-robed man glances towards the exit, then steps back to his original position before Camoran, who has not moved the whole time. His face is somewhat paler than before.
"Amateurs," is the assassin's verdict, delivered with silken contempt. "No wonder you needed our help."
Camoran's lips curl back from his teeth. A fiery glow begins to form in his palm.
The assassin, for his part, is poised and supremely confident, with one arm drawn back and the silver shortsword ready in his hand. Their eyes lock in utter silence, and Camoran registers the brief, cold smile that touches the other's mouth - derision, or is it a challenge?
Based on what he's just witnessed, Camoran weighs his chances of getting off the spell before the assassin's blade pins him to the wall by his gullet, and doesn't like them. He does not fear death, which for him is merely the gateway to the next plane. But his father needs him on this plane for a while longer, and he does fear his father.
Slowly, he lowers his hand.
The assassin inclines his head in a way which says I thought not, and resheathes his sword. With a brief gesture that was almost a salute, he turns to leave.
"I bid you farewell. Do not attempt to contact the Brotherhood again on this matter."
He steps over the body lying motionless on the threshhold with the skull cloven almost in two. A low whicker comes from the lithe black mare waiting a few paces away with her forehooves glistening red. But there's distress as well as welcome in the sound. She drops her head to nose anxiously at the second body, the one that's still moving.
Anara lies convulsing on the ground, blood welling up around the bolt that protrudes from the centre of her chest.
He pushes his hood back and drops instantly to one knee at her side, half-lifting her with one hand at her back and the other splayed around the iron shaft, sending pulses of healing blue into the wound. The arrow has missed her heart, and by itself it might not have proved fatal...but he knows the effects of poison when he sees them, and it's racing through her system faster than his restorative spell can counter it. Her eyes are filmy, her mouth slackening-
"Silencer!" he says forcefully, gripping her shoulder, hoping that his tone and touch will anchor her.
"Speaker," she gasps imploringly. And then, for the first and final time: "Lucien…"
"…Anara," he says, very quietly.
She does not answer.
He goes utterly still, watching the final thread of blood ooze from her parted lips. At her side, her favourite dagger, half out of its sheath, glints greenly in Secunda's dim light. She had not even had time to draw it.
The assassin pulls his hood abruptly about his face. He rises to his feet, still holding her motionless form, and places it across the horse's shoulders before mounting.
"I promise you," says Camoran lowly, from the doorway behind him. "We will not forget this."
The assassin turns slowly in his saddle. Camoran can't see his features in the darkness beneath his hood, but the sound of the man's voice sends unaccustomed chills down his spine.
"And neither will we," says Lucien.
Thanks to dreamysherry for some helpful pre-publishing feedback!
OK, I promised myself I wouldn't start posting another story this soon, but it begged to be released. I know there's another fic with the same title out there somewhere, but I've had this one in mind for a long time now. Honest. In fact, there are so many DB fics still being written that I occasionally worry there'll be too much overlap and mine will become redundant, but as long as the stories are sufficiently different in execution (no assassin pun intended) I don't think it matters if they explore similar themes.
So..guild war, anyone?
~Jordy