A/N: For the first time, Antoinetta Marie tells her own story in her own words. This was an idea that came to me as I was developing her background for another story, and it kind of expanded into one of its own.

This ties in with the other two Oblivion stories I have published - I like continuity. It can stand alone, but of course I recommend checking out the others. I don't think it will turn out to be terribly long, but it'll probably be a decent-sized story before the end. I hope you all enjoy it.

Of A Cold, Loving Embrace

Beyond the Veil

I have waited here long. Cold, stiff, ever watchful, and waiting. Always waiting, languishing in the arms of our Mother. For this is the realm of Sithis you have stumbled across, and this is our domain: the domain of those who served our Dread Father in life—and of those who were claimed by his servants.

I know that I am dead. I have been dead a long time, or so I believe. Time, I think, is something that doesn't quite flow the same way here. An era may pass in your world, or perhaps merely five minutes. It's all the same here. In fact, I'm not so sure time exists at all. Not anymore.

There's a question on your lips, one you've been musing over ever since I first mentioned Sithis. There are two kinds of souls here: that, you understand—but which was I? Was I a heartless assassin, or an innocent victim?

In truth, it was the former. Yes, I was an assassin: taker of lives, harvester of souls. But before you get that look on your face, let me tell you of an impossible truth I learned long ago. Not all assassins are heartless, and not all victims are innocent.

Oh, I don't mean to absolve myself, of course. I tell no lies; I know what I've done. But I've come to terms with it. I'm hardened—yes. Evil—perhaps. Callous—to be certain. But heartless? Never.

I may be a mere shade before you now, but in life, I was a person. Human. A Breton, to be exact—if that specific racial category still has meaning. I was more than just the kills I made. Even assassins are not without emotion. I had hopes, I had dreams, just like any other. I knew love, and I knew loss. I was very well acquainted with the latter, and even here, beyond the end of all things, I can still feel its ache.

Perhaps that is why I am still here: a ghost of my former self, yet intact, when so many others have completely weathered away. Nothing lasts in the Void, you see—not sentiment, not attachment, not memory—only the darkness and the terrible, eternal power of the Dread Father. But I endure.

I can't explain why I linger here. Some curse, perhaps: that I was fated to go on remembering. For it's not just my tragic memories—my most joyous memories have come to pain me as deeply as my darkest ones. I told you I was no stranger to loss, and Fate—Fate is never kind. But without those bright memories—those stolen blissful moments—things on the other side may have turned out quite differently.

Nothing lasts in the Void—yet I can see it all so clearly. The walls of the Sanctuary rising up around me. The sharp scents of wild herbs, brewing into the deadliest of poisons. The feel of a dagger in my palm, a gloved hand wrapped around mine; a low, silken voice whispering in my ear. Yes, I can see it all, even the endless expanse of tundra bordered by snowy mountains beneath a boiling dark sky, the place where it all began…