This is the final fic of my 7 in 7 days, which didn't get posted on time. I do not own The Elder Scrolls series or its characters, if I did I would be lounging about in Hawaii instead of in my bedroom writing fanfiction.
Bruma was a miserable place. The northern winds bit viciously at any exposed flesh, stinging the body straight to the bone. Even in the warmth of the Jerall View Inn, with the hearth beckoning with welcoming flames and the imported mead from nearby Skyrim, promising to warm the throats and bodies of weary travelers, did little to quell Lucien's foul mood.
Dressed in a light brown doublet, simple linen pants, and leather boots, he sat unassumingly in the rear of the tavern nursing a flagon of ale. The Nords around him were boisterous, laughing and wrestling around the room. Lucien sneered.
His target had so far failed to make an appearance and the assassin was beginning to regret deciding to take this contract for himself. He had grown restless at Fort Farragut, he could only stare at the stone walls and work on paperwork from the Cheydinhal sanctuary for so long. His body craved the rush of death, his blade thirsted for blood. And his annoyance demanded more alcohol; however, he denied himself the pleasure. It wouldn't do to attempt the job without full use of his faculties.
At length, the tavern doors swung open and Heinrich Bear-Blood sauntered in, shifting his broad shoulders to better accompany the war hammer strapped to his back. He was tall, even for a Nord. His dirty blonde hair hung loosely about his head, his face sported a full beard, and his icy eyes scanned the tavern before they settled on the serving wench. His burly form strode through the roughhousing of his kinsmen without difficulty. He leaned against the bar and muttered softly to the woman behind it, sitting back on a stool as she nodded and rushed to fill his order.
He seemed on edge, nervously glancing over his shoulder every few moments. His eyes eventually landed on Lucien and he stiffened.
Lucien hid his frown behind his mug and didn't meet the man's eyes, pretending to busy himself with the copy of the Black Horse Courier in front of him. He was a shadow, a specter. There was no way this ice-brained Nord could guess who he was or his purpose. But, the stare burning into the back of his skull made him fidget.
Perhaps an Imperial such as himself was an unwelcome sight. The Nords were a proud people, and who was to say that his presence didn't cause some upset in a bar that seemed to cater to its regulars?
Lucien ignored the Nord's glare until the heat of Heinrich's eyes dissipated from the flesh on his neck. Once he was sure he was no longer being scrutinized; Lucien stood from his table, grabbed his cloak, and slipped through the tavern doors out to the billowing winds of the Jerall Mountains.
He shivered once, threw the cloak around his shoulders and pulled on the hood to protect his head from the fresh snow that had begun to fall.
Sithis take this damned city, he thought bitterly. He trudged through the snow, the falling flakes-picking up speed and density-covered his tracks as quickly as he made them. He needed to find a place to hide out and wait, somewhere that he wouldn't attract an audience. The contract stated that Heinrich visited the Jerall View Inn every Sundas, indulged in a few drinks, then left within the hour to visit a friend in the chapel of Talos.
Nords drank alcohol like water, which meant Lucien didn't have much time. He stepped away from the iced-over stairs and slipped into the graveyard behind the chapel to wait.
He hid by a large tombstone and fingered the ebony dagger inside his cloak with a shuddering sigh. The thought of the upcoming kill spread a familiar buzz through his veins. He need only be patient, but his blade whispered to him. It begged for the ecstasy that death promised, purred to him of pleasure sweeter than the caress of any lover. He shivered, though this time not from the cold.
The night was quiet, a welcome reprieve from the raucous tavern. Lucien leaned his left side against the tombstone, working to get a good view of the tavern doors. The snow was keeping citizens indoors, safe in the warmth of their hearths and families. He would not need to worry about an audience tonight, which meant he could enjoy this for as long as he wished.
Once the clock began to chime, the doors to the inn swung open. Heinrich strode out into the snow, glancing around before starting down the stairs to the lower level of the city.
But he walked right past the chapel.
Lucien frowned and followed him at a distance, careful for any sign of detection. Heinrich didn't seem to have a destination, he merely meandered through the streets. As he looped back towards the Chapel, the Nord paused.
"I know you're there," He called gruffly, a thick accent betraying his recent immigration from Skyrim. Lucien scowled and slipped into an alley just as Heinrich turned to glare behind him. "Come out and face me like a man!"
How had he known? Lucien surely hadn't lost his touch, no matter how long it had been since his last job.
A small Breton girl slipped out into the open, a rusted iron dagger clenched tightly in her pale, dirty hands, her feet were wrapped in strips of linen and her clothes were rags that were ripped and at least two sizes too small. Lucien arched a brow, relieved that it hadn't been himself that the Nord detected but confused at the turn of events.
Heinrich sized her up with a frown.
"This is the best they can think to send for me?" He asked then chuckled. "Your people insult me."
The Breton gulped, knuckles white with the force which she gripped her blade.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she straightened and scowled, trying to look menacing. "Just give me all your money, don't make me hurt you!"
"Oh, a thief, is it then?" The Nord's chuckle escalated to a full-blown laugh. He reached onto his back and pulled his war hammer in front of him. "You see my hammer, little thief, are you sure you want to do this? It's sent men four times the size of you to their deaths."
Lucien saw the girl falter, her skin looking paler.
This is just pathetic…
Heinrich took a single step towards the Breton, smirking as she jumped away from him.
"D-don't come any closer!" She warned, holding the old dagger before her. "Just put your coin purse on the street!"
Heinrich shook his head.
"You're daft, girl," In a few quick strides he was upon her, grabbing her dirty black hair in his fist and yanking her head back. The Breton yelped in pain, storm-grey eyes tearing up. "You're not very good at this, are you? I've had a fairly rough week, a lot of stress, you know how it is. Now, a little whelp like you threatens me, tries to steal from me, how do you think I'll react?" He threw her into the snow and took his hammer in both hands. "You're just the punching bag I need, no one will miss a little thief like you."
Lucien decided this had gone on long enough, he couldn't feel his toes and his cheeks stung from the icy wind. The Nord would be too distracted with the Breton to worry about watching his back. Lucien whispered a chameleon spell and drew his dagger, slipping out from the alley. The snow muffled his footsteps as he snuck behind the massive Nord.
Footprints appeared in the snow behind Heinrich and the Breton gasped. The Nord raised his hammer as she scrambled to her feet, then flung herself against him. Shocked, Heinrich stumbled and fell back, hammer falling useless into the snow beside him.
Lucien barely got out of the way in time, rushing under the cover of a porch so the snow wouldn't pile on top of him and give away his location.
The girl sat a top the Nord, both hands clutched around the hilt of the dagger, the blade imbedded in Heinrich's ribcage, through his heart. Her breath puffed out short clouds as she panted, staring wide-eyed at the crimson spilling out from beneath her hands into the snow. A thrill shot through Lucien's body at the sight.
She leapt to her feet with a horrified gasp, yanking the dagger up with her. Her head darted around, looking for witnesses before she gulped and kneeled to slip Heinrich's purse from his belt. As an afterthought, she dug into his pockets until she produced a key. Nodding to herself, she hid the key in the purse and tied it to the rope holding her pants up. After looking around once more, she hurried to a snow bank and rapidly began to dig.
Lucien watched bemusedly as she scurried back to the body, muttered a feather spell and dragged the Nord to his grave. Once the corpse was properly positioned, she covered the hole with snow until there was no trace of the Nord inside. The Breton rubbed her hands together and shook, but she stared at the blood stained snow with determination. She grabbed a branch from a nearby pine tree and brushed the snow around until it blended in with the dirt of the road. With a thick swallow, she tossed the branch to the side.
She looked to where his footprints had once been imprinted in the snow. The fresh flakes had covered them completely, making her wonder if she had ever seen them at all. With a brief shake of her head, she calmly began to walk away from the scene.
As she disappeared from view, Lucien couldn't help but chuckle in disbelief. The girl hadn't meant to kill Heinrich-quite the opposite if her panicked lunge had been any clue-the look on her face had revealed that the knife plunging into the Nord had been an accident, but she managed a clear head to dispose of the evidence quickly.
Interesting indeed…
Curious, Lucien followed her footsteps, trying to hurry before the falling snow obscured them from view. He walked across town until the prints ended at a decent sized home near the eastern gate. The windows were dark but he could see the hint of a fire burning in the hearth and a small form huddled up in an arm chair, shaking. From the cold or from horror he couldn't determine.
It occurred to him that this girl-who looked no more than a child!-had stolen his kill. He became at once outraged and intrigued, unsure if he should wring her neck or congratulate her on a stunning clean-up that even some of the most senior members of the Brotherhood seemed incapable of.
A mind like that could serve Sithis well.
Sithis…
Of course. Even though it was an accident, she had murdered his target. Sithis still demanded a soul. And what the Dread Father desired, he received.
One way or another.
So, I hope it's believable so far. I believe that each chapter will alternate between Lucien and the Breton's (she does have a name, don't you fear) point of view, but don't quote me. Reviews are greatly appreciated and I'm kind of begging for them (I will admit it). This will be a chaptered story and I'd only like to continue if people are actually reading it, as it takes a lot of time and there are other fics I could be working on otherwise.