First off, I will begin this with an introduction... a poor one im certain, this story is rather difficult to explain... it sort of game from a great pool of thoughts and ideas and poured out as one. I wrote this story of the course of a couple months, and the idea just flew off the top of my head... there were many inspirations to this piece, and I will explain many of them through the chapters. Now, this story will be quite long, but divided into eight interlocking pieces of greatly varying length that span the Dark Brotherhood of Cyrodiil as we came to know it. I have opted to show my own interpretation of how the Dark Brotherhood events, many of them we only heard of playing the game, while sticking (many thanks to the Oblivion wiki and many other sources) to the canon as closely as possible... to the point I have deliberately kept certain things vague and open to your own interpretation. Canon is one of the most important aspects, it will not go undervalued here. The rating on this story is there for a reason, I should warn you. I will not plunge this story into utter fan service, there are no Mary Sue's here... if that is what you want, I recommend turning away now. This is a tale of simply too many themes to be listed in the description, and every character I have done my utmost to make true to the game in which they were portrayed, while simultaneously taking many of them further, opening them up a little more for our understanding.
Now, I love the Elder Scrolls, and above all I love the Dark Brotherhood, particularly the Cheydinhal Family. They are perhaps the greatest thing in the already mind blowing series. I had never thought of doing a story about them, however... at least until recently, where it all sort of clicked together in my head. I've not written anything so... forgive the word, 'dark', until now... that is not to say the tale will be a solely depressing one, it will have many moments of humanity amongst our beloved Cheydinhal Family, for even murderers such as they got along as family, family of course being a key idea to all this. As I said, it all seemed to come together to me. The story was already there, it was just a matter of piecing everything together... and reading back over it now, I sort of shocked myself. I've written this in a time of my life where I have been perhaps the most lonely and isolated... and while it isn't fun to feel, I was able to put all my own thoughts, hopes, and feelings and pour them into this writing, a writing I am proud of. I was drawn to these characters of great evil, for they were written in spite of their immense cruelty as believable individuals, one's who valued love even as they murdered. Everyone in the Dark Brotherhood had a sense of belonging and self worth, they all complete one another.
Lucien Lachance, will, of course, be the main character of this story, but far from being the only one. Everybody else will appear as well and play their rightful parts in the events. Lucien is a gift of a character... a man of action and entirely devoid of fear as he serves his dark family, in spite of the threat facing him. There is simply too much more I'd like to write here for this introduction, but I have rambled enough, and can't really think of anymore to add. I will begin by giving you the prologue, a sample of the ideas I have, establish Lucien for what he is, and allow you to test the waters with it... any and all feedback will be more then appreciated and taken into consideration.
Thank you for your time... let's get started, shall we?
The Fifth Century of the Third Era
"So... so you see Mister Lachance, I have to do this... y-you know? T-to prove myself as a father... as a... I'm sorry. I've been so focused upon it, I didn't even offer you anything. W-would you like something to eat? To drink?
"A glass of mead would be most welcome, provided of course you have it... I have indeed come a long way".
"Mead! Uh, yes I do, sorry, just a moment... if you'll excuse me".
"I am in no particular hurry."
"Right... right..."
The Breton man who had been speaking, one well into middle age, grey flecked into his otherwise dark, unkempt hair, rose from his seat at once, eager to be away from his unsettling guest, if only for a refreshing moment, and he departed the drawing room of the apartment as quickly as his legs could carry him, making his way to the pantry. He had only spent no more then a few minutes in the presence of the other, and had gotten terrible vibes from the dark man that he simply wasn't used to feeling... as though unholy power radiated from him, strengthening with each passing second. It was to be expected of course, he knew... what else could be expected from The Dark Brotherhood? He had contacted them for a reason, had contacted them in a grotesque way that had horrified him... were it not for the desperation of his situation, surely he never would have had the nerve to go through with it. To desecrate the coffins, the body's, that he had, to pray to an entity representing what it did... surely it all required an element of insanity to do so.
Part of the Breton, in spite of fearing this instability of his mind, could not help but defend himself and his actions. He couldn't have been crazy... the deed was performed all the time wasn't it? Certainly it was according to gossip... nevertheless he had half expected his grotesque efforts to be a failure... never mind the shock of the dark, cloaked man knocking his gloved knuckles so respectfully on his door this very night, clad in that eerie, confining bodysuit type of armor. The armor, with all those buckles and straps running along it, along with the short-sword resting in his belt and that eerily shifting black cloak, had hammered the point home to the Breton as to what he was surely unleashing. He wasn't sure how his life could have driven him to this point, how anyone could be so very desperate... but perhaps it would be for the best not to start thinking in those terms, and to accept what he had resolved to see through, resolved to set into motion, lest he lose his nerve as he felt close to doing.
One thing was certain, he couldn't keep making excuses or fumbling for words in front of The Assassin, who had been watching him quite calmly, almost indifferently, in another world altogether different, from the shadowy depths of his hood, sitting comfortably in his chair, scarcely uttering a word. When he had arrived in the first place, he had introduced himself and after requesting an invitation to do so, made himself quite comfortably at home, hanging up his cloak on the rungs beside the door in silence. When he did speak, the man did so in a low, deathly calm and crystal clear tone that did little to put the Breton at ease, in spite of the surprising civility behind it. The man's piercing hazel eyes seemed to scrutinize the very contents of his mind, as if he had known the very words he was going to speak before he spoke them, and they merely amused him.
The occasional flickering of the candles arrayed on the floor and about the room had revealed the man to be a smooth faced Imperial... surely no older then twenty or so years. In spite of the visitors unexpected youth, there was something else to him the Breton could not quite place. A sense of maturity perhaps, even of refined politeness so many his age lacked... it was apparent from the first words he had uttered.
Politeness from a murderer. The idea was madness in it's self... but then, what wasn't crazy about all this?
Yet apart from an occupation, if it could be called that, and a name that by all means was probably false, an alias, given his knowledge that the name 'Lachance' was most certainly Bretonic in origin, the Breton man knew nothing of this shadowy other. Now and again the Breton's eyes had stole to the unsettling symbol etched into the armor of the Imperial's shoulder pad... that of a black palm print of an open hand... as if it had been pressed in ink, peering back at him somehow as it's owner did. The Breton shook his head in an effort to clear these images, images that would return in a few moments more clearly, and somehow succeeded. Resolving to hurry, recovering himself from the presence of The Assassin and reaching the pantry down the hall, The Breton opened it, rummaging around and finding the last remaining bottle of Nordic Mead in a rack that had been full not several days prior.
Lips tightening nervously, the Breton slammed the pantry shut and searched in one of the cabinets of the kitchen for a pair of glasses, finding them too and making his way back out to the front room. The moment he rounded the corner, The Assassins eyes were already rested upon his, scarcely blinking as the Breton settled back down in his seat opposite him. He tried to control the fidgeting and trembling of his shaky hands as he poured himself and his guest... Azura and the Nine Divines take mercy on him that this other man was his guest, their drinks. The dark liquid spilled from the bottle, and he filled his own cup to the brim without knowing it, spilling some onto the small table between them. The Assassin's eyes touched the spot of his mistake, the various viscous droplets, before moving back up to The Breton, to the Breton's surprise, his thin lips curling slightly into a faint yet evident smile, nearly causing him to drop the whole bottle. The Breton paused before filling The Assassin's glass halfway and passing it off to him. The Imperial took the glass slowly and gently at the same time The Breton had already started to drink from his own, sip by sip.
"Sorry I took so long", The Breton said quickly, placing the cork back into the bottle, laying it upon the table and taking his own seat. The hand not holding his glass, clenching it to be more accurate, was motioning to the room before them. "I still haven't gotten used to this place... it's not big, Anvil apartments never have been... but after having lived in an actual home for so long..."
"No matter. I have all the time in the world... so there is little need to apologize for such a triviality. You are quite jittery... understandable, but do try to relax yourself".
"Yeah, I know, sorry- I mean... alright".
The Assassin peered down at his own glass for a moment, then to the frightened brown eyed man who was trying to recollect himself and scarcely succeeding in the endeavor, a thin eyebrow arching as he rose the glass, but did not take a sip as his host had.
"I never drink without first proposing a toast", He informed his host quietly, yet his voice carrying like the wind throughout the apartment's parlor, eyes continuing to scrutinize the Breton carefully, a look of somehow subtle, veiled intensity that the Breton nearly averted his eyes from as if scalded by a branding iron. "If you be so kind as to join me. Might you have anything you wish to toast to?".
At once, the pale Breton stopped drinking, his glass already very nearly empty, and his arm froze for a moment before he too rose the glass with slow and evident reluctance, almost hypnotized by the others clear control over the room and all within it.
"A t-toast to whom? Uh... to What?"
The Assassin considered his cowed host for a moment, tilting his head slightly as if expecting him to make one, his gloved hand holding the glass perfectly upright.
"I see... then I believe I shall make it for us, to those who made this lovely night possible. To the Dread Father, The Sweet Mother who joined with him, and the Five their love sired in the Void."
With that unsettling statement of gratitude, one that The Breton scarcely knew anything of, save the all too familiar mention of a ' sweet mother', The Assassin finally took a drink from the mead, closing his eyes perhaps for the first time since he arrived, savoring the taste of the beverage. The Breton watched for a moment, his eyes flickering slightly, unsure of what to say or do... so he followed suit, taking another drink from his glass, but was unable to savor it so calmly as The Assassin could, his mind ablaze with thoughts as it had been for quite some time.
"Yes... the... uh, mother", He echoed a little distantly, having reached the end of his drink.
At last, The Assassin opened his eyes, peering back unblinkingly at the small man across from himself, and he lowered the glass and it's contents down to the table, continuing to sit comfortably. His tightly covered arms rose up to either side of the chair's arms and relaxed upon them, in sharp contrast to the rigid, statue-like host.
"Thank you", The Assassin spoke kindly, breathing a single time silently. "Nordic Mead is perhaps my favorite kind of all available in Cyrodil... I must remember to pay visit to Skyrim, one day... to see what other delightful beverage and culinary wonders they might possess that I have not yet partaken in... to say nothing of the intriguing tales of death and violence running rampant through that province. I apologize, sometimes I do ramble on. I came here for a reason... please, continue with your story Mister Bellamont, you have my complete undivided attention, I assure you."
The Breton was silent for a moment as he peered back at the languid Assassin, struggling to regain control of his thoughts and spit the remainder of his explanation out. He lowered his own now empty glass to the table, his fingers still squirming, and he forced them down onto his lap, balling them in an attempt to master them. While it stopped them from shaking, it did nothing to help the pounding of his heart.
"W-Where was I... sorry, lost my-
"You were speaking to me of your family, Mister Bellamont", That calm voice reminded him smoothly, falling silent once more. At last, The Breton seemed to gain some measure of control of himself, and he breathed deeply, prepared to continue. Perhaps it was the alcohol mushrooming through his system, or perhaps it was The Assassin's reassuring nature... but he found himself able to speak more clearly, and with fewer hesitations. His hands under control, he nevertheless intertwined them, leaning forward slightly, staring at the floorboards... but not so much at what lay upon them, reminding him of his guilt with their presence. Still, even this reminder was more pleasant then peering back into those scrutinizing overpowering eyes for longer then a quick glance.
"Right... you see... I- I have to prove myself as a father... that's the reason I require this Dark Boone. Three months ago, my wife and I separated you see... the courts of Anvil's newest Count and Countess thought it would be better to give custody of my boy to that... that... that witch. They thought he was closer to her... thought it would be better for him if I merely visited, got to see him for a few days now and again. Naturally, she gets control over when and how long that is".
The fear and shakiness in his voice had been replaced by the glowing embers of anger, steadily growing stronger, and he grasped desperately to the feeling, hoping it could override each other threatening to consume him.
"I mean... how in Oblivion am I supposed to raise the boy, give him the lessons he needs to learn to become a man, if that witch is just going to mollycoddle the boy all the time... he needs both of us, both of us to balance him out, both of us to teach him. I tried to tell her that so many time's, but she just wouldn't hear it! No matter how logical and rational I explained it to her, the bloody hag of a woman won't see reason! It's as if she doesn't even understand a goddamn word... all she'll do is control him, turn him into a... a... what is it those Nords always call them? A Milk Drinker, that's it... a weakling. A wimp. That she would get power over him like this... it's favoritism of women, plain and simple. These days it's like they get more rights then us men! How is he gonna survive out there in the world without me, without a complete family, when without me he'd never have been born in the first place! I deserve to be around him!"
"A difficult situation to be in, Mister Bellamont... and one I have heard a great many times".
"Yeah no kidding... you know, that's not even the real reason I needed your... your association, to take care of this. If it wasn't bad enough, this whole month, on each of the days I was supposed to meet the boy, that witch canceled them! Canceled them! Ohhh of course she had her 'reasons', her little excuses. So what if I had a bit to drink before one of the days I was with him... I never endangered the boy... I would die for that kid! I love him, I love him more then she does, more then she ever will, but nobody else can see that. I just... I can't take it anymore... the courts stalling my case for guardianship, her bitching at me constantly... her leading that kid down a road that'll just ruin him in the end. It's bullshit... all of it. I'm... I'm done with it. I can't take it anymore. You see... I heard... I heard things about you people... I heard what you could do... and I thought about it... Azura how I thought about it... I didn't know if I should... if things would get better on their own... I couldn't keep waiting... I had to act. I did some research into your kind... that's where I heard about your 'Black Sacrament'... that's how I learned how to reach you. I didn't think I could go through with it... but I did it... if their family's knew it was me... I did it. I said the words..."
The disheveled Breton broke off, breathing as if he had run a great distance, and he started to pour himself another glass... his hand froze mid air, and instead he grasped the entire bottle, drinking heavily from it.
As the Breton drank decadently, The Assassin's collected, calm eyes moved slowly sideways to the offering that had been left in the center of the room's floor, the carpets having had been pulled back to do so. The assembled parts and organs, some half rotted, others all the way decomposed to reveal their yellowing bones, lay surrounded by candles and fresh sprigs of Nightshade amongst the stains of rotting flesh, blood, and the constant buzzing of flies settling upon what remained, the stench known to him. The candles around the unholy shrine flickered dangerously back and forth, but never went out. The skull at the top of the offering, beside which rested the telltale dagger, grinned back at The Assassin morbidly, a small remainder of hair and tissue remaining, yet the eyeballs already rotted away. That exquisite stench long associated with the dead had carried all the way throughout the apartment long before his visit, soaking into the walls.
"Yes", The Assassin agreed politely, returning his attention to the Breton, who had at long last subsided, no more then a quarter remaining in the bottle. He was slumped forward his face in his hands, the bottle on the floor. "You most certainly did".
"And you came..." The Breton's muffled voice muttered helplessly, it's fear pleasing. "I have no clue how you could have known, how you could have heard me, but you came... and you're here, sitting in my front room, ready to rid me of my... my problems."
"Yes I am", The Imperial Man replied quite simply, folding his gloved hands together. "Our Unholy Matron hears the cries of those who need Her grand services... and Her children respond for Her. There is more... please continue".
The Breton shuddered, and withdrew his hands from his face, biting down on his lip, overwhelmed by anxiety... yet at the back of that, there was purpose, there was resolution to taking the course that he was... and The Assassin knew he would not try to back out of their arrangement, There was nothing more or less then obsessed desperation lurking behind the fathers eyes that he liked to see, a desperation that carried their trade. Eventually, Bellamont rightened himself, breathing deeply, sat back in his seat, and his breaths gradually became more calmly, the anger having died from his vacant face, he simply peered towards the closed window on the opposite side of the room behind The Assassin.
"On Fredas nights... the boy sleeps over at his grandparents you see... I've done my homework, even if I haven't been able to see him. On that night, his mother stays at home alone at our old cottage on the Docks... that's part of why I was surprised to see you. That you would get here this very night... you know... I guess you people would know what you're doing... hell, you've been doing this for years I guess. Century's. That's what I need you to do... I need you to go there tonight and... well... I need you to- that is... I need you to-
"Murder your wife".
Bellamont's attention returned to the Assassin, who appeared as relaxed as ever at the mention of the word, entertained, if anything else, his dark eyes more alive at the vocalization of the word. The Breton was silent for a moment, and then he rubbed his face resignedly, shrugging his shoulders.
"Yeah. Murder my wife", he echoed distantly, his voice quite empty. The air seemed to grow colder then the wind outside at the approaching Evening Star. "T-that's all."
"I see", The Assassin spoke again lightly, considering it for the briefest of moments. "You know... I must say, in this profession... there is no limitations of spouses wishing to do away with their loved ones... or hated ones. I doubt we'll ever have have a shortage of men and women like you, Mister Bellamont... you are doing your par to keep the cycle going".
Bellamont bristled at the statement, for the first time glaring intently at the unmoved Assassin, the anger flaring and flickering again.
"How... how dare you... You... you can't judge me!... You have no clue what it's like to... to... wake up every morning, knowing you have to face a witch slowly draing you of your life... squeezing away everything worth anything! Are you a married man Mister Lachance?", He demanded suddenly, expression hardening, starting to rise from his seat, a fist clenching slowly as he did so. "Are youmarried?"
"I am not", Came the deathly calm answer at once. "I am married to my work Mister Bellamont... I live to serve my Mother and Father... though that's not to say I don't enjoy the personal company of another. No matter, I am not judging you with my words, Bellamont, nor your personal affairs... I am merely quite the reflective individual who enjoys his ability to perceive... so you may take a seat. Your desire in contacting us is of little overt interest to me... I am here to perform the deed you cannot, provided of course you are capable of compensating me for said deed."
Bellamont stopped rising all at once, breathing hard again, trying to calm himself and took his seat almost immediately. Rationality filtered through the haze of his sudden anger... and with another glance in the direction of the Black Sacrament, he knew all at once what would become of himself if he even attempted to strike the young man before him. Nevertheless, The Assassin paid no attention to the blade at his side, nor was he perturbed is the slightest at the Breton's quickened temper... indeed, he waited with respectful, even bemused indulgence for him to continue.
"Ok... yeah... I got your money... enough to satisfy you and your... your mother".
"The gold is of little consequence for many of us, Mister Bellamont... certainly we take it to continue our work... to expand our resources, and bring the blessing of the Unholy Matron to all parts of Tamriel... but other then that, I rather like to think we do what we do for a purpose. Think of them as charitable donations to a higher cause... and you certainly would get more out of your money being sent our way then you would towards the churches of the Nine Divines, dear me yes. Now, before I depart, is there anything in particular you wish for me to do to your wife? Any particular method of death or length in which you wish her to languish in agony? Do speak up, you're far too quiet... when not first angered, of course".
His tone was light and conversational, as if he were speaking of the weather, and Bellamont looked away again slightly, nearly losing his nerve, and shook his head slowly, then reached into a pocket, producing a parchment of paper containing an address, sliding it across the table to The Assassin, who took it at once, glancing at it a single time, and stowing it away into one of the belts on the light armor hugging perfectly to his lean frame.
"No... no. Nothing specific... I... just be... be thorough. "
The Assassin extended his gloved hand forward again, grasping the base of his mead glass and raising it again, drinking it slowly, continuing to savor it. At last, in the ominous silence of the apartment, so much like the grave, he finished, and lowered the glass again, now empty. He rose from his seat silently, his shadow dancing upon the wall behind him, and he moved forward, until it enveloped Bellamont, upon whom he peered down at the disheveled Breton analytically, as if studying a welcome, pleasing sight.
"I can do that", He informed the Breton comfortably, and with this simple vow, he turned to leave, stepping respectfully around the site of the Black Sacrament, and crossing over the floor to the door, which he opened with a creak, the cold night air slipping inside like a silent interloper not entirely different then he. Before departing, he paused in the doorway, gathering up his cloak and the Breton looked up. The Assassin was no more then a living shadow, a silhouette in the doorway against the night sky and the light of the ghostly moons.
"You shall see me again very soon... probably before the night is through, so it might prove prudent of you to wait up. Thank you again for the drink and... conversation".
A wave of white energy, so much like mist, suddenly expanded from his arm, and a carrying ripple seemed to envelope The Assassin like a pebble being tossed into a pond, passing over the entire length and width of his cloaked and armored body in an ever expanding current. His limbs were swallowed into thin air, and soon his entire body followed suit, evaporating. Bellamont watched blankly as the open door closed it's self with a snap, followed by the faint sound of boots descending the small staircase and crunching through the snow until they too vanished, leaving him alone once more by himself.
Bellamont looked away from the door, and at the Black Sacrament, the proof of his guilt, emptily for the longest time, gazing upon the disembodied heart that had ceased to beat so long ago... so very much like the one that would soon join it. Without needing to think, his body reacted by it's self, grasping the bottle again and raising it to his lips and tilting his head back slowly, longing for the sweet ignorance and numbness only the alcohol could bring.
The bottle was empty.
Lucien Lachance, hidden from not only all the town's guards, most of whom were busily chatting to one another or the odd passerby, the active taverns, inns and all the others he encountered as he made his way to Anvil's docks, but his own eyes as well, contemplated the looming murder, even before it had taken place. It was always at this time, the time he walked to his target's final destination, that he thought about what it would feel like... how he would perform it. Sometimes he thought it out in advance how it should take place... sometimes he acted on instinct. It was enjoyable to keep himself from falling into a rut... and given the obvious simplicity of the contract, he had opted for a steel blade, forged steel at it's core, and lined with Silver. Tonight, he already knew how he would perform his kill... had known the moment the man had begun his story.
Bellamont's story had been, ultimately, pointless to hear, and had it not been for Lucien's ever present desire to immerse himself into the experience, to enrich each contract as much as possible, as he had time and time again before that night, listening to the recounting of the man's troubles, he would have merely asked for the address and gotten on with it. There were few Brothers and Sisters back at the Sanctuary who were so blunt as this, and Lucien had, in truth, never been one of them, or even tempted to be for that matter. There was something truly wonderful in having a complete picture for each contract... to having not only a dedication for what he did, but to truly embrace each moment of it as it unfolded. The motives... the causes, the pain in the contract takers eyes or satisfaction, and the fact that he alone could carry out the next and final step in regards to this. The deliverance. True, there was something quite common to the murder of a spouse, but for Lucien, it held a rather special place in his heart.
To tear a family of insignificance asunder... and all in a single creeping stroke of the blade.
He had been taken into the ranks of the Brotherhood for a reason... perhaps it had been his enjoyment of the hunt that the Night Mother had seen in him... perhaps the fact that he would never truly fail a contract... whatever it had been, Her dark love that had birthed an entire shadowy empire had sent one of her children to him, and saw fit to grant him a new and better life, with others so very much like him who had his deepest affection... his love. It was so much more then an organization... it was a family far greater then any other. He honored Her gift with his own love and devotion, and with each life he took and presented on Her behalf, on behalf of the Father and His Black Hand... and the loving voice that had come to him in the night to bring him into Darkness. It was a life he had never thought would find him as it had... one that so few were able to have, a profession that not only gave him purpose, but satisfaction in doing so.
There were so very many across Tamriel and beyond who had striven for this contentment and clarity of mind he had achieved, and never managed to achieve it as he had at such an early age... he was grateful each day he awoke in the Sanctuary or somewhere in his travels, each day he was assigned another contract... each opportunity to send another to the Void where they belonged. The danger in being an assassin was far outweighed by the benefits... and if you were the best, which each Brother and Sister strove to be, even this danger could be minimized. There was a comfort, however, a great comfort, in knowing that any who was killed in the service of the Dread Father would have the honor of serving at his right hand in person.
The trip to Anvil had taken quite some time, Lucien had found, particularly with no horse of his own, he had been forced to travel entirely on foot to be safe, journeying each night until the dawn rose, forcing him to make camp and rest before resuming in this continuous pattern. Nevertheless, he very nearly knew Cyrodiil like the back of his hand, and the extraordinarily detailed map and advice Vicente had supplied had come in handy, as it always did. Dining upon Cyrodiil's wildlife and plants had become a necessity when his food reserves had run short... he would need to pick some supplies up before his return to the Sanctuary. Yet... there lay the reason for which he had come in the first place, a simple, wondrous matter to attend to... one he was very nearly at.
Passing through the districts, Lucien gradually neared the City Docks, passing more homes, inns and stores along the way. At last, stepping through another of the great doors dividing the districts, he came upon them, and with it, a more open terrain. The first thing he caught sight of, was not the lovely illuminated sky, but of the lighthouse across the bay that towered in it... the next was of the ships and schooners parked at the docks, their anchors dropped for the night. The cottages along the docks were not so cramped together as the apartments had been, and thus had more room to breath and flourish in their development, some as big as two stories. Lucien passed over the docks quietly, encountering no further guards, and moved up and down different rows of homes, many of their occupants very much asleep at this hour, anticipation and excitement, tempered by purpose, forming within himself with each step of his invisible silent boots.
There was beauty and serenity in everything in that moment: The creeping light of the moons guiding his every step, the stars above like an ocean in it's self, the scent of the sea's black waters so close... but perhaps it was that night chill so reminiscent of the blade that attempted to seep into his armor that surpassed all others. He savored each moment as he had the mead in his bloodstream, and as he finally reached the end of the particular row of homes Bellamont had written in his note, Lucien, for the first time since setting out, was given two reasons to pause before a small gate leading up a small dirt row and past a garden. The first reason, was the crystalline droplet from the sky that had settled it's self onto his cheek when he'd peered it up that very road.
More white droplets seemed to carry on the very wind, and they began to fall with increasing numbers. Before long at all, the entire black mosaic that was the sky and it's stars beyond, was filled with the lovely sight of snow in the spectral moonlight, descending down into Anvil to meet him. The second matter to give him pause, which, overcoming the beauty of the snow, met his eyes with an alluring radiance more lovely then the weather. The Bellamont Cottage gazed back at him, most of it's windows darkened, save what was most likely the front parlor, it's glow strong courtesy of the fireplace it held, and two bedrooms, scarcely visible due in part to his own distance from the home, and the faintness of the candle within each room.
Lucien turned his attention back to the front room ahead, reaching an unseen arm out to the rickety gate and opening it with a squeak of it's hinges. With another step, he had entered the property, and slowly, deliberately made his way through the snow flakes and up the path, removing the restraint of the sheath from his blade. It hissed approvingly as it left his belt and welcomed his hand as he lowered it to his side. In unison, his invisibility broke, and his limbs were returned to his eyes. Stepping silently along the cobblestone pathway, Lucien reached the front steps, carefully ascending it and reaching the front porch. He paused at the door, stepping up beside the front window, and he simply listened. The crackle of logs, although faint, filtered from the drawing room, pleasantly reaching his ears... but there was something joining it. Lucien breathed the night's fresh air, and slowly, more slowly then it had taken to ascend the stairs, he leaned around the corner, peaking into the front room, his lips within the confines of his hood curling into another faint smile as he took in what, at any other time, would have seemed a normal sight... but in this case, proved an unexpected one, and rendered Bellamont's information, at least tonight, to be inaccurate.
A mother clad in her figure hugging nightwear sat on one of the couches, her smooth legs propped up on a table, reading a book aloud for a little boy in pajamas who held her tightly around her midsection. The mother was a small Breton woman, and although older then Lucien, possessed in great quantity's the beauty and refinement so many of her part Elf kind held, her long dark hair spilling forth over her slender, pale shoulders. In physical appearance at least, there was certainly no trace of the witch or hag Bellamont had described. As she held the book, in unison, she stroked her son's own dark head, fingers brushing through his bristly hair, his bright eyes alive and peering with avid fascination at the pictures she showed him, speaking inaudible muffled words back to her in a high tone. She smiled a beautiful, tired smile down at the happy boy, her own eyes twinkling and, putting her book aside for a second, pressed her lips against his forehead and kissed him, before returning to the story.
Lucien watched them for another moment, a shadow hiding amongst other shadows, from the window, and he withdrew to the side, contemplating this new development with interest.
In truth, the boy's presence made little to no difference... a contract had been taken out and bestowed upon him by the Night Mother. Lucien would see it through... and he would do so tonight. If anything, the contract had just become that much more interesting with the child's presence, and he breathed again, warm air releasing in a cloud out to touch the delicate snowflakes. There was time, however... and this of all nights seemed so... peaceful, beautiful... it would not do to simply break down the front door and rend her to pieces, nor to casually pick the door's simple lock. It required a different touch, one more worthy of him... more thrilling. Something poignant he could recount to the others upon completion of his contract. He needed a good story to tell. Yes, he would wait until they had turned in for the night... and it seemed likely to occur soon enough. And there were windows, making it that much easier to know then they would be done. So, Lucien stood upon the front porch, peering out to the bay beyond the docks, to the distant lighthouse, it's light shining out towards the sea, and the swirling of the snow, and he listened into the night, listened to the mother's muffled, soft tone, to the genuine love in it she held for this child... and his anticipation remained easily under control.
He found himself wondering about his own family, back at their Sanctuary and out of the cold.
It surprised him now and again how much their absences effected him when out on a long contract like this... and the love and ecstasy he felt each time he passed through that Sanctuary doorway, so very much like the love occurring within the cottage it's self. He waited in the moonlight of the highly risen, powerful ruby Masser and the smaller Secunda shining out their combined crimson and ghostly pale light respectively over the city by the sea... until at last, the story came to a close, and the mother, against the many protests of the child, took the boy down to his room not knowing the sands of her hourglass were nearly at the end. She returned to the front room, several minutes later, and placed some more wood on the fireplace. He held back the thirst coursing symbiotically through the blade and his mind that danced together as one, and he waited even longer still, feeling the Dread Father's and Mother's presences, not only within himself... but upon the very air encircling him, until she too had went off to her own room.
Lucien waited close to a half an hour, until assured, and stepped off the porch and into the grass, upon which the snow was gradually beginning to settle, his long cloak flowing over it. He made his way around the outside of the cottage methodically, until he had reached the closest window... that of the little boy's room, illuminated. He lay in his bed... but was not fast asleep, instead, his small hands continuing to flip through page after page of the book his mother had left with him, and, in spite of the lateness of the hour, he was as awake as he had been in the front room, staring avidly at rather detailed sketching's... drawings, of what looked to be Daedric or Aedric entity's and their assorted minions. Lucien started to continue on, with every intention to make his way around the outside of the home and to the mother's window, when he stopped suddenly... a deliciously insidious idea birthing it's self into existence, and he smiled at the undistilled darkness of it's utterly potent depravity, and how righteous it felt to have cultivated within himself.
There were times, now and again, where he was able to play with the mind's of his targets... poke at them before striking... gauge them... the presence of the child presented a great many opportunity, and it would be a greater loss to pass any one of them up. He would not murder the boy, certainly... the father would not pay him for the child's life, particularly given his wishes to seize custody... but Lucien was simply unable to let this opportunity slip by.
Making his way back to the child's window, Lucien again peered in through the window at the oblivious boy... until slowly, carefully, he rose the blade from his side, and tapped it several times gently upon the frost collecting window.
The boy's head snapped up from his book as he simultaneously dropped it to the floor in his shock, his wide eyes, now most certainly electric with fear, caught sight of the darkly hooded and cloaked man standing at his window, backed by the moonlight and the snow, the long silver blade of a sword glinting in the flickering light of the sole candle in his room. Lucien peered silently back at the seemingly paralyzed boy, savoring the perspiration of terror rolling off him, another faint smile forming and being kindly bestowed upon the boy... until, at last, he screamed and screamed, finding his little legs and tearing out of the bedroom, screaming shrilly throughout the cottage for his mother.
Lucien Lachance breathed again, the warm steam filtering out through the cold and reaching the window, heart pounding excitedly within his ears as a surge of energy rushed through it. Stowing the sword back away into his belt, he raised a free hand, and again made himself very much invisible, taking a step or two backwards from the window. A few moments later, the boy returned crying, pointing at the now empty window that had held an unknown man to his mother who had raced after him worriedly. She made her way closer to the window, against the child's urging, and opened it, leaning forward slightly, her anxious, tired and rather lovely face surely no more then a foot from Lucien's relaxed invisible one, and not much further from the blade at his side. He savored the feeling... the feeling of a predator who held all the power in the world... the power to take a life... and to do so whenever he pleased, at his own leisure.
He was tempted to raise a hand to her and stroke the soft, welcoming texture of her pale cheek, to caress it with all the tenderness he might a lover, yet refrained himself from doing so and breaking the illusion, nevertheless enjoying the presence of the urge it's self. He waited until the beautiful woman, finding nothing, had withdrawn her head from the window and closed, it, the worry beginning to evaporate, in spite of the son's insistence that it had not been a nightmare. The lateness of the hour returned to her, and she was clearly exhausted... but nevertheless aware of her son's fears. She turned back to the window and pressed it's locks into place before taking his hand and leading him from the bedroom and down to her own, blowing out the candle on her way out, the bedroom being overtaken by darkness.
Again, Lucien waited... but this time, far less then he had before. As adrenaline surged more so then it had been... he knew there was only one way to truly sate his appetite, and he had already taken enough time to get to it.
It was time to complete a contract. To partake in his hunger.
The invisibility again broke as he pressed the fingertips of his right glove to the window, and a surge of glowing green energy washed over it's entire width, momentarily awashing the bedroom with wraith-like light. It dissipated almost at once as the locks within were overtaken by this magical force and unlocked before Lucien's very eyes. His gloved hands reached up over the snow covered windowsill, and, with a light push, the window moved forward, and with it, an entrance was offered up to The Assassin, which he took at once, stepping up and lowering himself down inside the child's tiny bedroom like the unwelcome guest he was, closing and locking it back up behind himself.
He stood in the lovely solitude of the sanguine darkness only for as long as it took to unsheathe the blade, this time, for the final time that night. Lucien stepped forward over the floorboards carefully to avoid them creaking, his foot falling upon the dropped book as he left the room, finding himself in the hall of the cottage. Down the right side, led to the alit drawing room, the warmth of it's fire reaching Lucien's armored body, the steady crackling of the fire continuing, and in the same drawing room there was the door he would depart from.
His attention returned to the left side of the hall, where at the far end, there was more light, seeping through the cracks in the door and partially into the hall. Lucien's lips curled again as he continued down the hall towards it, and within a moment he stood just outside the door. As he took the final step, just before coming to a stop, his boots landed upon a floorboard weaker then the others, and it creaked again... but it no longer mattered how quiet he was... indeed, he could even hear the woman's faint snores as she lay asleep within. There was simply no stopping his will.
For Sithis I claim another for the Void... in the Night Mother's name my blade will rend... and for the Brotherhood I will never fail.
Lucien Lachance opened the door quickly as he burst through, and it slammed against the wall beside it. His trained eye required only a split second to survey the room before he tore all the way inside and crossed the threshold amidst his own shadows suspended on the walls in the candle light. The woman had indeed been fast asleep, a long wool blanket pulled up to her neck, but there was no sign of the boy to be seen anywhere in the room, and with his sudden entrance, she had been roused awake, and was beginning to scream piercingly as the hooded man bore down upon her. The boy didn't matter any longer, nothing mattered but the mother, and the deliverance of another. The screams, so incomparably beautiful, like the opening crescendo in the symphony that was death, spurred Lucien's hand, and brought incomparable and immeasurable joy to his heart.
Bellamont wanted it through... he would get the most for his money. Lachance had already drawn back the hissing blade over his head, bringing it down upon the bed, upon the screeching woman, with all his might.
In one fluent whirlwind of motion, he cleaved the women's head from her shoulders, separating the two in a fountain of blood bursting forth from the stump in a geyser and running like a river down over the pillow and sheets, soaking the bed rapidly as it flowed freely over the side, dripping like a scarlet rainstorm all over the floor. The front of Lachance's armor, his smooth calm face, and the folds of his cloak were each sprayed by the flying droplets, but the blade it's self that had earlier shone in the light was now entirely covered by the woman's blood, rendered opaque. The moment he had decapitated the Bellamont woman, her severed head had dropped down off the side of her bed and onto the floorboards with an almost comical thud, the river continuing to pour freely forth from the disembodied appendage. Lachance, lowering his dripping blade back down to his side, watched as her screams, silent forevermore, continued in this silence as her mouth opened and closed uselessly, her horrified eyes bulging momentarily back up at her Assassin's pitilessly dark and pleased ones, and then stealing down beneath the bed, as if watching the droplets of her very blood flow down off it and join with the rest.
She seemed almost to remain conscious... or far more likely it was merely her brain realizing it's imminent death, for at least twenty seconds until the fluttering of her now permanently widened, bulging eyes ceased, her luscious lips parting, and her mouth agape. By then her body, still trapped under the red sheets, had too ceased it's own convulsive jerking movements... and Lucien stood back, admiring the quality of his execution.
Of his handiwork.
Contrary to popular belief, single blow decapitations were not quite as simple as they were widely thought. Not only did it require power, but precision... something he was more then capable of. The blood began to pool around his feet and through the cracks in the floorboards, until he stood in the midst of a pond.
The pooling droplets ran from his forehead, over his nose and upon his lips and chin while all the while his all seeing eyes from within the hood watched with detachment the blood flow intricately about for quite some time patternlessly, before, with a small satisfied nod of his head, his bloody boots took him from the room, floorboards squeaking, shifting and creaking with every few steps, and he departed the room, closing the bedroom door behind himself.
Lucien left the seaside cottage silently, re-sheathing his dripping blade and casting his camouflage again when he stepped back out into the night, his boots imprinting a trail of red footprints into the snow until he was some distance from the cottage.
By the time dawn rose over the snow entrenched city of Anvil and screams of murder filled the air along the Dockside when the deed was discovered, Lucien Lachance had collected his payment from the entirely muted, motionless Bellamont who stared blankly at the stains upon his cloak and face, had slipped out of the city and was already back on the Gold Road and well underway with his departure. Unable to buy any supplies in towns looking as he did, he remembered to stop by a stream to wash the blood from himself before he continued on more quickly, bound for the safety and comfort of his beloved Sanctuary, his family. As he traveled, all the while he was unaware of the seed he had helped plant in the midst of the very carnage he had delivered that night, a night, as it turned out, he would soon forget about as the contract's of his career became even more lucrative, ambitious, and above all... pleasurable, then they already were.
And there you are, a little of what's to come. Thanks for reading, again any reviews are appreciated.