The drapes of the bed were a deep navy blue. The crushed velvet held flecks of gold stitching, woven through the rich fabric to resemble stars. It hung around the bed, encasing it like a cloak, the whisper of the summer sea breeze through the open window setting it adrift.
The gulls cried quietly in the distance, and the hush and lull of the waves lapping at the shore elegantly complemented the entire feeling of the evening.
Brïka laid on top of the bedspread, clad in her linen nightshirt. The breeze drifting over her bare legs was soothing, compared to the hot sun that had beaten down on her in the courtyard that afternoon.
The days had gotten warmer, and with that came an intolerance for heavy bedding or night wear.
Still, the Summerset isles were always cool enough at night that blankets under one's back did not cause excessive perspiration.
Brïka traced the star stitches with her eyes, sleep had evaded her. It was not unusual at this time. It was not pervaded by stress necessarily, nor encumbering thoughts, it felt to be simply a state of being. That is not to say, however, that she found said state entirely pleasing.
Her white teacup sat on the end table next to her elbow. The contents had been a soft dandelion tea, in hopes of calming her body enough to nourish the notion of rest, yet it escaped her.
The Queen had kept her busy that day, so at least this was a moment of time to herself. The hot cobblestone had been a nuisance, and she had to dance swiftly and lightly across the top, her arms adorned with tea trays and pastries. Luckily, the nobility had found the act and its performer, given their hungry and excitable dispositions, graceful in entirety. Call it a second nature, almost. Perhaps if she'd made the switch to sandals, but the soles did not feel right. Luckily, calloused feet were a lifelong companion to her.
Below her window, she heard a door creak open slowly, and the shut with a quiet click. Heels of a pair of boots tapped quietly across the cobblestone outside, and the beat of someone going quickly down the stairs to the shore faded.
The hour was late, it was unlikely one would have a need to go outside at the time.
Brïka swung her legs over the side of the bed, her toes making contact with the ornate rug on the ground.
She moved swiftly to the window, lingering over the edge, her stomach pressed against the windowsill.
The ocean stench hit her nostrils as she gazed out over the quiet night. She could not quite see the sand from where she stood.
Though unusual, her curiosity got the better of her. There must've been someone worth her interest, otherwise it would not have bothered her so. Still, it was quite odd.
Making her way back to the bed, she pulled on some pants, buttoning the front as she opened her door quietly, and began down the stairs to the outside door./p
The corridor was quiet as she made her way to the exit. Not a door was left open, and even the servants rooms were still.
She pushed open the door to the patio, and was met by a warm rush of air.
Down the stairs and to the beach.
The imprints in the sand led to a most unexpected sight. It was worth her time.
Prince Naemon stood where the water met the sand. In his hand he held a bottle of wine, definitely expensive, and his other rested at his side.
His eyes were soft as he gazed out over the water.
Brïka turned invisible, a chill prickling down her skin.
She headed very quietly to him, appearing at his arm.
"Alone so late at night, my lord?"
He turned to her in surprise, the bottle almost slipping from his hand.
"Malorn!" He regained his composure, the look of bewilderment disappearing almost as quickly as it came. He turned back to the water.
"I've… much on my mind tonight." He admitted quietly, uncorking the bottle and taking a long swig.
Of course she knew what he meant. She would be the blindest of fools to not know what he meant. They had only recently returned to Auridon's port after Estre's death. Though the betrayal clearly had his mind swimming, it must've been easier to accept than that she had been a murderer, and used her fanaticism to justify it. No, it was easier to say a demon had a hold on her. Daedric worshiper. Traitor to the Dominion. Almost Queen. His wife.
Murderer, that's what she'd been.
And in turn so had Brïka.
Her hands, stained crimson as she had stepped out of the daedric gate, flecks of blood plastered across her face like makeup. Harrowing, the sight of her, like a specter out of a graveyard. Hand of death, walking like the people bowed before her.
Who's blood was that? Drenched in the red of another's body. He could not look away. His sister reached out and touched his arm.
"Little brother."
His heel ground in the sand. Brïka lightly grazed his arm with her nails. He froze, watching her fingers, delicate, expecting them to be bloodstained. The expectation was not met. He shook his head, plucking the memory up and tucking it away.
"Forgive me, Malorn. Had I known I'd be drinking in company, I'd have brought glasses." He scoffed at his own manners, offering her the bottle. Drinking, on the beach, with the Queen's eye. His sister's alleged handmaiden. Wife killer. Stranger things had happened, he hoped?
Knowing better than to refuse, Brïka gently took it from him and took a small sip. Red wine. Sharp. Distinctly sweet and fruitful.
She passed it back. He took another drink. She noted the bottle was only about half-full. Quite a lot for one man to drink. Naemon's jaw held tension, he seemed to be grinding his teeth.
He side-eyed her, and had she not already been staring intently, she would've missed the tips of his ears flush.
"Had I known, Malorn, had I known." He furrowed his eyebrows, raising the bottle, "For the glory of the Dominion."
The cynicism was hard to miss in his voice. She did not expect him to be entirely pleased with her.
He took the longest drink yet, and practically thrust the bottle into her arms. His hands trembled. Had he been drinking before he came outside? The contents of the bottle gave a distinctive yes.
Brïka stooped and set it in the sand, grabbing the cork from where he had dropped it in the sand.
"Tell me, Malorn, why is it always you who comes for me?"
Brïka pursed her lips, corking the bottle firmly, "It's my job, my lord."
Not entirely false. Moreover, it was her job for the Queen, but Ayrenn was as capable a women as they came. A smile graced her features.
Genuine, confident.
Brïka had always been the first to his side when conflict struck. Too quick for anyone else to match. On more than one occasion, cutting through the slight gap where Estre was at his elbow. Almost knocking her aside. To anyone else, it could've been blamed on the necessity of haste. Perhaps no one else knew any better.
A drunk patron at a party, and she'd instantly been between both of them, knocking the man's fists aside and parrying blows.
She had not missed the look of unadulterated spite from the lady, she simply acted like she had, and tended to the Prince when the brute was too tired to continue and the guards dragged him away.
"Perhaps you need to be hiring better staff." She prodded at him. His eyes narrowed, watching her slowly stand up and straighten out her blouse, flicking away grains of sand from her fingers. She knew she held his attention.
Her's alone.
"You seem capable enough, Queen's favorite." He prodded right back. Yes, she was entirely efficient. He knew this.
She closed the distance, suddenly, in a flash of red miasma, as she always did. It swirled around her feet. The air smelled distinctly of iron.
Nightblade. Handmaiden-no, that was a facade. Assassin.
The image of a viper flashed through his head.
"You've wine on your chin, Naemon." Her thumb flicked the liquid away from directly under his lip. His blood ran hot. There was nothing in her face he could read.
His hand swiftly caught her wrist, "Your hands are always stained red."
She dug her toes into the sand. Her fingers, the tiny drop of liquid on her thumb. She dug them into her palm.
Estre. Estre. Estre. She was dead.
His wife, cold and dead.
A blood stained hand, covered by a sleeve, serving him daffodil tea in a white-gold cup. The dish was stained.
Amber meeting amber. His light eyes meeting her dark ones. Distinctly Bosmer. Everything about her seemed to writhe and twist around him, yet she was utterly still.
Their eyes did not break contact.
He felt his head swim, the drink was hitting him now. He saw none of that in her.
A viper about to strike.
"Why is it always you, Malorn?"
He searched her eyes, but found them lacking anything he would've expected. Anything he himself was familiar with.
In all his dealings with nobility-in all his experiences, he'd never seen this.
She was truly noble, she held herself that way, yet, to him, there was an element of facade. Something new.
Love? Definitely not.
Devotion?
Malice? No, they were devoid of that.
This was something entirely new.
Something only for him.
Not even Estre ever held an expression for him like that.
"I know what you do." He took her arm, spun her about, and led her into a sort of waltz, his chest almost but not quite touching her back. Brïka responded quickly, her feet moving to help carry them both across the sand.
She was elegant like he'd never known. Poised, her every move oh so carefully chosen.
The twist of her muscles as she moved, the flash of her throat as she breathed, and even how the snakes imprinted on her skin seemed to swirl about as she moved.
"If you did, you'd find we are more alike than you know." Brïka turned her wrist and intertwined her fingers with his. His skin prickled with goose flesh.
They spun, once, twice, and a third time. He let her spin away from him, and then snapped her back into his chest. Here he was, dancing on the beach in a stupor with the women who cut his wife open.
No, that had truly been your sister. Your sister drove that blade to Estre, her words killed your beloved.
Perhaps it was the drink, but he found himself quite close to Brïka, and quite content with it.
"I know you before I know anyone else." He whispered, her head tilting so she could look up at him. They had slowed to a sway, her hand now back in his, his other on her waist.
He himself didn't quite understand the words coming out of his mouth.
This Bosmer-this creature was bold, daring, enticing. Even in her fighting, as she moved she was a being of utmost precision. That adaptability, the cunning placement she carried, her every message she wanted conveyed clearly spoken.
He stopped moving with her. That look held him in place. It held him in place and lit a fire under him.
That damned look again.
The one that only he owned, the one only she ever gave him.
"Then you know no one."
Her response sent a spike of dread to his core.
Her voice was barely above a hiss.
No malice, no love.