The story picks up right where "Penance" left off, only with a switch in POV character.
It's complete (thank God!) and it would never have become so without the help of the incredible Quillweave and AcidKraken, whose advice and relentless support are the greatest sources of comfort and motivation a writer could ever ask for. And don't get me started on all the inspiration I've gained from their work - if you're an Oblivion or Fallout fan, respectively, I strongly suggest checking out what they do. I don't believe you'll regret it.
Go to sleep.
Please.
For the love of Mara, go to sleep. The dreams won't be waiting for you this time. He's said never again.
More rustling, the musty scent and the short hairs coming loose off the worn pelts wafting up to her face, tickling her nose.
She thinks she can feel a hair—something stuck to the back of her throat, is almost scared to breathe or swallow lest she intensifies the sensation and makes herself sick.
You've got nothing in your throat, stupid girl, not now, not all those other times you thought you had. It's just your mind, inventing things that aren't there.
So tired.
If you could just fall asleep, it would all go away, and everything will be back to normal in the morning.
...that maniac's not planning to keep his word. Surely not. The only way she'll ever be rid of him is by dying—no, no, she corrects herself with a grimace, quite the opposite, in fact. Dying is when the unknown starts, most likely, when he'll at last gain some measure of power over her.
Divines have mercy on her soul.
Then again, should she not try, nonetheless? ("Try," she says. Deign to give in to basic human biology, why don't you, Clelia?) Who's to say he won't leave her alone? She's seldom heard a more miserable vow than the one she's wrenched from his lips today.
Maybe her nights will be tranquil once more. Or as tranquil as possible, given the circumstances.
If only you would stop this bloody fidgeting!
It must give him such satisfaction, seeing her like this because of him. Oh, he would be watching, she's gathered as much. He's bound to pose as some sort of guardian spirit, always tailing her from the shadows, caring—she could not repress the shudder that's torn through her then, at that word echoing off the walls of his Inner Sanctum—biding his time…
Until what? Until he would have her? In what way, precisely? Until he is able to get as close as he wants?
Allow me. Indulge me.
Shimmering gold, kneeling before her in supplication.
If I yearn for you so, if I cannot rest, it is your own doing, not mine.
Will you find it in yourself to spare a kind thought to the one you've damned?
Head raised, mask absent—a man like any other.
...can I...may I feel you? May I try? Just this once, a moment for an eternity. One touch; you are so near…
Her eyelids are screwed shut to the point where she begins to see bright spots behind them, and still the memory will not abate.
I have seen your heart. Have pity.
Ha.
Had he truly seen her heart, he would have realised the inanity of his demand and not bothered with it.
After she lets him know, in no uncertain terms, where they stand with one another, and that he's been hurting her, slowly and obstinately, night after night, he stands and hovers for a few beats more, fists curled at his sides.
You will leave me be, she says. Do you swear it?
I do.
Two words like two stabs of a knife.
Never again.
She wouldn't be crying, in all probability, were the ghost's expression not brimming with things so familiar. Were she not able to relate.
There it is; the solution to her predicament, no matter how determined she may be to skirt around it. The calm only Erandur could offer. Should she let herself dwell on his voice, on the warmth that seems to radiate from him—
—and how can anyone ascertain whether that's due to the power of his Goddess, seeping into Mundus that way, or whether it's his very nature, and it would be, with his eyes glowing as they do, embers in the darkness—
She would get her rest. She always does, even when all else fails.
And she needs that rest so badly. Control, yes, she's aware, control, self-discipline, but would giving in truly be a sign of weakness? Besides, can she not afford to be weak for now?
(What number of "for nows" are we on, hm? Just within the last month or so? Have we, by chance, gone over two dozen?...)
Doesn't matter, doesn't matter.
He's in the house on the other side of the village, sleeping—meditating?
But he's not, he's right here, next to her, and his arms are wonderful, and his fingers are running through her hair, softly, as they did the other day in Raven Rock, more softly than that still, and she can burrow into him and keep him here, keep…
She is not sure, when at last the midday sun and the noise coming from the window wrestle her awake, which of the men has ended up wandering into her dreams last night; or, indeed, if she's dreamed of anything at all. She does not remember.