Sanctuary
If only they could see him now.
The stupidest thing he could come up with is the first thought occupying his mind. To make it even worse, his honour of warrior roars against him from the depths of his soul, condemning an action so childish and reckless; and still his brow, the brow that has bowed in front of nothing, stays stubbornly pressed to the white linen. As if the sheets could shelter him from his actions, from the choice he has been forced to make.
Just look at him. All this miserable adventurer is built in is a mass of Breton flesh, aged forty years of fighting for life. He has killed countless creatures and felt nothing, for he knew from the start that it couldn't be helped. Yet he can swear that, in spite of it all, he has never seen anything as monstrous as the planes of Cyrodiil – a tangle of death and animal-like humans, decaying every day, all beneath a surface of emerald grass and imperial honour.
He is desperately stunned by his naivety. He truly believed in it all. He drank love and affection from each of them, the members of his first true family, and held the hand of Sithis in their company. He learnt from them and grew with them, embraced by a warmth he would never have hoped to find in this shattered empire. He met someone ti share his creed with – the art of killing is more than self-defense, for it requires a great dignity on both parts and a spirit of balanced exchange.
The assassins used to feed justice through the hands of death; now death their sister has proved to be a rebellious friend, a murderous child with all the terrible wonder of blood thirst sparkling in her eyes.
He had to do it for justice, he said. What is fair in it all, for sure, he does not know – but in a world like this, where a man's weight is measured either in gold or shame, each life is a thread of the thinnest kind, and a sword must part its halves anytime.
He just knows nothing any more. All he can do is stand up, like another ghost among his brothers' ghosts, and breathe away from the warmth of his bed.
Of course he is free to march on to another glory, leaving the stone walls to die on in their tears. But time won't forget and won't forgive, not for him; and that smell – the smell of their blood – will never go away.
A/N
I'll never forget the pain I felt when Lucien told me what I had to do. Although Oblivion does not usually give me the same strong emotions as games with a specific plot and specific characters do, I swear the Purification was the most difficult gaming moment I've ever had to face. This fanfiction is also an occasion to analyze my character, Faramir, for whom I never really felt particular love or sympathy until the moment came.