Disclaimer: Oblivion and all references thereto are the property of Bethesda Softworks.
This fic was something of a playground for integrating classical themes/poetics into the Elder Scrolls 'verse. Based off of the first contract one must perform for the Dark Brotherhood. I have taken some liberties here, primarily with the identity of the victim.
Rated T for mild language and violence.
Strabo knew the door was ajar without having to open his eyes. The grating of the latch and the sudden draft told him just as surely. The foot steps - the clumsy gate of one inexperienced in stealth attempting to move quietly - traced a cautious, halting path across the floor until they stopped before the bed in which he lay. It might have been a simple sneak thief, but it wasn't; he knew it wasn't. Strabo was not yet so old that he was blind to the writing on the wall. He was an old man, after all, and the Brotherhood always took care of its own.
Despite himself, Strabo tensed. He knew all too well what came next. The knife in the dark. It would be one of those damned ornamental blades they were giving out to the novitiates now. Blades of Woe. Rationally, he knew it made no difference as long as it was sharp - gods, he hoped it was sharp; sharp and quick - but he couldn't help feeling irked that his end should come on the point of such a blade, a stage prop for the theatrics of which the guild had become so enamoured of late.
The visitor was bending over him now, close enough for him to catch their scent - unwashed body laced with skooma smoke and the intoxicating reek of fear - and hear each soft, shallow breath. The intimacy of it made Strabo's skin crawl. He fought against the impulse to open his eyes, to move. This was not a murder, it was an execution and he would bear it. He would not become yet another sniveling victim. He would not draw back.
But nothing happened. He waited, it felt like half an age with nothing but the sound of the other's breathing and the prickling sense of proximity, but still nothing happened. A tiny worm of hope uncurled in Strabo's mind, gorging itself on his resolve as the moments fell away. Perhaps the unseen intruder would lose his nerve. Perhaps he would decide that this was not the path he wanted. It was not a decision to be made lightly, Strabo knew. How long had he stood over the sleeping form of his first contract? Those drops of blood on the linen sheet, a shower of pomegranate seeds, they were the oath which bound one to the world below.
It was a holy oath, not to be unmade. Many, Strabo included, had tried to annul it, to break the vow and return to the warmth and the sun, but none succeeded. A gate of ivory is their lot, to walk upon the earth as dreams, lies, as shades among the living, for their acts sunder them from the rest of humanity as surely as any river. So they go back; they always go back, slipping into chthonic shadow to renew their vows with blood.
The rough whisper of metal on cheap leather cut through his thoughts. That moment of hope had stripped him of his stoicism, his rationale, every bit of armour which he had been shoring up against this moment, leaving him with a single thought: not yet! No more artifices, no philosophy, only naked instinct. He wanted to live.
His vulnerability was suddenly unendurable. His eyes flew open, his hand finding the other's sword arm more by reflex than by sight, and locked with those of his assailant. She was young. Her eyes, wide with fear, made her appear even younger than she must have been and had not left his face even as she fought for possession of her weapon.
The struggle would not last long. She was stronger than she looked. Or he was feebler than he imagined. In either case, he was losing. It was fitting that he should go this way, that his death should be the door through which another would enter the order. Hell, it was bloody poetic. And he deserved it, gods, he knew he deserved it. But not yet. Please, not yet. Slowly he inched his free hand toward where his own dagger lay concealed. Time was when he would have sent it slicing through her heart before she even knew he was awake, but those days were gone.
He saw something in her face harden and knew that she had apprehended his intention. He felt his arm twisted until his grip broke and then pain pierced his chest, driving the breath from his body. His fingers brushed the dagger beneath his pillow and then curled in agony around nothing. Again she stabbed him and again, clumsy and panicked. He didn't have the breath to scream.
Finally she stepped back, wiping her dagger on a scrap of cloth. At least she was trying to, her hands were shaking too badly to be of much use. And all the while she watched him, no doubt unnerved by the fact that he had not died instantly like men did in the stories. Her face was defiant, but he could see regret written there and, even as he slipped from consciousness, he felt a surge of sudden bitter amusement. "It's a little late for that," he choked, "Bride of Sithis." The mocking salute brought a look of bewilderment to the girl's face. One day, when it was too late, she would understand what it meant.