A/N: This chapter has been revised - kind of - its quite a mess still but its all important content for the exciting chapters up ahead!
It had been a long time since Leivah was alone. A long time since she had been cold and at nature's mercy in the ruins. So long since she could remember her mother's face.
She sat at the wooden table, her hands in her lap as Tairah gathered the aged silverware and spread it out neatly on the table in front of only her. Her eyes wandered around her home, her legs swaying back and forth over the edge of her chair.
"Tairah," she asked in a small voice, pulling the elderly man from his own thoughts. He turned towards her and placed a goat roast on the table, watching eagerly for her reaction. Her eyes grew wide and she smiled elatedly- it wasn't often that they could eat more than stale bread. Tairah laughed, her reaction being more than he'd hoped for.
"Oh thank you Tairah! Where did you get this?" Leivah eyed the slightly meager meal in front of her, beyond grateful that her carer had gone to so much trouble.
He smiles crookedly as he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "It's probably best if you don't know, dear," he replied simply. Leivah knew better than to pry further, all that mattered was that she wouldn't be hungry when she went to sleep tonight.
It wasn't long before Leivah could no longer fit even the smallest bit more. Tairah cleared the table and requested Leivah go clean herself up for bed, she obliged and went upstairs. It was draughty in her room, cracks in the walls and floors allowing for cold winds to rip through the creaking old house. She walks to the water basin on the dresser, the water rippling as a slight wind skims the surface, making the hairs on her arms stand on end.
She sighs and dips a rag into the bowl, the cold water enveloping her small hands. She wrings out the water and folds the cloth neatly in her palms. The Bosmer child hears the cracking of twigs, a sound so close to being inaudible she doubts she even heard it. The wash cloth trails along her skin, the water running down her forearms and dripping to the floor in a slow but steady rhythm.
Drip..Drip..Drip..Drip..
And then a crash. Leivah turns to face the stair way, the sounds below her carrying feelings of familiarity.
"Not again." She drops the cloth with a shaking hand and she can hear grunting and the methodical thud of metal against wood. Finally she gathers herself and slowly begins to make small steps towards the stairs leading down to the kitchen. When she is half way down the wooden planks she stops and turns, crouching as her keen eyes glare at the source of the commotion from between the rotting stairs. Her heart pounds so loudly she can barely hear her own frantic thoughts as they whirl in her mind. From her secret vantage point she can see Tairah and an unknown assailant. He is dressed from head to foot in a deep black armor, his hair short and messy as it sticks out from below his hood. His face is mostly covered by cloth.
"When will you people leave me alone?" Tairah growls as he pushes the other man so hard he falls backward over the table. He lands in a heap on the other side, a dagger still clasped firmly in his hand. His hood is now pulled back and the cloth mask has fallen around his neck and she can see his face now, but only just. An imperial, no older than 15. He grasps his dagger tightly around the hilt, his eyes dangerously focused as Tairah rounds the table, his hands now carrying a knife rather than an impromptu chopping board shield.
A laugh escapes the man, his smile doesn't touch his eyes.
"The dark brotherhood will not rest, Tairah. Our courteous client is after you and we will not stop," his words are laced with laughter, like a pot of honeyed poison.
His grip on his knife is still fierce as Tairah bends in front of him, taking him by the throat. He smiles, revealing a lovely set of fangs. Leivah feels herself flooding with relief when she sees Tairah has the upper hand. Still, the assassin smiles, unnerved by his seemingly imminent death.
It had been a while since anyone from the Brotherhood had come after us, and she didn't understand why they would send this child who is obviously still an initiate. Does this mean they're giving up on us after all these years? Leivah smiles at the thought of living in peace. But it is short lived.
Tairah's back is to her now and she can no longer see the assassins face, but a loud groan and the swaying of her carer tells her something is seriously wrong. He stumbles from his crouched position and the assassin stands, his hood and mask back in place.
Blood. So much blood. Tiarah is on his knees now, the knife still in his hands. The assassin glares from above him; his eyes cold. Calculating. With genuine mirth he snickers.
"Prepare for judgement in the Void, old man."
Tairah is bleeding, his stomach split viciously from one side to the other, his hand holding pressure to the gushing wound while the other, with whatever swiftness he has left, raises and sends the knife deep into the assassins rib cage. Tairah falls, defeated. Leivah descends the stairs, tears running down her face as she approaches her father figure. The assassin is on the floor now, his eyes filling with bitter tears of pain.
"Why couldn't you just leave us alone?!" Leivah choked back the need to throw up, her eyes blurring.
The man pulls the knife from his lower rib cage and curses angrily, blood shimmering on his armor, soaking through the fine leather. He looks up at the child, her golden eyes accusing. He smirks, entertained. This is why he joined the brotherhood. This is what he's made for.
"Why?" He leans forward and grabs her arm with a painful grip, twisting her in such a way that she is on her back, his eyes staring down at her as she squirms. "I'm just following orders, kid. I can't help that I happen to love it." He released her after staring for a moment too long, his other hand covering his wounded torso, trying to hold all the blood that he can inside. Without another word he left the house, leaving the Bosmer child to weep in silence.
It would be an understatement to say I enjoy Skyrim. I enjoy the freezing cold and I enjoy the glistening snow on the rare days when the sun can break through the clouds. But that was all I could enjoy on a sunny day.
Black robes cover me from head to foot and any person in Skryim could just about tell what I am just by looking at the way I dressed on these rare sunny days. In Cryodiil things were quite the same, only much much more often. All the time, in fact.
I have been travelling for days. Weeks. Months. Years. Travelling alone can leave one to think too deeply into their own expansive memory and yet I seldom travel with company. I am altogether thankful that most my past is cast in shadows, but that is most likely due to my 'transition'. Becoming undead could leave many things behind that were once dwelling in a living mind.
Hours melded and I knew it was dark enough to shed my cloak. I was grateful to have some air reach my skin after such a warm day. While it wasn't as if sunlight hurt my pallid complexion, it certainly didn't do my energy reserves any favours.
I was heading to Dragonsreach to report back on my dragon slaying in Dawnstar, per the Jarl's request. It had gone well enough but I had left the townsfolk awfully wary regarding my almost exclusively nocturnal shenanigans. The main road is quiet enough and I can see a familiar farm looming in the distance. My stomach feels like it should be growling, and I know it would be if it hadn't turned to a black oil-like substance over the last 10 years. I laugh bitterly to myself as I dismount from my horse, deciding to stretch my legs. I am sore everywhere. And I really am quite hungry. It's been so long since I last ate anything. Anyone.
I kick a pebble on the path way, my hand holding the reins of my horse as I lead her through the semi-darkness. The moons above us are glowing eerily, casting enough light that one could almost believably claim it was an excessively cloudy day. I murmur to myself about my plans after I return to the Jarl's home, but I'm sure things won't be too uncertain for long. He always seems to have something new for me to do. I am happy to oblige- with the correct amount of gold being slipped my way, that is. As I approach the farm I can see the silhouettes of two people inside through a window. Loreius and his wife Curwe no doubt. I ponder perhaps taking them as my meal tonight but my darkened thoughts are halted after I notice something quite peculiar on the path a fair away ahead of me.
I can see a stationary coach, obviously not belonging to anyone who calls this farm a home.
I draw nearer, my ears twitching as I hear the faint cursing of someone walking aimlessly around the coach. My hand goes to my sword, Dragonbane. This sword hasn't been mine for long, but long enough for me to have become quite fond of it. Delphine may be quite annoying in her own right but this sword was definitely worth raiding that musty old temple.
I prick my ears and carefully listen, letting go of my horses reigns. Without much thought I crouch and slowly approach, his words finally clearly reaching me.
"Gah! Bother and befuddle! Stuck here! Stuck! My mother, my poor mother... Unmoving, at rest. But too still!" The man is still a fair distance away when he turns toward me, his face hidden in shadow. I stand, knowing I've been spotted. I'm sure my horse was a dead giveaway. I sigh, embarrassed but I keep my hand on my sword's hilt all the same.
The man puts his hands on his hips and watches as I return to my horse and then walk back towards him again, a sheepish grin across my face. When I expect the man to ask me what in Oblivion I was doing creeping up on him in the darkness, he takes his eyes away from me and continues ranting about being stranded. I stop barely 5 meters away, his expression twisted into the purest form of despair as I watch with a morbid curiosity. He's obviously extremely distressed but I say nothing. He falls silent for a moment then turns back to me, his eyes threatening to cry.
"Is... Is there something wrong?" I ask, fighting an urge to laugh at this ridiculous man.
His expression flicks immediately from sorrow to something else entirely. Something so intense I find myself almost wanting to reel back away from him. His eyebrows are sharp and well maintained, his eyes keen but almost entirely drowned out by the sickening pity parade he's displaying. High cheekbones and I find myself wondering if I would cut myself slapping that face...
"Yes! Yes there is! Poor Cicero is stuck!" he finally says, his expression returning to one of defeat. I find myself hoping he didn't notice my sudden inattention as my mind began to wander. "I was transporting my dear sweet mother. Well- not her. Her corpse! She's quite dead. Been dead for a while, actually," he folds his arms and lets slip a wild chuckle that seems completely out of place. I feel like proclaiming how peculiar he is and I am certain I wouldn't be the first- but how hypocritical would that be for someone such as I to call him 'peculiar'? I blink and look behind him towards the cart, now close enough to see a large wooden crate sitting in back. It wasn't a coach at all.
"Uh.. why are you bothering to move her?" I asked, my eyes still searching, wondering what may actually be inside that giant crate.
"Because I'm taking my mother to a new home! A new crypt. A new sanctuary! But-" I watch as he turns away from me and gestures frustratedly towards a busted wheel that lay on the ground. "Argh! Wagon wheel! Damnedest wagon wheel! It broke!" I wince at his sharp tone, his fists clenched in his tiny tantrum. There's something very odd happening here and I am curious about where hes going but something tells me I need to keep from laughing at him.
"Okay.. you need it fixed then?" I offer, shifting my weight. I beging to inspect the damage, preparing myelf to fix it on my own. But immediately after my question is said the Jester looks back to me, his expression verging on euphoric. He sure knows how to use his emotions. Or they sure know how to use him...
"Go to the farm, the Loreius farm, just over there off the road. Talk to Loreius, he has tools, he can help me, but he won't. He refuses!" Cicero pouts at me and I almost feel sorry for this apparent mess of a man.
"He wont't fix your wheel? That sounds pretty rude... Did he mention why? I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding." I force a slight smile, trying with every fiber to hold from doubling over in cruel laughter when his bottom lip begins to quiver.
"Oh! Oh yes! Convince Loreius to fix my wheel. Do that, and poor Cicero will reward you. With coin! Gleamy, shiny coin!" I roll my eyes as he bounces on the balls of his feet.
"A reward huh?" I rub my chin and glance towards the farm. Of course the Farmer could fix his wheel. Or I could... or maybe I could just kill this mad jester and be done with things- I'm sure no one would notice his absence...
I decide against it when I notice how he's watching me.
His eyes are focused, his hands behind his back as he bends forward slightly, rocking gently with a mischievous grin spread wide across his face. Something intelligent is staring at me now, definitely not the whimpering fool begging me to do him a favour. I meet his gaze and shrug before turning and walking up the hill. Despite my insitance on projecting a calm and sensible personality, something about him has my nerves on edge. But what girl could steer clear of such a unique brand of danger? Certainly not me.
I am so hungry.
The farmer answers almost immediately after I knock on his door but with words obviously not meant for me.
"What in Mara's name is it now? I told you to get out of here, jester-!" Loreius blinks and squints into the darkness where I stand in mild shock. "Oh. My apologies. Are you a traveler?"
I find my voice and speak, "Yes. I'm on my way to see the Jarl in Dragonsreach. I'm his Thane."
Loreius heaves a hearty laugh and opens the door wider, revealing Curwe his wife who is setting a table. She looks up and smiles at me, her eyes seeming to sparkle in the fireplace's light.
"C'mon in! I'd heard there was a new Bosmer lass! I'm sorry for greeting you so poorly. I thought you were that damn Cicero fellow again."
Nervous at his obvious hostility, I walked in and smiled, careful to not show my teeth as Curwe took my coat an hung it over near the door. I took a reluctant place at the table when Curwe gestured to a spare seat. I muttered my thanks and replied when Loreius sat down across from me.
"Yeah. About that? I'm here to ask why you won't fix his wheel? He would surely pay you." I fold my arms across my chest and shift all my weight to one side, determined to get to the bottom of this problem.
He rolls his eyes. "You think this is about money? There hasn't been a jester round here in years! The man is clearly insane and I highly doubt he actually has his mother inside that crate," Loreius puffs out his chest and leans back in the chair. Curwe is silent but plainly uncomfortable.
I am starving.
This man is already grating on my nerves. How could he simply object to such a simple request? Regardless of the jester's strange mannerisms, he still is only asking for one simple favour.
"Just because you find him to be abnormal is no reason to treat him any differently. He's just a person who needs some help." I can't help myself from pointedly staring at his throat. I can almost hear his pulse beating, pumping blood, moving ligaments, straining sinew, forcing regeneration-
"But he could be carrying anything in that damnable wagon! Weaponry, Skooma! I don't want to be a part of any of that," Loreius stands, his hands on the table. "I'd like you to leave."
In one second, out the next. I slowly move to stand, my dakrned eyes watching between the couple while Curwe just seems to want to apologize on behalf of her husband. What a shame she has to go as well.
I am famished.
"This is your last chance to help him," I say, my hand moving for my dagger. I hope to merely intimidate but Loreius's eyes flash, excited for a challenge. "Don't let your pride be your undoing."
"I will not help him."
Defiant to the last moment. I snap, my hunger crashing through me as I let the familiar, blind fury take me over.
I throw a dagger towards Curwe, lobbing it her in the throat. She gasps in an attempt to scream, grasping at the knife in her jugular. She tries to speak but only a weak spluttering escapes her mouth as it overflows generously with blood. Loreius screams, but it is his last. I move across the table and take his face in my hand, unsheathing my sword and moving it easily to his neck. I can feel him shaking beneath me, his eyes closed shut in fear. When I am still I watch his eyes flicker open in disbelief. Alive, unharmed thus far. He looks towards Curwe, her body now lazily convulsing in a messy pool of her own blood. Fingers closing and opening as she reaches from something that isn't there, her eyes fading out as the last thing she will see is my hand pulling back at a sharp angle, splitting her husbands neck wide open. I put my face to the opening, his blood filling my mouth- a violent flood of metallic liquid. My teeth sink in, jaw clamps down. I pull back, a handful of his hair in my gloved fist holding him in place. His flesh in my teeth, his throat wide open. I let go of his head and it snaps back, threatening to fall clean off. I am covered in gore, the shining substance reflecting in the fire's light beneath the cooking pot. I pointlessly wipe my face on the back of my gloved hand as I kick Loreius's now lifeless body away from my boots.
Curwe is gone but Loreius alone is enough to sate me for now. I move towards her and reclaim my dagger, cleaning it off on a small clean spot on her ordinary clothing.
As I head to the door I take back my coat off the stand and wrap it around me, hoping enough of the blood is off my face. There's a high chance there isn't but I'm too elated to care. The night air assaults my heated skin and I can now see Cicero still standing down by the road, his back to me as he languidly lens against the cart. I pray to the Gods he didn't hear or see anything but that's not likely to be the case. I stop on the porch and turn from the jester who seems very interested by something he's holding in his hands near his chest.
I reason that it's none of my business and instead head towards the windmill. Loreius is bound to have some tools in here.
After a short scurry around the small room I find a basic tool box and leave again, headed for Cicero. As I draw nearer I can see he holds a small book in his palm and he's scribbling madly away. As he hears me approach he snaps it shut and turns in a single swift motion, an unnaturally wide smile on his face. I'm beginning to think it's his default expression when he's not screeching about wagon wheels.
"Uh.." I rub the back of my neck, the simple action seeming somehow familiar of someone I'm not sure if I actually know.
The tapping of Cicero's curl tipped shoes bring me back to my senses although he looks anything but impatient.
"Yes? Anything new from Loreius?" the jester asks, his expression faltering when I fail to answer immediately.
"Not.. Not really." I sigh but lift my arm to gesture that I had the tools. "But we don't need him anyway. I can fix your cart for you," I force a smile, not knowing how to gauge his flamboyant reactions.
Cicero seems to glow with pure glee, his eyes closed as he clasps his hands together with a chuckle that rips through the cold night air. Something indefinable encourages me to join him in celebration. He's quite infectious.
"Thank you, ooh, thank you! Cicero is certainly grateful!" His grin is causing my own lips to spread into a thin smile, but I turn and meander towards the busted wheel before I let my fangs be seen by accident. I get to work fixing it, using the tools I took from Loreius while Cicero amuses himself by humming and singing the odd macabre tune here and there while hovering behind me. As much as I appreciate his exuberant demeanor I must admit he's throwing me off my work a tad.
"Cicero thanks you kind stranger! And not just Cicero! Mother thanks you, too!" His words are laced with laughter as I appraise the wheel, no longer busted.
"This should hold you for long enough," I huff. Now... how am I to get it onto the cart? I could probably manage lifting it on my own but strength that great isn't normal for a fragile looking Bosmeri girl. I look at Cicero, his repetitive thank yous would have driven that uptight Loreius mad. Perhaps I did him a kindness.
"Uh, mister, could you maybe, help me lift up the carriage slightly so I can get the wheel back on?" I wait for my reply only to be met with laughter. Again.
"'Mister'? Ohohohh, stranger! 'Mister'!" he all but doubles over before waltzing towards me. I suppose a normal person's first instinct is to run when an insane madman approaches them while laughing quite hysterically but instead I stand still and watch in awe as the jester lifts up the carriage enough for me to easily slip the wheel back into place.
I glance up to meet his eyes and find him looking fixedly at me. It is now that I am horribly aware of the crusted blood still caking my face. Probably not the most flattering picture.
I do my best to ignore that he can clearly see I'm covered from head to toe in blood. "How did you...? How did you lift the cart like that?"
Cicero is silent, watching. Waiting. For what? I stand up and dust off my clothes, his silence threatening to surpass the annoyance of his humming. His eyes are locked with mine and I feel suddenly intimidated when I notice something indefinable yet foreboding lurking behind the daring glint in his amber eyes. When he still doesn't speak but rather smiles mischievously, I decide our encounter has run its course.
I put out my hand and turn my head, hoping to find something more interesting than his searching eyes.
"I'll take my payment now," I say ungraciously as the uncomfortable blush begins to keep its way up towards my pointed ears. He was fun at first, a rare sight indeed in these pitiful badlands, but perhaps there's a sound reason why jesters aren't overly accepted anymore. I turn my head back to see Cicero open a satchel on his belt and pull out a coin purse. He smiles as broadly as always as he drops it into my hand before he finally speaks again.
"Here, here! For your troubles, shiny, clinky gold! A few coins for your kind deed, and thank you, thank you again!" The jester waves, spares me one final look over and then turns away from me, leaving me completely astounded.
I stand in the same spot as he gets up into the drivers seat of the carriage and flicks the reins to move the horse. I watch him go until hes just a speck on the uneven horizon.
"Fucking jesters."