Ocheeva, Vicente Valtieri, Antoinetta Marie, Gogron gro-Bolmog, Telaendril, M'raaj-Dar and Teinaava. All of these family members must die!
Lucien had always been a man of control, until now.
Certainly when he was a young man, he was brash. Quick to snarl and raise hackles, angry at the world that had betrayed him, but having a Family and a purpose guided him towards a smoother, cooler temperament. All that had been a long time ago, and control was of the utmost importance.
He drained the glass. Whiskey, a good, hard burn down his throat. It shattered against the far wall of the fort with a smash, tinkling as it fell to the floor.
It wasn't right. It wasn't right. It was of course justified, and necessary, and he would die before betraying the Night Mother, the Listener's orders, but it was wrong. They were wrong.
But the Black Hand's vote, besides his, had been unanimous. There was a link. What, they wouldn't say, but there was a link between the traitor and to Cheydinhal, to His family. One of them was the traitor.
Which?
He prowled back and forth across the floor, dragging a hand through lank strands of loose hair, long since fallen untied.
Vicente, once his mentor, now his colleague and friend, always a source of wisdom. Antoinetta, so frail and full of fear and hate when he'd found her, ever the irritating little sister of their family, ever adoring. Telaendril and Gogron, both separate from the others in their own way but so effective, so dedicated to their cause. M'raaj-Dar, caustic and curt but all the more loyal to those who earned it in time, and his twins, the Argonian twins who he had nearly raised –
No. No. It couldn't be, not any of them. And yet the Black Hand was right. He was biased. How could he possibly see? His Silencer loved their family, undoubtedly, but at least to him, they were still new. Perhaps the sting would be less.
The sting of another drink, he welcomed. And another. Skin burning, a relief the cool stonework against his brow as he collapsed to the wall, teeth gritting. His fist curled. The ancient stones rumbled with the slam of his fist, another.
His Silencer. Had he already completed his gruesome task? Did he hesitate now? Or was he already grieving, torn apart as he felt himself? Would he even survive and then still, what of them?
The order had been given. And he had, at least, maintained control then. Smooth and cool. Oh, what his Silencer must have thought, seeing him so brutally condemn his beloved family without a hint of remorse, of regret.
The echoes of Fort Farragut echoed with his roar of frustration, of bone-wrenching grief. Then with low, mirthless laughter.
The bottle was nearly empty. One last drink, then. He filled one of his few remaining glasses. The Family that knew him would hardly recognize him this night, not like this. Hair loose and tangled around his shoulders, face rough with muzzle, hollows carved under his closed eyes and a stiff, unnatural grin fixed on his lips.
A final toast. To those loved and lost, to loyalty. He drank deep.
To Family.