The smell of the sewer is more purified now as Libby secures her black leather vambraces of her Nightingale uniform. She tries to ignore the poking of her many thin daggers hidden beneath them as she adjusts the leather plackart over her vital organs. Then she secures her pauldrons around her shoulders before swopping her long black cape and clasping it around her shoulders.
It's taken long, grueling months, but the Guild is finally back on its feet, with powerful clients in Whiterun, Markarth, Riften, Winterhold, and Solitude. Few long ears, and everyone in all of Skyrim have fallen under the fear of the Thieves Guild. Whispers on the street drift between people when they speak, guards are so easily bought now, and they practically walk down the streets with the freedom of a Jarl.
Her guild members are now rolling in gold, and a statue has since been erected of the beautiful mother Nocturnal, and placed in one of the few pews of the Cistern. Through the months, her Guild is once again rich, feared, and respected.
Libby stares into the long mirror situated behind her panel designed to block off her bed from the rest of the Guild, as privileged by her being entitled Guild Master. Well, not yet, but after today her title will be official.
The past few years have been hard on Libby but it's all worth the blood and sweat and tears to see how it's progressed.
The Guild has been struggling for years and years before, while she was still a young girl. Gallus, her father and former leader of the Guild was murdered and betrayed by his former companion, Mercer Frey, who before Libby, was the Guild Master.
Mercer had spent years stealing from the Guild, and only when Libby had worked with Gallus's other companion and lover, Karliah, did Mercer finally get the death he deserved, and Libby could avenge the death of her father. Karliah had been banished from the Guild and hunted when Mercer framed her for Gallus's murder. But that didn't stop Libby from trusting her completely, and plotting with her for many months to expose Mercer. And in the end of it all, in the Twilight Sepulcher, did Libby manage to see her father, say to him all the words she had so desperately wanted to all of those years.
How she missed him so; but she smiles as she stares at herself in the mirror, thinking – hoping, that he would be proud. She had walked out of there lighter and empowered.
Her father had been a Nightingale, a small inner circle of thieves belonging to the Guild, said to be legend. And once Libby had redeemed the trinity with Karliah and Brynjolf, blessed with the guidance and Nocturnal, did the three of them gain special abilities entitled to the Trinity by Nocturnal.
Libby sighs as she runs a brush across her scalp. Her somewhat shorter hair is the least of the changes.
She is flushed with color, her eyes bright and clear, and though she's gained weight through the winter, her face is leaner, her body fitted into the womanly figure she's earned at the age of twenty-two. A woman – a woman is smiling back at her beautiful for every scar and imperfection and mark of survival, beautiful for the fact that the smile is real, and she feels it kindle the long-slumbering joy in her heart.
Fixating a belt of daggers, and two long knives, an ebony sword, made from the blacksmith parked outside of the Flagon brought on by Libby's flow of gold and clients, she doesn't bother to braid her hair down her back, letting is cast along her shoulders and down to the middle of her flowing black cloak. Her bangs fall graciously across her forehead and covering the corner of her left eye.
As she adjusts her mask around her neck, she hears the crunching of stone behind her. She turns to find Brynjolf with his arms crossed and dressed in his Guild uniform. His hood covers his face, but Libby can still picture the long dirtied red hair that reaches his jawline, and the gorgeously green eyes beneath the shadows obscuring his face.
Brynjolf has always been the Second on Command and even when offered to become a more suitable leader of the Guild, he graciously declined as he said he never cared for it. With the death of her father, of whom he knew very well, Brynjolf had always been a father figure to her, and when he had discovered Libby wandering the streets of Riften, about to pickpocket him, he had taken Libby in and claimed her the heir and his protégé.
Libby smiles at him, her teeth white and a feminine giggle at her lips. "Your father would be proud, lass." He says with his exotic accent. He approaches Libby as she finishes adjusting her Nightingale sword, and heirloom of her father given to her by Karliah. Libby has to tilt her head up to look at him and Brynjolf brushes his callus knuckles against her cheek. Libby smiles, and one step closer brings her to rest her head against the broad chest of the Nord and she feels him embrace her instantly. "You look as deadly as you do stunning."
Libby feels her heart ache. For years prior to the Guild, she has kept a secret from them. Even far more mind blowing than when she had faked her own death and emerged a Nightingale. It was her own little title that she savored greatly. A form of release from the rules of the Guild, as well as her, near healthy way to maintain her rage from whatever happens in her life.
Her tutelage under the Faceless has helped her crawl her way to Zusa's second in command as well as her favor. Earning her the title, of Skyrim's Assassin. Though the name tends to be traded between that or The Assassin of the Rift. Libby didn't care; a catchy title wasn't exactly her biggest concern at the time.
She wants to tell Brynjolf, but not yet. She will at the Ceremony. It's only fair, and then the worst they can do is revoke her Guild Master title and exile her from the Guild entirely. Not that she would argue. She deserved it. If she wanted to, she would demand far more severe punishment.
She takes a step back and turns to adjust her cloak one last time. "I'll meet you in the Cistern." She says. She still sees Brynjolf, and his features soften to slight worry. Libby turns to him and with furrowed brow. "What's wrong?"
Brynjolf folds his lips in and sighs through his nose. "Are you all right, lass? Honestly?"
Libby's heart instantly jumps a beat, and she can feel it crackle and turn to stone, small fissure spreading across it. She knows what he means.
Gods, she can still she her glimmering blonde hair, tipped with pink. Her stunning, striking eyes with a brilliant ring of gold around them. She was blessed with a handful of attractive features that contemplate for the majority of average ones. She'd be Libby's age by now.
It feels as if it's been eons since Libby had last spoken to Diamond. The mere thought of her makes Libby's chest ache, and her heart beats faster from grief.
Their lifelong friendship had ended cruelly, horribly, and miserably. Libby had been indoctrinated into the Faceless, had helped them plot against the Dark Brotherhood, not even once arguing for the sake of her friend. Why? Because Libby was more concerned with how Zusa, the cruel yet unworldly beautiful leader, would've done to Libby or Diamond in the process of objection.
Diamond wouldn't have understood. Or maybe she would have, and Libby was just too imprudent to see that.
Libby always compares it to how Mercer had betrayed her father, and the amount of disgust that comes hurling with it – describing it as disgusting is a severe understatement. For years she resented the man, and there she was, being exactly like him, doing exactly as he did, the only difference if that Diamond is still alive.
But at what cost? She's lost her lifelong home. Her leader murdered by her own hands. And then Libby betraying her and being the harbinger of it all as she so willfully gave Zusa and the Faceless Diamond's information.
Even when Diamond was held prisoner in the Faceless headquarters, Libby couldn't do anything that would correlate that they knew one another. It would only endanger them both. Two of the Faceless members tried to help Diamond escape, as they didn't believe that Zusa's goal of equality was true.
It should've been Libby. She should've been the one to help her escape. At last if she had to sacrifice herself, her death would've allowed Diamond to live.
Libby takes a deep breath, in through her nose, and out through her mouth. "No, but it's not like I want the pain to go away." She mumbles. Her voice has gotten, deeper, more seductive for a woman of Libby's age and beauty. "I deserve it."
Libby had told them how she and Diamond had a – falling out – to say the least, and how their friendship had ended, and the reaction was, surprising.
Much of the Guild went through the stages similar to that of grief, where they disbelieve it at first, then reach the phase of rage where they would hate Diamond for giving up on such a "loyal and wonderful friend", then to asking Libby if she is okay, Libby being honest and saying no. Despite their rough exterior, or perhaps it's the fact that they're swimming in gold now, but the Guild members were very much supportive. Many offered her worlds of comfort and promises of company should she want it, but Libby mostly consulted with Brynjolf and Vex, as they still treated her the same; knowing that she had enough strength to not need their pity.
Despite her wanting, Libby didn't deserve it, so acted like she didn't want it. she'd let Diamond's words burn through her down to her very soul, where it will be scared into her skin.
You betrayed me! I lost everything because of you! You took it all away from me, you selfish, conniving bitch!
It was true. All of it was true. And she deserved every lashing of Diamond's words like an iron tipped-whip to her back. They had battled one another on the Emperor's ship, and Libby had knocked Diamond unconscious with her own warhammer and swam with the girl to shore where she placed her body out of the reach of the tide, and carefully cleaning her weapons. Before she left, Libby had drawn her Guild's emblem into the sand, though she knew Diamond had probably done everything she could to erase it, at least she saw it.
Libby is still staring at herself when she feels a heavy hand grip her shoulder. "She'll come back, Libby. You two are kindred spirits."
"I doubt it, Brynjolf." Libby mumbles.
"Hey, look at me." Brynjolf tilts Libby's chin so she can gaze into those green eyes that remind Libby of emeralds. "I have faith in you both. The gods would never let a friendship as strong and as palpable as yours go to waste."
"Then it would seem the gods have abandoned me."
Brynjolf cups her cheek. "If you need anything, anything at all . . . don't hesitate to ask." He then kisses the thief's brow. "Now, the time has come to make this official. It's time for you to become out Guild Master."
Libby gives a stiff nod.
"Don't worry, I promise this'll be short and sweet. If you'll just meet us in the center of the Cistern room, we can begin."
With that, Libby smiles and links their arms together. Her black cape whispers against the stones as she and Brynjolf make their way through a short alcove and into the dome-like area of the Cistern.
Members are gathered all around, and Libby can even see Karliah standing at the epicenter, where a crossing of stone bridges connects at the center just below the well that lies in Riften's center Square.
For a silly moment, Libby feels like royalty as she walks in with her arms linked with Brynjolf, all heads of her fellow brothers and sisters in crime turn to her with excitement, admiration and tenderness in their eyes.
Even as she passes Vex onto the center platform, she stops for a moment, wanting a hug. And Vex easily obliges with a smile and a small roll of her eyes to remain in character. Libby stands around the top ranking members, Vex, Brynjolf, Karliah and Delvin.
Shafts of sunlight filter through the crevices of the boarded up well from above. Little specks of dust filter in and out in a delicate dance of smoothness and swaying. Expensive banners designed with the Guild's logo hand in even intervals around the Cistern. Thin waterfalls from other ends of the sewers pour water into the main chamber, and down by the main Vault, where the Guild keeps all of their treasures and money, is a bookshelf and Mercer's old desk, once barren, now filled with papers and rare trinkets. Libby had even managed to collect all twenty-four of the Stones of Baranziah, including the crown of which adorns a simple expressionless head of a stone mannequin.
Brynjolf then clears his throat. "Look, I've never been good at these things, so I'm just going to keep it short." Libby chuckles with a few of the other members. "Being Guild Master means more than just getting a cut of all the loot, it's about being a leader and keeping this rabble in order. With that in mind, I propose that the position of Guild Master should be yours."
Libby smiles widely as he turns his head to the right.
"Delvin?"
"Agreed." He smiles and nods, giving Libby a wink. Libby returns his smile.
"Vex?"
Vex doesn't even turn her head to Brynjolf as she answers. "Sure, why not?"
"Karliah?"
"Absolutely!"
Brynjolf's attention returns to Libby. "Everyone is in agreement, so all I can do now is name you Guild Master and wish you good fortune and long life."
There's a few loner claps, but smiles rein all around the Cistern as the members stare at Libby with pride.
"Also, I want you to take this. It's sort of a tradition around here." Brynjolf hands Libby a gold key with a small sapphire jewel at the base. A thin leather strip loops around as small hole at the very tip. Then he takes a beautiful amulet in the shape that mimics a knot of the Celtics and sets it around Libby's neck.
"Now everyone, get back to work." Brynjolf claps, and after a shared laugh and a couple of clinks of tankards, everyone resumes their positions, safe for patting Libby's shoulders and greeting her with her new title of Guild Master.
Then Libby remembers. "Wait!" she accidentally screeches.
Everyone freezes instantly.
Libby's lip quivers for a split second and her cheeks flush with warmth as her eyes flick around the Cistern. She gathers herself with a deep breath, and stand straight, squaring her shoulders. "I have something to confess. And now that I'm Guild Master, you all have to promise not to get mad."
"Oh my gods you're pregnant." Vex immediately amuses to deflate the tension, and Libby could not be more grateful.
Still, Libby keeps her eyes to the ground, intertwining her fingers. "No, though that would've been better."
"Why do I have a bad feeling about this?" Delvin says.
"Libby," Brynjolf speaks. "just say it. You can trust us."
Libby stares at him for a moment, and she can swear she feels the warm hands of her father grasp her shoulders and breathe with her. She will not dishonor him with lies of blades and assassins. This wouldn't be what he wanted, but she still wished to maintain her title. She had done so well keeping her identity a secret that no one will know who she is. Except that Skyrim's Assassin of the Rift is female.
Libby folds her lips in, swallows once, twice. Then she speaks.
It is hours later that Libby can feel the butterflies in her stomach. Her Guild members reacted well, better than she expected really. They were upset for Libby's secrecy, but were more rather surprised by how Libby had describe her skills and beginning with the Faceless.
Would Diamond be as understanding?
She had told them, everything. From her years as a child, to her mother's murder, to her father's, then to her wandering of Skyrim. She tells them about her indoctrination into the Faceless and then her wandering into the Guild. And they don't revoke her title, which is good, and they still accept her. They told her that she'd get a cut out of the prices for at least a week, which was a blessing compared to what Libby thought would be her punishment. Brynjolf even compliments her on her ability to hide the secret for so long, and from the entire Guild.
She now stands in her Nightingale uniform, just outside the council room of Zusa and her top Faceless members. She hadn't been at the Faceless' Headquarters since she had thrown the ebony sword that Zusa had given her in honor of her being entitled the undercover Second in Command.
Libby pushes open the doors and enters the room. She stands in front of Zusa as she sits on a large throne chair similar to a Jarl's, poised on a dais. With her black hood up and her cape flowing behind her, whispering against the floor, the members that stand guard flanking Zusa put their hands to the hilt of their weapons. Libby stops in front of the dais, but she doesn't bow as she has done so many times before.
"Well, this is a pleasant surprise. I was hoping you didn't forget about me." Zusa purrs.
"I need to speak with you." Libby demands, keeping her expression as calm as Zusa's.
"Please, continue." Zusa says with a soft wave of her hand.
Libby lowers her hood and aims her glare straight at Zusa and her finely designed hair as it falls in a thick curtain of curls at her shoulders. "I'm done."
Libby feels triumphant as she catches the slightest hint of surprise flick across Zusa's face so quickly. She blinks a few times before angling her head and lifting it slightly from resting it in her hand. "Excuse me?" she coldly scoffs, still a deadly smile on her face.
"I'm done. Now that I'm Guild Master, I don't need nor do I want anything having to do with your faction anymore. I've made it." Libby snarls. To make more of a statement, she takes the black ring with an amethyst stone off of her ring finger, and tosses it into the air. It hits the red carpet beneath her feet with a quiet thud, bouncing a couple times before spinning down to a stop. "I can pay you back with the rest of the money I earn as a thief. No longer will I be your pawn."
"You'd give up your title as Skyrim's Assassin for a simple thief?" Zusa snarls, her catlike smile fading.
"Only because it's what my father would want. He had his morals." Libby glares.
Brash, foolish fire flares up, and turns her – only for a moment – into that girl again.
Zusa's eyes narrow slightly, and when she smiles at Libby, it is the most horrific thing she'd ever seen. "Oh?"
That foolish fire goes out.
"Well then you should know, Libitania, that I don't take such treason too well."
"How is that treason? At least I had the courtesy to speak to you in person."
"You made an oath."
"And it was a foolish one at that."
The world balances on the edge of a knife, slipping, slipping, slipping.
"You'll regret breaking a deal with me, Libitania."
Libby's blood runs cold.
"I don't like sharing my belongings."
Libby blocks the first dagger with her sword as it comes flying at her head. It ricochets off the metal and Libby is already backflipping as another Faceless guard lunges at her drawing her sword. Libby easily deflects them, tearing her way through them as she feels herself drifting farther and farther. She fears for herself in becoming that one girl she had forever locked away inside herself since the death of her mother.
She should just go, but what would that do? They'll come after her.
More Faceless flood the room as if there had been a silent warning signal. Libby blocks, parries and swipes, carefully maneuvering her way through the throng of purple and black.
Finally, with her uniform becoming moistened with blood, Libby arms herself with a sword in one hand, a dagger the other and she leaps off the body of a fallen member and she is high in the air. Libby raises her weapons as Zusa stares at her, eyes wide, as Libby's weapons rain down.
But suddenly someone tackles Libby from behind and even when Libby crashes into the stairs of the dais, she screams. Shoving off the Faceless member with a knife to the throat, Libby howls even more when someone in the room calls for reinforcements.
Then, she starts laughing when she finds herself surrounded by forty guards, and laughs even more when they call for irons.
She is laughing when she lashes out one last time – one final attempt to slash Zusa's pretty little face. Four more members go down in her wake.
Libby is still laughing when the world goes black and her fingers hit the velvet carpet – barely an inch from Zusa's toes.
There is a flurry of motion, and Zusa barks an order to have her on the first wagon out of the city. Then there are hands on her arms and crossbows pointed at her as she is half-dragged out of the room.
Libby is thrown into her dungeon cell for minutes, or hours, or a day. Then more guards come to fetch her, leading her up the stairs, into the sill-blinding sun.
New shackles, hammered shut. The dark interior of a prison wagon. The turn of multiple locks, the jostle of horses starting to walk and many other horses surrounding the wagon.
Through the small window high in the door wall, she and see the capital, the streets she knew so well, the people milling about and glancing at the prison wagon and the mounted guards, but not thinking about who might be inside. The tall tower of the Temple of Mara in the distance, the briny scent of a breeze off the Black Brior Meadery, the splintery wooden buildings and the glittering waters of the cannel.
All passing by, all so quickly.
They pass the Square and she can see the well that sits directly over the Thieves Guild where she had trained and bled and lost so much, the place where Brynjolf and Vex stand, waiting for her to return back.
The game has been played, and she has lost.
Now they come to the looming gates of the city, then they're thrown open wide to accommodate their large party.
Libby can't help but laugh still. Zusa might've think she's won, but truly, Libby has managed to snag another victory.
She had managed to say goodbye.
After she had confessed everything to her Guild members, and after a stern lecture followed by sly compliments, Libby had told everyone, that as her first act of Guild Master, she needs to set things straight. And with the Guild already acquiring all of the information they need about the Faceless through Libby and rumors, their skin tones turned rather pale.
Many offered to go with her, offered to fight and give their lives for her, but Libby demanded they stand down. As Guild Master, they can't disobey. Still, Libby had walked around to everyone, each giving a hug and kind words of departure.
She knew it would scare them as her words mimic those of a warrior about to fall in battle; accepting of her fate. And she did. This way, no one else has to get hurt.
Libby quietly giggles to herself, hugging her knees to her chest, realizing then she only has on a rugged tunic. The shackles feel cold against her wrists, but she still smiles.
She had said her goodbyes.
She had done one last act of defiance against the Faceless, and she will carry that prize to her grave.
As Libitania Desidenuis is led out of the capital, she sinks into a corner of the wagon and does not get up.
Gods, it is boiling in this useless excuse for a kingdom.
Or maybe it feels that way because Diamond has been lounging on the lip of the terra-cotta roof since midmorning, an arm flung over her eyes, slowly baking in the sun like the leaves of flatbread Whiterun's poorest citizens leave on their windowsills because they can't afford brick ovens.
And gods, she was sick of flatbread. Sick of the crunchy, oniony taste of it that even mouthfuls of water can't wash away. If she never eats another bite of flatbread again, it will be too soon.
Mostly because it is all she's been able to afford when she wandered into Whiterun Hold a week ago and made her way to the capital city of Whiterun. She resorted to swiping the flatbread and wine off vendors' carts since her money ran out, not long after she'd taken one look at the heavily fortified castle, and the elite guards, at the cobalt banners flapping so proudly in the dry, hot wind.
So it has been stolen flatbread . . . and wine. The sour red wine from the vineyards lining the rolling hills around the walled capital – a taste she initially spat out but now very, very much enjoys. Especially since the day she decided that she doesn't particularly care about anything at all.
She reaches for the terra-cotta tiles sloping behind her, groping for the clay jug of wine she had hauled onto the roof that morning. Patting, feeling for it, and then –
Diamond swears. Where the hell is the wine?
The world tilts and goes blindingly bright as she hoists herself onto her elbows. Birds circle above, keeping well away from the white-tailed hawk that has been perched atop a nearby chimney all morning, waiting to snatch up its next meal. Below, the market street is a brilliant loom of color and sound, full of braying donkeys, merchants waving their wares, clothes both foreign and familiar, and the clacking of wheels against pale cobblestones. But where the hell is the –
Ah. There. Tucked beneath one of the heavy red tiles to keep cool. Just where she stashed it hours before, when she climbed onto the roof of the massive indoor market to survey the perimeter of the castle walls two blocks away. Or whatever she thought sounds official and useful before she realized that she would rather sprawl in the shadows. Shadows that have long since been burned away by that relentless Whiterun sun.
Diamond swigs from the jug of wine – or tried to. It is empty, which she supposes is a blessing, because gods her head is spinning. She needs water, and more flatbread. And perhaps something for the gloriously painful split lip and scraped cheekbone she had earned last night in one of the city's inns.
Groaning, Diamond rolls onto her belly and surveys the street forty feet below. She knew the guards patrolling it by now – have marked their faces and weapons, just as she had with the guards atop Dragonsreach. She had memorized their rotations, and how they survey the Gildergreen rotunda.
It has been an entire week since she arrived in Whiterun itself, after leaving behind Solitude and her failed contract of the assassination of the Emperor. Of which she still hasn't collected the reward nor does she care to. She just doesn't care. Hurrying to Whiterun also provided welcome activity after a week of traveling, where she hadn't really felt like doing anything other than lying on the narrow bed on her cramped room at the inn or sharpening her weapons with a near-religious zeal.
There is just nothing left in her, really. Only ash and an abyss.
Though the kingdom of Whiterun itself is a spread of warm, rocky sand and thick forest, growing ever greener as hills roll inland and sharpen into towering peaks. the land around the capital is dry, as if the sun had baked all but the hardest vegetation. Vastly different from the soggy, frozen Empire she left behind long ago.
A land of plenty, of opportunity, where men doesn't just take what they want, where no doors are locked and people smile at you in the streets. But she doesn't particularly care if someone does or does not smile at her – no, as the days wear on, she finds is suddenly very difficult to bring herself to care about anything at all.
Whatever determination, whatever rage, whatever anything she had felt upon leaving the Solitude has ebbed away, devoured by the nothingness that now gnaws at her.
Whiterun, the most esteemed capitol of city; the vibrant heart of Whiterun Hold.
While Whiterun is cleaner than Riften and has plenty of wealth spread between the upper and lower classes, it is a capital city all the same, with slums and back alleys, whores and gamblers – add it didn't take too long to find its underbelly.
On the street below her, three of the market guards pause to chat, and Diamond rests her chin on her hands. Like every guard in this kingdom, each is clad in light armor and bears a shield with the Hold's emblem on it. They certainly seem a good deal more observant than the average Riften sentry – even if they hadn't yet noticed the assassin in their midst. But these days, Diamond knows the only threat she poses is to herself.
Even baking in the sun each day, even washing up whenever she can in one of the city's many fountain-squares, she can still feel Astrid's blood soaking her skin, into her hair. Even with the constant noise and rhythm of Whiterun, she can still hear Astrid's groan as she gutted her in her own Sanctuary as a contract to the Night Mother. And even with the wine and heat, she can still see Libby, beautiful and dark in the Faceless uniform with her hair braided down and pain spreading across her soft features as Diamond had attacked her out of well-deserved anger, from how hollow and dark Diamond is inside.
Diamond tenderly prods her split lip and frowns at the market guards, the movement making her mouth hurt even more. She did deserve that particular blow in the brawl she had provoked in last night's inn – she had kicked a man's balls into his throat, and when he caught his breath, he'd been enraged, to say the least. It was arguably the bloodiest, most brutal brawl she'd ever provoked, until the city guard was called in and she vanished moments before everyone was tossed into the stocks.
And then she decided, as her nose bled don the front of her shirt and she spat blood onto the cobblestone, that she wasn't going to do anything. She had lost her warhammer thrice now in card games, only to get it back – by whatever means. A dagger poised to slip between the ribs usually does a good deal more convincing than actual words.
Lowering her hand from her mouth, she observes the guards for a few moments. They don't take bribes from the merchants, or bully or threaten with fines like the guards and officials in Riften. Every official and soldier she had seen so far has been similarly . . . good.
Dredging up some semblance of annoyance, Diamond sticks out her tongue. At the guards, at the market, and the hawk on the nearby chimney, at the castle and the Jarl who lived inside it. She wishes she hadn't run out of wine so early.
A cooling breeze pushes past, bringing with it the spices from the vendors lining the nearby street – nutmeg, thyme, cumin, lemon verbena. Diamond inhales deeply, letting the scents clear her head. The pealing of bells floats down from one of the neighboring mountain towns, and in some square of the city, a minstrel band strikes up a merry midday tune. Libby did love this place.
That fast, the world slips, swallowed up by the abyss that now lives within Diamond. A dead weight presses against Diamond's chest.
Libby. The talented and beautiful thieve of the Thieves Guild. Probably their Guild Master by now. Or at least working her way towards it. Still working as she has been for her entire life. As she was doing the night she had betrayed Diamond for the Faceless and ripped away everything from her. Diamond can still remember their fight.
She still hadn't been able to beat Libby. But she was close. Her strength was not her own that day, and if she had been more in control, she could've sliced Libby's pretty little head right of her shoulders. The most disturbing of all, Diamond would not have felt a shred of guilt or regret.
Perhaps something might've changed in her . . . until that gods-damned day when she had watched as Whiterun's group of heroes, the Companions, had come riding out through the gates of the city, in full view of where she had been sprawled on top of the roof.
It wasn't the sight of him, Kodlack Whitemane with his long silver hair stretching down into a well groomed bearded, his olive skin and band of most trusted warriors, that had stopped Diamond dead. It hadn't been the fact that those warriors are the ones she had spoken to a couple times prior.
No. It was the way people cheered.
Cheered for him, their Harbinger. Adored him, with his dashing smile and his black ebony armor gleaming in the endless sun, as he and the soldiers behind him rode towards the north coast. The Harbinger, was a gods-damned mercenary, and his people loved him for it. Diamond lingered at the top of the roof until he was a speck in the distance.
It has been a week since she's given up her plan and abandoned any attempt to care at all. And she suspected it'd be many weeks more before she decided she was truly sick of flatbread, or brawling every night just to feel something, or guzzling sour wine as she lies on rooftops all day.
But her throat is parched and her stomach is grumbling, so Diamond slowly peels herself off the edge of the roof. Slowly, not because of those vigilant guards, but rather because her head is well and truly spinning. She doesn't trust herself to care enough to prevent a tumble.
She glares at the thin scar stretching across her palm as she shimmies down the drainpipe and into the ally off the market street. It is now nothing more than a reminder of the pathetic she and Libby had promised of being friends forever, and of everything Libby had failed at.
Diamond supposes it's a miracle that she had made it down to the alley, where she shadows momentarily blinded her. She braces a hand on the cool stone wall, letting her eyes adjust, willing her head to stop spinning. A mess – she is a god damned mess. She wonders when she'll bother to stop being one.
The tang and reek of the woman hits Diamond before she sees her. Then wide, yellowed eyes are in her face, and a pair of withered, cracked lips part to hiss. "Slattern! Don't let me catch you in front of my door again!"
Diamond pulls back, blinking at the vagrant woman – and at her door, which . . . is just an alcove in the wall, crammed with rubbish and what has to be sacks of the woman's belongings. The woman herself is hunched, her hair unwashed and teeth a ruin of stumps. Diamond blinks again, the woman's face coming into focus. Curious, half-mad, and filthy.
Diamond holds up her hands, backing away a step, then another. "Sorry."
The woman spits a wad of phlegm onto the cobblestone an inch from Diamond's dusty boot. Failing to muster the energy to be disgusted or furious, Diamond would have walked away had she not glimpsed at herself as she raised her dull gaze from the glob.
Dirty clothes – stained and dusty and torn. Her hair is a tangled mat as she never bothered to redo it since the night the Emperor's ship sank. Not to mention, she smelled atrocious, and this vagrant woman has mistaken her for . . . for a fellow vagrant, competing for space on the streets.
Well. Wasn't that just wonderful. An all-time low, even for her. Perhaps it'd be funny one day, if she bothers to remember it. She can't recall he last time she laughed.
At least she can take some comfort in knowing that it can't get worse.
She wanders out from the alleyway and saunters her way down the stone steps into the marketplace. Diamond keeps her eyes on the ground, not even bothering to move out of the way, or utter an apology, or even bothering to dwindle up the slightest care as people bump into her left and right, quietly mumbling casual apologies.
Her hand automatically extends out and she hears the deep groaning of the gates. The sun is shadowed behind some trees, and while she can't see the guards or their kindly nods, she can still feel their gazes burning through her skin as well as the shaking of their heads at her filthy state. If she had the heed, she would've sliced their throats. But what was the point? At least out here she can do whatever the hell she wants rather than sitting in a cramped cell where she'd truly go mad.
She half-walks, half-stumbles down the gravel hills and across the short wooden bridges. Feeling as though she is detaching from herself, as she has so skillfully mastered, Diamond lets her mind wander as she feet begin to move left, right, left, right. An instinct, a habit. She does her best to keep from looking too tipsy, caring enough to not want to attract the wrong kind of attention.
It wasn't until she wanders onto dirtied stone does she find herself about a mile out from Whiterun. The sun haws set, casting the land in shadows, only to be blessed with a full moon to keep the path visible.
Then there's howling in the distance.
Her heart stops as well as her feet. Diamond lifts her head, and a soft breeze causes her hair to tickle her cheek as she carefully turns to observe. The snarling grows louder and a chill runs up her spine. For a moment, Diamond's hand twitches for her dagger, but the sudden thought that this will all be over, that it will finally be over . . .
Diamond lowers her hand as she sees the first get of golden eyes emerge from the bushes. Accompanied by two companions flaking her side, the wolves snarl and growl; the hair on the back of their necks rise and they bare their teeth in hatred.
Despite the buzz in her chest, slowly tickling to the back of her head, Diamond doesn't elicit any reaction. I lived a good life.
No, no it wasn't. All the more reason to go.
The wolf slowly starts to prowl towards her, his buddies starting to circle and surround her. Even they work better together than she and that back-stabbing bitch Libby ever did. Diamond still stares ahead at the leader wolf, his teeth shin with his saliva and foam on his tongue.
A deep pulse punches through the void deep within her.
The wolf lunges, and upon a sharp electric shock of her instincts, Diamond's hands flinch to her warhammer and she whacks away the head of the wolf. Before she even watches the dog tumble, she ducks and weaves as another one pounces over her, aiming to sink its teeth into her skull. Whirling her warhammer around, it's head lands in the wolf's stomach, and blood splatters onto her face. The feeling warm and sticky . . . and familiar.
Bile rises at the back of her throat as Diamond clumsily flips backwards, the world tilting and causing her to brace herself on her knee.
Why? She thinks to herself.
Diamond whacks away another wolf, severing its head, but two more come to easily replace it. Their leader stands on his feet and snarls, carefully approaching once more.
Why am I struggling? Why torture myself?
The wolves all snarl and one leans back on its hunches, ready to pounce. He licks his jaws with his teeth.
My life has no meaning anymore.
The wolf's eyes flick with feral.
Her warhammer drops to the ground. Forgotten.
Diamond cries out as those canines pierce the spot between her neck and shoulder, a primal act of aggression – the bite so strong and claiming that she is too stunned to move. The other wolves take their signal and leap for Diamond as well.
He has her pinned against the stone and clamps down harder, his canines digging deep, her blood spilling onto her shirt. Pinned, like the worthless weakling she is.
Useless, pathetic.
The dog shifts, staggering back, his teeth ripping her skin and warmth running down the side of Diamond's neck. The other wolves pounce and seize the opening, their jaws too clamping down on a part of Diamond to render helpless. The ankle, the wrist, her side.
Tears well in her eyes and stream down over the bridge of her nose as she sits there waiting for the dogs to turn her into a carcass. Waiting to be as hollowed out as she feels. She can see her warhammer glinting in the moonlight.
As she feels another piece of skin rip from her flesh, the pain searing its way into every crevice of her senses, and as she assumes that they've found bone, Diamond closes her eyes as she waits for the warmth embrace of death.
But then a whine comes from one of the wolves. She only opens her eyes, but it is in time to see the leader wolf snarling at something, then an even larger mouth clamps down over the dog's head and lifts it. Diamond feels sickly as she watches only its hind legs wriggle and snap back and forth like it's the toy of whatever creature now looms over her. All she can see are humanoid-like hands, but the skin is grey with long ebony black fingernails as long as her middle finger.
Two more large shadows come hurling from the distance, and Diamond catches a glint of ember-gold eyes and more snarling. The creatures are huge. Can it be . . . ?
A werewolf.
Arnbjorn?
The tiniest flicker of hope ignites, only to be extinguished by the darkness of her abyss built of agony. The creatures face off against the wolves, who are fairly coated in blood . . . her blood. They snarl and bark at one another. Then the leader wolf leaps and attacks. One of the werewolves raises a giant clawed hand and swipes at the wolf with such ease it is shaming. Like it's nothing more than a fly swarming around its face. The second werewolf catches the next wolf with one hand, and stabbing the claws of its other hand into the wolf's stomach, yanking it out along with its intestines.
Diamond coughs on the bile in her throat, and that sends searing pain of her wounds racing through her joints. The third wolf turns its head right in her direction, straight into her eyes with ears perked at attention.
This is it, she thinks. Let me die. Let me follow the others.
The two werewolves easily take care of the wolf pack, smearing their blood along the stone and clamping their powerful jaws around the hounds' necks. Meanwhile the third one approaches Diamond carefully, not like stalking prey, but just as if checking to see if she's dead.
There's a harsh debate between whether she should play dead, or indicate she's alive so that it can kill her.
Still, when the creature is close enough – enough so that Diamond can see the texture of the creatures' black-tipped nose – Diamond's eyes blink, perhaps even widen as she beholds the ember-gold eyes, and the ring of caramel brown around the pupil. The sounds of the slaughter goes on behind them, and the werewolf looks over his shoulder and then turns away to aid the others. Diamond just watches what she can, then to her surprise, one of blood-coated ones walk out of her view. There's the sound of stretching flesh and a hiss on the wind; then the next thing Diamond sees is one of the Companions, the huntress, Aela. The blood on her armor matches the places of the werewolf form before.
So it is true. Arnbjorn had always talked about how the Companions aren't as honorable as claim to be as they have tails and rumors of worshiping the god of the hunt, Hircine, and how they delve in his creations of Lycanthropes. Should anyone find out about that, their reputation as well as faction would be in shambles.
Aela hurries to Diamond with worry in her eyes, but a controlled, calm expression on her face. Diamond doesn't move, but her eyes blink. "Well," Aela sighs, almost sounding bored. "at least you're still alive. Though some of those bites will be irreparable."
There are more sounds of shredding skin, or the sound of skin stitching itself back together. And two more shadows, male appear in the light of Aela's torch that seems to appear out of thin air.
She steps out of Diamond's line of sight, and as she feels the warmth of light, light that she just knows is not from Aela's torch search over her body like a lighthouse, Diamond can feel the pain lesson to an annoying throb. Then her heart jumps when she sees Kodlak with his grey beard and tender eyes kneel in front of her, hovering a hand over her shoulder, careful to avoid her neck.
"Don't worry. You're going to be okay." He coos, his voice is rough but soft sounding like a grandfather talking to a grandchild.
"Her wounds are mostly healed, though I fear for the blood loss she suffered at the hands of those wolves." Another voice, male and sounding younger chimes.
"We'll take her to Danica and we'll leave it to her." Kodlak notions.
Diamond can feel Aela's healing hands leave her, as well as the warmth of her torch making Diamond shiver slightly. She wants to shake her head no, tell them to leave her where she is. But something about the way Kodlak carefully turns Diamond over on her back to inspect her sides.
Diamond carefully feels him wrap his strong arm around her shoulder. The other slides under her knees. He then asks her. "Why did you do that? Why didn't you fight back?" his voice still calm.
Without the strength to lift her head or to resist, Diamond takes a deep breath to ease her throbbing head. "Because I had nowhere else to go, no one else in the world." She murmurs, her voice like gravel.
Kodlak lifts her from the ground and Diamond rests her head on his chest, near the crook of his neck. Beneath his cold armor, a few small specks of blood on his breastplate and gauntlets, Diamond can hear his heartbeat.
"Well not anymore." He then promises. "You have the Companions."