A/N: Thanks to Storylover Vodhr- Dux Ducis for Beta-Reading this. I've now realized a few flaws in my writing, so hopefully it will up-hill from here.
The Children of the Night:
Cheydinhal looked pretty in the evening. The twilight spilled across the city, the streets scorched and the houses glowing purple . The river was gilded in the sunset, glittering brightly. Most of the inhabitants of the city had finished work, and a steady flow of citizens filled the streets – heading home for the night.
Not Aldaril. The tall Altmer stood by the gates of the city, observing the congestion with mild distaste. Cheydinhal wasn't exactly a haven for the cultured; drunks and brutes swaggered about, jesting bawdily and lumbering around blindly, just looking for confrontation. It had been said recently that the city was gaining on Leyawiin in its crime rate. He could definitely believe that. It seemed that there was certainly a lot more murders occurring than in the portside town.
That made it fitting city, then, to home the Sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood. There were various other safe-houses scattered across the province, but none were as large or as impressive as the one in Cheydinhal. It was situated in a series of caverns under an abandoned house, and guarded by a small army of undead skeletons that would defend the occupants of the headquarters to the bitter end. Certainly, a good a place as any for an assassin to put their feet up. Aldaril would know; after all, it had been his lodging for the last six months. He had eaten with the members of the Brotherhood, he had drunk with them, swapped stories with them and trained with them.
And now I have to kill them.
The mere thought was enough to make bile rise up his throat, sickening him. It made him want to curse aloud, to damn the Listener, to damn the bloody Purification. But he couldn't. He knew that, even now. The Altmer had sworn an oath to Sithis and he didn't intend to break it. Besides, an eternity of pain in the Void wasn't a prospect he particularly desired.
The Silencer's right hand clenched into a fist. Lucien hadn't mentioned this when he'd stood before him that rainy morning, urging him to join the Brotherhood. He'd never mentioned that he'd have to slaughter his family. If he had, he would never have agreed to the proposition. He would have told the slender Imperial where he could shove his 'Blade of Woe' and laughed in the assassin's face. But he hadn't. No, Aldaril had shaken Lucien's hand and thanked him, vowing to drive the virgin dagger through Rufio's back and surrender his life to the Night Mother. If only he'd known...
Unbidden, the memories of that stormy day came rushing back to him.
Aldaril cursed violently, laying down his tattered bedroll against the roots of a tree. Life as an outcast certainly wasn't as glamorous as the books had once had him believe. His once fine clothes were ripped and stained with mud, the deep wine colour of his tunic dulled to a dirty green and his high brown leather boots wrinkled and worn. The Altmer's hair, a month ago shining like beaten gold, was filthy and full of grime and sweat; his fingernails jagged and unclean. His cheekbones were jagged knife-cuts above his square jaw, eyes sunken blue holllows.
All in all, the journey from the son of a wealthy noble to a disowned homeless had been harsh on the High Elf. If someone had told him two moons ago that he would be huddled outside, under a tree and by the side of a road in the Colovian Highlands during a storm, with no proper bed or food to speak of, he would scoffed and called them mad. And yet, here he was, camped out underneath a large oak, the leaves providing some shelter against the rain that pounded against the grassy hills, reducing them to slush. If the sun was out, the former-noble wagered that it'd be good hunting; he would probably catch something. After all, he'd done plenty of hunting back at his father's castle in the north, though always on horseback and with hounds, never barehanded and weaponless. He presumed that it was different with the latter.
Aldaril sighed and sat down against the tree, pulling the cover of his bedroll up to the shoulder, clutching it tightly with hopes of kindling some nonexistent warmth. He stayed like that for an hour or two, drifting in and out of consciousness. His dreams had always been troubled, but now they'd been taken to a whole new level. Most nights his father's face swam in front of him, disappointment etched onto his every feature. 'You shouldn't have done it,' his father would mutter, and he would scream that he was sorry, beg for forgiveness. To no prevail. The face would melt away, replaced by another. Sometimes his mother... sometimes his sister... sometimes his friends... But seldom had a dream passed without Jeanne Jurand appearing. He felt a peculiar mix of hatred and pity towards the pretty Breton girl, only a year older than himself, resulting in him being unsure what to make of her. The eighteen year old was the reason that he had been exiled, yet what he had done to had been... despicable. Still, even now she had a life to look forward to, a family to comfort her. Unlike Aldaril: cast out and discarded like an unwanted toy.
When he slept this time, he dreamt of her. Jeanne snarled at him, blue eyes burning, mouth twisted with contempt. "Bastard," she hissed. "Rapist. Scum. Traitor. Disgusting. Bastard. Rapist..."
The High Elf had sweat plastered to his brow when he finally woke. He groaned and sat up, pushing the blanket down to his knees. His dark deeds haunted him every day; must they also plague him when he closed his eyes? It seemed so. The storm, he decided, had worsened overnight. Lightning flickered and large black clouds rolled across the sky, unleashing their fury upon the ground below.
"Greetings."
Aldaril's head snapped up, looking at the speaker of the words. The Khajiit stood just on the side of the road, a few feet in front of the tree, his hood down and blue robes flapping in the wind. There was said to be as many different types of the cat-men as there were common cats, though the stranger looked to be a Cathay-Raht - the jaguar-like warriors, known for their powerful hind legs and prowess in battle. The accounts of them were varied and wild, some even claiming for them of the same size as werewolves. The breed of Khajiit had made up the front-line infantry during the Five-Year War against Valenwood and were sighted rarely outside of their homeland. That being said, Aldaril had seen quite a few of them in Chorrol, making their way as mercenaries and the like.
This particular one however, didn't look at all like a fighter. Aside from being clad in a set of immaculate blue robes instead of steel, the Khajiit wore a knowing, if slightly addled, smile and had smooth golden fur, unruffled and sleek from constant grooming. He would've stood a few inches smaller than the Altmer if they were back-to-back, and he was slimmer too, built like a sprinter. A pair of clever green eyes stared out of his thick, maned face and his ears were large, pointed and dotted with black dots of fur. But without a doubt, the strangest thing about the newcomer was the large wooden box that he held under his left arm, gleaming and polished and filled to the brim with... were those calipers?
The strange Khajiit sat down on the slick grassy ground in front of the tree, facing the High Elf, and placing his equally strange box next to him. A few of the small metal tools spilled out, but the owner didn't seem to notice.
"M'aiq knows much, tells some," he informed the Aldaril, nodding sagely as he said the words.
"Er... erm... OK," said Aldaril in response. He presumed that 'M'aiq' was the cat's name, due to beastfolk's annoying tendency to refer to themselves in third-person. As M'aiq sat, he glanced around curiously, sniffed at the air with mild interest before saying, "Hmm, this is oak?" and pointing to the trunk that the outcast had slept against.
"Yes," said the former-noble slowly. The Khajiit's face split open into an even bigger grin. "That is good," he stated excitedly. "This one likes oak. Once, he saw one a tree so large that it blotted out the sun entirely, so that everything was dark. Or was it the moon? M'aiq forgets..."
The beggar found himself wondering whether or not he should smile back or run away from the mad traveller. He decided on the first one, laughing shakily. "That's... interesting," he offered.
The cat nodded in agreement. A thought seemed to strike him, his eyes as round as coins. The colour of the forest, thought the Elf. "Interesting?" the Khajiit asked. "M'aiq knows many stories. Once, this one swam out into the middle of the ocean. In the sea, there are weresharks, but they were afraid of water. And under the sea, this one also met a fool, but the fool was insane and talked endlessly about shadows. Silly fool."
The former-noble blinked. It went on like this for an hour or so: M'aiq spouting ludicrous tale and tale and Aldaril grinding his teeth in growing annoyance. When the cat started talking about dragons, he finally lost it. "There are no such things as dragons," fumed the Altmer.
"Oh, but there are," insisted the Khajiit, eyes sparkling. "They are just invisible or live too high to for you to find sight of them."
Aldaril made a strangling motion in the air, forcing himself not to do the same to M'aiq. "Listen," he said, after regaining composure,"dragons ARE myths - bedtime tales for gullible children."
This was not entirely true. Most Nords still harboured wild stories about the Alkavir-founded animals, but the rest of Tamriel dismissed the wild rumours. Sure, they may have existed once, but now... It was extremely doubtful to say the least. Still, the further north one went, the more abundant the tales became. He shuddered to imagine what it was like in Skyrim.
"Maybe," allowed the Cathay-Raht, pausing before saying,"But M'aiq is not gullible." He smiled aimlessly.
"I'm sure," muttered the Elf.
M'aiq shrugged, indifferent, and began to count his callipers. Outloud.
"...Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fou-"
"Shut up," snapped Aldaril.
"Fifteen," continiued the cat, as if he hadn't even heard him. "Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one..."
The ex-noble felt a little part of him die. He clamped his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut to try and ignore this ridiculous spectacle.
When Aldaril looked again some time later, the Khajiit had stopped counting - thank the gods - and now held a battered copy of the Local Black Horse Courier. "Lots of things been happening in Chorrol," M'aiq remarked. "Lots of fables. People always enjoy a good fable. M'aiq has yet to find one, though. Perhaps one day... Not any good fables in here. Just rumours about thieves and rape. Says that the son of a Lord has raped a tavern girl. M'aiq does not believe this. Rapers nasty, dirty people - not nobles."
An angry fire began to grow in him. "Stop taking about that," he commanded.
"High Elf is angry," observed the Khajiit upon seeing his flushed cheeks. "Do not worry. Filthy raper will be brought to justice. Is far away from you."
"Shut up."
"This one can see you are troubled. Do you know something about the rape?"
"Stop!"
"Tell. M'aiq will make sure the bad, horrible person will pay."
Something inside Aldaril snapped. Before he realized what he was doing, he'd brought his fist back and had smashed it into the cat's jaw. The skin on his knuckles broke, blood welling. The cloaked Khajiit - after being thrown to the floor - simply got up, rubbed the place he'd been punched, and said ruefully,"M'aiq thinks the Elf should control his temper better. Is not good infamy to hit people."
The Altmer punched him again, screaming,"Shut up! Shut up!"
The impact knocked the traveller onto his back. In his rage, Aldaril jerked the dagger from M'aiq's belt, raising it and stabbing it down hilt-deep into the cat's chest. The cold iron blade cut through the soft silk of his robes with pathetic ease. The Cathay-Raht's eyes widened as he stared blankly at the dirk lodged in midsection, the droplets of fire welling around the gash.
M'aiq shuddered and collapsed, spasming on the slick grass, made red. As the Khajiit gurgled meaninglessly, coughing up his own blood, the High Elf glanced at his hands. They were splattered scarlet, the life-force of the beastman had gotten everywhere. What have I done? Killed someone, just for mentioning my crime?
Crunch. Aldaril was jolted back to reality by the pain, and he howled, tears glittering. His face twisted in agony, and when he had the strength to look again, he nearly fainted. As he'd lay dying, M'aiq had somehow managed to clamp his jaws around the Altmer's left hand, almost tearing it off. He tried to free himself from the cat's teeth, but the grip was vice-like. The Khajiit twisted his head, fully ripping off the limb from the wrist with a snap. M'aiq spat out a mixture of blood and spittle, thrashing a few more times before finally going still.
Aldaril didn't see any of that. He didn't see the Cathay-Raht die. He didn't see the expanding pool of blood that had now drenched his feet. No, in that moment everything ceased to exist. Everything aside from the burning pain in his phantom hand. It felt like being plunged into lava, a searing flame that snaked up his arm. In place of a hand, he now had a bloodied stump, flecked with the white of bone. As he cried pitifully, the mer forced himself through the pain to cast the most powerful healing spell he possessed. To no prevail. A ghostly blue light played around the wound, then flickered and failed. More blood trickled out of the stump and the former-noble could feel his vision darkening. The ground came rushing up to him and the Elf felt his head thunk against it.
The dreams were worse than usual. M'aiq had joined the ghosts. The cat didn't look angry like the others, merely sad. His face had rotted, the eyes crawling with maggots and ragged fur matted with blood. "W-w-why?" he slurred. Aldaril began to plead, but his mouth wouldn't open. After a moment, the mer realized that his lips had been sewn shut. He clawed at them, trying to rip them loose, but it didn't make a whit of difference. A dagger appeared in his hands, and he brought it up to prise his lips open. But when he slashed them open, the rusty blade entered his mouth, too, slipping down his throat. The steel rasped against the flesh of his throat, unbearable. He gagged, an torrent of red gushing forth. The Elf awoke screaming.
"Does your murder trouble you, or your lack of a hand?"
The speaker stood over the former-noble, eyes cold. By the look of him, he was a Breton or an Imperial. Judging by the height, probably the latter. I really need to stop waking up to find strangers staring at me, thought Aldaril absently. He picked the sleep out of his eyes with his good hand, and pushed himself off the roots of the tree, getting to his feet warily and settling his back against the oak. The newcomer - like the last - wore robes, though the set he donned could never have been mistaken for the Cathay-Raht's blue ones. They were made of a silk so black it seemed almost purple, and they glimmered slightly with the tell-tale pulse of a magical enchantment. A hood was draped over the head of the Imperial, casting his face in darkness. His only visible features were his eyes, icy blue and somehow fiery, the two orbs burning through him and deep into his soul, evaluating the mer's very essence.
"Who are you?" croaked Aldaril. He had the sense that under the cowl the man was smiling.
"A servant to the Night Mother," replied the shadow, "and a murderer, like yourself." His voice was velvety soft, strangely calming.
"Your name?"
"Lucien Lachance," said the stranger smoothly. "I am your saviour," he added.
The High Elf frowned, then the realization dawned on him: his wound didn't hurt. An ebbing of pain still lingered, but it was nothing compared to the white-hot poker that had felt like it had been thrust there earlier. He looked at the stump where his hand should be and saw that no blood nor pus oozed from it, it had now been covered in white bandages and he could feel that under them, the injury had been cleaned out, ridden of infection. "H-how?" he stuttered. "Why?"
"Why, my dear brother? If you are to join the family, we can't have you dropping dead of gangrene, can we?"
Family? The robed figure had lost him now. "What family?" he said,
The Imperial tutted and said, "I am speaker for the Dark Brotherhood. Surely you've heard of us? The remorseless assassins and and homicidal cut-throats that lurk in the shadows of Tamriel, clinging to the webs of death and deceit?"
A sense of forboding dread washed over Aldaril. The Brotherhood? Of course he'd heard the tales, who hadn't? "What do you want with me?" he asked, trying not to shiver. "Are you going to kill me?"
"Have you listened to anything I've just said?" asked Lucien with a touch of impatience. "I don't want to kill you. I want to reward you."
"Reward me?"
"But of course. Sithis has noticed your murder - your deathcraft - and he is pleased. Who am I to challenge him if he wishes for you to join our organisation?"
The Elf licked his lips nervously. "What if I don't want to join?"
The assassin's gaze hardened. "Then we shall leave you to the world and you shall continue your life." He looked at Aldaril, raised an eyebrow at his ragged clothes and the the curious mixture of blood and mud splattered across his face, caked into his hair and his brow. "Your choice. The Brotherhood... or this." He gestured contemptuously around him.
The former-noble stared at the Speaker for a long time. Then he raised his eyes to meet Lucien's, unflinching, and said, "Aye... I'm in."
The Imperial leaned forwards, and thrust out a dark gloved hand. From this range, he could make out most of the slim man's face. A nose, slightly curved, that reminded him of a bird of prey, pale features and a glinting smile that showed no hint of humour. He reached out with his only remaining hand and shook Lucien's firmly. As he took a step back, the assassin produced a long dagger from nowhere and drew it from its sheath, showing an inch of ebony. The edges were finely honed, sharper than any razor, he knew, somehow. Aldaril's eyes widened and the man laughed softly.
"Do not worry, brother - I shall not be using this on you. It is a gift." He placed the obsidian weapon, inlaid with golden runes, into the Elf's right hand. "A virgin blade," he informed him, "it thirsts for blood."
"Whose blood?"
"An excellent question. Though you can use it whenever you want, the first life it should claim is that of an old man. Rufio. He is fond of sleeping and drinking, not exactly a mighty foe. Once you have splashed the walls with his blood, I shall meet you again. Then, your new life can begin..."
And with that, Lucien nodded curtly at the newly made assassin, and vanished in a shimmer of green sparks. The faintest trace of a chameleon were visible around him as he drifted off into the distance, invisible to the naked eye.
Once he was sure Lucien was completely gone, Aldaril stepped out from under the tree and in to the road, looking up at the morning sky. The storm had stopped raging, and though a few clouds rained quietly, it was mainly silent. The Elf looked at the blade held in his right hand for a few seconds, wondering whether to laugh or weep . Now I am one of the truly dammned...
A lot had changed since that morning, so many years ago. He'd dispatched Rufio with ease, a single slash across the chest had been all it had taken, and his fate had been sealed to Sithis. Aldaril's appearance had undergone a transformation too. He no longer dressed like a tramp, clothes torn and tattered. Instead, he had a thick, long, sable coat of black silk thrown over him, fastened at the throat with a glittering emerald gemstone. Under the cloak was a set of dark leather armour that had seen him through more skirmishes than he could remember. His hair shone like spun gold again, rather than being thick with grease and dirt. The most notable change was the metal fist strapped to the stump of his left hand. Fashioned out of finest silver, it was permanently clenched into a punch. He was able to use it to channel his magicka, as with weapons, though doing so used up more of his pool than it had before he'd had his hand ripped off. But at least he could make good use of his powers now! Back in his father's castle he'd picked up a few basic spells, but upon meeting M'raaj, the mer's skiils had vastly increased. As an Altmer, he found he had an aptitude for magicka, and soon the protege had overtaken the Khajiit. Spellcasting wasn't the only school he'd been tutored in: Vicente and Teinaava taught him how to handle a sword, Ocheeva had taken control of his lessons in how to stay undetected and Antonietta advised him on which poisons would suit certain jobs. Within a few months he was shaping up to be quite a decent assassin.
He completed his first contract soon after, the requested death of a pirate drug-lord harboured in the Waterfront. The man hadn't proved troublsome. Aldaril had cut off his head and tossed it into Lake Rumare, the dark waters splashed with red. It had all been up-hill after that. He had yet to fail a hit, though had once came perilously close to doing so in Chorrol, when the victim had leaped out the window, alerting most of the City Watch. The High Elf had flung a poison spell at the target from the opened glass panes, then darted off into the shadows, not waiting to see the man slowly choke, retch and die the arms of a guardsman. After that the assassin had never made the mistake of taunting the prey, subsequently giving them valuable time to plan an escape.
Lucien Lachance had noticed the rising star in the Sanctuary, even going as far as requesting to see him, to give him a 'promotion.' This had been one week ago. Since then he had met with the secretive Listener, expecting to be given a contract that bring glory to the Brotherhood, a real challenge of his prowess. How wrong he'd been. The Imperial had looked at him with something bordering on pity, then told him what he had to do.
And now here he was. Standng by the entrance to the city, a shadow against the gates. Figuring that he shouldn't delay the inevitable, Aldaril stepped forward and set off towards the abandoned house that the hide-out was located under. As he walked through the sun-clad streets, faces kept flashing through his mind, not unlike the dreams that had troubled him so many years before, when he'd raped the wench and been cast out of his family. Vicente: features gaunt and hollow, lank brown hair thrown back over his head in a pony-tail, a golden amulet at his neck. Ocheeva: smooth bronze scales flecked with green, short white spikes jutting out the side of her head, clad in dark leather and wearing a long silver dagger at her hip. Even M'raaj: the sly cat with the big mouth, always ready to smirk or scorn. His robes were eerily similar to the ones that M'aiq had worn, and his browny-red fur was ruffled and unkept. The mage had strangely large teeth, even for a Khajiit, and it was often joked that he could match Vicente when it came to fangs.
The place that he would do most of the killing in, the Silencer had concluded, was the Main Hall - due to the amount of assassins relaxing there. A rectangular room made out of solid stone, Dark Guardians prowled it day and night alike. There were tables and chairs in each corner, making them the hubs of socialization. Loathe as he was to kill his friends in such a place of merriment, there wasn't really any other way to do it. Aside from killing them in their sleep, which he had decided against days ago. Killers they were, but he wouldn't dishonour them so much as for them to be stabbed in the back by a friend while slumbering. Besides, there was a slight chance that one of them would get the better of him in combat and stop him from completing the Purification.
He'd killed Teiniiva already. She'd been returning from a contract on the South Road when he'd ambushed her, wearing the fascade of a lost merchant to hide his true appearance. The slender Wood Elf hadn't posed much of a problem, his knife thrust through her gut before she could even reach for her bow - as if that was going to help her at such close range anyway. He'd then proceded to stun her with a jolt of paralysis, leaving the Bosmeri assassin motionless on the dusty ground, unable to touch the healing potions that rested at her belt. The gash in her stomach had drowned her in a pool of her own blood when the spell finally wore off, and her killer was already out of sight. He'd felt a surprising lack of sorrow when he'd stabbed her, though he supposed that it might be a delayed reaction. It was said that sometimes to not handle grief, people could sometimes just lock the pain away in their mind, never touching on it to spare themselves. He figured that if possible, he would have a lot of grief locked away by the end of the day.
A small Breton with a jet of black hair, expensive clothes and a considerable paunch bumped into him, bouncing off Aldaril's muscular frame. He glared up at the tall Altmer, proud defiance in his large blue eyes. "Get out of my way," the short man began haughtily, "lower-class sc-" He cut off when he noticed the assassin's hand straying to the handle of the silver katana, mostly hidden under his heavy, sable cloak. The Breton scowled at him and opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it and strode off wearing a sour expression. Under his hood, the Elf smiled. Sometimes he loved his sword. He'd been trained in all kinds of weapons in his time, but he found the katana the most rewarding. There was something about the feeling it gave him when the sharp narrow blade slashed through flesh and sinew...
He doubted that he would love the sword so much once he'd used it to kill his brothers and sisters. Enough. Stop lamenting. I'm an assassin. A remorseless killer. I don't care who I kill. But in his heart, no matter how hard he tried to believe the lie, he knew that simply wasn't true.
Vicente Valtieri awoke. The vampire's crimson eyes flashed open, a mixture of suspicion and alertness spreading across his features. A nose cut so sharp it could have been cut from flint, narrow slashes of cheekbones and ugly red pupils surrounded by cruel wrinkles. The assassin stayed perfectly still, listening - hoping - that disruption to his slumber was imagined. That the scream never happened. His hearing, far superior to any man or mer, proved him wrong seconds later as a second ear-splitting cry echoed out through the Cheydinhal Sanctuary.
The ancient Breton pulled himself off the stone tablet that he slept upon swiftly, brushing any dust that had settled during his doze off his dark silk clothes with long slender fingers. He refused to don the standard armour that his family used long ago, reasoning that with his natural resistance to weaponry and complete lack of contracts coming his way it would be pointless. Since then he had always worn fine apparel, expensive black shirts, soft linen trousers and well-polished boots. Being a vampiric life-taker didn't mean one had to be completely uncivilized, after all.
Vicente surveyed his quarters, taking in the swords resting against the wall by the doors: a wickedly sharp ebony longsword and a long and heavy claymore, wrought from finest malachite; the large chest, brimming with supplies of human blood and a variety of potions, next to his bed and the bookcase that took up the entire end of the chamber. An avid reader, the Breton had spent many nights enjoying a glass of wine while pondering over the rare volumes he possessed. He finally glanced at his desk, a copy of Souls, Black and White and a small dagger lying upon its surface. Nothing touched. Everything exactly how he left it.
Wasting no more time, he extended a bony hand to his swords, casting a telekinesis spell, and the longsword flew towards him, wreathed in a faint blue aura. The Breton snatched it out of the air deftly; slotting the dark blade into the scabbard at his hip, then repeated the spell, fingers closing reassuringly around the handle of the claymore as he slid it into the sheath on his back. Vicente had been infected by a member of the Shadows of Berne in Morrowind, a clan who weren't known for their strength, but despite this he was still quite capable of wielding the two swords at once if the situation arose.
Vicente smoothed back his wavy dark hair, unusually coloured for one of the undead, pushing a spiky fringe out of his eyes. Confident that he was able to confront the threat, he left the room, intent on finding the source of the scream.
The heavy iron doors creaked open as he made his silent ascent up the stone corridor that led to the main hall of the Sanctuary. It had been built many centuries ago, before even the old vampire had been recruited, and would probably last many more. It could be said that the underground headquarters of the Dark Brotherhood was a gloomy place; what with the skeletons that guarded it, the various weapons scattered around, and of course the psychopathic murderers that it homed. It wasn't particularly comfortable, either. The beds were hard and the food was terrible - though this was a recent addition. Antoinetta's cooking left much to be desired.
As he walked up the dusty passageway, the vampire found himself wondering why he'd thought to fetch his swords instead of simply buckling on the golden dagger that normally wore. The screams would probably be nothing dangerous, a person tripping or knocking something over. And yet, somehow, he instinctively knew that it was much more serious. Maybe vampire intuition? Maybe fate? Whatever it was, he was sure that it had the right of the situation. The assassin reached the end of his ascent, and with a strange sense of dread, he pushed open the doors to the main chamber.
Death. Corspes everywhere. Around fifteen piles of bones that looked like they had belonged to the Dark Guardians were strew across the room with painful carelessness. One of the four circular pillars that made up the chamber had collasped, looking to have been blown apart by a powerful fireball, scorched bricks scattered casually. Ocheeva lay on the floor immediately in front of him, skewered by a spear of ice, a spray of blood frosted upon her chest. Her eyes were manically wide, and a dying word had frozen on her lips. 'Traitor.'
Her brother Teinaava was keeled over at one of the tables in the corner of the room, his own bronze shortsword sticking out of his back. The chair had been kicked from under him, and his head rested against the smooth floor, surrounded by a pool of blood.
Gorgon was slumped, unmoving, in a chair in one of the other corners. The mountain of muscles hadn't even been touched by a by a blade, Daedric armour gleaming, as strong as ever. No, instead, a half-eaten apple stood on the table, nearly down to the core. Even from here, Vicente could smell the poison reeking off the cursed fruit.
The last body belonged to M'raaj-Dar. The Kahjiit was sprawled uncerimonially across the floor on his back, amber eyes wide, dark blue robes smoking and charred nearly beyond recognition, the indication of Destruction magicka usage. A tempest had torn through his body, ravaging it and sending his soul screaming to the next world.
Vicente realized he was snarling, thin lips twisted and fangs bared. He howled like a mad animal, demanding the blood of whoever had dared to harm his family. Ugly red eyes narrowed with vicious fury, blazing and barely containted. He wanted to make them pay. He needed to make them pay. In that moment, he was in his true form: an ice-cold killer, a creature of the hunt, a servant to the cruel whim of Molag Bal.
The vampire called upon his Embrace of Shadows, leaving himself in the night's loving caress. He became one with the darkness - the torches had all been blown out - and leapt up on one of the walls, rough sharp nails digging into the soft stone. He scanned the room, angry gaze burning. Where is he? Where's the bastard who slaughtered my family?
Aldaril had always known that, out of all the members of the Sanctuary, Vicente was the only one who could really trouble him when it came to blows. Gorgon and M'raaj were both skilled in their respective schools and styles, but the Orc was easy to fool, easy to outmaneuver, and the foul mouthed Khajiit was too cocky to see a real threat before it was right in front of his own eyes. Antoinetta put far too much trust in her family and Telaendril was one of the most talented archers he knew, but her skill lay in long-distance killing, rather than close-up. As for the shadowscale twins... well, they were both excellent assassins, but stood no chance against him in a straight-out fight.
But Vicente, aside from his vampiric blood lending him more strength than any man had a right to, wasn't prone to hasty, rash decisions - his three centuries on Nirn making him as cool and calculating as a foe could get. He was quite an able spellcaster and an even more able warrior, widely acknowledged as the most efficent swordsman in the Brotherhood. Combat prowess coupled with unique abilities as one of the undead made him a formidable opponent indeed. To such an extent that Aldaril was unsure of being able to walk away with his head still on his shoulders if they fought. So, he had set about creating a plan that would weaken the vampire and give him a larger chance of victory. Upon entering the Sanctuary, the Altmer had enveloped the main hall in a powerful Silence spell that didn't allow any sound to leave or enter the chamber. He had then set about the loathesome business of slaughtering his family, silver katana rasping from its sheath and unleashing death and destruction on them. It had been going excellently till M'raaj had dispelled the Silence encantation and begun to scream for help. He'd been killed seconds later, but the cat had ruined the plan. Instead of Vicente waking up later on and being furious at the murder of his family, then walking unknown into an ambush - not having the weapons to fully defend himself, he now realized there was a threat and would probably be armed. So when the Breton strode through the doors to the main chamber, a glittering claymore upon his back and a black longsword at his hip, the Silencer had hastily doused himself in protective and reflective spells, fading away to nothing. After donning the cloak of invisibility, he had thrown himself behind a pillar, preparing for the attack. As soon as Vicente had shrieked madly and launched himself onto the walls, looking for the killer, Aldaril decided it was time.
The High Elf stepped out from behind the stone column, hand thrust at the assassin. His palm glowed bright blue and began to hum with a nimbus of power. Seconds later, a burst of shock energy surged towards Vicente, thousands of volts eager to consume the ancient Breton. But at the last moment, the vampire dropped to the floor like a spider from a web, the bricks above him scythed to debris by the tempest. The assassin in question snapped his head towards the caster of the spell.
Aldaril's breath caught in his throat. His enemy stared at him for a long second, then his fingers came up and a purple tendril of dispelling magic snaked at the mer, catching him the chest and staggering him, defences shattered. The undead hurtld towards him at the speed of a horse in full gallop and smashed into the Silencer, sending them both rolling across the chamber. The two wrestled swiftly, ending in the Altmer being pinned to the floor with Vicente's bony knee on his chest and a sword - a long narrow shard of gleaming ebony - raised high in the air, ready to be brought down and stabbed through the Elf's golden throat.
I'm going to die. Sithis help me, I'm going to die!
Vicente saw him. Standing beside a pillar, the beginnings of a powerful Destruction spell dancing at his fingertips. If it hadn't have been for the Embrace of Shadows, he wouldn't have been able to see through the Illusion that enveloped the mer. Even so, he could only make out a purple mist around the figure... And the lightning, heading straight for him. The vampire let go of the wall, falling with cat-like grace. As the magic tore into the wall above him, Vicente flicked a length of dispel at the caster, banishing his invisibility.
A hood was draped over the figure's head and he wore a tattered dark shrawl over the same type of leather armour as those he'd butchered. Shrouded Armour? This killer is... a brother? Which could only mean... No, not again! The assassin barrelled towards the mer with new-found fury, smashing into him at an unbeliveable speed. After a brief scuffle, he grabbed the figure and kept him down with one knee, drawing his ebony longsword to finish off this disgusting waste of life.
Then he saw his face. Under the cowl it was hard to make out all the features, but Vicente was sure it was him. He ripped the hood off, confirming his suspicions. The Altmer who stared up at him had a pair of haunted sky-blue eyes, a jaw like a anvil, gleaming golden skin and a mop of hair of the same colour as his face. Aldaril. My... apprentice? The vampire glanced down at his former student's left hand, seeing the glittering silver fist that had been fastened to his stump. "You?" he croaked, as if his very vocal chords had been torn apart.
"Me," said Aldaril in a voice full of loathing.
Mustering all the strength he had, he brought his fist back and punched it into Vicente's side. He then repeated it with his silver fist, and the vampire slid off him, hissing in pain. The Silencer rolled away and leapt to his feet, katana flashing from it's scabbard as he brandished it.
"Why?" demanded his foe. He didn't answer, instead moved at the him, slashing at the ancient assassin's face. Vicente's darker blade leapt up to meet it and the swords kissed with a clang. He knows why. He just doesn't want to believe it. Aldaril drove him back, attacking relentlessly as he rained blow after blow down on his mentor.
Eventually, the attack halted, the Altmer panted and letting the tip of his blade dip. Sweat was plastered to his brow, running down his cheeks in warm drops. Vicente had no such problems. He lunged at the High Elf, and the assassin only just managed to bring his sword up in time to turn it aside. The vampire lead the dance this time, going left then right an incredible speed. Aldaril checked an sidestroke, ducked under an overcut, then parried a swing with such force that the Breton's sword was nearly torn from his grasp and he was sent stumbling. As his opponent recovered, the Silencer lifted his left hand - the metal one - and focused, drawing deeply on the undead energies. Suddenly, wisps of silvery magicka rose from his permanently clenched fist, drifting together as they took on the shape of an ethereal old man. The spirit floated in the air, hair lank and long, wrinkled features contorted with anger. His clothes were torn and his eyes burned with white fire. Rufio. The scarecrow of a man looked more menacing in death than he had in life and he wailed with hatred as he hurled himself at Vicente. The bloodsucker was knocked to the floor, ebony longsword flying, Rufio's hands wrapped around his throat. The vampire struggled, eventually grabbing the back of the ghost's head. His slender fingers flickered blue as he pumped hundreds of bolts of lightning into the spirit and, with a final shriek, it melted away to nothing but a steaming pile of ectoplasm.
As he began to rise, Aldaril darted forwards, point aimed right between the assassin's eyes. Vicente jerked back, so the blade missed, but still raked across his forehead, drawing blood. As black as his sword, it welled, leaking down his face and blurring his vision. The Breton threw a powerful gust of wind at the Silencer to keep him at bay, then got to his feet shakily, reaching for the claymore on his back. It rasped free, glittering and beautiful. He settled into a combat stance and whirled his greatsword a few times, making it sing. The Altmer came at him again and Vicente met the charge as they fought, toe to toe.
Suddenly, the High Elf feigned a strike at the head, drawing his guard up, then stabbed low. The sword went through his leg. The ancient assassin snarled in response and held his claymore with both hands, bringing it back to swing at his foe and cut off his head. Before it could connect, Aldaril reached into the fiery depths of Oblivion and withdrew a shield. It appeared with a swirl of red light, strapped to his left arm. He caught the malachite sword with the shield, glass screaming against Daedric steel. Then the Elf took a step back and ripped his own sword free, slashing off the vampire's left arm at the elbow.
Vicente stared in disbelief as his severed limb hit the floor with a squelch. He looked at Aldaril, then back at the dismembered arm. Ever defiant, he burst out with a roar, hacking at his former apprentice with only one hand. The Silencer calmly knocked the blow aside with his shield and the vampire - overbalanced - fell to all fours, exhausted and defeated. The Altmer placed a foot on the flat of the undead's blade, kicking it away into the shadows. He thrust his silver katana through his former-tutor's chest and twisted. An dark flow of blood seeped down his chest, the glistening sheen drenching his shirt. With a sharp crack, the Breton collasped, hollow cheeks stretched taut as he breathed out one last time.
Vicente Valtieri had passed from the world of the living and into the Void.
As he watched his friend die, a thought flickered across Aldaril's mind. I am alone now. Even more so than when I raped the girl. Two families have been torn apart because of me. Lucien told me the Night Mother took care of her children...
The future stretched ahead like an open wound, too painful to face for the time being.
Yet face it he would - with no friends nor kin to accompany him.
A/N: My first one-shot. I enjoyed writing it and it took me a while, so I'd appreciate it if you took the time to review.