Her dagger didn't lower. "You don't know who I am! You don't know what I've become!" Celia's lower lip trembled and her voice was unsteady. Yet she stared unblinkingly at the man in from of her, dark eyes narrowed.
Everything was coming back to her. Her entire childhood flashed before her eyes
The man pressed himself against the wall; this drunkard who had a contract on his head and was apparently her brother. As a member of the Dark Brotherhood, it was her duty to carry out any and all contracts sent her way. But this man… This was the man she had trouble with meeting his eyes. His eyes were so much like hers; a deep blue, a shade that seemed to analyze and question everything. This was the man she had spent the first five years of her life with; now there they were.
She had cornered him behind Haelga's Bunkhouse, dragging him away the second he opened the double doors. He was a disgusting, despicable man; always drunk, and bedding a different girl each night. Once they were out of sight, she had whipped out her dagger and pressed it against his throat. At first, he didn't react. Then, after a few awkward seconds, this man who had been her brother seemed to realize who she was.
Maybe it was her eyes, which looked so much like his.
Out of all the problems she had, the biggest one was that he kept trying to talk his way out of the situation.
"I'm yer brother," he slurred, squinting at her face. "Yer half brother. Yer the bastard, aren't ya? That's what I thought," The way he smirked and nodded infuriated Celia. "The one with the Imperial mother. Our father wasn't as good a man as they all thought, eh? Betrayed his wife… Betrayed the Legion…"
A knot worked its way into her throat and stomach. "What..?"
"Ah, yes!" She earned another smirk. The man straightened up, and the tip of her dagger carved a tiny red line down his throat. "You don't know. But I remember you, I do. The daughter of Legate Byerd Oslin and some Imperial tavern whore. We share the same father. Although I was the result of him and her actual wife, Yndla," Several moments of silence followed. "You didn't know that?"
Heart pounding, Celia yanked the knife up and stuck the point underneath his chin, which was covered in filthy stubble. She pushed it against his skin until he was cringing. "Tell be everything; your name, who you are, our family, how you know me… Maybe that will make your death less painful."
The man trembled, but launched into his story. Fear seemed to replace his drunken slur.
"Mah-my name is Quentas Oslin. Son of Legate Byerd Oslin and Yndla Oslin. Firstborn child. You're Byerd's second child. All I know about your birth is that our father got some whore pregnant, and since she couldn't keep you, she gave you to Father. I… I wah-was seven when you were born. We grew up together. And… and there was a third child." Her was going cross-eyed looking at her dagger. "R-Relle. The baby. When father was killed, mother gave her to Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm. She dropped me off in Whiterun-I was twelve-an you-"
"I was thrown out into the streets," Celia scowled, remembering.
"You w-were. And… The baby… I don't know what happened to her…" He was trying to slide away, but she kept him pinned. He seemed to not realize how quickly Celia could kill him. How she would not hesitate to do so.
Despite the situation, she allowed a small smile to pull up the corners of her lips. "Well, I happen to know exactly who she is, where she is, what she does… I'll grace you with the information; Relle, last you saw as a little babe, is Arch-Mage at the College of Winterhold. She also happens to be the Dragonborn. But none of that matters anymore, does it… Not to you, at least." She pretended to consider her choices. "What to do, what to do..?"
"I… I don't know anything more that wah-what I've already t-told you…" He stammered. He was trying to keep her dagger in his line of sight.
"That's it? That's all you know?" She stuck the point of her knife between his thick eyebrows, drawing blood.
"Y-yes… That's it. Now… cuh-can you let m-me go?" Quenas tried to squirm away, edging along the wall towards the empty market. Only her dagger kept him from fleeing. It was her favorite blade; a long, wickedly curved dagger made of ebony, a gift from her half-sister, Relle. Admittedly Celia had been afraid of what her newfound sister would say when Relle found out she was an assassin; she hadn't been happy, but supported her nonetheless. If only she knew what Celia was doing at the moment; killing their brother.
She tugged her hood up over her head, grinning wolfishly. "Oh, no… You see, you have a contract on your head. Somebody wants you dead. Unfortunately it's my job to carry out this contract." With one hand she tugged her mask up over the lower half of her face. "I would say that I'm sorry… But I'm not."
Eyes wide with fear, Quenas opened his mouth, threatening to scream, but Celia just shrugged. "That won't do. You see, I've… arranged for the city guard to be… absent, per say. It's just you and me… Sibling bonding time."
"Please…" he whispered. His eyes bore right into hers, begging her to spare his life.
The slightest shake of her head was enough to push him over the edge.
This time he really did scream, a loud, unnaturally shrill sound that pierced the night. Almost immediately he was silenced when Celia drew her dagger swiftly across his throat. His blood splattered against the stone street, and Celia let his body fall, completely limp. She stooped down and stuck a crumpled piece of into his hand.
Then she walked away from the man who had been her brother, slipping into the night as she had come out. There was really no point in hiding the body, in fact, that had been her plan. The letter she left with his framed him in a plot with an unnamed person, 'N' in the letter, to steal the Black-Briar's wealth. Because of his apparent crime, the wealth of the Oslin family would go to its rightful heir. Relle. After Quenas was dead, Relle would be the last trueborn Oslin in Tamriel, and she deserved happiness more than anybody.
Besides, Celia was a bastard. It wasn't as if she had a rightful claim.
Relle knew nothing of Celia's plot; she had planned this with Nazir and Babette. It was all she could do to repay her youngest sibling, who she ignored and abandoned with they were children. Celia didn't bother to look for her, not even when she heard rumors of her whereabouts. Maybe she regretted it now.
But maybe everything turned out alright.
Celia was no longer the bitter little girl caked with mud, who sang for a septim in Markarth. She was an adult now, a full-fledged assassin. Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. Terror of the night.
And her little sister, the tiny babe with a fuzz of dark hair, crying as she was wrenched from her cradle, was no longer a babe, though she was still tiny. She was almost a women grown now. Both Celia and Relle looked like their father; thick, wavy dark hair, eyes of such a deep blue they appeared almost black, and fair skin dotted with freckles. Quenas had taken their mother's looks; fair of skin and straight of hair, but with their father's dark eyes.
Separately, they had been through so much. Celia had not been there when Relle was dying, nor had Relle been with Celia as she suffocated on the ashes of her Brothers and Sisters. Although Celia was not a sentimental person, she wanted to make up the lost years with her sister.
They may only be related on their father's side, their father who was long dead, but they were still siblings.
But even as she collapsed against a wall, she let out a short, stifled sob. The look in his eyes as he begged for his life would not disappear in her mind's eye. For a moment, he was just her brother.
And then she drew the dagger.
And then there were two.