This dark oneshot is set between Twist of Fate and Cherish the Season. It does draw heavily on Twist of Fate backstory, but those who aren't familiar with it can probably follow along.
It takes place in High Rock, during the early days of the Emperor's tour of that region.
Rated M for disturbing mental imagery.
The clothes were expensive, easy to tell even though he couldn't see them. Soft silk draped over his hair, and a loop of fur trim curled on his shoulder, like a friendly pet. Metallic threads scratched his cheek, but he dared not push them away and risk making a noise. Especially not with his quarry at the door.
"It wouldn't be a guard. It's too obvious and too risky. Besides, there are two targets. There's a chance one would live." A female voice, lightly muffled by the wood of the wardrobe and the swaddling fabric around his ears, spoke over the noise of door hinges and footsteps.
"You've ruled poison out, spells are out...what are you left with? Physical attacks? If you're only one person, how do you do it?" The second voice was male, lightly accented.
Listening intently, marking the placement of footsteps, his fingers squeezed in sequence along the hilt of the dagger, itching to act. Soon, very soon, the opportunity would present itself.
"You're thinking too directly, and I think you've forgotten about what happens next. You'd want to make sure there's no evidence, no loose ends, absolutely nothing to go on. Because you know with such famous targets, there are going to be a lot of questions." She was moving around as she spoke, somewhere near the fireplace. Much too far away.
"Ah, yes, the natural approach. But they're too young to simply die, and there are those healers always around them." It sounded as though the man was stationary, over in the far corner, probably standing beside the desk or seated in the ladder-backed wooden chair. Though he was the primary target, he wasn't the biggest concern. She was – at least, all of those conflicting rumours surrounding her were.
Flexing his legs in staccato contractions, keeping the blood flowing and trying to prevent cramps, that familiar energy – power – began to build in the base of his back. Little tingling thrills ran up his spine to set his cheeks aflame. So far, he was fairly sure none of those stories were true. If they were, he'd have been discovered by now. Not that it mattered, with the protections and enchantments he wore. But she didn't know...
"Again, you're being too direct. Accidents, darling. Rampaging horde of centaurs crushing the carriage – yes, I know I couldn't, but a Bosmer might be able to arrange it. Collapse of the bed canopy," a sudden thwack of wood punctuated the words, "hmm, or perhaps a weakened floor joist, right above the kitchen knife rack. Above, below, from the side – random tragedies, terribly sad, but just another piece of gossip to discuss down at the inn. Nobody to blame but the workings of the Gods."
"But how do you predict those? Isn't that the meaning of random?"
"Exactly!" she enthused, sounding closer. "Which is why you suspect everything. And always watch the eyes – if they glance at the chair you go to sit on and smile, like this, be sure to accidentally knock it with your foot first."
"It looks like you just flirted with the furniture." The words were light, but there was no humour to them, no hint of smile in the voice.
"You know I can't resist a well-built wardrobe." She was right beside him now, separated by nothing but a highly polished, very expensive piece of wood. Tensing, blood pumping in his ears, he waited in anticipation for the doors to fly open. First her, then him, and then out the door...
He was not expecting the wardrobe itself to go flying, toppling forward as if pushed by a giant's hand. Landing hard, he stifled his hiss of pain as his forehead knocked against the inner metal workings of the knob. The bleeding from the small gash and blossoming headache weren't much of a concern, not compared to the realization the only way out was being held down by the thick construction of the furniture. He could probably kick out the floor if necessary, but it would be slow and noisy.
"Did you break it? What are we going to tell the Prince?" The male voice was louder now, but still coming from the same place.
Something in the sound of it, some nervous excitement, brought on an icy wash of fear. The clothing, fallen from its hooks in the tumble, swaddled him in an oppressive grasp. Trapped – he was trapped. And they knew it.
"That accidents happen," she answered coldly.
The world suddenly changed. The wardrobe was moving again, almost jumping off the floor. But he didn't go with it, instead rolling out of the open doors in a tangle of fabric. Trying to use the momentum to his advantage, he sliced away furiously, shredding a blur of gowns and robes with his dagger. A sudden pain pierced his back, bringing the frantic motions to a halt, leaving him face down on the floor.
Paralyzed.
"Darts? Where were you hiding darts?"
"Draping folds are good at concealing more than just thickening waists," she answered in a bitter tone. "Don't look at me like that – of course I don't make a habit of carrying spikes of poison on my person. Just when confronted with extreme stupidity."
A sharp tug at his neck as hands pulled at the leather armour was followed by a cool draft of air tickling over his bare back as it was sliced away. Some heavy velvet, smelling of sweat and flowers, prevented him from seeing anything.
Nothing more was said as the rough hands worked, stripping off his protective coverings. The wooden floor was cold, making his skin contract when it came into contact. His rings, amulets, everything, was removed. A band of metal was snapped around a wrist with a brittle click, immediately causing the loss of his magicka.
"Almost ready," she said, close at hand, as someone knelt on his back, leaning over to tie a thick covering across his eyes. There was the soft tickle of velvet as it was pulled from his head, leaving behind stray pieces of hair that clung to his skin, charged with static.
"Done," she said, the pressure subsiding, and he understood that her hands had been the ones securing him. His fear was held in check by that thought – women were always so soft inside. Once she turned him over to the guards, there might be an opportunity to escape. He waited with blind impatience for her to call for help, quickly adjusting his plans.
Except there was no cry of alarm, only deafening silence.
"Now, there are two things we need to consider. What we already know, and what we need to know." She lectured her audience with a scholarly tone, as if discussing something as mundane as a new way to calculate profit margin. "Recognize this?"
The armour was held up, insignia in the shoulder pad pointed in their direction. "Dark Brotherhood," Martin answered darkly. Baurus, maintaining his observant silence, merely nodded.
"Mm-hmm. So we know he's freelance, either working alone or with a handful of low level murderers. He wasn't very high in the ranks, because any assassin with experience knows better than to hide someplace without an alternate escape route."
She grabbed his hair, pulling his head back to expose his neck. "Not many wrinkles, still fairly young. Breton by the looks of him." His head was dropped, landing hard on the floor. Now it was an arm being pulled up. "Soft hands, probably never touched a shovel in his life. Minor noble's son, most likely. Bored, idle, and sadistic. Terrible combination."
"Are you quite finished?" Martin asked wearily.
"This is important," she scolded, letting the arm go. "If you don't know who you're dealing with, you won't know how to handle them. He's pampered, pompous, and ripe for bad influence. Already he's fallen in with one cult – who's to say he hasn't found another cause since his fearsome dread father fell silent? Let's say he hasn't, and he yearns for nothing more than to send our souls to Sithis while pocketing some gold for his piety. That makes it easy enough. All we need to know is who hired him."
As his arm flopped back down the ground, limply slapping silently against the floor, he realized the paralysis had worn off. But something else was robbing his strength, rendering him unable to move. That was a worrisome thought, almost as much as the fact he'd gone deaf.
At least, he thought he had, but that notion was suddenly dismissed as a silk-swathed pressure straddled his back, a canyon rush of soft breath echoing in his ear. "Good evening, dearest brother," she purred.
So she'd recognized the armour. It was of no consequence, revealing nothing. Even though he'd earned it, she couldn't know that. He could lie, say he'd killed a man for it.
"There's only one thing I want from you," she said to him, her voice low and throaty. Her fingers were entwined in his hair, gently pulling his head to the side as she leant over him. "Your cooperation."
"Never. Do your worst," he growled, punctuating it with a spit in her general direction. Whatever magic rendered his limbs useless, his mouth worked fine.
"Now that's not very original," she answered dryly, warm fingertip tracing over his blood-sticky forehead. To his surprise a warm tingle of a spell traced over his flesh, healing away the wound. "Why does everyone want to start with my worst? Why not my best? Or easiest? A mystery of life, I guess."
"Lilia." The one word was a warning, scold, and soft plea combined, called out from the corner by the voice of faint accents.
And suddenly, the world fell silent once more.
"Don't you dare interrupt like that again! If you have something to say, make damn sure he can't hear you," she angrily scolded Martin. Resting the assassin's head back on the floor, turned to the side so one cheek pressed against the smooth wood, her fingers began to trace disconcerting circles, soft and gentle, over his naked shoulders. "What you're forgetting is he isn't afraid to die. The quicker we torture and kill him, the sooner he can join the everlasting orgy in the void, or whatever it is Sithis is supposed to offer. I never was quite clear on what kind of afterlife one could have in a void. Isn't a void an absence of something – a plethora of nothing? Ah, it doesn't really matter. Fanatics don't fear death like we do. But how do you make those with no fear talk if they don't want to?"
An empty pause filled the air, neither man volunteering a reply, too fascinated with her disturbingly intimate caresses of the prisoner. She glared at them, sighing as she answered her own question. "With promises. Not threats, hollow and weightless. Promises, heavy words of truth. Not just promises of pain, anyone can promise that. No, promises of life."
She shifted, resting her weight on the Breton's lower back. Her fingers were kneading his arm now, massaging down towards his hand. "If freedom – or escape, said a different way – can be granted by either release or death, then we promise neither. No, we promise life. A long, very long, life." His fingers, being held in a firm grip, were pulled up into the air. "Assassins don't study life. Their lot is death, in all of its guises. They aren't paid to gather secrets. They're hired to end them. Dark Brotherhood, Morag Tong – doesn't matter which you go to, the results are the same."
Each finger was being stroked now, gently pulled straight from the limply curled fist and then released. "Except that's not how Shadowscales operate. Of course they know how to kill. But that's not their only function. They're taught to watch, to infiltrate, to do anything to protect their liege. Including learning information others don't want to share. It's kind of like an art form, something that isn't easily taught. Knowing which technique to use, how far to take things. Exactly what sort of promises should be made."
"Don't you ever shut up?" he hissed. He could feel the vibrations of her speaking as she sat over him, though her words were lost to the deafening silence.
In one fluid motion she'd curled his hand up towards his face while leaning forward, her weight pressing along the length of his back. She wound her arm around his as she rested her chin in the crook of his neck in a strange parody of a lover's embrace. Suddenly he could hear her tutting at him in her husky whisper. "It's not polite to interrupt, darling brother. I'll have to silence you for a little while. You don't want to miss what I have to say."
His protests came out noiselessly, mouth opening in mute anger. His left hand was still ensconced in hers, the fingers of her right hand free to play with his hair. Which she did, softly pulling up strands before letting them fall back down to land harmlessly against his scalp. "You are a pretty one, aren't you? Golden curls, flawless skin, full lips – I bet your eyes are either sky blue or chocolate brown. This is good. I like pretty things."
This was wrong. Some base instinct shrilled out a warning at the unnatural situation. She shouldn't be playing with him – she should be hurting him. Pulling out fingernails, breaking bones, something equally horrible as she demanded information. But instead she was petting him, her cheek resting against his shoulder as she toyed with his hair, pausing to occasionally run a warm fingertip up and down the length of his neck. Each time she did his skin prickled with distaste.
"They say so many things about me, don't they? Hard to know what to believe. But I'm not as bad as they say. I'm just...curious. A perpetual student. There is so much to learn, so many skills to perfect. Practice – that's the key. Practice, and occasional experimentation."
Bringing her mouth closer to his ear, the warm words burnt straight into his mind. "You'll help me with that, won't you? Oh, there's so much I still need to know. Healing spells, for a start. I'm not very good with them yet. But you could help me practice, couldn't you? There's a cozy little room I have, hidden away, that I like to conduct my experiments in. I need to work on healing cuts. Did you know there are people out there who can heal just as quickly as a blade slices flesh?"
A thin fingernail, drawn sideways in the parody of a sharp edge, snaked over his skin. "With so much unblemished flesh, it will be easy to see what I'm doing. I'd like to get that good. Can you imagine, sliding a dagger along without leaving a mark behind? But first, I'll have to practice. Oh, I won't practice all the time. Wouldn't want you to get used to the constant pain."
Talk. She was all talk, surely. But there was something in her voice – a low purr that grew whenever she spoke of pain – that screamed of sincerity. She was whispering again, her enthusiasm increasing as she made plans. "But that's just the start. I've heard of so many fascinating things. They say you can break an arm slowly, over time, and eventually heal it into a knot. Isn't that incredible? I'm looking forward to learning if it's true. What I really want to know, is if you can use magic to keep someone alive long enough to peel back a flap of stomach, or a couple of ribs, and peer into the inner workings of the body. I mean, to actually watch a heart beat, or see lungs expand – that would be amazing. Wouldn't you want to see something like that?"
The weight of her body had been growing steadily more oppressive, making him lightheaded, unable to draw a full breath. His thoughts struggled to form, his mind feeling like a wet piece of cloth had been draped around the outside. But she kept talking and petting, heedless of his growing fears. "I believe we can do it, you and I, working together. The things we can learn will be revered by healers through the ages! Think of the discoveries we'll make! And I promise you, dearest brother, I'll make sure you stay alive to see it all come to pass. Isn't that exciting?"
"No!" he cried, a terrified squeal bursting out. There was no doubt about it – she meant it. Every word, every trial, every future moment of pain and torment would be his. And there would be no end. He was certain she wouldn't even have the mercy to let him go insane.
"Don't be so negative," she soothed, shifting so both of her hands were grabbing onto his left one. "Some of the experiments will only happen once." She resumed her stroking of his fingers, pulling them straight before leaving them to curl down once more.
Something about the sudden silence made his belly twist into apprehensive knots.
"Lilia, stop it!" Martin exclaimed, rising from his seat.
She looked over, furious at the interruption, her lips curling up like an angry wolf for an instant, before settling into a grim frown. "If you don't want to watch, get out. But if you think for one moment I won't do everything in my power to discover who paid this fetcher to kill you, then you know nothing of me."
He stared at her, taking in the sight of her snuggled above the naked Breton, tenderly playing with the man's fingers. It worried him sometimes, the dark part of her she worked so hard to bury, and how easily it came to the surface when called upon. But as always, she only indulged it when it served a purpose.
Before he came to a decision about whether to stop her, ordering Baurus to take over as he tried to tame her anger, the assassin made his opinions moot.
"Don't...don't you want to know who hired me?" he asked with a hoarse whisper, blind fear pounding in his ears with each quick beat of his heart.
"Hmm?" she murmured absently, not pausing in her strange ritualistic touching of his fingers. "Oh, right. You can tell me that later. No sense rushing when we have years to get to know each other." Her voice had a terrifying dreamy quality to it, and he wanted nothing more than to yank his hand out of her grasp. Something about it had her full attention. He was unhappily sure that something had nothing to do with the reason a naked assassin was lying on her bedroom floor.
Her next words sent a bolt of ice down his spine. "I've heard amputations can be done without any pain. The only problem with losing a limb is it doesn't grow back. Four limbs means only four opportunities to practice. But what if we consider the lowly finger? Each one has three little bones. Bottom," a soft pinch was given to the base of his pinkie finger. "Middle." Pinch. "And top." Pinch.
"Three little bones, ten fingers – that's thirty opportunities. Well, twenty-eight. Each thumb only has two parts. And fingers are so unnecessary, aren't they? Everything is unnecessary when you're being taken care of." Her lips were so close to his ear now, her voice little more than a breath. "And I'll make sure you're so well taken care of, you'll never have to lift a finger again."
Another dreadful silence fell, his mind dissolving in terror at the continuous bending and straightening of what now felt like a very frail little finger.
"Sorry to interrupt, but I need to ask," Baurus said, tail end of the silencing spell trailing off his fingertips. "If he's ready to talk, why haven't you asked him anything?"
Martin took the opportunity to sit back down in his chair, mouth grim and eyes cold as he resigned himself to watching her work.
"Because he might lie. As soon as I ask him anything, I'll put him in a position of power. He'll have the information—the power—and I'll have nothing. What I'm doing," she nodded at her busy hands, "is trying to convince him his information is worthless, and the only thing I want from him, is him. If he thought I'd kill him, he'd lie and happily go to his dread daddy. But if he thinks I'll keep him..."
"It was Lord Hearthsly!" he shouted, voice quavering with panic. Somehow he had to snap her out of her demented fantasies involving his fingers. Maybe if he told her what he was doing here...
"Mmm, that's nice, dear," she mumbled, with all the attention of a stumbling drunk. "Ah, here's my dagger." Her silk covered breasts pressed against his back as she wriggled above him, drawing out her weapon. "Now hold still, and try not to interrupt. I've never done this before."
"No, don't, stop-" The pleading words were cut off with sudden silence. He wasn't sure if he couldn't speak, couldn't hear, or both. All he could do was scream as the sensations told him a horrifying story.
Cold wood, pressing against his palm as she pushed his hand to the floor. The tense pain of overstretched muscles as she pulled his pinkie back. The warm sliver of metal against the top knuckle, waiting to do its work.
And then the terrifying feeling of ice and wet, something damp trickling down his skin, a terrible absence of sensation where his flesh used to be.
"He thinks you did it," Baurus murmured, impressed with her work. The assassin's mouth was wide open in a silent wail. "What did you do?"
"Telvanni frost spell," she answered. The assassin's fingertip was coated in a rigid cast of ice. "Instantly numbs the flesh. He can't feel a thing," she said with a wink, "other than the melting liquid, which is probably blood to his mind."
"Did Fathis teach you that?" Martin asked bitterly.
"He taught me the spell," she answered, proud smile on her face, "but I figured out how to use it."
"Shh, shh." The soothing hush was accompanied with the gentle stroking of his hair. Her other hand was pressing his palm to the floor, rubbing the skin on the back of his injured hand. "You did very well. Now, calm down, yes, that's better." Her chin dug into his shoulder as she nuzzled her cheek against his. "Shh, be quiet, and tell me if it hurt."
"No," he gasped, trying to draw a deep breath, finding her weight growing heavier with time. "No, it didn't hurt, it worked, you did it right. Now you can let me go—"
"Oh, my dear brother, no no no," she cooed. "There was more blood than I wanted. I'll have to try again in a little while. Remember, we've got so much time together..."
"I'll tell you anything you want!" he pleaded, horrified he still couldn't do anything except speak, still unable to move, fight her off, try to protect himself. Oh, Sithis save him, she really was a necromancer, wasn't she? There had to be a way to distract her. "Lord Hearthsly met me in the Flying Skull last week. He said that..."
She seemed to be listening, her stroking slowing down. Encouraged by her interest, he quickly told her everything he could, hoping something he said would get her away from him.
And as soon as that happened, he'd start screaming for the guards himself.
"You think it's the truth?" Baurus asked as the assassin rambled on, detailing his meeting with his employer for a third time, describing the man's buttons and what sort of gloves he'd worn.
"I think so," Martin said curtly, very unhappy with the whole business. Somehow this was worse than being the focus of the Mythic Dawn's plots. At least they'd only gone after him because of his breeding, something he had no control over. But to be targeted by a Breton noble—one of the Empire's nobles, his nobles, if he wanted to get technical—felt much more personal.
"It is," Lilia stated, the vibrations of her speech causing the assassin's stream of words to slow a bit, before picking up even quicker in supplication. "He's too terrified to make up something so detailed. His heart feels like it's going to pop out of his chest, and he hasn't been able to breathe properly since I started. He couldn't think straight enough to come up with any lie, let alone one he's told us three times."
"Now what?" Martin asked. "We've learnt what we need."
"Almost," she replied, turning her face back towards the blubbering assassin.
"Are you quite done, dear? I'm ready to try again if you are."
"What? No!" he spluttered, shocked by her bored tone. "I've told you everything I know! Quickly, you need to order his arrest before he gets away to...Morrowind," he lied, struggling to come up with a reason for her to leave. "He's going to, uh, Tear! Hurry!"
"Hush," she barked, yanking his hair up, before slamming his head off the floor hard enough for sparks to dance across his vision. She sighed heavily, resuming her stroking as a heal spell trickled over his face. "I told you, the only thing I want from you is your cooperation." Her fingers paused mid-stroke, and he felt her hot breath as it rolled over his ear. "I just realized, I don't know your name."
"Etienne," he quickly volunteered. "Etienne Grayves. I was born in..."
"Shut up, Etienne," she snapped. "I don't care." Each word was hissed with disdain, punctuated with a poke to his neck. She kept jabbing him as she spoke. "I don't care where an idiot was born," poke, "or lived," poke, "or died," poke.
"Guards!" he bellowed to the floor, desperate to escape from her. "Help!" As he cried out for aid, he felt her push herself up, fists pressing into his shoulders as she sat on his back. To his horror, she was laughing.
"Oh, you pretty little idiot! Do you think I don't know how to keep my work quiet? Nobody can hear you." She leant forward on her arms, elbows digging into his back. "At least, nobody who cares."
With that, the world fell silent.
"Did you want anything else from him?" she asked.
"I want this finished," Martin answered, leaning forward with a large sigh. He felt a bit ill, and very uncomfortable.
She grinned at him, a disturbingly cold smile echoed in the malicious glitter of her eyes. "As you wish."
"Dearest brother." Her voice was deafening, exploding in his ear. "Be sure and tell Sithis I sent you."
Her arms wrapped tightly around his head. He felt a quick jerk to the side as she twisted and then—
It really was a remarkable poison. Paralysis, followed by complete weakness. Except it didn't affect speech. How unusual.
"...and Lady Coppersly," the old man below him whimpered. "They're the ones who suggested I hire him. Oh, Gods, I didn't know he wasn't one of yours. I'd never knowingly cross the Brotherhood, but since the normal channels stopped working..."
The glimmering figure of purple sparks in the corner waved at him, indicating his work was done. Baurus grabbed the pillow from below the man's head, the insert of leather stitched into the back of his recently acquired armour creaking with the movement. Pressing the pillow over the man's face, he counted out the last few ragged gasps. When the glow of life below him disappeared, he carefully tucked the pillow back into position, and got off the bed.
"You're a quick learner," came a soft whisper from the corner, as she eased herself onto the windowsill.
"Well, you're an...unforgettable teacher," he returned, before falling silent as he resumed his checking to make sure there were no traces of their visit left behind.
Though he couldn't help thinking that sometimes, just sometimes, he'd almost prefer learning about how to forget.