A/N: Just a quick warning: there's a scene toward the end of this chapter that contains animal/child abuse. Read at your own risk.
Spooky Little Girl
I was born in the north country, where sparse, prickly vegetation is dotted with juniper trees beneath the craggy shadow of the mountains. Where grey skies loom overhead for half the year, and heavy snowfalls persist the other half. I know the land, but I can barely remember what our house looked like. I can, however, still see the nightshade plants scattered throughout our garden. I don't know why such a toxic plant was permitted to grow unhindered, but for some reason, I believe it had something to do with my mother. That may not be entirely accurate, of course, for I didn't just have one mother—I had two. There was the woman who birthed me, only to pass from this world, moments after I entered. And there was the Night Mother.
How can I explain the Night Mother? Sithis is easy—the Dread Father, collector of souls. Sithis is darkness, Sithis is emptiness, Sithis is the Void. But the Night Mother—the Night Mother is different. Born eras ago as a mortal woman, she is both the founder of our order and our direct link to Sithis. She smiles upon her favored daughters, and we live to please her. It is her embrace that we rest in here in the Void. Is it so strange, then, that I should come to think of her as my true mother?
But although my memories are hazy regarding my mother, I can still remember my father. Even those memories are faint though; just of a man with a thick blond beard and a merry laugh, and of stories of adventure told by the fire deep in the night. The clearest memory I have of my father, however, is of the day he was buried.
I remember that day because the sun was shining—a rare occurrence in the north. But the wind was anything but rare, whipping past and taking the priest's words along with it. I stood at the graveside wearing a too-large black dress, a hand-me-down from my cousin Brigitte, whose hand I tightly clutched. She couldn't have been more than a few years older than me, but she'd appointed herself my guardian, and was taking her responsibility very seriously.
"Stand back, Annie," she said, pulling me back from the edge of my father's grave. But I shook my head, causing my already-messy blond braids to come further undone.
"I want to see Papa," I insisted, straining against her hold. My four-year-old brain still lacked the ability to comprehend death, but I understood that my father was in that pit—and that this would be the last time I would see him.
The news had come several days ago that the wreckage from his ship had been found, but I hadn't understood until Tania had sat me down and explained everything. That my father's ship was a good one, but the sea had a mind of its own, and even the best ships could not hold out against rocks. And that Papa had gone to be with Mama in Aetherius, but they had found him, and would bring him home so that we could say goodbye one last time. I'd cried, but when my tears had dried up, I'd nodded and told Tania that I understood—but in reality, I thought my father was standing down in the bottom of the hole—and I didn't understand why Brigitte wouldn't let me go talk to him.
So instead, I pouted, crossing my arms over my chest and refusing to look at Brigitte. She had switched her hold to my upper arm, and whenever I would sneak glances at her to see if she was really paying attention, her grip would tighten. I had just decided to stomp on her foot as hard as I could and dart forward, when the priest finished speaking, and the adults surrounding me began to fall into a line, filing past the hole and tossing handfuls of dirt in.
"Come on." Brigitte pulled me into the line. "We have to pay our final respects to your papa." Respects? I didn't understand. They were throwing dirt on him, of all things! Papa would be so upset. Whenever he returned from sea, all grimy and salt-stained, he always insisted on immediately taking a bath. Even if he had to leave to go be with Mama, he would never stand for this. Any minute, he would climb out of the hole and make these people stop. They'd be sorry they ever crossed him. I smiled at little at the thought as Brigitte and I waited in line.
But when we reached the edge of the pit, I was disappointed to look down and see nothing but a wooden box. "That's not Papa." I began to tug anxiously on my cousin's skirt. "Brigitte, Papa's not there."
"It's because he's dead, Annie." Brigitte stretched her hand over the pit and opened it, allowing the dirt to sprinkle over the box. "They just put his body in the box so we can say goodbye to him."
I mimicked Brigitte, picking up a handful of dirt and tossing it over the edge. But I was frowning as I did so. Papa wasn't at home and he wasn't at sea—but he wasn't here, either. Where was he, then? Tania said he had gone to Aetherius, and that was where Mama was—but Mama wasn't here. Mama wasn't anywhere. So did what did that mean for Papa? I remember how the confusion haunted me the rest of the ceremony, following me home from the graveyard. Although I didn't know it at the time, I had just experienced my first taste of death.
When we arrived home in the afternoon, I headed straight to Tania's room, hoping she could tell me more about where Papa had gone. But instead, I found her sitting in the middle of the floor, her belongings strewn everywhere and her trunk sitting open beside her. I stood in the doorway, fists perched on my hips as I surveyed the sight before me.
"You made a mess, Tania," I said reproachfully, my words heavy with all the force of a four-year-old's disapproval. "You have to clean it up." I kept my own room tidy, my clothes carefully placed in the wardrobe and my dolls neatly lining the shelves.
Tania looked up at me with a faint smile, then pushed up off the floor, ruffling my hair before picking up an apron and beginning to fold it. "Afraid it doesn't matter much now, Annie," she said. She sounded sad, and I wondered if it was about Papa. "I've been let go. I have to be gone by evening."
"You're leaving?" Somehow, the idea of Tania being gone was worse of a shock than Papa. Papa was always leaving—the sea was "his calling," Tania said—but I couldn't remember ever being apart from Tania. "You can't go! Who's going to stay with me?"
"I have to." She tossed a pair of shoes into the trunk. "I was under your papa's employment, but now that he's gone, your aunt's in charge, and she says I've got to go. She'll be taking care of you now."
"But where will you go?" I could feel my face getting hot, and I knew I was about to cry. A sudden, horrible thought occurred to me. "You're not going to Aetherius too, are you?" At the idea of Tania being gone—really gone—the tears began to well up in my eyes.
Tania's eyes widened a little as she saw me start to cry. "No!" She crossed the room in two quick steps, and then her arms were wrapped around me, my face buried in her apron. "No, Annie. Sovngarde won't call me for a long time. No, I'm just going back home, back to Markarth. I'll stay with my family for a while until I can find work."
"Let me go with you!" I pulled away and eagerly looked up at Tania. She had told me all about her home city of Markarth, a mysterious place built by the Dwemer, filled with secrets and intrigue. "I want to see the rivers run with silver and blood!"
Tania winced. "Maybe I shouldn't have told you that," she muttered. She gave a long sigh. "But you can't come with me, Annie. You have family here." She stepped away and began gathering the last of her belongings.
"But Tania," I protested, beginning to feel desperate. "I don't like them as much as I like you." She placed a few books in her trunk and slammed the lid shut, clicking the lock into place.
"You don't know them," she admonished. "At least give them a chance. Brigitte seems nice." She began dragging her trunk to the doorway, pausing to give me one last hug. "Hang in there, Annie," she said. "You're a tough girl. You'll be just fine." And then she was gone, and I was alone, except for the sound of Tania's trunk thudding down the stairs.
I sat in my window and mournfully waved goodbye to Tania until the carriage that came to collect her disappeared around the corner. And after that, I cried, facedown in my bed clutching the doll she'd made for me until Brigitte came to fetch me for dinner. I'd sat up in bed and scrubbed my face clean, and didn't shed another tear afterward.
Tania was right; although she was bossy, Brigitte was nice, and we became great friends that winter. My uncle was a quiet, nervous little man, and although I didn't spend much time around him, he seemed decent enough. My Aunt Claudette, on the other hand, was very strict and quick-tempered, and it didn't take me long to decide that I didn't like her—at all.
I would spend my days with her, though, tagging along after her around the house performing chores and working on lessons. But when Brigitte came home from school in the afternoon, we would head outside to play, and the adventures would begin. Brigitte had a wonderful imagination, and at her urging, sticks became swords, icicles became scepters, and snow became the elements from which our palaces and subjects alike were formed. We were ice queens, and our domain stretched from there to the sea—or at least to the edge of the garden.
We also spent a fair amount of time playing with my cat. Her name was Tabby, and Papa had rescued her from the docks when I'd been barely more than a baby. The next winter, much to the delight of Brigitte and I, the gardener informed us that Tabby was expecting kittens.
Although Tabby took refuge in the stables when the winter winds grew too frigid, she was still an outdoor cat. And although spring was well on its way, Brigitte and I worried about the kittens being exposed to the still-blustery weather. So one afternoon, when my aunt was busy arguing with a courier, Brigitte and I snuck Tabby inside and hid her in a corner of the pantry.
Tabby was well into her pregnancy at this point, and she didn't seem to mind having her adventurous ways curbed in the slightest. She happily settled into the nest we made for her behind a sack of potatoes, and as her belly got rounder, Brigitte and I became more excited.
Then came the morning I snuck into the pantry to discover three blind little balls of still-damp fur. It was all I could do to contain my excitement as Tabby looked proudly on, even allowing me to wriggle behind the potatoes and gently stroke the kittens with a single finger. Brigitte could barely stifle her squeal as I whispered the news to her when she arrived home that afternoon, and we both immediately rushed to the pantry.
In retrospect, of course, we were reckless. We wanted to spend every spare moment with the kittens, and we did just about that. We should have known my aunt would grow suspicious, but in our excitement, the thought didn't even cross our minds. So we abandoned caution and grew sloppy, not realizing my aunt was watching.
On that fateful afternoon, Brigitte and I were sprawled on the floor of the pantry, playing with the kittens. They were several weeks old by now; their eyes had opened, they had begun to eat solid food, and they were growing more rambunctious every day—which was very quickly becoming a problem. Perhaps what tipped my aunt off in the first place was that Brigitte and I had suddenly grown very helpful in the kitchen, immediately springing to volunteer every time she needed something from the pantry. We had little choice, though; the entire pantry had become the kittens' personal playground. They chased each other around the perimeter and attempted to scale the shelves—and there was always the risk that if we opened the door, one of them would dart out.
We were so intent on arguing over what to name them that we didn't hear footsteps approaching. Without warning, the door swung open, and my aunt loomed over us. "What on Nirn could you two possibly—" She began to speak, but her voice immediately cut off as she caught sight of the kittens. We stared up at her, petrified with terror as the fury began to build in her eyes.
"Mother." Brigitte was the first to recover her senses, quickly leaping to her feet. "Mother, it's not what it looks like, I'm sorry, I—" She was cut off as my aunt's hand lashed out, striking her across the face.
"I don't believe my eyes." My aunt's voice was crackling with wrath. "For weeks, the two of you have been skulking around, and this is what you've been hiding? Keeping these filthy animals in the same place we keep our food, for gods' sakes?"
"No, Mother, they're not dirty, and we pick up after them—"
"Enough!" my aunt snapped. "I don't want to hear any excuses. What have you been feeding them, hmm? We can't afford to feed four extra mouths. What you did was stupid, irresponsible, and just plain wrong." She stormed over to the back door and threw it open. "Raul!" she yelled.
"Mother, we're sorry." Brigitte's tone had a note of pleading, and somehow, that scared me to my very core. "We'll take them right back outside, and they won't be any trouble, I promise, Mother, please." Brigitte's face had gone white with fear.
"Raul!" my aunt shrieked again, and this time, the gardener appeared in the doorway.
"Yes, ma'am?" he asked wearily. My aunt pointed to the open pantry door, where the biggest of the kittens, an orange tabby, could be seen struggling to climb over my leg.
"These cats need to be disposed of. Take them out to the river."
"No!" Brigitte's voice rose shrilly. "No, Mother, please, you can't, please…"
"Silence, Brigitte!" My aunt's hand twitched upward, and my cousin shrank back.
"You sure about that, ma'am?" Raul was glancing uneasily between my aunt and Brigitte.
"Yes!" My aunt stomped back over to pantry, snatched an empty sack from a hook inside the door and thrust it in his direction.
"Yes, ma'am." And he took the sack and stepped toward the pantry.
"No!" Raul didn't even budge as my weight barreled harmlessly into him, but I clung to him just the same, beating him with my fists as hard as I could.
"Antoinetta! Enough!" my aunt's voice shrieked, and suddenly there were claws of iron locked around my arms, dragging me away. I could only struggle, screaming, as Raul scooped up the mewing kittens and unceremoniously dumped them into the sack.
"The mother, too," my aunt called, and I struggled harder than ever.
"No, not Tabby!" Poor Tabby's eyes were wide with indignation as she was hauled up by the scruff of her neck and dropped in the sack as well. My shrieks turned unintelligible as Raul disappeared out the door, and I managed to twist an arm free and punch my aunt square in the jaw. As she recoiled, I broke free and ran for the door.
I made it halfway across the garden before she caught up with me, still screaming like a banshee as she wrestled me into submission. Through tear-blurred eyes, I could see Raul picking up stones from the edge of the river.
"Let go of me!" I howled, but I dissolved into sobs as Raul threw the sack, and it instantly disappeared under the surface.
My aunt released her hold on me for the briefest of seconds, only to spin me around, but I managed to scratch her face and once again break free.
I charged straight to the river, not hesitating for even the briefest of seconds. The icy water was a shock as I plunged into it, but I doggedly struggled forward against the current. "Tabby!" I wailed. I dove beneath the surface, flailing out with my arms, but the water was too murky to see through, and my lungs began to burn. I surfaced, gasping for air, but as I submerged again, something locked around my waist and dragged me to the surface.
I twisted around to see a grim-faced Raul had gotten a hold of me. "Let me go! Let me go!" I shrilled. "Tabby!" But it was too late. Raul carted me back to the shore, where my furious aunt was waiting. I swung at her as she approached, but I saw stars as her own blow snapped my head sideways.
"Stop that," she hissed as she took hold of me again, dragging me back toward the house "You should be ashamed of yourself."
"I hate you!" My shriek had gone ragged. "You killed Tabby, and I hate you! I wish you would die!" This time, there was a crunching sound, and something thick and metallic-smelling filled my nose.
"You ungrateful little brat." My aunt gripped a handful of my hair as she dragged me into the house. "I've taken you in and cared for you as my own and this is how you repay me?" She threw open the door to the pantry and threw me inside. "You will stay here until morning. Think about what you've done. Pray for forgiveness." And the door was slammed shut behind me, the click of the latch following.
I was shivering in my wet clothes, but a rage the likes of which my six-year-old self had never before known was bubbling up inside me, searing through my veins. I didn't know what I was supposed to be praying for. I didn't even know who I was supposed to be praying to. Tania had taught me about Shor, about Kyne, about Talos, but in the end, the words that poured from me were directed toward no deity in particular. But I prayed.
I prayed that Tabby and her litter would crawl out of the river and take revenge on my aunt. I prayed that they would chew her apart, that they would tear her with their claws. I prayed that she would suffer. I prayed that she would die.
No ghostly cats came in the night, of course, and in the morning, my aunt came down to let me out and send me upstairs for a bath. Later that day, we went to see a healer about my broken nose, and my aunt prattled on about how my cousin always played too rough, while I sat sullenly glowering at her, not even bothering to call her out.
The watery sun still rose and set, the city continued on in its familiar rhythm, and I went back to chores and lessons. But things had changed—and it wasn't just that Brigitte and I no longer played together. I had changed. Despite my young age, I had reached out and touched the darkness for the first time. The rage had cooled to a simmer, but it lingered there beneath the surface, out of sight, out of mind. And although I didn't yet realize it, my prayers had been heard.
