Vampire's Kiss

Since the HC Davos won the Swiss hockey championship – something which makes this girl very very very happy – I'll update earlier than planned. =)

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Oblivion, its characters or places or ideas. Nor am I making a single Septim from this. Sniff

Author's Note: The story will be told from several different perspectives, depending on the story arch in question. The present time (the game time) is in third person, and the perspective jumps according to what I happen to want. Tessa's past is a first person narration in her own voice. This just a little head's up if you're confused. I had quite a bit of trouble when I worked out the story, trying around different perspectives until I felt it made some sense. The prologue was rewritten about a dozen times before I was even close to happy with it. The first chapter four or five times. I stopped counting.

I wanted to thank all those readers who left me such lovely reviews. I honestly hadn't expected to have anyone comment on my writing. I'll try to improve those things which I had pointed out in PMs and I hope I can fulfill the expectations of a good tale. Thanks again everyone.

Cheers,

Canna

Chapter 1

And that the promise you give me today,

still holds true tomorrow.

Running, isn't that how these stories always begin? With someone running? A crime committed, and the guilty one running for her life in misery? I was certainly running. And I was 100% miserable. And, but all the others did not know that, I was also guilty of the crime. Poor, innocent, stuttering little Tessa could not possibly be capable of the crimes which would soon be the talk of Leyawiin. As far as they all knew, I had left soon after breakfast on an errand for my mother, and should be returning in a few days... except that I won't. Perhaps they will believe me dead? I could always hope. Then again. I could also have done what I did without leaving, and the fools would probably have been none the wiser. After all... sweet, innocent... stupid little Tessa was harmless. Right?

If it makes you happier to believe that...

Then again, had I stayed, I would not be in my currently miserable situation of huddling underneath the indifferent and imperfect shelter of a boulder whose side had been carved out by the coming and the going of the river in the centuries past. I wouldn't be staring despondently at the broken, murky from the rain and the cloud covered uncertain light surface of the Lower Niben – or was this already the Niben bay? With the rain and the lateness of the afternoon, I couldn't make out the landscape beyond the first few feet of the river. If it was the bay, then Bravil would not be far off, meaning I had made good time in catching up my... my slight delay in leaving Leyawiin. I could probably dare to push on till the Inn of Ill Omen – Olfgar's father must have been drunk when he named it.

Sheogorath was truly enjoying himself at my expanse. Well, let him enjoy himself. I'm planing on taking my inheritance and finding a new life somewhere. He can't stop me with a little drizzle.

Well... I do have no one but myself to blame. I thought to myself. I could have put off my journey. But then again... I wouldn't be free then. Calming myself with those words, I shouldered my bag again – it contained all of the belongings I cared about: a change of clothes, my favorite night shirt, the inheritance of 100 septims and a ceremonial silver dagger left to me by my father when he died nearly fifteen years ago, and two books I had not wanted to part from. The dagger was an elegant, sharp edged, almost dainty thing, probably worn as decoration by a lady once upon a time. I couldn't imagine my father, a trained swordsman, wielding such a frail looking weapon. It suited me perfectly.

I had enough mastery in the school of Alteration to enchant the rather small and pathetic looking bundle to resist the rain water. It wasn't the school I was most adept in, but it was a magicka I had always considered useful. Not that my family agreed. They had considered my dabbles in magicka as useless for one who can't even speak properly.

The fools always did think that there wasn't anything between my ears – only a big black nothing. I thought to myself, rather amused. If they ever learned that it had been stupid little Tessa who had so brilliantly... But well, really, what was the point of gloating when there was no audience. None had seen me, and that nagging feeling of having been watched, was just that, a nagging feeling. My looks helped me pass unnoticed. I have black hair just shy of mundane. It was eye catching only in its dullness. A life time of trying different shampoos and tinctures had left me shrugging and accepting it as it was. There was no point in crying over it. My eyes were just as mundane. A limpid brown which seemed to be not only out of place with the black hair and pale skin, but had the expressiveness of a cow watching someone walk past – when I so desired it. A suitor, who had wanted access more to my family than me, had once given me the best compliment of me life: when I laughed, my eyes seemed to turn to sparkling diamonds, turning my otherwise normal brown eyes into an unusual amber tinted color which sparkled and shone like the speckles of light reflected off a polished wooden surface – you know the kind of surface that was polished and oiled and polished again until it was almost as good as a mirror. The eyes were by far my best features. My figure was always a tiny bit on the well fed side, rounded and soft and innocuous. With my mouth closed I seem like a dear girl. When I speak I come across like an idiot. But let's leave that. There's no point in poking around in open sores.

Calmly, I trudged back up the river bank to the road, stopping only long enough to dig up several Mandrakes. My skills in alchemy, to put it mildly, are catastrophic. I couldn't keep most herbs apart to save myself and thought lavender just looked pretty. But I did know enough to know that mandrake was good against illnesses. Tracking up to Bruma in this weather was almost a guarantee for at least sniffles. The downside of mandrake root was the taste. Anyone who has never chewed the stringy, pulpy root cannot appreciate how vile it tastes. It is a bitter taste. But it isn't like drinking a bitter ale, or a stale water. These are liquids which seem to seek out every nook and cranny of the mouth, seek out even the tiniest of space between the taste bud to drive home just how wile they taste. No, mandrake root juice takes this to an entirely new level. It seems to grate off the taste buds, scourging the interior of the mouth like sand, removing any imperfection.

With distaste I chomped down on the root, promising myself to buy a cure disease spell at the first opportunity. Because, while not brilliant in curing and healing, I know enough to heal basic diseases and put bones back together. I couldn't heal a critical wound or a serious illness, but anything below that was fair game.

Then again, once I reached Bravil, I stood undecided for only a few seconds. I would not go into that particular city. The very air itself seemed to be a cesspool of infection, ready to strike down anyone who came too close. Leyawiin, while not pleasant, at least had the maritime climate and its storms to regularly wash the air clean. In Bravil, the air seemed to have grown stale several centuries ago, without hope of renewal. Not even the still falling rain could wash the sense of decay and festering illness out of the air. So, bravely, I continued chewing on my Mandrake root, and continued on towards the inn I knew to be about halfway between Bravil and the Imperial City. I stopped there when ever mother sent me on errands to the other guild halls.

It was well past midnight when I finally arrived at the inn.

I've known Olfgar and Brunhilde for several years. In fact, come to think, I knew them already before father died. We would always stop here on his trips down to Leyawiin for business when we'd come down from Farrin, in the north of High Rock, near the border to Skyrim. I would always ride in front of my father and enjoy the silly little explanations he would give me. Like about how the wolves knew to keep away from us because he had an invisible bell ringing which would frighten them. I now know that it was just a fable to keep me from being frightened. I miss my father. And Olfgar and Brunhilde are part of these memories. I never stop there when I am traveling with others. I do not want the memories of me and father calling out to Olfgar's father – back then the old man was still alive – soiled by my family.

It was just barely the other side of midnight when I pushed open the door to the common room, soaked to the bones and in a matching mood. Several Imperial troopers lounged around the chairs, emptying the last pint of the evening before turning in for some rest. They spared me only a cursory glance. Their drinks were by far more interesting than the gray mouse which had just walked in.

In my soggy dress and tiered looking eyes, I felt wholly out of place. But upon seeing me, Olfgar hurried out from behind the bar, and pulled me into a bear hug. I almost disappeared in the tall Nord's – now there's a pleonasm if I ever saw one – embrace.

"Lass!" He's kind of like an older brother – a true older brother, not one in name only. "Get yourself down to Brunhilde before you freeze, silly girl."

"T-thank y-you Olf!" he nodded quietly, and ushered me down the ladder to where he and his wife kept their personal rooms. At least he hadn't asked me why I was traveling in the middle of the night.

"What in the name of the gods are you doing about in the middle of the night girl? You should long ago have been in bed!" Brunhilde was a petite Nord, if such a thing was even possible. Where her husband was as big as a bear, she seemed more to be a delicate doe. And obviously pregnant. Better humor her then. Nord's have notoriously bad tempers. Pregnant women have notoriously bad tempers. Now put the two together and you get the general idea.

"I m-mis c-calc-culat-ted. I Th-thought t-that it w-was earlier i-in t-the day. Or I w-would have st-topped in B-Bravil." Brunhilde was one of the few persons on Mundus, I had few problems speaking with despite my somewhat obvious problem. It has to do with the memories of my father I think. That, and I know with the certainty of a rock, that neither she nor Olfgar will judge me for how I say things. The Nord woman shook her head at me and immediately begun unwrapping me from my soaked clothes. Mother hen. That's all I need to say.

"Only you could be silly enough to do something like that." I gave her a wry smile, the corners of my lips pulling up and inwards just a little bit. In silence I allowed Brunhilde to towel my hair dry and dress me in a clean, dry but somewhat low cut shift, before showing me into the spare room nearest the ladder leading up to the common room. The room already showed signs of the upcoming addition to the family.

"W-when w-will the b-boy be b-born?" I asked as Brunhilde pulled the door open to the room.

"The boy? What makes you think it's going to be a boy?" I just shrugged. I somehow knew that it would be a boy. I sometimes have such intuitive knowledge. Things which I shouldn't know, but somehow did. In the back of my head I could still hear my father's whispered voice to trust the feelings, as he had put it. What had he known about me which I did not?Brunhilde's eyebrow rose half an inch, and I could feel the corners of my lips pulling up in one of my rare smiles.

"D-doesn't Olf w-want a b-boy?" I asked to deflect from the previous question, shrugging slightly as if to say that this would explain my question.

"True... but that doesn't mean it'll be one." Again, I shrugged, as if to say there is always hope. Brunhilde answered with a grin. "In three months." She finally said in answer to the first question. Then she pulled me into a tight hug. "You sleep well kid."

"I'm t-twenty-f-five... t-two y-years ol-older t-than you."

"I know. But I can't help feeling that I need to protect you. Olfgar said that we owe you that, if only for the sake of your father's memory. He thought greatly of him." Brunhilde answered before stepping away, and closing the door softly behind herself.

~V~

"You mean to tell me," Kita interrupted once she thought Tessa had come to a place where she could easily interrupt, "That that run down, lice ridden, pest cursed place was once a welcoming place?" Her tone said that she could not believe that.

"Yes. With Brunhilde and Olfgar, it was."

"It ain't no more." She chuckled rather darkly.

"How so?" Tessa asked, already knowing that she would not want to know that particular answer.

"The current owner started renting out the lower rooms as private quarters for long term guests," Kita began, guessing correctly that she might have to choose her words carefully. "The mark which gained me entrance to the brotherhood housed there. They're never going to get the blood out of the floor boards." She added with a wicked grin which explained and justified her presence in the Dark Brotherhood.

"I find a sort of poetic justice that in the same place one of our own was recruited, another fulfilled a contract." Ocheeva commented in her warm voice. It sounded like waves washing over a sandy beach on a warm summer day. With a chuckle, Tessa continued with her story.

~V~

"You Sleep rather soundly for a murderess! That's good, you will need a clear conscience for what I'm about to propose." The voice cut through the haze of sleep surrounding my mind. I had half wakened from a sudden feeling of cold, of... void? I couldn't quite place what it had been which had dragged me from my sleep. I only ever slept well when I was away from Leyawiin, so I was quite surprised that my sleep had been interrupted by a nightmare. And yet... no cold sweat. Or rather, it was only now beginning, as if the words were only the start, and not the ending.

Shuddering I waved my hand at the candle on the table to kindle the flame – you gotta love Destruction Magicka, not a specialty of mine, but hey, as long as I can kindle a fire, who cares - and nearly screamed. Well, I did try, but no sound came out. That faint gasp I did manage does not really count as sound. A black figure stood directly between me and the flickering flame of the candle. Perhaps this was the dream? The words... they echoed in my mind. Not because they were so gruesome, but because they were the truth. Quietly I looked up at the figure, trying to see the face in the darkness.

"Wh... Wha... What d-do y-you w-want?" I finally managed to stutter out, and hated myself for how frightened I sounded. Stutter be damned. The figure – it was a man – laughed. It grated on me, when people think me daft and worse, just because I can't articulate properly. And as I said... the angrier I become, the worse it is.

"Don't worry, little Sister. I mean you no harm. We have been watching you. Your death craft has caught the Night Mother's attention."

"Who?" See, the only times I actually manage not to stutter is when I'm fascinated by something, and I keep my lines short that is. Something about this man was hypnotic, and I couldn't even see more than a hint of his face. Angular. Gaunt. An impression of red eyes? Those would be the words I'd use for what I see.

"Curious, aren't you?" I simple stared up at him, considering using my night vision to pierce through the shadows surrounding his face. Somehow I doubt he would appreciate it. It was not a spell I could manage without giving myself aways through whispered words or movements. I never before saw any reason why I should try. "The Night Mother is our Unholy Matron. She guides us and nurtures us, her dark children through her terrible Black Hand."

"The B-b-black H-hand?" I asked, and at the same time realized that I was still sitting in bed in my rumpled clothes, bed frizzed hair and far too low cut neckline for me to really feel comfortable. What a way of making an impression. The shadow – I seem to have forgotten to ask for a name – chuckled again. The hairs on my arms stood up and I could feel goosebumps running down my back and over the visible skin. A detail I'm certain he did not miss.

"The ruling body of the Dark Brotherhood." Ah... an assassin. Should I be amused? I know that an expression similar to a smirked scowl flickered across my features. "So you know what I am then?"

"Yes." I answered simply. Better keep it short, least I stutter too much.

"Tell me Tessa... how would you like a family again... One who will not laugh at you, or spite you, or barely tolerate you? One who will give you the warmth and caring you crave?" The voice was low, an impression of honey running off a spoon, soothing over the uneven surface of bread. Sickly sweet, yet I can't seem to deny myself the pleasure of listening to it.

"Wh-who a-are y-you?" I wasn't going to answer his question just yet.

"Vicente. My name is Vicente" He whispered almost seductively as he knelt next to my bed, running a calloused hand over my cheek as he spoke. "I am a Speaker of the Black Hand." I could feel the tingle of magicka tracing the movement of his fingers. What magicka, I didn't know. Also his hands were cool, almost unnaturally so, for they showed none of the clamminess normally associated with cold hands. No this was the coolness of a summer breeze right as the storm breaks, and you can finally breath again now that the lingering humid-hot weather has been dispelled. My breath caught in the back of my throat. Longing... what for, I don't know.

"Why me?" I finally managed to whisper, still hypnotized by the apparition at my bedside. He just laughed, and pulled a small wrapped bundle from underneath his cloak, laying it besides me on the bed. It wasn't longer than the distance from the tips of my fingers to my elbow. I reached out one hand for it. Through the silken fabric I could feel cool metal, the outline of a dagger. As my hand settled onto it, Vicente placed his own hand over mine.

"Accept this gift. Its blade hungers for a new master who would steep it in blood."

"Wh-" I began, but my voice faltered. For once, just this once, I wanted to speak without the stutter. To express myself without stumbling painfully over every word. To explain my thoughts as naturally as all of those around me. I bite my tongue to keep the tears at bay, feeling them sting in my eyes. Silly, stupid, weak girl. I berate myself, looking away from him in a vain attempt to hide the threatening tears.

"What must you do?" His hand gently slipped up to my chin, forcing me to look up into the shadows where his eyes lay hidden. Again I had the impression of red eyes glowing softly. "You must do what you can do best, Sister." He let the silence gather around the hissed whisper of his final word. Dazed, I could only stare up mutely. His voice dropped a few more octaves. "In Bruma there lives a recluse. On the east side of town, under the sheltering protection of the city walls. She believes herself safe from us. Kill Marianna the Cold, and you shall be one of us. Once you have done this deed, and sleep in a location I deem secure, I will again contact you." As suddenly as he had arrived and interrupted my dreams, he left. One moment, he was kneeling next to my bed, the next, all that remained was a shadow which seemed to linger in the flickering flame. Casting my detect life spell – there were some perks to living in Leyawiin and being an accepted member of the mage guild chapter there – to see nothing. It was as if he had just ceased to exist. In the next room I could see Brunhilde and Olfgar's telltale shimmering pink life force. Further above, where the Imperial Troopers would be sleeping, I could also pick up life signs. But none moved. Had this Vicente been just a shadow? A dream?

The blade lay by my side, a silent remainder of the reality.

Fingers trembling I ran my hand over the outline of the dagger again, finally pulling back the black silk to gaze at the weapon. I picked it up. It felt oddly good. Where my heirloom was a dainty weapon, more for show regardless the sharp edge of the blade, this was a weapon of action. Elegant, yes. Well proportioned. Beautiful – the hilt was intricately carved in a way in which it would lie naturally in my hand when held à la Bretonne (1). Deadly.

My own breathing, somewhat erratic, was louder than the hiss of the dagger pulling free from its sheath. The sheath dropped onto the wooden floor with a low thunk, the garter like straps tangling into a small heap. It would tie around the thigh, hanging at the perfect angle to be freed quickly. With one finger, I ran down the edge, cutting myself nearly to the bone with the well sharpened edge. Ouch.

My blood ran down the sharp, oddly light leaching black. It did not cling, choosing instead to drop onto the rough brown woolen blanket I still sat huddled under. Perhaps my stepfather had not been as useless as I always thought. His fixation on blades had taught me one thing: the meaning of a good weapon, and years after years of watching and mimicking movements, I had a good grasp of what to do with such a weapon. An idea on how it should lay in my hand. An image of my father standing on the green outside our house in Farrin practicing crept up into my head. Perhaps Stepfather wasn't my only source of inspiration.

I would go up to Bruma. Complete the errand for my mother as if nothing unusual had occurred. And perhaps I'll check out this Marianna the Cold. What had Vicente said? Would you like a family again... One who will not laugh at you, or spite you, or barely tolerate you? One who will give you the warmth and caring you crave?

Yes... yes I would like it very much.

~V~

Tessa stifled a yawn as she munched on the last of her bread.

"You need sleep." Ocheeva's voice dragged her back to the present, and to her almost drooping lids. She gave a wry smile and tried to stand up, only to find her legs too weak. Chidingly, she looked at Vicente.

"Next time... leave me a bit more blood, if you please." He answered her words with a pointy smile, and helped her to her feet. The moment her head hit the pillow, Vicente's cool hands lingering on her shoulder, she slipped into a deep sleep.

"How is she?" Lucien asked from the doorway, hidden from view by the screen separating the room in half.

"Recovering."

A sigh followed, before Lucien spoke again. "I will want to question her tomorrow. And a week hence I will take her to Ungolim."

"I'm almost tempted to come along, just to see the Fetcher squirm." A low chuckle answered him. Lucien waited for him and together they walked to the Speaker's office.

"Can she be trusted?" The silence following this question hung heavily in the air. Resentment spread through Vicente like a bad drop of blood making his stomach curdle. But he snapped his mouth shut on the 'of course' that threatened to thunder out.

"She could... back then..." He finally answered after silence consideration and debate. "But now... I don't know. She shouldn't even be alive let alone looking as she does."

"Her blood wasn't tainted in anyway?" Shaking his head, Vicente again pondered his words. He had known a shy girl, who had matured into a bloody and adept killer under his mentoring. Cold. Ruthless. Merciless. Yet warm. Kind. Welcoming to those she called Family. The woman she had become, had been the pride of his Sanctuary. And yet... 53 years was a long time.

"I somehow doubt, that the answers she will give are the answers we will want." The vampire finally said. The blood red eyes meeting the hard brown ones were grim, a hint of doubt swirling through them.

Author's Note

1) à la Bretonne should actually read à la Française (the French way.) But it wouldn't have made sense in the context of the story, so I truncated it to say: the Breton way.

It's a way of holding your foil in fencing in which you hold the hilt between your thumb and the first finger following it (dunno what that's called in English). The other three digits are used to balance the weight of the blade out and so, when you attack, you can contract the fingers to add speed to your motion, letting them relax again once the movement is over, saving some energy. If held properly, the hilt of the blade is not visible when you hold up your arm, palm facing your face, to someone standing facing you. It's a bit of an unnatural hold on the weapon for a beginner, but eventually you realize that it's by far more efficient to parry than if you just grip the hilt as if you were holding a knife to cut a piece of meat. It makes your movements faster and more controlled. It isn't a movement meant for strength – you wouldn't use that on a claymore – but really for speed associated with light weapons.

Hehehe... don't get me started on Fencing... I discovered it as a sport about 4 years ago, and I've been hooked since then.

A Note on Magicka

In my writing, I presume that the better a mage knows a spell, the less he or she will need to make obvious signs of casting. True mastery of a spell is indicated by a lack of physical signals showing the casting itself, or perhaps just the flickering of the eyes, an exhaled breath. There's got to be some perks to train a spell over and over and over again.

Also, I should probably explain why Vicente didn't show up on Tessa's life detect spell. Take a look at the name of the spell... and remember what Vicente is. If a spell detects life... should it also be possible to detect undeath? In my opinion no. Life presupposes a heart beat, the rush of blood through the veins, breath and all the other minute details of a living being which ages slowly over time and eventually dies. All the undead creatures – from liches to zombies and vampires – do not fulfill any of these criteria for life, as a result I decided that a second spell would be needed which would pick up on the Magicka which would necessarily be needed to maintain life beyond its death.

Hehehe... apologies for the LONG author's note. I'm too chatty by far.