Title: Curiosities
By: CypressArtemis
Summary: Lucien was an assassin from Cyrodiil, his Listener, the fabled Dovahkiin from Skyrim. Surely they must overcome a majority of contrariety to work well together.
The Alchemist & Enchantress
Lucien had patience.
He was methodical, calculating, and above all detail oriented. He mixed potions, ground ingredients with all the precision one may find in a master archer, and he delighted in watching the burners melt his concoctions into deathly green poisons or bronzed medical potions.
He was perfect for alchemy in every sense, a natural inborn skill it seemed to be rather than something gained through tedious practice. It was his knack. Each new potion manifested with ease, each recipe followed perfectly, no mistakes in his technique, and artfully deployed in the subtlety of poisoned apples.
Lucien must remind himself that not everyone's skills are the same. What comes to him with such ease does not come to others and vice versa, and he ponders this as he watches the young Nord scramble with the mortar and pestle.
Unskilled fingers fidgeting and scrambling, uncoordinated in their movements as she attempts to juggle the items without spilling the meager amount of work she's accomplished. He grimaces as he notes the state of the dried herbs and fresh flowers that are still discernable and almost fully shaped. She's been at this for over an hour for sure and there is but a smidgen of bruised petals, a smear of wet green along the bottom of the bowl, and a twisted hunk of deep bleeding emerald that was a mountain flower stem.
She's fumbling under his stare, nervous perhaps, and growing increasingly frustrated. The smell of red mountain flowers and dried elves ears burn her nose. She grits her teeth, grinding her molars when the pestle slips out her hand and clackers to the floor.
There is a brief moment of silence and awkward tension as the Speaker stares on and says nothing.
Blue eyes stare at the fallen equipment and in resentment her bare foot kicks out knocking the utensil clear to the other side of the room as she drops the bowl onto the table and walks away defiantly.
The ancient assassin reclines into the wall his fingers pinching at the corners of his eyes.
Yes, he has patience, but for only so long. They don't practice alchemy for the rest of the day.
In fact he takes a break from his mentorship of the new family member and sits in the shabby crumbling room that could have been called a temple in the Sanctuary's younger years.
It has a stained-glass depiction of Sithis, or what has been come to represent Sithis because Lucien knows better than anyone the Dread Lord is as formless as he is glorious. The Night Mother's decaying body stands displayed proudly in the confines of her iron coffin before it and if he looks in just the right angle it almost seems like the Dark Lord is smiling at his Blood Flower, regarding her as some precious gift.
There are pews surrounding the alter, freshly decorated with candles and woven boughs of flowers and snowberry wreaths, and he picks one to his liking, taking his place before his mother and bowing his hooded head to pray.
Lucien doesn't stay long though.
The Keeper returns soon enough and though he is abnormally quiet since the "Speaker's Thrall" is praying and insistent that Lucien will not be in the way as he attends his duties, he leaves the jester to his chores. Respectfully mindful to close the door and offer privacy as jester transforms into dutiful Keeper. All is quiet and he can smell the elaborate draughts or flower oils through the door.
For a moment he is standing in the hall, a spectral hand reaching out to glide over the ancient stone to the stained yellow parchment depicting the long forgotten tenets. Even the ink is old and faded, barely discernable anymore and a nostalgic twinge tingles through his body.
He closes his eyes and can almost hear the black door bidding him welcome again, the smell of band new leather, metal weapons, and fresh hay used to make straw practice dummies when the old have been exhausted. Vicente's cold hand on his shoulder as he guides him through his new home, through training, and eventually through ranks until he has surpassed him to Speaker.
The black door is drowned out by Astrid, the scent of leather, metal, and hay, by Nazir's cooking, the waterfall, and the flaming soot of the forge. Vicente's cold hand in replaced by nothing and thin air that the ghost no longer needs.
His hand falls and so does his heart.
He longs for the Void and disappears into a mist of white magic.
When he is summoned away from Sithis's frozen realm he was not expecting to see him of all people. Festus, the self proclaimed grouchy grandfather of the family, is standing before him holding his scroll of summoning and for a moment Lucien remembers when the man was much younger. "I told her not to leave things lying around willy-nilly. It's no wonder she can never find anything, here."
Lucien takes the scroll, his scroll, and regards it critically. He notices the fire off to the left and suddenly it feels like it weighs 100 pounds in his hand.
Festus seems to notice his sideways gaze, that contemplative look, and the roaring fire with the cauldron bubbling upon it. "Do it if you want. This Sanctuary's full of idiots anyway."
His former summoner walks away, too old and wise now to care what the others think of him. Too committed and respectful of the old ways to fit in with them anymore. Lucien thinks he is a lot like Festus and he turns to head back into the crafting room where he can hear Gabriella saying her goodbyes to Rosalind before heading out on a contact.
He makes it in time to see the dark elf walking away and admiring the deathly red glow emanating from her dagger. Her dark fingers skim the blade lovingly and almost seems like a caress one would give a lover before she sheaths the blade with a smile.
Black eyes flicker to the right and he notices his Listener arranging soul gems atop the enchanting table. Petty gems, greater gems, and two black gems are all clustered and organized with their own. She has rings and necklaces and a rather deadly elven great sword laying over the table as well.
Since when does she ever use great swords?
He walks over and sets the scroll onto the table, directly in the center and certainly on purpose. She is holding a lesser soul gem and ruby necklace, her eyes narrow at the disturbance in her concentration but that aside she says nothing to him as she summons a blue magic into both hands.
The ruby necklace seems unfazed but the soul gem glows bright, absorbing the blue energy like a lich and when she brings it into contact with the silver chain the crystal surface begins to crack. A small fissure opens, running this way and that and for a second it's like looking at a map. There is a small burst of blue magic that swirls about, curling and absorbing its way into the jewelry until the gem is no more. She sets the now enchanted necklace aside, picks up the scroll, and turns to face him.
There is a faint smile on her face and a cheerful brightness in her eyes that tells him she is in good spirits today. He doesn't see any blackness beneath her eyes, she doesn't look exhausted, and most importantly he sees no signs of discomfort or annoyance at his presence. Today may be one of those rarities where they actually get along. "Did Astrid summon you again?"
"No, Festus." Lucien leans into the wall as she begins to finger one of the rings left on the table. This one is silver as well, but where the necklace had a blood red ruby this one has an ocean blue sapphire.
"Oh," she frowns a little and the way she bites at her lips and turns around back towards the table is enough to let him know that they aren't on good terms today, but then they never are. Festus is too cantankerous for her liking.
Lucien stands on the sidelines and watches her work, notices the extravagance and variety of enchantments she chooses for each piece. One glows blue another green, the large sword she has saved for last and by the way she stares at it longer than the other items its clear she's not sure what to do with this one. Eventually he watches the process begin again, watches the red magic conjure into her hands, watches the gem crumble against the blade and sees first hand the final product. "I have never seen you use a great sword."
Rosalind smiles, a wispy musical laugh escapes and she looks at him in the midst of gathering together her concoctions. "These aren't for me. These are for selling," she informs before reaching out and forcing the sapphire ring into his hand, her fingers curling around his for the briefest moment, forcing his fingers closed around the trinket. "Except that one. That one's for you and your alchemy."
Lucien blinks, watches her tuck his scroll into her satchel and jog away, jostling the items together as she heads towards the exit and most likely Falkreath. He holds up his hand, uncurls his fingers, and stares at the ring placed in the center. Its green glow swirls around the silver and the blue gem set in the center. He slips it onto his finger and watches his ethereal glow overtake all color and turn it just as pale and lifeless as himself before walking over to the alchemy table.
He may as well test it out.
Author's Note: So this one is done. Hope you liked it. I just wanted to do something that shows a Dovahkiin that isn't fantastic at every single thing and give a little emotion to a certain ghost in the process, hahaha. Anyways thank you guys for reading and for those that bother to leave comments. Thank you so much! It's you guys that inspire me.
