AN: Thanks for the reviews, Me and Dbird! I really appreciate your kind words.
This chapter contains a Breton nobleman who has claimed the title of Arena Grand Champion, his adoring fan and everyone's favorite assassin, Lucien Lachance.
Disclaimer: This is purely fan-made and I do not own Bethesda, Oblivion or any of its characters.
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Chapter two: A killer's call
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Vivid, white sunrays reflected in the heavy chest plate enveloping the Grand Champion's torso and heavy boots against stiff soil announced his approach miles away. The young Breton had only recently earned his title, but he had already decided that this was something he had no desire in keeping – in truth, something he'd gladly give away to the first person who asked for it. No, he pondered if there weren't reasons as to why the Gray Prince offered so little resistance, other than being some filthy bastard son of a vampire. Now, the Grand Champion considered himself a fairly just and patient man, but even he had some limits – it was clear to him that he could not keep having this chatty load with him as it consistently made him contemplate –
"Oh, great and mighty Grand Champion! Is something wrong? Why are you so tense?"
- consistently made him contemplate suicide –
"Would you like me to give you a backrub? Or make you some food? I know a very good -"
- SUICIDE AND MURDER AND MURDER-SUICIDE.
"No," the Breton hissed through grinding teeth. Gods give me strength!
"Oh," mumbled the cone-haired little mer. "Well, alright then…"
The Grand Champion exhaled an exasperated sigh. It was a bright, sunny day and they had been plodding along the road to the Imperial City for quite a few hours, now crossing the bridge to the city. Grimacing, the young Breton took a moment to take its majestic stature into full view. The day he had walked out of the Arena in a final triumph and was met with a squeaky little Bosmer who adored him so greatly, desiring nothing but to worship the ground he walked on, he had felt very flattered. So flattered in fact that he had allowed the little elf to follow him around – he thought that, surely, it couldn't cause any harm, could it now? Could it?
His adoring fan sent him a worried glance. "I mean, are you sure? You look a little… is that vein in your temple supposed to be pounding like that? It is a little unsightly. Oh, look! Another one just popped up on your forehead! Maybe you should go see a healer? I know a healer! I know many healers! Should we go and see a healer? You could -"
Without a second to think, furious electrical signals jolted from The Grand Champions brain to his mace arm, making him fling it at the little mer with an almost absurd amount of force. The impact knocked the air dead out of him, sending him flying over the edge of the bridge with a breathless scream.
It took several seconds after the muffled splash of a light body hitting water for the Breton to realize just what he had done. He paled as coldness washed over his abdomen.
Oh, no.
Out of the blue, a most unsettling sensation struck him from above, like an ancient force suddenly became very strikingly aware of him and scrutinized him with two night-black eyes that burned into the skin of his pale neck. He slapped it subconsciously, feeling uncomfortable and naked as he swiftly looked around to check for any witnesses. No man, mer or beast was in sight.
They didn't see nothing.
He began shaking.
They didn't see nothing.
With a tight grip on his mace, he scurried through the gates to the Imperial City, into his home in the Elven Gardens district, locking the door securely behind him.
Nobody saw anything.
The Champion proceeded into his bedroom, which was furnished only by a cupboard, a bed and a table, flinching as his mind imagined the little, painfully familiar face of his late fan floating in front of him, looking sad and terribly disappointed. Why, was its silently uttered question. I only wanted to love and worship you.
He emitted a high-pitched shriek and swung his mace at the face, accidentally slamming it into the cupboard, the blow immediately disbanding it into a spray of wooden splinters and rusty metal bolts. Shaking and heaving for air, the Grand Champion dropped his weapon and crawled into bed, still wearing his armor. As he pulled his sheets over his head, his face cracked into a toothy, almost maniacal grin.
The face was gone.
The face was gone.
The Bosmer was dead.
Dead, dead, dead.
It was silent once more.
And with that, the Grand Champion closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.
It only lasted for what seemed like mere minutes before his sleep was disrupted by someone shaking him brutally, feeling in his mind very far away and unreal and it was only a sharp thud and a sudden stinging jolt of pain at his left cheek that awoke him. The Breton's body contracted into a violent twitch before his eyes dashed open. Blinking through disorientation and a thick darkness, his gaze riveted to the face of a black figure bending menacingly over him. A sharp inhale passed his lips as his breath snagged in his gullet. The face grinned.
"I dearly apologize for striking you," it said, voice low and dark, "but I could not have awakened you otherwise. You sleep really rather soundly for a murd -"
The face did not manage to finish the sentence. In one loud, penetrating screech, the Grand Champion had leaped to the other side of side of the room, plucked up his mace and was now waving it threateningly in the direction of the unfamiliar, robe-clad and now utterly dumbfounded man. He had clearly not expected such a reaction.
"Who are you!?" the Breton demanded to know. "What are you doing in my home!? How did you even get into my home? Are you from the Guard? Did my mother send you?! Explain yourself at once!"
The man raised his hands in a disarming manner, looking amused. "In due time, dear child. In due time… first, an introduction. I am Lucien Lachance, Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood."
The young, terrified Breton gasped. "The Dark Brotherhood? An assassin? Are you here to assassinate me? I - I'm warning you, I won't go down without a fight!"
Lucien blinked. Then he rolled his eyes with a sigh. "Do you really believe I would announce myself as an assassin if I was here to kill you?" he asked, brows raised.
"You could. How am I supposed to know? I don't know how you Brotherhood guys do… the things that you do," the Breton defended. Lachance smiled indulgently.
"No," he replied plainly," no, you do not. Perhaps it is time that you found out…?"
"What?" The Grand Champion widened his eyes to emphasize his question. "What do you mean?"
"Like I said, I am a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood. And you… you are a cold-blooded murderer, capable of taking life without mercy or remorse. The Night Mother has been watching, and she is most pleased."
He drew breath as if preparing to continue his speech, but was swiftly intercepted by an offended Breton. "What? Murderer? I admit I've done my fair share of killing to have become the Grand Champion," he began, stressing the two last words as to assure that the other man knew of his title, "but nothing comes even close as to cold-blooded murder. The Gray Prince wanted me to kill him!"
Lucien's eyebrows vanished into the shadow of his hood. Really, the lack of short time memory with this one was astounding. "No, I'm not here for that. Have you already forgotten the little Bosmer you threw into the lake?"
"Oh." The Grand Champion frowned. "He doesn't count."
"Really?" Lachance tilted his head backwards, his voice laced with amusement. "Explain."
The Breton blinked. "Uhm… well, for one thing, it was not in cold blood! There's only so much utter and complete annoyance and frustration and knuckle-biting a man can take before he snaps!"
"Oh?" Lucien mused. "But isn't this something you have fantasized for a long time about? The final cease of the Bosmer's life, his presence? Hasn't your mind lingered on images of him 'accidentally' falling off Dive Rock, White Gold Tower or -" his eyes glimmered oddly "- the Imperial bridge?"
Champion grumbled. "That's… a good point you have there, Mr. Assassin Man," he admitted. "But you don't know. You don't know what it's like keeping him around you. I do, however, and I can tell you that it's the verbal equivalent of having someone poking you in the eye, over and over again, every minute of every hour, day after day after excruciating day! Would you not kill him, in a desperate act of preservation of your own sanity, and not only not feel guilt or remorse, but relief? Relief that he is dead and gone and unable to pester you any longer?"
The assassin nodded in agreement. "Surely, I would. But then again, I don't need much motivation to commit homicide as I am a cold-blooded killer, precisely the thing you're trying to argue that you're not."
The young Breton faltered. "That's… another good point…"
"And also, if he bothered you so much, couldn't you just ask him to leave?"
"Well… I did… sort of."
"Sort of?" Lucien pushed.
"I didn't say it directly. It just seems so mean," he added, in response to Lucien's questioning expression. "But I heavily implied that his company was undesired. Like the time I told him to wait in a tavern in Chorrol and left without notice. Or the time I locked him into a prison cell in an Ayleid ruin. Or the time I accused him of conspiracy against the Duchess of Dementia and then proceeded to flee from the Shivering Isles to Cheydinhal under a false alias." He sighed. "It took him less than two weeks to find me."
"I see. But you still didn't tell him directly."
"No. No, I didn't." The Grand Champion made a grimace. "Alright, I may have killed him. But I didn't enjoy it. I don't enjoy murder, like you do."
Lucien's lips twisted into a half-grin. "No? Then why did you become a combatant in the Arena, a premise built around fight to the death, if not to be able to lawfully revel in the suffering and death of others?"
The young Breton blinked, perplex. "I… I needed money… well, not really… it was more for the… glory… and… adrenaline… rush…" his voice trailed off and he fell silent. Then he looked angry. "What are you driving at? What's the meaning of all of this? Do I have to join this, this Brotherhood of yours?"
"Oh, no, no, no," Lucien replied, sounding amused. "Not at all, my child, it is just an offer. But I would -"
"I decline the offer," the Grand Champion interrupted.
Lucien cleared his throat. "I… see. I still think you should -
"I decline!"
The assassin sighed. "If you insist… I would, however, advise you to consider of it isn't with our family you belong after all. We are a unity of equal-minded individuals – a unity I feel you would fit neatly into, though you may be a bit rough around the edges. Here -" he pulled out a black dagger, ornamented with intricate, golden patterns "- please accept this gift from the Dark Brotherhood. It is a virgin blade, and it thirsts for blood. Should you reconsider, there is a man in the Inn of Ill Omen, which is located on the Green Road to the north of Bravil, named Rufio. Kill him, and your initiation to the Dark Brotherhood will be complete."
The Grand Champion hesitantly accepted the gift, eyeing it with caution and curiosity.
"May it serve you well," Lucien's voice purred. The younger man looked up, gawking as his gaze swept over an empty room. The assassin appeared to have just vanished into thin air, leaving him alone with a new dagger and a broken cupboard.
Two days later, Lucien was approached by the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, Ungolim, who merely informed him that he needed to pay another visit to his Breton friend.
"He killed Rufio already?" Lucien asked in astonishment.
"Quite," came the odd reply, before Lucien was handed a slightly ruffled sample of the Black Horse Courier. His eyes widened as they flicked down the page. Killed the old man the Breton had – him and everyone else in the inn and five Imperial Legion riders along the road to the Imperial City. Not even their horses had been spared. Lucien inclined his head. This was definitely something he had not expected.
He did as he had been ordered and promptly re-visited the Grand Champion, finding him with a bottle of cheap wine in his living room.
"Hello again," the Breton greeted as the black-clad assassin drew near.
"Good evening," Lucien responded. "I take it you're interested, then?"
"Yeah, I had some time to reconsider…" the younger man tilted the wine bottle absentmindedly as he spoke. "I guess… the Dark Brotherhood didn't seem like such a bad institution after all."
"I'm glad," said Lucien with a slight smirk, "but I wonder why you felt it necessary to slaughter the entire inn?"
The Champion winced. "I… I didn't want to leave any witnesses," he explained.
"And the dead Legion horsemen?"
"Uhm… I guess that it was a way of apologizing for being so rude and inhospitable to you earlier."
Lucien's forehead lined. "That's an odd way of apologizing," he remarked.
"It's a way at least."
The response made the assassin smile in a paternal and strangely jaded kind of way. "Why do you feel compelled to fabricate rational reasons behind your actions?" he asked. "Is it so hard for you to say that you murder simply because you think it's good fun?"
His question made the Breton stiffen and look down. "I… well, I guess… it… it's just not very nice, is it?" he whispered, perhaps more to himself than to Lucien. "For a nobleman. Taking pleasure in violence and murder… it's not something that decent people do. I mean… I've had a good childhood, plenty of friends and a few girlfriends and I suppose everything I could ask for… I don't really have a reason to murder."
"Ah." Lucien ambled closer to the younger man and placed a leather-clad hand on his shoulder. "My dear child," he spoke quietly, "you don't have to have a reason. It's just the way you are. You never have to justify your nature to me or to your Dark Sisters and Brothers – we understand it and embrace it, for we are all very much alike, a united body and a family. And speaking of nice, I can assure you that you will never find nicer, sweeter, more loving and sincere people anywhere else than in the Dark Brotherhood – not in the Fighters Guild or the Mages Guild or the aristocrat circles, not anywhere. You will see this for yourself when you arrive at our Sanctuary in Cheydinhal."
The young Breton looked up at him, enthusiasm gleaming behind his brown eyes. "Does it mean… I'm in?"
Lucien gave an unsettling and mutually pleasant smile. "Yes… my Brother." His voice grew soft and low. "Welcome to your new family."
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