Chapter 7
Best Safety Lies in Fear
The fire eventually crackled and hissed its way through a slow death at least an hour before I fell asleep. Lucien had followed my suggestion of letting me keep watch for the night, and I didn't know why I had even the slightest bit of motivation to do it in the first place any more. There were two things worth watching at most: a curious fox that wandered towards me before leaping backwards and scampering away, and the Imperial soldiers having a very loud and drunken conversation by the small pond outside Nightgate Inn.
I'll admit that the urge to hurt them was still prevalent in my mind as I stared, but I was far too tired at that point to do anything but imagine it. I later concluded that it would be a very irresponsible thing to do anyway: there were three of them and one of me; they were unpredictable and violent, whereas I was violent but simply exhausted.
They must have gone back inside within the early hours of the morning, as I could easily remember the ultramarine hue on the horizon.
Lucien hadn't woken once, and I didn't think he'd even moved for all the time he had been asleep; silent save for the occasional soft bouts of breathing beside me.
Drowsiness only ever caused me to stare into space, or at anything that took my interest at a given moment. One moment just happened to draw my attention to him: Lucien's mildly unconscious expression was one of serenity, sleep granting ignorance from the rest of the world. Sometimes his eyelids would quiver as his eyes darted in the virtual reality he was living, but didn't flutter open as if in distress. If something could be this peaceful, then I longed to go to wherever that was.
Perhaps that was the thought that prompted my eyes to close, since I didn't remember actually falling asleep, nor did I remember when I started to dream; and when I was dreaming, I couldn't remember how or why it began.
I was standing in a forest, and somehow I knew it was the stretch of pine trees at the border before Falkreath, at the edge of Cyrodiil. It wasn't dark, but there were no visible streams of light as before; the sky was instead overcast and dull, heavy like it was full of rain. But there was no storm, no lightning or thunder that I could hear. There was nothing forest; no animals, no breeze, no movement around me. Everything was far too still for my liking; suspense and surprise were not things which connoted positivity.
I turned left, then right, but despite my frantic nerves, there was still no movement in the area. Though I saw no one, I couldn't deny the feeling of voyeurism from the unknown.
Unwillingly, I was moving forward, though trying to move my head around as I went. It was brightest there, where the field of snow lay, barred in by the neatly lined trees. I knew that this was unreal when they appeared so stylised, but it didn't feel like there was an escape to the eerily approaching nightfall as I progressed along the dirt path.
What couldn't be more than thirty seconds later, the light had dimmed so much that I could hardly see anything ahead of me. The white edges of blackened tree trunks – no longer wood, but pillars – were my only guiding light driving me forward.
Out of the peripheral vision of my right eye, there was a burst of amber light before the familiar smell of lit candles caused me to pivot my attention towards it.
As I caught sight of the light source, I recognised it as an altar of some kind; the candles, some on stands, surrounding a centrepiece that I couldn't discern from the distance away I was. I edged closer through no will of my own, an odd zooming motion becoming apparent when the altar itself seemed to approach me, so quickly that I was disorientated and dizzied by the movement.
It was directly in front of me now, and I was faced with a grim yet unfortunately memorable sight: Bellamont's mother's head sat on the tablecloth in the circle of candles, though there was definitely more blood than I remembered. The viscous scarlet liquid spread out to the altar's edge from the remains of the visible arteries through the sallow throat like a river; silently the drops hit the ground almost in slow motion, but I couldn't back away.
The white light of the snow field to my right had become only a thin slit, not unlike the candlelight from inside the crate, in the lighthouse cellar. It was the only thing giving me the assurance that there could be any safe way out of this horrific image. Unfazed by blood as I was, the vision was not something I cared to spend any more time in the company of. I knew it was a dream – it was more than clear that it was not real. The terror creeping up on me however was very real.
There was no noise but my own muffled breathing and footsteps until now. No temperature and no air which I could detect. Everything was still as death, and as unnerving as that had been for the rest of the time, I would've remained there for an eternity if it meant I didn't have to witness the next event.
A sharp break of settled snow was heard like a spear through ice to my far right, making my head dart immediately towards it, breathing speed increasing by the second. A bar of the light I held in reverence was being blocked by the one who had made the first footstep, now adamantly holding me in an invisible gaze as a target.
It was simply a dark shadowed figure, no face to be seen in the void under its hood, but there was just one name that sprung to mind: Mathieu Bellamont - even when I had seen nothing of him but a presence outside of a hiding place.
He continued in gradual pursuit as the first frozen sting of Northern wind swept in from the plain behind him, hemming me in to one spot. I was already stone cold with fear, so this only served to make me number.
I must have watched him move forward at least five more steps before realising my alertness should have kicked in, and so I turned towards the side of the weapons belt I almost never removed, reaching for the silver longsword…but there was nothing there. I'd unattached the sheathe it was in before I started my watch.
I panicked for the briefest moment before I found the hilt of the ebony dagger from Lucien also tied on to one of the belt's links, and not a moment too soon: the scenery around me was losing its contrast, blending quickly into a hazy dark grey curtain as I heard the footsteps get closer, and closer still. Suddenly, they just stopped, though I couldn't sense Bellamont anywhere near me, as if he'd disintegrated into nothingness.
This unnerved me even more than knowing he was there. Knowing he would reach me at some point. I couldn't tell whether I was shaking with cold or with anger that I couldn't simply kill him now.
I was standing just in thick grey fog now, but I wasn't able to touch it or manipulate it in any way: just a field of grey in which he could be watching and waiting from – always one of life's constant observers.
I tightened my grip around the dagger not a second later, and this second counted more than the last: within that time – and although I heard nothing – Bellamont must have materialised behind me, and then reached out. At the very same point in time as his hand touched my right arm, my survival instinct took over from my head.
I spun around so sharply as to shock him into submission, and took hold of his wrist with my left hand, which was not holding the dagger. I managed to catch the back of his ankle with my foot, and with momentum already in action, I was able to pin his wrist to the ground above his head. I drew the dagger and pressed one side of the blade to his throat in one swift movement, threatening any retaliation he made, but not his life…not yet.
It was only then that I realised something was quite different as I raised my eyes a little – there were no bars of trees now, nor was there a bland grey area around me; instead there was snow falling gently to the ground outside an arch of stone. I had regained my senses, realising it was cold, and there was definitely a faint scent of charred firewood in the distance, perhaps from a wooden chimney.
Then I suddenly knew I wasn't sleeping, and back in the bitter reality of Skyrim. Bellamont wasn't here; much to my relief…yet someone still had a knife to their throat. That was the point when I found myself in the most anxiety, yet in too much to move immediately.
"Elenar, listen when I say I'm not a threat," Lucien told me in the calmest choked voice I'd ever heard, "Whoever you thought I was, I assure you that I'm not, so please, take the blade away now."
The words had a delayed reaction on my part, but a few seconds later, after I stared deeply into the eyes I had to honestly tell myself were Lucien's, they struck me like an electric jolt. I adopted the fear of what I could have done, and threw the dagger into the rock wall to my left in panic and shot backwards, releasing the hold on his arm before landing on the snow.
We were both attempting to catch our breath, both reasons stemming from shock. Lucien had a hand on the pressure point I'd left in the side of his neck while his eyes were fixed on me, a look of concern and bewilderment in them as he cautiously pushed himself up from the ground; snow dropping from the patches of his robe which had been pressed to it.
I had to turn my own gaze away, mostly out of shame and a strange dread of what he might think of me.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I apologised in almost a whisper. I might have been muttering the same thing under my breath since I pulled away, but this was the first time I'd heard it.
There was a pause which seemed to last a year at my expense, like there was no real way to answer to a situation such as this. Not that I'd expect there to be: wasn't the norm of social etiquette to know how to answer someone who had just threatened to slit your throat, even if it was a mistake. I imagined that this was the reason for Lucien to take such care in constructing a reply.
"If you had the idea that I might be taking you to the Imperial City again, I'll remind you that we've been over that already," he commented with the attempt of lightening the mood, though I only gave the reaction of a nerve induced laugh that sounded a little too overplayed: not the response he wanted.
"You know that I could have killed you, don't you?" I replied, still sounding in between a laugh and despairing frustration.
"Not something that hasn't happened before," he shrugged, keeping a steady voice for both our sakes. He then took the hand away from his throat, looking down to check that there was no blood at all, which there was, in fact. But only through the smallest break of skin, not an issue after just wiping it away a few times.
"Shit," I uttered to myself, automatically running a hand partly through my hair. "What were you doing there anyway?"
"You were shaking; hardly a pause in your breathing," he continued with measured concern, "I didn't whether it was the cold or a dream. I suppose it was the latter?"
The memory of it flooded back through me with the impact of a tidal wave. "I thought you were…that you…I don't know what I thought really," I tried hedging, but his curious and prying eyes changed my mind again. "I guess I thought you were Bellamont, and you were right about the dream part: he was there, in some sort of forest. He just kept walking towards me, so when your hand touched my arm, you got my reaction."
His expression told me he was wondering at something, going over every detail and thinking about it again before coming to an answer. "Unfortunately, if it was him, you would actually need to be quicker than you already were," he explained, then scanned over my disappointed expression, "Saying that, it would have been a kill, if you'd acted in the place of thought. Though it's lucky that you didn't this time - "
"Wait," I interrupted, picking up on one thing very interesting, "Are you saying that you know how he fights?"
I said this so assertively that Lucien was quite taken aback by this suddenly posed question, his eyes shifting once or twice with an indication of being unsure; no-one is really used to my spontaneity.
"I know the important techniques to overcome, if ever it came to that, as I do most of the recruits in Cheydinhal," he replied, continuing when I gave him an expectant stare - I wanted a concise explanation; "But yes, he is one that I remember: if there had ever been a traitor then I wanted to know who the strongest of them were."
I was driven by the terror from both real and imaginary experiences of this man, and also by the daunting notion that we were going to face him at what seemed like any time. We would face him and whoever else he had persuaded to join him in this false hunt for a so-called traitor. After seeing a montage of each fact fly through my mind, I came to an answer.
"Then show me," I declared, "How to fight him, I mean."
He didn't look surprised that I'd asked, but slightly hesitant all the same. "Do you mean now?"
I found myself giving a devious smile at the thought of Bellamont's suffering, feeling my eyes light up in anticipation. "Why not now? We both agree he has to die, and soon, so if I can know how then I'm not waiting for it."
Lucien scanned over my face, acceptance of my determination quickly becoming apparent as he sighed in resignation; but he wasn't putting me off this one. "Alright," he answered, pushing himself up from the ground, dusting the remaining snow from his robe, "His aims in combat are to stall and kill his opponent as soon as possible - that doesn't mean there's no brutality involved though."
"Doesn't matter," I replied in a dryly enthusiastic tone, standing in order to reach my sword which still lay in its sheathe next to the blanket.
Lucien was watching me with confused awe. "You really want him dead, don't you?"
"Don't you?" I asked sarcastically, playing on his last words. I continued only when I received an accepting smile, "I doubt that I want him dead more than you do, but just one of us facing him won't do much good, if he's deadly as you say."
By this time I'd picked up the sheathe, and then drawn the blade from it as I finished my sentence; a sharp metallic ring sounding out with its swipe over the leather binding. I dropped the sheathe to the ground, keeping the sword by my side until instructed otherwise.
Lucien still didn't fully engage with my attitude to learning. "Bellamont's combat is admirable to say the least: unpredictable and controlled as one," he explained with a twang of disdain, then a deep sigh as he turned to pick up his own sword leant against a single rock. "I can mirror it easily, but it will be no comparison to the original."
"Come on, Lucien," I said, almost having to beg him to start now, "If I don't know then he and his lackeys could have us both killed."
He paused, then looked over his shoulder at me. His shadowed eyes under the black hood were indiscernible in feeling, but the dark intensity of the gaze itself could not be denied; it was fixed almost indefinitely to mine, so deeply that it seemed possible for him to read my mind up close, to make a comparison of both our thoughts before his conclusion to my request was voiced. For tens seconds or so it didn't seem as though we would move from this surreal void of silence, but as soon as he broke our eye contact - looking down in pondering - I felt the need to return to that state of calm; as though the rest of the world around this space wasn't able to interfere.
That wishing was ended when he turned back to me again, holding both the sword and the dagger I'd thrown away earlier. He pulled in my attention by prompting only with his eyes that he was planning to fling it back towards me; I caught it just by its hilt, having to step sideways with haste in case it had hit me. I gave him a lenient glare alongside a questioning raise of my eyebrows: 'Why did you do that exactly?'
"You'll need to be just as prepared for any one of his strikes; he won't care whether you're expecting it or not," Lucien explained in a grave manner, but still with the intention of helping.
I slid the dagger back into the small sheathe tied to the belt as he stepped closer in my direction, slowly adopting a different outward persona: de-personalising himself from Bellamont's actions.
"Unexpected is something I'm used to," I replied, with maybe a little too much pride coming through.
"That is true," Lucien agreed with a subconscious rise of one eyebrow with his usual half-smile, "But be that as it may - "
When he was in about an arm's length of me, his sentence halted abruptly, and before I'd even noticed the movement, the artistically etched silver blade was already on a collision course with my right shoulder - though luckily the one which had the thick leather guard over it, held with a strap around me. I took one step back to strengthen my parry against the impact, and my sword horizontally in the other's path, fortifying this with my other hand's palm against the flat of the blade. The sound as they struck was far more a chime than dull ring, though a single spark flickered up from the scraping metal. The force was not overly compensating on my part, but had enough to activate the survival mode I relied on: instinctively I pushed back after just a second had passed, Lucien's surprised expression recoiling as he was thrown backwards a few staggered steps. I could say that the only expression on my face was that of excited triumph, eyes widening with a sense of eagerness.
"I suppose it doesn't hurt to practice," he finished, taking a breath with an edge of further preparation, composing himself before continuing, "You need to remember that each strike from him is guaranteed to cut deeply. Everything he does is crafted to slow you down, and it's nearly impossible to dodge all that's thrown at you."
"Those people in his cellar certainly found that out," I remarked unconsciously, forgetting entirely that he didn't know about them.
With an extremely confused expression, he met my anxious eyes. "What people?"
"There were…a few bodies down there - badly tortured bodies," I explained, my voice breaking once or twice, "I didn't tell you because you were pretty paranoid as it was; I didn't want to say that the person coming for us already owned a make-shift crypt. Somehow I knew it wouldn't go down well. After that, I think I just ignored the whole fact of its existence.
"What injuries they had though, seemed like experiments; saved pieces of artwork, or something," I went on, my mind only half aware of what I was saying. "After reading that journal, I realised they were just punch bags, substitutes for…"
I swallowed and trailed off as the images of that time - could I believe it was only three nights ago? - flashed on and off in my head. Lucien, though, appeared to be unaffected by this revelation of psychopathic tendencies as he concluded my sentence.
"Substitutes for me, you mean?"
"Well…yes, mainly," I answered with a sense of cowardice: even when the context was known, I decided that my voice couldn't be trusted to meet those requirements. "First I knew you were being threatened by the same person, then I…found what he planned on doing; I was frightened mostly of what he was capable of rather than Bellamont himself. I wanted to fight him, but I couldn't without a face to a name - or no name, in that case."
"But you know now," he stated as a question.
Hesitantly, I nodded a couple of times, but then paused in a new thought.
"Then why are you still afraid?"
"If I continue fearing, then I won't underestimate him," I responded quickly, not seeing the point of thinking about something I knew how to say, "So are you going to carry on showing me how to do that?"
Lucien's countenance went from one of empathy to a sure breakout of an alluring smile in agreement, eyes softly analysing me while I spoke. Even if he tried, I couldn't see there being a time when the word 'beautiful' wasn't a word in describing any one of his expressions. That was just my opinion, of course, but it was no less true.
I never told him that fear had first begun with a fierce concern for his safety: if I hadn't have been aware of just how much danger Lucien was in, I probably would have attacked Bellamont when he was distracted in the cellar. Of course, now I knew how foolish that would have been of me, but my fear had not all been for myself at that time. If I had been killed, Lucien's life would be put highly at stake, and he'd probably think that I had abandoned him; that he had not been mistaken in his judgement in the first place. The small and seemingly professional attitude had ascended now to a far more personal feeling: instead of simply defending a figurehead of the Dark Brotherhood, I now wanted to defend a person - someone I had got to know more in the last few days than ever before.
"Nothing rattles you, does it?" he began equivocally; different connotations running parallel in that one phrase. He stepped towards me, but not forwards - more like the beginning of circling an opponent - as his tone grew serious; "If you want to learn, just be aware that I could hurt you in the process."
"And I might get you hurt - so your point, unfortunately, has no impact," I replied with a joking smirk to keep him motivated to move, rather than submitting to any warning of pain. If it wasn't being committed with malice, then I didn't much care; I had developed my once pitiful threshold of pain to hold out against almost anything.
Lucien smiled at me, but his eyes were somewhere else entirely. "Alright," he finally agreed officially, taking a prepared stance just six feet in front of me before he halted. "I'll tell you when to start."
"I thought the point was that I was meant to be unprepar - "
I didn't finish yet another flirtatious sentence: I became too preoccupied with dodging and parrying rapid sword swings. I suppose he had made his point. Talking had made me ever more relaxed, not aware that I'd have to lose that attitude at any time in the near future, though I really should have been.
Lucien wasn't lying when he said Bellamont's attack style was fast; I think that I was only able to keep pace twice before he disarmed me the first time.
"Damn it," I breathed, frustrated at myself for losing so easily, "Again."
He obeyed my demand and placed the hilt of my sword back into my outstretched hand. No sooner had I gripped it that I had to block another strike, which I managed more successfully than the last. The sparring was highly unpredictable, and I had no clue how I was able to meet each hit dished out at me, though only a minute into this I was starting to fall short.
As Lucien noticed this, he waited for an instant where my parry slipped, then forced his left arm under my right, spinning me so quickly around that I lost my footing and dropped the longsword. As I fell, he had pulled my arm around his neck, but held the wrist in a firm grip on his left shoulder. I would have been trying to pry him off of me, but the silver blade was angled like an icicle against my throat, leaving my other hand nothing to do but keep me from toppling over. I'd try to stand, but I'd been pulled to the ground, still sitting upright with my back against him.
I felt faint apprehension, even when I knew he meant me no harm, but the muscles in my upper back were being pulled to the point of discomfort now, and my instinctive struggling was rendered futile as it only made it worse. I clenched my fist in annoyance and distraction, as I always had done, but even that hurt due to the pressure on my arm.
Eventually I surrendered, falling back against him with my head just under his jaw, breathing heavily. Lucien, on the other hand, didn't let up all that easily, keeping his forceful hold on me with the sword at my neck. Even a slight touch of that could cause a scrape, so I leant my head back further and turned towards his face - no distance at all between us - searching at least for a little assurance that slicing my throat was not really his intention.
"Sometimes, during some combat sessions, I showed up when there was nothing else to be done," he explained, his voice low, threatening and calm at my ear. Even the manner he was acting in reminded me of Bellamont; putting me on edge was probably his intention as he continued, "This is how he won, and I can tell you now that when we found the Family members who were murdered, the same angle of wound accompanied them."
"And you…didn't even suspect him…then?" I strained to ask in between breaths.
"We only knew it was someone on the inside, but not him exactly," he went on, "Now it's confirmed, I need you to know how to get out of this, or even avoid it completely."
I was powerless to do anything but listen, and the very idea of being in this situation at the hands of Bellamont - at the hands of someone so controlling; so domineering - was the most frightening aspect. Not even the injuries I could sustain filled me with more fear than that.
I slowly took Lucien's unspoken advice: I erased the knowledge that it was him, replacing him with the image of Bellamont. My breathing steadied, I was tense again, but in preparation rather than submissive terror. Shut my eyes in order to focus all this into motivation.
"What…is it I do then?" I responded in determination.
I felt him turn his head towards me, his forehead on the side of mine; comforting, yet with more care in that one movement than I could have expected. It felt as though Bellamont did have me in his grasp, but Lucien was the voice in my head, deep in my subconscious willing me to make my move.
"You can't pull directly forward: he'd most likely dislocate your shoulder," he casually explained, "No trying to stand either - you'd be forced back so hard that your spine could fracture. A hairline fracture, but serious if any more pressure was applied. Who knows how it would affect you if he pulled back on your hair…"
"Lucien…please, get to the point," I demanded through gritted teeth, making my abhorrence vocally obvious. "And for the record, a shoulder…dislocation isn't the worst threat in my experience."
He hesitated momentarily. "If this ever happens, don't dare take a second thought about escape," he uttered calmly, "He's lost stability just as you have, so if you can do it fast enough, make a movement as though beginning a roll; do not let the arm around his neck go slack - you'll need it to throw him to the floor, and hopefully he'll be shocked enough for you to pin him down yourself."
I nodded, but then thought of something. "What about the…knife at my throat?"
"He'll abandon it over the need to stop the fall," Lucien replied without time for an excuse to be constructed, and I trusted his judgement. "There were other options I thought of, but none as effective in the way of survival - only delay.
"Ready to try it yet?"
"Sorry?" I spluttered pitifully, making an attempt to turn to him as my eyes flew open. "On you?"
He smiled at how utterly stupid that last question sounded. "Who else?"
"Right," I mumbled with uncertainty: so much for my 'battle talk' beforehand. "Could you…possibly not have the sword for this?"
Slowly and carefully, he manoeuvred the blade away from my throat and dropped it to the ground at my side.
The arm still around the back of his neck was not faring well, even when he had loosened the grip on my wrist a little, enough for me to relax it at least. But its muscles had begun to stiffen with strain and the bitter air's bite, so I was just as determined to get out of this as I would had it really been Bellamont.
His empty hand returned to my throat, his thumb under my jaw in the place of the blade as the other fingers closed gently around the back of my neck, mostly to support my head which had become uncomfortable even leaning back. At the same time, I felt the gradual tightening around my wrist as Lucien reapplied the tension on the arm I was going to use in order to throw him to the ground. I had more than a feeling that this was going to hurt us both just the same.
Without wasting any time, I kept my arm rigid and started to propel myself with my free hand, still flat against the frost covered rock floor. At the same time, I regained the control of my legs, and was planning to continue forwards, but realised something; a flaw in this movement: I could lose balance and fall sideways, but if that didn't happen, and I did manage to throw him down, I couldn't see any way that I would be able to retaliate quickly enough if he chose not to stay down.
As a result of this idea, and my position at the time, I simply took advantage: in a split second, I rolled to my right instead, catching hold of his wrist as I did. Sure enough, the hand at my throat retreated while he was in mid-fall, but I was able to grab that wrist as well with my left hand, pulling him to the ground beside me before I had both his arms pinned on either side of him.
Panting and bemused by the sudden change of strategy, Lucien gazed up at me both in shock and a developing admiration as he relented in strength. In honesty, the only thing I felt was a certain amount of triumph that I'd actually beaten him in spite of how difficult he'd made that out to be.
"I suppose that…also works quite well," he concluded, his breathing stabilising, "Maybe you're right where that's concerned."
I blinked in surprise. "A man who admits he's wrong?" I mocked, "Do you actually exist in this realm?"
"I never said I was wrong," he replied warmly, smiling as he continued, "I simply stated that you were…more right."
He almost ended that sentence as a question, struggling a little for a charming answer before I returned a flattered expression.
"I'm not sure if that's grammatically correct, Lucien," I humorously remarked, "So I'm not letting you up until you do get that answer perfect."
Lucien sighed and rolled his eyes, which I would take to be insolence from anyone else, but who else would still have a smile on their face during that reaction? I suppose the term 'social norms' meant nothing to either of us.
After a few seconds of fake annoyance, he tilted his head back towards me with what I could only describe as the best 'puppy-eyed' expression I'd seen in a long time. The only problem was that he couldn't quite keep a straight face while doing that.
"I was wrong; you were right," he stated seriously, despite the fact that this was just a farce.
"And that, dear Speaker, is how you gain female favour," I responded almost playfully, smiling and releasing my hold afterwards, sitting beside him then as he gradually pushed up off of the ground.
Only after being back in a normal position for a few moments was I aware of a discomforting ache that shot through my neck as well as the upper half of my right arm. It was so immediate, so suddenly unbalancing, that my automatic reaction was futile: my other hand flew towards the source of pain, yet the arm that was actually in pain couldn't hold me up, and consequently allowing me to keel over, right on to it.
I was probably muttering obscenities under my breath - most of the time it came so naturally that I was never aware of what I said - because as Lucien reached my angry and helpless form, he had the same smile on his face as when I showed my disregard for the tavern girl in Helgen.
"I probably should have warned you about that," he commented apologetically.
"'Probably'?" I spat, despite his intended kindness, "You don't probably warn someone that their arm is going to lose power. How would - "
I was going to finish with 'you feel?', but that didn't happen. Instead, his left hand was on my floored shoulder, and he had lifted me upright within two seconds. In that time, the pain had ceased, replaced by a strange warmth and relaxation in my muscles. I could only stare back at him quizzically as he studied my expression with glistening eyes. Almost immediately, he took note of the obvious unspoken question.
"It's just a Calm spell," he explained, only pausing to withdraw his hand; his fingers lightly and slowly brushed over my other hand, still where the ache had been, eyes acknowledging the briefest moment of lingering before catching my gaze again. "Applying directly acts like a healing spell, but not for any wounds, just muscle strain."
"Well, um…thanks," I replied, attempting to stifle a yawn. "That meant to make you tired as well?"
Lucien gave me a grin, but certainly one of the most elegant I'd seen. "Just coincidence, I believe," he answered as I returned the smile. "You want to continue?"
I knew full well that he was referring to combat training, but one part of my mind had a blank moment, as though the juxtaposition of his tone and context had finally tricked it into a different belief system. If his voice was any smoother, and if this plain snowy hill was another location, say that inn we rejected, a whole new situation would be playing out.
I may have lingered over that for a few seconds, hence my slight delay of any reply, before real life kicked me in the head again. I had to say, that Calm spell he'd used wasn't just having an effect on muscles…and perhaps I'd not been out with someone in a long time.
As soon as I had surpassed that slight lapse of concentration - which luckily didn't last enough time to make anything awkward for too long - I subtly cleared my throat and raised my eyes up to his, still gazing expectantly at me.
"Mmhmm," I uttered with a nod, "Sure; yeah."
Whatever had been wandering in my mind was immediately shaken out when the look of an interrogator was facing me, surveying me as though he could take a glimpse straight through my own eyes; like I was a translucent being instead of solid.
"What is it?" he asked, resting the side of his head against one hand.
I felt the beginning of a hot flush, as if he had seen right through me, but the bitter surroundings quite thankfully prevented it. "Nothing, really."
While trying to be sure of myself, I only sounded worse. Within another minute though, I truly was alright again, and actively parrying more potentially fatal sword strikes in my direction.
Lucien went over how to disarm Bellamont as quickly as possible, explaining everything in a calm and controlled manner while the battle movements remained swift, though not so unexpected as the time went on.
In the first few instances I was making mistakes, or possibly not doing everything he was telling me to, which I regretted - or begrudged - just seconds later when my blade was clattering to the ground or I had been floored yet again. Every time, my determination increased, and I decided to fully accept that his judgement was correct; yet even when I took his advice into account, still on the majority of tests he was winning.
I realised that my flaw was not imagining Bellamont there, in Lucien's place. Maybe if I was able to do that again, like the first time, overcoming a disarm would eventually be easy. When the idea that the feigned killing blows being dealt enhanced the fact that I'd have no second chance at improving, my body as well as my mind would start paying attention; reacting as I intended.
I paused, actually stopped dead in front of him with my eyes down, constructing whatever fortifications I needed to master this: I asked to learn, and I wasn't going to make myself look like I couldn't handle anything more taxing than a wood elf with some enchanted arrows in Bravil. Okay, maybe that was a disrespectful thought about the ex-Listener, but revered as that position was, Ungolim had been a rather easy target.
I came to the motivation which was the first to materialise in my head, almost immediate in its timing: forget that Bellamont just wanted Lucien dead - I needed to put myself in the situation where that had come to pass. I had to realistically go through how that would happen, then get the emotions that would relate to that; I had references to both those things in abundance. I skimmed over the created event, but it was still powerful enough to feed from.
When it came back to the next strike of training, I was far more prepared; the raw yet false feelings transitioned through to a quick disarm, whereby I was able to diagonally block his sword and twist it to the ground. By threatening slightly to cut the thumb on the hilt, he reluctantly released it before stepping back once, away from the blade now pointing at his throat. Surprisingly, I received what looked like an impressed smile in the midst of his initial shock.
I couldn't return it though: if I allowed this newly adopted demeanour to slide, there was no way that I'd do as well as I had this time around.
He repeated the same attack three more times, probably checking for himself that my resistance hadn't been a simple fluke, but I managed to prove that idea wrong on each occasion. He then started again on the other attacks, and after a few issues, but not full defeats, I eventually overcame everything. By the time it had come full circle, and he tried the first again, I was completely prepared for it: I dodged his left arm and managed to disarm the other, grabbing the wrist so quickly that he let go of the hilt in a reaction of surprise before I forced him to the ground. He went to move the other arm, presumably to get free, but a blade tip to his throat convinced him otherwise.
The moment that he finally relinquished power, letting out a sigh of defeat, he was Lucien in my eyes again, not Bellamont.
I succumbed to the full triumph of this miniature victory, and seconds later I heard myself laughing; I promptly tried to stop it, but it was still escaping as I collapsed to the ground beside Lucien, whose breath was beginning to normalise.
"I didn't know learning how to kill people made you that happy," he commented with irony, contentedly studying my expression with a smile, face now turned towards me.
"Depends on the person," I continued, facing him, "And the teacher, I suppose."
I finished that sentence with sarcasm, like I was saying he was unimportant; shrugging him off in the process as I folded my arms across my chest. Lucien raised his eyebrows indignantly, falsely glaring at me for a few moments before neither of us could contain the short burst of laughter that came from non-existent contempt. I couldn't really tell which one of us had that smile creep in first: he had captured my gaze again, and so a lapse of full concentration was inevitable.
This couldn't have lasted more than five seconds but, yet again, it seemed like so much more time. There were some sections of stray black hair, which had come loose from the knotted fabric holding it back, now coasting out of place over the otherwise tidily kempt strands of obsidian; only serving to make him appear all the more flawless.
At some point, a different light reflected in his eyes, subtle yet noticeable enough for me to realise that this change was not entirely deliberate; not planned. It wasn't a negative alteration, not by any means, just different. The warmth and kindness in his eyes were somehow magnified, yet contemplation had taken over his expression. Exactly what he was thinking was usually unclear, but this was even more so.
He continued gazing at me, but was somewhere entirely distant, playing through a scenario in his head while he remained in the real world. It was something I was able to replicate often, even when I was talking directly to someone, yet never as quickly as Lucien had just done.
I caught his eyes again as the haze lifted slightly, silently interrogating his devoid concentration. The same emotions remained, though I imagined that it was the confusion of being pulled out of a daydream that dispersed them. Speech seemed to be forming then, hesitant as it was. His mouth opened for a half-second, about to speak, but I saw a glimmer in the depths of his vision that pulled back; his eyes broke trance and lowered, blocking his sight from me entirely as he turned his head away, facing up towards the cave roof with a temporary demeanour of solitude.
While Lucien appeared to be distracting himself, this very thing was distracting me again. I had been left in a state of anticipation and confusion over these words, even when I had no clue of any intention behind them. I may have been extremely quizzical, but when I looked closely at Lucien's response, he was more confused in himself than I could ever be.
"What is it?" I questioned, propping myself up on my elbows.
Almost immediately as he heard my voice, his eyes darted in my direction, an unexpected submission which I caught a glimpse of floating away in the moment I met them. He was suddenly calm and collected, but behind that was a constant edge. Well, an edginess, really; as though I'd just threatened him to answer a crucial question. It wasn't a natural reaction, nor was it understandable why this was the response to a relatively simple inquiry.
"We should head off soon," he replied, though it sounded rehearsed, "If we can reach Kynesgrove before nightfall, then it will only be another day's ride to Riften."
"Kynesgrove?"
Lucien casually pushed himself up to a sitting position, not making nearly the same amount of eye contact with me as before. "It's a mining town South of Windhelm, on a direct road through Eastmarch," he continued, "It's not far away, but we could be losing light by then."
I nodded a few times in a suddenly subdued manner; if my head had picked up on anything at all, it was not making that message very clear. It seemed that I was left in the dark most times by myself rather than other people. I couldn't remember that happening before, not when I still had my quiet, normal life. It probably had everything to do with becoming so stoic, so cut off from feeling anything in that prison.
I still knew what people were feeling, obviously, but if certain things were left so ambiguous, deciphering precisely what they meant was a little trickier than it had been. I probably knew what Lucien was thinking, unconsciously that is, but if at least some of that information surfaced, perhaps it would become easier: he had a talent for putting someone off a trail, yet hadn't quite grasped how to make it look non-existent. Whatever I was pretending not to be paying attention to was clearly more than prevalent hiding behind an honest lie.
He smiled at my expression, but didn't detect the accustomed stranger of disappointment behind it. That guest seemed far too comfortable in my conscience to leave, but relentlessly unsociable as I continued not to acknowledge why and when it arrived.
The pale landscape of the tundra didn't seem to end as the cobbled roadway went on, winding only down as the mountains either side of us increased the distance between them; a new and previously unseen sapphire blue forcing its way through the dispersing clouds filled with snow. If this temperature which the uncovered sun now brought had been in Cyrodiil, or Morrowind even, I would have complained rigorously of how cold it was. Skyrim, on the other hand, could be considered tropical after the bitter winds of frost the night before.
The breeze had died down, and the gloom had finally lifted. The place actually had a pleasant atmosphere for once, replacing the sense of it being a bleak, harsh rock that we were using to hide under. When I realised again that people really chose to make their homes here, I think a spark of understanding ignited in my mind. I, at long last, had caught sight of what beauty the land held, now literal and metaphorical fog had cleared from my judgement.
I hadn't even spoken since we had set off. I wasn't concentrating on how long ago that had been, but the Inn and band of Imperials were far behind us. I could swear that the three of them were discussing something to do with us as we'd got down to the stable. The way they'd tried to hide the fact that they'd turned to stare was quite obviously meant to be a secret, so much that they might as well have been taking part in a badly acted farce. The one I had recognised was probably telling his friends how he'd fearlessly faced down Lucien, and then got scared that he would actually show up and prove this version of events wrong. Either way, they sidled away without so much as a threat. Suspicious?: maybe. A danger at present?: it didn't seem likely.
At the moment, the most risky element of our location was only that the sun was on its way to falling below the horizon, the blue of the sky beginning to contrast with the bright edges of the cloud wisps. Sunset itself couldn't happen another couple of hours though: I hadn't believed it to be that late in the afternoon when we left. Lucien seemed to be more than calm about it though, so didn't really have much of a choice but to trust that he knew what he was doing. If I hadn't have had my eyes fixated by pine trees and quartz-like slopes, perhaps I would have been a little more up tight.
"What's High Rock like?" I asked absent-mindedly.
Lucien tilted his head back slightly, enough to keep an eye both on the road and to address me. "You mean in comparison to this?" he almost joked, then looked back at the landscape, "Well, as the name suggests, there are a lot of rocks there. Some places are worth mentioning, though they're mostly man-made. Personally, I don't think it has any claim to compare with Skyrim or Cyrodiil.
"Why do you ask, anyway?"
"Just curious again, I suppose," I answered, smiling at my own repetitive response. "I used to read about all the different provinces, wishing I could visit somewhere other than one covered in volcanic ash; nothing but giant toadstools for miles and miles. But I knew that for all that time I'd probably never leave: I'm too opposed to what I see as normal."
"And how are you finding it now?" he questioned, the smile easily heard in his voice as he tried to lift the subject mood even a little.
"Hmm," I began, pausing with a mocking tone as though I was going to finish with something intellectual instead of: "A bit cold."
Lucien laughed at that; a deep, ringing and entirely genuine laugh. "At least that's honest," he continued, "I'd say that where I lived was just rather vapid for my taste."
It occurred to me that he hadn't actually made it specific as to where this town was. But, then again, I hadn't asked him at all.
"Where did you exactly live then?" I inquired, truly intrigued, "I mean, other than just 'in High Rock'."
"One of those towns outside an important city; one that no one mentions when they talk about the area," he explained, keeping a gentle and lulling tone in his tone in his voice; "North-West of Wayrest, in Menevia County - a spread out place called Greycroft."
"Doesn't sound too thrilling."
"It wasn't," he replied with a silky chuckle, "It was home though."
I smiled distantly in recognition. "I get that," I remarked, "The town even before our farm was a pretty depressing sight, but, yeah: it was home."
Neither of us needed to elaborate: we both knew what we meant. There were different memories attached to each, so why would we need to explain ourselves? There really was no need to. After a few moments of silence, Lucien spoke again.
"So what town did you come from?"
"I really don't remember its name; I'm not sure if I can remember it even having one," I said, knowing that it didn't sound like a legitimate answer. "I only know that it was close to Narsis - that was where we bought most things."
"That's the darker version of Mournhold, isn't it?"
"That's the one."
"Then I believe I know where that is," Lucien responded knowingly, "If it's the same place I'm seeing, then yes, it's pretty depressing."
This sarcastic yet satirical tone was not something that I was familiar with at all, but expectedly, this side of him was nothing but flattering on his behalf; and it was my turn to laugh as we carried on through the Pale.
I wasn't sure exactly how much time had passed between then and coming across the mill by the river. Lucien and I had just talked for all of it, idly discussing almost anything that came to mind, from random people we used to know, almost all with some sort of comical reason for being so suddenly memorable, to interests or hobbies we once had; still had in our heads. I couldn't remember the last time I'd spoken so comfortably to someone for so long.
I found out that he had actually thought of doing something related to art, since he did sketches, paintings, that sort of thing. I told him that murder still required quite a high level of creativity, to which he humorously agreed.
As for me, I had never been sure, but I felt that I'd never choose to trade the Dark Brotherhood, even if I had wanted to do something else. I had never received much encouragement anyway; my parents left me to reading, and occasional short story writing, but nothing that anyone seemed to have any hopes about for me. Rather insulting, I thought, saying continuously that I probably needed to 'think about something more practical.' I wished that they would have come right out said that they didn't think writing would make much money, or even the reason of pride that was hidden behind my mother's words: 'none of my family have made a living doing that.' I loved her, of course I did, but the lack of respect she had for people with 'un-practical' professions made me despair on a daily basis. I wasn't even sure what she classed as practical, anyway.
I had definitely dwelled on that for a while in the conversation.
So, after a couple of miles of Shadowmere's walking pace, the sky now a threatening rose tint and darkening briskly by each half hour, we came to a mill; most likely only recently put up, seeing as there was nearly no weathering to the wooden structure, as well as a few building materials still left lying around the stony foundation of the lumber saw building. Nearby, outside of a simple wooden house with smoke from the chimney already wafting - silhouetted - through the lethargic breeze, was a woman carrying a small pile of chopped wood to the ajar front door. She turned her head in acknowledgement of hearing Shadowmere's hooves on the freshly cobbled path before she continued on with taking the wood inside.
Lucien almost didn't have to pull the reins back at all as Shadowmere halted, shaking some fallen snow from her mane before I dismounted, pleased to be standing again. Lucien landed softly beside me a moment later, gazing dissatisfactory up at the sky.
"Clearly we're not getting to Kynesgrove anytime soon," he paused, then looked towards me, "There's only one place I have in mind from here, but we're going to need firewood."
"Yeah, I guessed that," I replied, then folded my arms as a wispy drift of snow was blown in our direction; I pulled my hood forward again so that it shielded the sides of my face.
Lucien gave a smile that seemed impressed, but it wasn't discernable in this light.
Before we could talk any more, I heard the door of the house open again, tuning my attention to it seconds before Lucien. The woman had emerged from the warm light of the fire inside, the glint of a sword in her belt now as she began trudging nimbly towards us.
"Think you can charm a lower price out of someone this time?" I uttered with playful challenge.
He tilted his head sideways slightly, raising one eyebrow as a half-smile crept in to view. "I'd like to think so," he replied smoothly, mirroring my own tone.
He moved forward as his eyes left mine, the edgeless robe appearing to let him glide along the ground as it skimmed over his footprints in the thin layer of snow fall. As he reached the woman, she gave exactly the same reaction as he prompted from most other people: spontaneous smile which was attempting to be masked, moving stray sections of dark hair behind her ears, if a bit frantically, et cetera. Lucien must have referred to me in whatever story he had effortlessly made up on the spot, because she hesitantly broke her gaze with him to look in my direction, where I was holding Shadowmere's reins loosely in one hand. I nodded with an acknowledging smile at her, as she returned it. But, as she turned back to Lucien, something in the bright blue eyes, which I could see even from the distance between us, altered gradually, yet drastically.
As she kept listening to him, she glanced back at me, a thought or idea in her head surfacing from the deep. Just the now-forced smile and look in her eyes was making me uncomfortable, studied under her stare, if only for the briefest of moments. Shadowmere moved her head around, curious as to what was going on, nudging the back of my shoulder with a snuffling sound; I was able to turn my eyes away from the woman anyway.
First that look from the Imperial soldiers, now her as well? Someone I hadn't even seen before. I knew why they could be acting like that, but her: not a clue. I glanced back, and noticed immediately that Lucien's effect had quickly run its course, and underneath the amiable shell she had put on there was a definite uneasiness about her. Underneath this was something else entirely, yet far too muddled it seemed to pinpoint anything of significance. It might just have been that any people showing up near dark was a risk in itself, hence retrieving the sword, but I wasn't picking up on any real fear of that: she would have been more timid to begin with. Something was off about this.
I was so busy concentrating that the sudden outburst that came next could have been enough to make me quite literally jump out of my skin.
"A pony!" the voice of a very young girl squealed as she darted past her mother, causing Lucien to double back a few steps in the fear of being knocked over. From the look on his face, he didn't appear too pleased with the presence of the uncontrollable small thing either.
"Frida! Come back here!" the woman called, both panicked and stern.
The girl halted, frowning, and then crossed her arms as defiantly as he could manage before she pivoted towards her mother. "But mama…"
"I said no," the woman continued, keeping a quiver in her voice back, "Just come back here, sweetheart. Go inside."
The girl stole a fleeting glance back at Shadowmere, who had taken a few shocked steps back for her own safety, ears pricked with her head held high, then walked sulkily back towards her door. Her mother, on the other hand, couldn't take her eyes off of Shadowmere.
"That's a very…unusual horse," she commented, not really sure how that would work to break the silence.
Lucien, in turn, gazed over to the horse that this woman was staring so fearfully at, an expression of pride – almost – at the word 'unusual'. "She's from Morrowind, as is her owner over there," he falsely explained, his eyes flitting over mine for a moment as he continued; "She's quite beautiful, isn't she?"
The woman's eyes sped back to him. "Horses have…red eyes in Morrowind?"
"I suppose they must," he answered calmly, turning back to her. "Listen, about that firewood…"
Despite repeating this request in his most charming voice, the woman still remained frenzied. "Oh, um, yes of course," she stammered, throwing Lucien a little off track, "There's a pile just over there. You can take however much you want. They're free to take, I mean, I'd probably ask you to pay if you'd chopped them yourself, but, well…you can just take some with you."
By Sithis, she was in a panic. Lucien had absolutely no opportunity to even assure her we weren't bandits or the like, before she turned tail back to the house, pushing the door swiftly to a close behind her.
Bewildered, Lucien and I made eye contact, the same question passing between us without a word.
"That was…" I began, then trailed off, knowing he'd be thinking the same.
"Strange, I know," he finished quizzically, still taking in her behaviour. "Do you have any idea why?"
"I think if she's that paranoid all the time, I feel sorry for Frida," I replied sarcastically. We both knew that we couldn't guess at the real reason, so came to a joking compromise.
The firewood, about seven long pieces, was bundled into the rolls of blankets before we left the mill, watched the whole time by that woman at the window, I imagined. At the end of the narrow path was the edge of a steep drop down to the foot of the waterfall from the river running alongside us. We turned right, towards an old stony bridge to the other side of the water; a bank of dry soil and lightly laid snow; a dense stretch of pine trees along the left fork in the road. Instead, we took another right, directing us up a soft gradient slope, around again until this path was running parallel to the mill we had just walked away from.
We went up yet another slope, swerving around to the left. It wasn't the steepest, but Shadowmere had to speed up and use that little bit more force to reach the visible path again; though that was nothing more than trodden in dust where the snow hadn't laid.
She managed almost without effort to reach it, and as she did, the sky appeared as though right in front of us, the stars beginning to break through the deep indigo hue that was fading quickly in to black. I couldn't stop myself from gazing marvelously up at it, so I wasn't particularly concentrating on where we were going for a while.
When I did decide to pay attention, there were walls of rock either side of us, a short passage through the rising cliffs to the right; probably a border between Holds. Ahead, down another soft slope, was a cluster of pine trees around a dip in the landscape, a faint lap of water faintly audible as we got closer, Shadowmere now trotting down the little hill. Surrounding this miniature reserve of land were just more vast slopes of snow and an uninhabited fort on one side, and one other path which led away; most likely towards where we had originally planned. Other than that, it wasn't a particularly significant location. Suited us.
We moved around to the thickest part of the pond's bank, also where the trees would act as the best shelter. The moment Lucien and I got to the ground, Shadowmere bolted straight for the water, her nose shoved into it with a snoozling sound.
"Mara's Eye Pond," Lucien stated wistfully, in between a laugh at Shadowmere, "I doubt they would think we'd be anywhere with the name of one of the Divines."
I smiled in agreement as he moved over to Shadowmere, about to take the supplies from her saddle. "Very true," I replied, "But you are completely certain of that, aren't you?"
Lucien turned back and placed the blanket rolls on the ground while his eyes were continuously fixed on me. "If they're not looking for it, they will not find it," he continued, slowly approaching as he spoke, "I only found it by chance."
"Hiding from guards, I suppose?"
He laughed in slight disbelief. "I wonder how you guessed that," he remarked alluringly, looking almost directly into my eyes as his head tilted forward, a certain intensity seeping into his gaze like honey.
As he stopped in front of me, arms casually folded, this look remained for a few seconds more before he turned his eyes down, but with a lingering smile; withdrawn but upheld by something more.
"So, are we setting up camp or not?" I mimicked, bringing him back around.
Lucien's eyes gracefully rolled up to meet mine again, a charming grin still evident. "And there as me believing you'd never ask," he mocked in a clichéd manner, turning back towards the bags on Shadowmere's saddle as I started for the blankets.
I may not have been entirely perceptive of what he felt, but within just thirty seconds it seemed Lucien's mood or attitude had wavered, a disenchantment of some kind on par with this new side to him. Whatever had caused one thing to surface had surely emphasised the other at the same time. I couldn't help but sense familiarity behind this in more ways than one.
