Warning: violence, gore, sadism, and Malrian being a creep.
Lumen sits at her bedroom window, staring out into the moonlit gardens. Torchbugs hover above the roses, and some can be seen deep within the shadows of the orchard. The night is silent and still. Too still. She thinks she might be going mad because she misses the chaos that followed Malrian's sisters. Their presence provided a distraction, and time passed by quickly when they were around. But now that it's just her, Malrian, and Ravienne, the days no longer bleed into each other. Instead, they pass by with excruciating clarity. Every moment drags on longer than necessary— as if the god of time has seen fit to torment her.
She turns away from the window and takes in the sight of her empty bedroom. The furniture is still in place. There is no reason to bring it with them to Alinor. Only her clothes, jewelry, and various knick knacks are all packed away in trunks. Malrian's steward left for Alinor weeks ago, and according to her master, he's purchased an estate and already filled it with all the necessary things a home needs— according to Altmeri standards.
They are leaving tomorrow. The coachman will pick them up at dawn, and they will travel to Anvil and sail to Alinor from there. Lumen wonders if this is how prisoners feel before they are lead to the gallows. Calm. Dazed, almost.
Voices in the hallway grab her attention, and she tiptoes across her room to listen at the door. She heaves a sigh when she hears the familiar tones of her master and his constant companion. Every day is the same— Ravienne stalks Malrian like a fox on the scent of a wounded rabbit, and she pounces on him with equal ferocity. Her master does not always comply, even though he knows the sooner she falls pregnant, the sooner she will lose all interest in him. As much as he complains, Lumen thinks he might enjoy the chase.
Tonight, her master welcomes Ravienne to his quarters, and Lumen abandons her own. It is better to risk punishment than to endure the telltale noises of their passionless coitus.
Moonlight pours through the windows of the estate, and Lumen carefully steps around the silvery pools of light as she makes her way through the house. Avoiding the light serves no real purpose, but there's something about being enshrouded by darkness that comforts her. Her bare feet make no sound as she lightly steps across the marble floor, and the shadows wrap around her like an old cloak. Lumen rarely feels safe or at ease. Malrian's household is as perilous as any gauntlet. But there is a comfort in knowing she can move through its halls unseen and unheard.
That tenuous sense of ease dissipates when she passes by the cellar door. That door is a symbol of all her losses; of the loss of her mother and Silvan. She knows will die by Malrian's hand if she doesn't run. But finding the will to leave isn't as easy as one might think. She knows little of the outside world, and she has no money or skills. Some kind-hearted individual might take it upon themselves to help her, but she doesn't want to find herself beholden to yet another master.
A few more steps would lead her to the foyer, and to the world beyond. It would be so easy to step outside— to sneak through the gardens, over the wall, and on to freedom. But she turns away and banishes all thoughts of running from her mind.
She swallows her shame as she steps into the kitchen. The kitchens are rarely empty, but her master sent all the servants away, and Lumen plans to enjoy a rare moment of solitude while she can. An oil lamp is left burning beside a small array of treats prepared by the servants earlier that evening; a plate of cheeses, an apple tart, and a pitcher of honeyed water.
Lumen touches her fingers to the silvery surface of the pitcher, and the frost rune etched on its side flickers like a guttering flame. Despite the alluring dance of the rune, she turns her attention elsewhere. A spatula and a small, silver knife lay beside the apple tart. Lumen's fingertips graze the handle of the knife, leaving a wet smear of condensation in her wake.
She pulls her hand away from the knife when she hears footsteps coming from down the hall. The steps are light and quick, and most definitely not the practiced gait of her master. With no reason to worry, her eyes continue their exploration of the knife. The delicate curve of the sharp blade is perfect for cutting through bread or fruit— or flesh. It grows wider near the bottom, where it joins the handle, which is decorated with floral carvings and dotted with gems.
"What are you doing down here? I thought your master told you to stay put."
Her ears twitch at the sound of Ravienne's voice, but she does not instantly respond. She is lost in the way the lantern light dances along the edge of the blade, and she wonders if the knife will still hold its beauty when it's covered in blood. It's not the first time she's thought of such things, and though Malrian did look the other way when she killed one of his guards, she doesn't think he would tolerate such behavior again. But— she's not sure if she cares. So much of her life is spent groveling at his feet and bending to his whim, and some wild, vicious part of her says it's time for her to think of herself. Such thoughts could lead to actions that might get her killed, but she's not sure if she cares about that, either.
"Your master is unable to perform his duties again," Ravienne snaps, undeterred by Lumen's silence. "We're going to be the laughing stock of Alinor at this rate."
Lumen backs away from the cabinet — away from the knife that tempts her so — when Ravienne shoves her aside and reaches for the pitcher of chilled water.
"You could help me out, you know," Ravienne continues. "You've lived with this man all your life, have you not? Surely you know what makes him tick— and yes, I know he hates any physical contact, so don't even say it. I need some information I can use."
"He likes pain," Lumen says, her voice is rough from hours without use.
"Oh? Shall I whip him?" The Altmer laughs softly before taking a sip of water, amusement twinkling in her eyes. "I wouldn't mind."
"No." She doesn't know why she is telling Ravienne any of this, except that she enjoys the idea of humiliating Malrian. "He likes to inflict it. I think— he enjoys it very much."
Ravienne scoffs. "I'm certainly not going to let him debase me." She glances at Lumen before walking across the kitchen to the liquor cabinet. "You must be used to it. Maybe I'll tie you up for him. Let him use and abuse you until he is finally of use to me."
Lumen's fingers curl around the handle of the knife when Ravienne turns away. The metal is cold and hard against her skin, and she shivers at the contact. Heat settles in her stomach, similar to arousal, but not quite. Because it is not sex she desires, but blood and pain. They are not so different, she and her master. She does not know if her sadistic tendencies are due to her nature or from Malrian's so-called nurturing, but she doesn't care. A lifetime of hatred has burrowed deep into her heart, taken root, and laid waste to the best parts of her.
She needs to hurt Ravienne. She wants to kill her. She wants to destroy any chance of Malrian's wretched bloodline spreading any further than it has. His family is a disease, and the Thalmor are a plague upon the world. If she can kill at least one Thalmor sympathizer, then let that be enough. It will likely be the last thing she ever does. One last act of defiance before she meets her own miserable end.
Ravienne turns around, leaning against the cabinet with a glass of wine in her hand. Her mouth moves, but the words coming out are of little consequence.
"I am not broken." But the cold metal feels so right in her clenched hand. "There's nothing wrong with me." But the mere idea of watching blood flow has her shaking with anticipation. Her body is moving before she realizes she's made up her mind, and the blade plunges into Ravienne's chest. Lumen twists the hilt of the knife when the blade gets caught between her ribs, and angles it so she can push it in deeper— as deep as it will go.
The pain brings Ravienne to her knees, and Lumen sinks with her. A wail dissolves into a wet, bubbling gasp as Lumen yanks the knife out. Ravienne flails, her fingernails leaving long, burning cuts along Lumen's face as she aims for her eyes. But Lumen turns away, letting the side of her face and her neck take most of the damage before knocking her hands away and stabbing her in the chest again— and again. Blood flies from the blade when it is pulled from her flesh, painting the kitchen in a spray of crimson.
Lumen loses herself in the rhythmic flow of blood pulsing from a puncture that hit an artery. Her arms are burning from exertion, but she keeps plunging the knife in and out of flesh that is now unrecognizable. The handle is slick with blood, and she loses her grip on it. She slices her palm open, and the pain yanks her back to the present moment. The knife clatters to the floor as she clutches her wounded hand to her chest.
Fear is etched on Ravienne's face, her lovely eyes wide and unfocused. Her chest is little more than a mound of torn flesh and shredded muscle, and there is a long cut along her side, deep enough that her intestines have spilled out onto the floor. A steadily growing pool of blood floods the kitchen, and the air reeks of iron and something Lumen cannot identify, but she can only assume it's the smell of opened bowels.
Fear hits her like a kick to the chest. Malrian will kill her for this. Ravienne's death is not something he can easily hide from his sister, his mother, or the whole of the Aldmeri Dominion.
The hair on the nape of her neck rises when she feels eyes upon her. She cuts a glance to the doorway and sees the feet of her master. How long has he been there? Not long, surely. As much as he hated Ravienne, he wouldn't have stood idly by and watched Lumen kill her. He would have stopped her.
She turns toward him, leaving bloody handprints in her wake. "Just do it." Tears sting her eyes. "Just kill me."
"Oh, my darling pet." His voice is breathless. "What have you done?"
She chokes on a sob. "I don't know," she says, fearing her actions. The anger had come upon her so quickly. It had been all-consuming. She's afraid of herself— of what she's becoming. "Something is wrong with me."
"Nothing is wrong with you," he hisses as he takes another step into the kitchen. He leans against the cabinet, his movements unbalanced. "You are perfect. You are beautiful."
An icy chill crawls down her spine. Malrian's mate lies dead on the floor— butchered. Her blood covers the kitchen and Lumen, and yet, after all this, he says she is beautiful? "Don't do it," Lumen tells herself, but she doesn't heed her warning. Her gaze travels across the blood spattered floor, to Malrian's bare feet, and up the length of his legs. Her master is wearing a pair of knit trousers and nothing more. The thin material does little to hide the straining evidence of his desire.
"Avert your eyes, girl," he snaps, and she instinctively flinches away.
Lumen bows her head, her long hair falling over her shoulders and curling in the blood surrounding her. Fearing he may use her for his pleasure, she steals another glance at him. Through the curtain of her hair, she can see Malrian's hand drift across the flat plane of his stomach, and over the bulge in his trousers. He grips himself through the material, rather than touch skin-to-skin. Lumen closes her eyes, wishing she were somewhere else. Her skin is crawling. Just being so close to him is too much. She can hardly believe he's doing this right in front of her, and she is terrified of what will happen next.
It is a small blessing that her master feels no need to roar out his climax as some men are known to do. There is only a quiet rush of breath. Almost a sigh. As if he'd been in pain and sought to end it, rather than aroused and seeking pleasure. Malrian sinks to the floor when he finishes, leaning his head back against the side of the cabinet as he catches his breath.
"I watched you kill her," he whispers, his voice shaking. "I should have stopped you. But gods, I didn't want to."
She doesn't know how to respond. Out of all the possible outcomes she entertained, this was not it. She had known about Malrian's predilection toward inflicting pain, but even she didn't know how deep those desires ran.
"Come here."
She crawls toward him, one hand pulling her across the slick tile, while her wounded hand remains tucked against her chest. "Master, I'm—"
"Hush." He touches her chin, coaxing her to look at him. "Look at me, pet."
Lumen obeys because her every instinct is telling her to grovel at his feet, as it is too late to run. He smooths his hand down her throat, across her collar bones and between her breasts. "I'm sorry," she whispers, hoping an apology will make him reconsider whatever he's planning.
"We are past the point of lies," he says distractedly, his hand moving across her sternum, to her stomach, and then deviating to her side. He yanks her toward him, and she falls into his lap. "No more lies."
"Fine," she says, shivering when the hand on her side travels lower and slips beneath the hem of her nightgown. Her master's hand is heavy and humid against the bare skin of her thigh. "I'm not sorry. She deserved what she got."
He laughs, his fingers squeezing her thigh, but traveling no further. "I suppose it's my turn for honesty, then," he says, his voice still husky. "I've never wanted you more than I did tonight, pet."
Emboldened by his confession, she asks, "What stopped you?"
"I have my reasons." The smirk that curls his lips tells her he may not heed those reasons a second time. "Come. Let's get cleaned you up."
"What about the kitchen?"
"Don't worry about it," he says, getting to his feet and pulling her up with him. "For now, we both need to get cleaned up and dressed."
The halls of the estate pass by in an ornate blur of midnight and gold. Malrian's hand curls around her upper arm, gripping her tighter than necessary. The events of the night have left Lumen in a state of mingled confusion and fear, and she does not mind his guidance. The only thing that saved her tonight is Malrian's aversion to sex. But how long will that last? How long until he acts on those pent up desires? How long will he wait before he damages her beyond repair?
There will be no safe harbor once they are in Alinor. He will kill her, or he will break her down to the point of no return, and she will kill herself. She could run, but some other Thalmor will likely finish what Malrian started.
When they reach her bedroom, he pushes her inside. "Wait here," he says. "I need to change first."
Lumen sits down on a trunk packed with her clothing. The hem of her nightgown catches on the metal clasps, but she pays it no mind. She nearly chokes when she thinks of why Malrian needs to change his clothes. A line wasn't just crossed tonight— it was obliterated. "It's only a matter of time. It will get worse. It will get so much worse."
The rustle of leather heralds Malrian's return. He has dressed in his Thalmor robes, and his appearance is neat and tidy— a stark contrast to how he looked when he was fondling himself in the kitchen.
"Let me see your hand," he commands, grabbing for her wounded hand before she has the chance to offer it. His clicks his tongue when he sees the long cut across her palm. "My poor girl. Does it pain you much?"
His kindness only adds to her mounting anxiety. "Only a little," she admits.
"You've always been so strong— so resilient." A cold cloth presses against her palm, wiping away blood. "I feel like our long time together has been leading up to this moment. You have done so well, my girl. Elenwen will be furious about Ravienne's death. But I will make this go away. I have the power to protect you."
"Did you really want this to happen?" It takes all her self-control not to gape at him. If Altmer are good at anything, it's playing the long game. They set up the gauntlet, just to watch how their lessers will navigate the pitfalls. Was he waiting for her to act? If so, she was a fool not to see it earlier.
He doesn't answer her immediately. Instead, he focuses on his task of cleaning her hand. "Yes and no," he finally says. "I had no choice but to obey my family. I tolerated her when she was just an annoyance, but when she began debasing me on a regular basis, I found myself wishing for a way out. At first, I thought to kill her myself, but… I rather liked the idea of you killing her. Which is why I didn't stop you. I couldn't stop you."
Lumen curls in on herself. "If you get in trouble because of me…"
"I won't." He covers her hand with his own, the glimmering gold of a healing spell lighting up the dark room. All traces of the cut are healed away, along with the burning scratches Ravienne left on her face. "No one will know what happened here tonight." Malrian's eyes flick up to hers, and he presses a kiss to her palm. "It'll be our little secret."
The warmth of his hands and the strong bones of his face are as much a weapon as his magic, and he is simply trying to defeat her in a different way. This kindness— this flirtation is just another manipulation tactic. It's a good one, and she'd fall for it if she didn't know him so well. What elven woman could resist a Thalmor Justiciar on his knees, tending to her wounds and promising protection? It's all a ruse. He only means to ply her with enough kindness to get her to drop her guard, or to guilt her into letting him fuck her without a struggle.
"Our secret," Lumen agrees with a forced smile.
"Good girl." With his hands in hers, he guides her to stand. "Take off your nightgown. It's covered in blood."
Malrian steps away from her and opens her trunk of clothes, pulling out a pair of trousers, followed by a tunic, a belt, and a pair of knee-high boots. He lays the clothes out on her bed, before cutting a sharp glance her way.
That look spurns her into action, and she tugs the nightgown over her head. The cool, night air kisses her skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. She drops the blood soaked material to the floor. A bowl of water sits on her vanity, left by the servants earlier that evening. It has grown cold, but she'll not ask Malrian to heat it. She'll not ask him for anything. Especially not when his eyes are roving across her naked body.
Malrian opens his mouth as if to say something, but he closes it with a snap. After a moment of consideration, he says, "I'm going to gather a few things. Meet me in the foyer when you finish."
When he leaves the room, she presses her hand against her chest. Her heart is beating so fast, she fears she may pass out. A bead of sweat runs down her spine, and while she wants to fall to her knees and cry, the blood drying on her skin is starting to itch. There's no time to waste, and she has no desire to test Malrian's patience.
She washes the blood from her skin, paying no mind to the water collecting at her feet. The carpet has already been soiled with blood. She dresses in the clothes he laid out for her, grateful he chose clothing she would be comfortable in, rather than some gaudy, cumbersome dress. When she is finished, she rushes to meet him in the foyer, fearing she's already spent too much time putting herself together.
Malrian stands in the foyer, his arms folded as he surveys his home. He looks her over before giving her a nod of approval. "Go and wait by the front gate," he says, and hands her a heavy knapsack. "I won't be but a moment."
"What are you—"
"Do as I say," he snaps. "Go."
She instantly complies, her feet carrying her across the foyer and out into the front gardens. The twisting cobblestone path leads her to the front gate. Fragrant, blooming flowers line the pathway. Once, she would've stopped to admire the flowers, but now they are just a painful reminder of what's she's lost. These are Silvan's flowers. He spent hours in this garden, sweating beneath the hot, Cyrodillian sun. He harvested the seeds for these flowers. He worked the soil, and doted over the seedlings that sprouted just before his death. But he never got to see them bloom.
Tears sting her eyes, but she distracts herself from the pain by rummaging through Malrian's knapsack. It contains a jumble of hastily wrapped family heirlooms— and a small letter opener. Lumen looks back to the house, it is still dark inside, and her master is nowhere to be seen. She grabs the small knife and quickly slips it into her boot, before cinching the knapsack closed and tossing it over her shoulder.
Minutes pass, and the scent of smoke hits her nose, just before flames erupt from the upstairs bedrooms, the kitchen, and then the parlor. The front door slams open and her Master strides out. His robes are singed and his hand is wrapped in a bandage. But he is calm and collected, as if covering up a murder and setting his home on fire is of little consequence.
"An oil lamp fell over upstairs," he says, wiping soot from his sleeve. "That's what we'll tell anyone who asks what happened here tonight. We will tell them there was a fire, and that Ravienne perished before we could escape."
She is too stunned to speak. Her master did this for her— and he will expect something for it. The knife resting against her calf barely offers her any solace, and for a brief moment, she considers running toward the house and throwing herself into the flames. Death would be preferable to whatever new torment Malrian has planned for her.
"You're injured," is all she can manage to say.
He examines his bandaged hand with some boredom. "Well, it does add to our cover story."
Fear closes her throat. Lumen knows the part she's supposed to play, but everything has changed in the stroke of a knife. Her grip tightens on the knapsack as Malrian moves closer, his fingers stroking through her hair. It's not unusual for him to touch her like this, but knowing that he desires her changes the meaning of his every action. He's not claiming what is his. He's not just marking his territory. He's testing his boundaries— and hers.
"Come with me," he says, resting his hand on the nape of her neck. "It is a few hours until dawn. We should find somewhere to rest until the coach comes to collect us."
With a flick of his hand, the gate creaks open. Malrian does not often use his magic for such mundane things, and Lumen does not know if it is a subtle threat or a sign of physical exhaustion. He looks more tired and worn than he usually does thanks to Ravienne keeping him up night after night, and his work pulling him from sleep at early hours.
They sit down on the other side of the stone wall that runs along the boundaries of his estate. Lumen leans back against it, too frightened to sleep, but obedient enough to close her eyes. If nothing else, feigning sleep will give her some time to plan her next move. Malrian settles beside her, his arm around her, pulling her close to his side. The heat of his body — his scent — is enough to make her physically ill. But she will endure it.
She's endured a lifetime with him. So what's another night?
Notes: I took forever to update this. I'm lame. I'm sorry. :( I promise the next chapter won't take as long.
A note on Malrian - I often referred to him as asexual because I didn't quite have another name for it. But that's not really the right term for what he is.
He's a sadist. He doesn't like sex. He isn't sexually motivated. But if things get violent enough, he's probably gonna get a really awkward boner. So there we go. I don't consider that to be asexual. He's just… a sociopathic sadist.