"You did this! This is your fault; you were supposed to protect him!" the woman of the dead man shouts. Guards block her with their weapons crossed and shields ready.
In the grand hall of the Jarl's palace, Diamond and the other Companions stand at the foot of the stairs of the dais leading up to the Jarl's throne.
After their absolutely disastrous attempt to find and capture Libby, again, Diamond and Farkas and Torvar returned to Jorvaskrr to inform Kodlak of their failure. But they had little time for their retribution as the town guard had some barging into the Jorvaskrr (with feign apologies) and told the Harbinger and Companions to meet up at the palace. Diamond nearly feeling like she is going to pass out. First she fails Kodlak, again, and now the Jarl is suddenly calling them up the Dragonsreach. This isn't good.
The wife of the man Libby had assassinated was already there, the guards still holding her back as the warriors filed into the grand hall and up to the throne, kneeling before the Jarl and awaiting his orders. But he merely told them to rise and face the room.
Diamond has had a sick feeling in her stomach since she and Torvar and Farkas returned to Jorvaskrr and told Kodlak of their failure to capture Libby. And despite her not wanting to tell Kodlak of the murder that she once again couldn't prevent, it wouldn't have made a difference, as just moments after diamond did tell him, the guards came to Jorvaskrr. Her eye is red and black all around, and her chest slightly burns from that explosive tip of Libby's arrow.
As the woman continually screams at the Companions, expressing their failure along with vulgar profanities, the Jarl simply stress at her with a stern expression, leaning his chin on his knuckles of his right hand, his left hand tapping the arm of his throne.
Diamond is standing in between Aela and Torvar, giving everything she has into keeping her hands from visibly shaking. Her glass Warhammer seems to have increased in its weight, and her slightest movement will send her towering down. She doesn't even try to lean out to peer at the twins or the other members. Kodlak stands next to the Jarl, his hands at his sides. Taking deep even breaths.
"I can assure you," Jarl Balgruuf says. "we have these things under control. Believe me I am truly sorry for your loss, really. I can assure you we will give your husband a proper burial and ceremony."
"They did this!" the woman screams, pointing her shaking, bony finger at the Companions. Specifically Diamond; whether intentionally or accidentally is unsure, but Diamond can see the tears in her eyes and the rawness of her cheeks as she screams. "They were supposed to protect him! You're the Companions!"
Diamond can sense Kodlak tense and Farkas growl as he fists his hands. Everyone else seems to take a collective intake of breath, and exhale slowly to control themselves.
"Yrene, please, understand that we are doing everything we can to track down Libitania Desidenuis and avenge your father." Kodlak finally speaks.
"I thought you would've handled her by now!"
"While we appreciate your flattery of your expectations of us, please, remember no one but the divines are perfect. We are mere warriors, and we will fight for your vengeance and honor."
"Brothers and Sisters in honor! Ha!" the woman manically laughs. And then she spits towards Kodlak, the dribble landing just an inch from his boot.
Diamond swallows again as she feels the Companions tense with anger and some of their hands grasping the hilts of their weapons. The woman then gives a vulgar expression of her finger before she turns and walks out of Dragonsreach. Kodlak sighs, and Diamond stares at the spit, flashing back to when that vagrant woman had done the same thing when she mistook Diamond for one of her own.
Kodlak sighs in exhaustion as he turns towards the Jarl. "My Jarl –"
But Balgruuf just holds up his hand and the Companions ready themselves as Jarl Balgruuf pinches the bridge between his eyes and sighs. "I understand she is an assassin, I understand the advantage that she holds against you, but I would have thought that your travels and journeys would have given you more experience."
"Not like Libitania is to be given credit!" Farkas barks, "She's been blessed with the abilities of the daedra. If she was facing us on her own, she'd be dead by now!"
"Farkas!" Vilkas snaps to his brother.
"I – I honestly don't know what else I can do." The Jarl says. "My citizens are starting to doubt you, but I understand what you're up against. I just – I don't know what to do." Balgruuf sighs in aggravation.
"We're not asking you to do anything, my Jarl. Just let us keep handling this." Kodlak says as he kneels before the Jarl.
"You call that handling it?"
"Please, my Jarl, I assure you, I have an idea on how we can stop her. All I ask is that you give us another chance." Kodlak says, and Diamond can't help but give him credit for not sounding like he is pleading or begging to the Jarl, but more with urgency.
Jarl Balgruuf sighs once more, and Diamond can see Kodlak clench his jaw as he watches him. This is the second time the Companions have failed and that Libitania has killed more of Whiterun's citizens. Even if many respect the Companions, surely they can't just expect them to be perfect, especially against Skyrim's Assassin.
Still, Jarl Balgruuf sits up straighter in his throne and squares his shoulders. "Very well, Kodlak; I will give you another chance, and I'm sure I will in the future. I can still sense the citizen's faith in you. So I too shall remain loyal."
"Thank you my Jarl." Kodlak lowers his head.
"Now if you don't mind, I've got a city to keep." Balgruuf dismisses them. He then rises from his throne and turns to head upstairs.
The Companions wait until Kodlak rises and passes them by before following him out, in near single file. Diamond resists the urge to hurry her steps up to him and ask him if everything is alright, or apologize or just cry for him. People are starting to lose faith in the Companions, all from just two encounters of Libby. Granted she murdered citizens, but everyone is Skyrim always seemed obsessed with death. It's like the moment an assassin comes into the equation of things, people expect the Companions to be on top of it and stop it within a moment's notice. They're not perfect. That's what they have to remember. They're brother and sisters in honor.
Brothers and Sisters. She have to remember that. It's not just Diamond fighting this.
She has her family. This is the only thing that keeps her calm as she follows Kodlak back to Jorvaskrr.
Libitania is sitting at her table in the absolutely worthless inn, wondering how her life had gone to hell so quickly.
She hates Windhelm. Hates the reek of trash and filth, hates the heavy blanket of mist that shrouds it day and night, hates the second-rate merchants and mercenaries and generally miserable people who occupy it.
No one here knew who she was, or why she had come; no one knew that the girl beneath the hood is Libitania Desidenuis, the most notorious assassin in Skyrim's empire. But then again, she doesn't want them to know. Can't let them know, actually.
No one knows who Libitania Desidenuis is just a young woman, she remembers the Prince of Morthal saying. Skyrim seems to know or rather remember who she is. Libitania is often connected to both thief and assassin. And they've gotten the intake she is a woman; and they all know that Libitania Desidenuis was the one who had made the connections between the Faceless and the Thieves Guild.
What else is there to hide?
She has been here for two days now – two days spent either holed up in his despicable room (a "suite," the oily innkeeper had the nerve to call it), or down here in the taproom that stinks of sweat, stale ale, and unwashed bodies. Her contact had said that the job was lengthy in the lower part of the slums, but his description was vague compared to what had welcomed Libby. A part of her wants to desperately gut that man for this, but with Libby and her big mouth, she had said she had been through worse, so now she's stuck acting like this isn't the worst inn she has ever stayed in. Which truthfully it wasn't, but between living in a mansion, then a castle, and then back into a mansion, this service is less than shit.
She would have left is she had any choice. But she is forced to stay here, thanks to the Crown Prince of Morthal. She could've sworn her contact had told her all of the details about the mission, but Libby had foolishly tuned him out as she was trying to ease her craving for bloodletting. Which means waiting here, in this dump of a tavern, for a carriage to take him to the capital city.
Libby sighs and takes a long drink of her ale. She almost spits it out. Disgusting. Cheap as cheap can be, like the rest of this place. Like the stew she hasn't touched. Whatever meat is in there isn't from any creature worth eating. Bread and mild cheese it is, then.
Libby sits back in her seat, watching the barkeep with brown-gold hair slip through the labyrinth of tables and chairs. The man is nimble and dodges the hands who grope him, all without disturbing the tray he carries over his shoulder. What a waste of swift feet, good balance, and intelligent, stunning eyes. The man isn't dumb. Libby had noted the way he watched the room and its patrons – the way he watched Libitania herself. What personal hell had driven him to work here?
Libby doesn't particularly care. The questions are mostly to drive the boredom away. Not one of the shops in Windhelm had a single book for sale – only spices, fish, out-of fashion clothing, and nautical gear. For a port town, this is pathetic. But the Hold of Eastmarch has fallen on hard times in the past millennia – since the Ulfric Stormcloak had conquered the continent and redirected trade through Riften instead of Windhelm's few eastern ports. Why no one hadn't bothered to change it is beyond him.
The whole world has fallen on hard times, it seems. Libby included.
She fights the urge to touch her face. The swelling from the beating she had received from Diamond and her Companion brothers has gone down, but the bruises remain. She avoided looking in the sliver of mirror above her dresser, knowing what she's see: mottled purple and blue and yellow along her cheekbones, the still healing black eye, and a still-healing split lip. It was deserved though; it was well-deserved, he tells herself.
Even if she is so angry that she can't think straight. Even if she'd gotten into not one, not two, but three bar fights in the two to three days that he'd been traveling from Whiterun Hold to Eastmarch. One of the brawls, at least, had been rightfully provoked: a man had cheated at a round of cards. But the other two . . .
There is no denying it: she'd merely been spoiling for a fight. No blades, no weapons. Just fists and feet. She supposed she should feel bad about it – about the broken nose and jaws, about the heaps of unconscious bodies in her wake. But she doesn't.
Libby couldn't bring herself to care, because those moments she spent brawling were the few moments she felt like herself again. When she felt like Skyrim's greatest assassin, Zusa Phoenix's chosen heir.
Even if her opponents were drunks and untrained fighters; even if she should know better.
The barkeep reaches the safety of the counter, and Libby glances around the room. The innkeeper is still watching her, as he had for the past two days, wondering how he could squeeze even more money out of Libby's bag. There are several other men observing Libby, too. Some she recognized from previous nights, while others are new faces that he quickly sized up. Was it fear or luck that had kept them away from Libby so far?
She had made no secret of the fact that she carried money with her. And her clothes and weapons speak volumes about her wealth, too. The ruby brooch she wears practically begs for trouble – she wears it to invite trouble, actually. It was a gift from The Crown Prince from the fight she had induced with Diamond and her Companions roughly a week ago; she hopes someone will try to steal it. If they are good enough, she might just let them. So it is only a matter of time, really, before one of them tries to rob her.
And before she decides she is bored of fighting only with fists and feet. She glances at the ebony sword by her side. It glints in the tavern's dank light.
If Libby was smart, if she was levelheaded, she will avoid any confrontation tonight and leave Windhelm in peace, no matter where she goes.
But she isn't feeling particularly smart or levelheaded – certainly not once the hours pass and the air in the inn shifts into a hungry, wild thing that howls for blood.
Malthyr looks over at his spot from behind the bar as he wipes the counter. The strange young woman has been sitting at the New Gnisis Cornerclub for two days now and has hardly spoken to anyone save the innkeeper, who had taken one look at the girl's fine night-dark clothes and bent over backwards to accommodate her.
He had given her the best room at the clud – the room he only offered to patrons he intended to bleed dry – and didn't seem at all bothered by the heavy hood the young woman wore or the assortment of weapons that gleamed along her long, lean body. Not when she tossed him a gold coin with a casual flick of her gloved fingers. Not when she was wearing an ornate gold brooch with a ruby the size of a robin's egg.
Then again, that sleazing bald man is never really afraid of anyone, unless they seem likely not to pay him – and even then, it is anger and greed, not fear, that wins out.
Malthyr Elenil has been watching the young woman from the safety of the taproom bar. Watching, if only because the stranger is young and mostly unaccompanied and sits at the back table with such stillness that it is impossible not to look at her. Not to wonder.
Malthyr hasn't seen her face yet, though he caught a glimpse every now and then of an ebony strands of hair glinting from beneath the depths of her black hood. In any other city, the New Gnisis Cornerclub would likely be considered the lowest of the low as far as luxury and cleanliness are concerned. But here in Windhelm, in the Grey Quarter, it is considered the finest.
The stranger at the back table lifts her head, signaling with a gloved finger for Malthyr to bring another ale. For someone who doesn't seem older than twenty, the young woman drank an ungodly amount – wine, ale, whatever the innkeeper bade Malthyr bring over – but never seemed to lose herself to it. It is impossible to tell with that heavy hood, though. These past two nights she had merely stalked back to her room with a feline grace, not stumbling over herself like most of the patrons on their way out of after last call.
Malthyr quickly pours ale into the mug he had just been drying and sets it on a tray. He adds a glass of water and some more bread, since the girl hadn't touched the stew she'd been given for dinner. Not a single bite. Smart woman.
Malthyr weaves through the packed taproom, dodging the hands that try to grab him. Halfway through his trek, he caught the innkeeper's eye from where he sat by the front door. An encouraging nod, his mostly bald head gleaming in the dim light. Keep her drinking. Keep her buying.
Malthyr avoids rolling his eyes, if only because the innkeeper was the sole reason he wasn't walking the cobblestone streets with the other young Dunmer of Windhelm. He had been eighteen and desperate, and had gladly taken a job that offered only a few coppers and a miserable little bed in a broom closet beneath the stairs.
Malthyr reaches the stranger's table and finds the young woman looking up at her. "I brought you some water and bread, too." He stammers by way of greeting. He sets down the ale, but hesitates with the other two items on his tray.
The young woman just says, "Thank you." Her voice is low and cool – cultured. Educated. And completely uninterested in Malthyr.
Not that there was anything about her that was remotely interesting, with her homespun wool dress doing little for her too-slim figure. Like most who hail from Morrowind, Malthyr has greenish-grey toned skin and absolutely dark-black hair and is of average height. Only his eyes, a sharp gleaming-crimson, gave him any source of pride. Not that most people see them. Malthyr did his best to keep his eyes down most of the time, avoiding any invitation for communication or the wrong kind of attention.
So, Malthyr sets down the bread and water and take the empty mug from where the girl had pushed it into the center of the table. But curiosity wins out, and he peers into the black depths beneath the young woman's cowl. Nothing but shadows, a gleam of ebony hair, and a hint of pale skin. He had so many questions – so, so many questions. Who are you? What do you come from? Where are you going Can you use all those blades you carry?
Malthyr only bowed and walked back to the bar through the field of groping hands, eyes downcast as he plasters a distant smile on his face.
Unfortunately, it doesn't last long as the atmosphere in the New Gnisis Cornerclub changes. Malthyr doesn't know how or when it happened, but it changes. It is as if all of the gathered men are waiting for something. The girl in the back is still at his table, still brooding. But her gloved fingers are tapping on the scarred wooden surface, and every now and then, she shifts her hooded head to look around the room.
Malthyr couldn't leave even if he wanted to. Last call isn't for another forty minutes, and he'd have to stay an hour after that to clean up and usher intoxicated patrons out the door. He doesn't care where they went one they passed the threshold – doesn't care if they wind up facedown in a watery ditch – just as long as they get out of the taproom. And stayed gone.
The innkeeper vanished moments ago, either to save his own hide or to do some dark dealings in the back alley, and his female co-worker still in that sailor's lap, flirting away, unaware of the shift in the air.
Malthyr keeps looking at the hooded boy. So does many of the tavern's patrons. Were they waiting for him to get up? There are some thieves she recognized – thieves who have been circling like vultures for the past two days, trying to figure out whether the strange girl can use the weapons she carried. It is common knowledge that she is leaving tomorrow at dawn. If they want her money, her jewelry, weapons, or something far darker, tonight will be their last chance.
Malthyr chews on his lip as he pours a round of ales for the table of four mercenaries playing kings. He should warn the girl – tell her that she might be better off sneaking to her carriage right now, before she winds up with a slit throat.
But his boss will throw him out into the streets if he knew he had warned her. Especially when many of the cutthroats are beloved patrons who often share their ill-gained profits with him. And Malthyr has no doubt that his boss will send those very men after him if he betrays his boss. How had Malthyr become so adjusted to these people?
Malthyr swallows hard, pouring another mug of ale. His mother wouldn't have hesitated to warn the boy.
But his mother had been a good woman – a woman who never wavered, who never turned away a sick or wounded person, no matter how poor, from the door of their cottage in southern Tear. Never.
As a prodigiously gifted healer with no small amount of magic; his mother has always said it wasn't right to charge people for what she'd been given for free by Kynareth, the Goddess of Healing. And the only time he had seen his mother falter was the day the Stormcloaks surrounded their house, armed to the teeth and bearing torches and wood.
They hadn't bothered to listen when his mother explained that her power, like Malthyr's, had already disappeared months before, along with the rest of the magic in the land – abandoned by the gods, his mother had claimed.
No, the Stormcloaks hadn't listened at all. And neither had any of those vanished gods whom her mother and Malthyr had pleaded for salvation.
It was the first – and only – time his mother took a life.
Malthyr can still see the glint of the hidden dagger in his mother's hands, still feel the blood of that soldier on his bare feet, hear his mother scream at Malthyr to run, smell the smoke of the bonfire as they burned his gifted mother alive while Malthyr wept from the nearby safety of the Kragenmoor Plains.
It is form his mother that Malthyr had inherited his iron stomach – but he'd never thought those solid nerves would wind up keeping him here, claiming this hovel as his home.
Malthyr was so lost in thought and memory that he didn't notice the man until a broad hand is wrapped around his waist.
"We could use a pretty face at this table." He says, grinning up at Malthyr with a wolf's smile. Malthyr steps back, but he holds firm, trying to yank the Dunmer into his lap. It always estranged him to think that Nods weren't so welcoming of them in the city itself, but they'll willing flirt and wish to even claim a Dunmer no matter what their gender.
There is just no end to the strange ways of the Nods.
"I've got work to do." he says as blandly as possible. He has detangled himself from situations like this before – countless times now. It has stopped scaring him long ago.
"You can work on me." says another of the mercenaries, a tall man with a worn-looking blade strapped to his back. Calmly, Malthyr pries the first mercenary's fingers off his waist.
"Last call is in forty minutes." he says as pleasantly, stepping back – as far as he can without irritating the men grinning at him like wild dogs. "Can I get you anything else?"
"What are you doing after?" says another.
"Going home to my wife." He lies. But they look at the ring on his finger – the ring that now passes for a wedding band. It had belonged to his mother, and his mother's mother, and all the great Dunmer before him, all such brilliant healers, all wiped from living memory.
The men scowl, and taking that as a cue to leave, Malthyr hurries back to the bar. He doesn't warn the girl – doesn't make the trek across the too-big taproom, with all those men waiting like wolves.
Forty minutes. Just another forty minutes until he can kick them all out.
And then he can clean up and tumble into bed, one more day finished in this living hell that had somehow become his future.
Honestly, Libby is a little insulted when none of the men in the taproom made a grab for her, her money, her ruby brooch, or her weapons as she stalks between the tables. The bell had just finished ringing for last call, and even though she isn't tired in the slightest, she had enough of waiting for a fight or a conversation or anything to occupy her time.
She supposed she could go back to her room and reread one of the books she had brought with her. As she prowls past the bar, flipping a silver coin to the dark-haired Dunmer barkeep, she debates the merits of instead going out into the streets and seeing what adventure finds her.
Reckless and stupid, Brynjolf would say. But Brynjolf isn't here, and Libby doesn't know if he will ever search for her again or just forever find recompose in and the Guild's new wealth. It is a safe bet Brynjolf will not search for her, already assuming the worst as she has pulled the death stunt beforehand. They'll forget all about her. He can run the Guild just as fine as any Guild Master. Which is fine. Libby doesn't deserve to be remembered by someone so incredible and thoughtful and loved. Everything he is not.
Libby doesn't want to think about it. Brynjolf has become her partner. Her father figure. Libby never had the luxury of friends apart from Diamond, and never particularly wanted any. But Diamond . . . and Brynjolf had been good contenders, even if neither of them didn't hesitate to say exactly what they thought about Libby, or Libby's plans, or Libby's abilities.
What would he think if Libby just rode off into the unknown and never went back to Ivalice, or never even returned to Tamriel? Diamond might celebrate – especially if it means no more having to deal with Libby ever again. Especially if it means she can spend the rest of his life with his her Companions in honor. So once Libby settles someplace, once she has established a new life as a top assassin in whatever land she made her home, she can ask Brynjolf to join her. And they'd never put up with beatings and humiliations again. Such an easy, inviting idea – such a temptation.
Libby trudges up the narrow stairs, listening for any thieves or cutthroats that might be waiting. To her disappointment, the upstairs hall is dark and quiet – and empty.
Sighing, she slips into his room and bolts the door. After a moment, Libby shoves the ancient chest of drawers in front of it, too. Not for her own safety. Oh no. it is for the safety of whatever fool tries to break in – and will then find himself split open from navel to nose just to satisfy a wandering assassin's boredom.
But after pacing for fifteen minutes, Libby pushes aside the furniture and leaves. Looking for a fight. For an adventure. For anything to take her mind off the bruises on her face and the punishment she had given herself and temptation to shirk her obligations and instead sail to a land far, far away.
Outside, Malthyr lugs the last of the rubbish pails into the misty alley behind the New Gnisis Cornerclub, his back and arms aching. Today had been longer than most.
There hasn't been a fight, thank the gods, but Malthyr still can't shake his nerves and that sense of something being off. But he is glad – so, so glad – there hasn't been a brawl at the club. The last thing he wanted to do is spend the rest of the night mopping up blood and vomit of the floor and hauling broken furniture into the alley. After he had rung the last-call bell, the men had finished their drinks, grumbling and laughing, and dispersed with little to no harassment.
Unsurprisingly, his female co-worker had vanished with her sailor, and given that the alley is empty, Malthyr can only assume the young woman had gone elsewhere with him. Leaving him, yet again, to clean up.
Malthyr pauses as he dumps the less-disgusting rubbish into a neat pile along the far wall. Is isn't much: stale bread and stew that will be gone by morning, snatched up by the half-feral urchins roaming the streets.
What would his mother say if she knew what had become of her son?
Malthyr was only eleven when those soldiers burned his mother for her magic. For the first six and a half years after the horrors of that day, he had lived with her mother's cousin in another village in Narsis, pretending to be an absolutely ungifted distant relative. Is isn't hard to disguises to maintain: his powers truly had vanished. But in those days fear had run rampant, and neighbor turned on neighbor, often selling out anyone formally blessed with the gods' powers to whatever army legion was closest. Thankfully, no one had questioned Malthyr's small presence; and in those long years, no one looked his way as he helped the family farm struggle to return to normal in the wake of Skyrim's forces.
But he'd wanted to be a healer – like his mother and grandmother. He'd started shadowing his mother as soon as she could talk, learning slowly, as all the traditional headers did. And those years on that far, however peaceful (if tedious and dull), hadn't been enough to make him forget eleven years of training, or the urge to follow in his mothers' footsteps.
He hadn't been close to his cousins, despite their charity, and neither party had really tried to bridge the gap caused by distance and fear and war. So no one objected when he took whatever money he'd saved up and walked off the farm a few months before his eighteenth birthday.
He'd set out for Winterhold, a city of learning on the northern continent – a realm untouched by Skyrim and war, where rumor claimed magic still exists and they had even had a college dedicated to magic training. He'd traveled on foot from Tear, across the mountains into Eastmarch, through The Pale, eventually winding up at Windhelm – where rumor also claimed one can find a carriage to the northern continent, to Winterhold. And it is precisely here that he had run out of money.
It is why he had taken the job at the New Gnisis Cornerclub .First, it had been temporary, to earn enough to afford the passage to Winterhold. But then he'd worried he couldn't have any money when he arrived, and then that he wouldn't have any money to pay for his training at the Mages College of Winterhold, the great academy of healers and physicians. So he'd stayed, and weeks turned into months. Somehow the dream of sailing away, of attending the Mages College, had been set aside. Especially since his boss increased the rent on his room and the cost of his food and found ways to lower his salary. Especially as that healer's stomach of his allowed Malthyr's to endure the indignities and darkness of this place.
Malthyr sighs through his nose. So here he is. A barkeep in a backwater town with hardly two coppers to his name and no future in sight.
There is a crunch of boots on stone, and Malthyr glares down the alley. If his boss caught the urchins eating his food – however stale and disgusting – he'd blame Malthyr. He'd say he wasn't a charity and take the cost out of Malthyr's paycheck. He'd done it once before, and Malthyr had to hunt down the urchins and scold them, make them understand that they had to wait until the middle of the night to get the food he so carefully laid out.
"I told you to wait until it's past –" he starts, but pauses as four figures step from the mist.
Men. The mercenaries from before.
Malthyr is moving for the open doorway in a heartbeat, but they are fast – faster.
One blocks the door while another comes up behind him, grabbing him tight and pulling him against his massive body. "Scream and I'll slit your throat." He whispers in Malthyr's ear, his breath hot and reeking of ale. "Saw you making some hefty tips tonight, Dunmer. Where are they?"
Malthyr doesn't know what he would have done next: fought or cried or begged or actually tried to scream. But he doesn't have to decide.
The man farthest from them is yanked into the mist with a strangled cry.
The mercenary holding Malthyr whirls towards him, dragging Malthyr along. There is a ruffle of clothing, then a thump. Then silence.
"Sci?" the man blocking the door calls.
Nothing.
The third mercenary – standing between Malthyr and the mist – draws his sword. Malthyr doesn't have time to cry out in surprise or warning as a dark figure slips from the mist and grabs him. Not in front, but from the side, as if they'd just appeared out of thin air.
The mercenary throws Malthyr to the ground and draws the sword from across his back, a broad, wicked-looking blade. But his companion doesn't even shout. More silence.
"Come out, you bleedin' coward," the ringleader growls. "Face us like a proper man."
A low, soft laugh.
Malthyr's blood runs cold. Azura protect him.
He knew that laugh – knew the cool, cultured voice that goes with it.
"Just like you proper men surrounded a defenseless Dunmer in an alley?"
With that, Libitania Desidenuis steps from the mist. She has two long daggers in her hands. And both blades are dark with dripping blood.
Gods. Oh, gods.
Malthyr's breath comes quickly as the assassin steps closer to the two remaining attackers. The first mercenary barks a laugh, but the one by the door is wide-eyed. Malthyr carefully, so carefully backs away.
"You killed my men?" the mercenary says, blade held aloft.
Libby flips one of his daggers into a new position. The kind of position that Malthyr thought would easily allow the blade to go straight up through the ribs and into the heart. "Let's just say your men got what was coming to them."
The mercenary lunges, but Libby is waiting. Malthyr knew he should run – run and run and not look back – but the girl is only armed with two daggers, and the mercenary is enormous, and –
It is over before it really starts. The mercenary gets in two hits, both met with those wicked-looking daggers. And then she knocks him out cold with a swift blow to the head. So fast – unspeakably fast and graceful. A wraith moving through the mist.
The mercenary crumples into the fog and out of sight, and Malthyr doesn't listen too hard as the boy follows where the man had fallen.
Malthyr whips his head to the mercenary in the doorway, preparing to shout a warning to her savior. But the man is already sprinting down the alley as fast as his feet can carry him.
Malthyr has half a mind to do that himself when the stranger emerges from the mist, blades clean but still out. Still ready.
"Please don't kill me." Malthyr whispers. He is ready to bed, to offer everything in exchange for his useless, wasted life.
But Libby just laughs under her breath and says, "What would have bene the point in saving you, then?"
Libby hadn't meant to save the barkeep. It had been sheer luck that she'd spotted the four mercenaries creeping about the streets, sheer luck that they seemed as eager for trouble as she was. She had hunted them into that alley, where she found them ready to hurt that Dunmer in unforgivable ways.
The fight was over too quickly to really be enjoyable, or be a balm to Libby's temper. If you can even call it a fight.
The fourth one had gotten away, but Libby didn't feel like chasing him, not as the servant Dunmer stands in front of her, shaking from head to toe. Libby has a feeling that hurling a dagger after the sprinting man would only make the male start screaming. Or faint. Which would . . . complicate things.
But the male Dunmer doesn't scream or faint. He just points a trembling finger at Libby's arm. "You – you're bleeding."
Libby frowns down at the little shining spot on her bicep. "I suppose I am."
A careless mistake. The thickness of her suit had stopped it from being a troublesome wound, but she will still have to clean it. It will be healed in a week or less. Libby makes to turn back to the street, to see what else she can find to amuse her, but the Dunmer speaks again.
"I – I can bind it up for you."
She wants to shake the male. Shake him for about tem different reasons. The first, and biggest, is because he is trembling and scared and had been utterly useless. The second is for being stupid enough to stand in that alley in the middle of the night. Libby doesn't feel like thinking about all the other reasons – not when she is already angry enough.
"I can bind myself up just fine." Libby says, heading for the door that leads into the inn's kitchens. Days ago, Libby had scoped out the inn and its surrounding buildings, and now can navigate them blindfolded.
"Kynareth knows what was on that blade." The male says, and Libby pauses. Invoking the Goddess of Healing very few did that these days – unless they were . . .
"I – my mother was a healer, and she taught me a few things," the Dunmer stammers. "I could – I could . . . Please let me repay the debt I owe you."
"You wouldn't owe me anything if you'd use some common sense."
The Dunmer flinches as though Libby had struck him. It only annoys Libby even more. Everything annoys her – this town, this kingdom, this cursed world.
"I'm sorry." The male says softly.
"What are you apologizing to me for? Why are you apologizing at all? Those men had it coming. But you should have been smarter on a night like this – when I'd bet all my money that you could taste the aggression in that filthy damned taproom."
It isn't the Dunmer's fault, Libby has to remind himself. Not his fault at all that he didn't know how to fight back.
The boy puts his face in his hands, his shoulders curving inward. Libby counts down the seconds until the male bursts into sobs, until he falls apart.
But the tears don't come. The Dunmer just takes a few deep breaths, then lowers his hands. "Let me clean your arm." he says in a voice that is . . . different, somehow. Stronger, clearer. "Or you'll wind up losing it."
And the slight change in the Dunmer is interesting enough that Libby follows him inside.
She doesn't bother about the three bodies in the alley. She has a feeling no one but the rats and carrion-feeders will care about them in this town.
Malthyr brings Libby to his room under the stairs, because he is half-afraid that the mercenary who'd gotten away will be waiting for them upstairs. And Malthyr doesn't want to see any more fighting or killing or bleeding, strong stomach or no.
Not to mention he is also half-afraid to be locked in the suite with the young woman.
He leaves the girl sitting on his sagging bed and goes to fetch two bowls of water and some clean bandages – supplies that will be taken out of her paycheck when his boss realizes they are gone. It doesn't matter, though. The girl had saved his life this is the least he can do.
When Malthyr returns, he almost drops the steaming bowls. The girl had removed her hood and cloak and tunic.
Malthyr doesn't know what to remark first:
That the girl is young – perhaps two or three years younger than Malthyr – but looks and feels old.
That the girl is incredibly beautiful. No, gorgeous. No . . . There isn't even any words to describe her beauty. Except maybe that she has been blessed by the gods themselves; with ebony hair and hazel eyes that shine in the candlelight.
Or that the girl's face would have been even more beautiful had it not been covered in a patchwork of bruises. Such horrible bruises, including a black eye that had undoubtedly been swollen shut at some point.
Or that the most defying and newly terrifying fact is that the girl is Libitania Desidenuis. Skyrim's most feared assassin. Gods, and she had come to save him. A Dunmer.
If it weren't for her assuming age of twenty, as well as the fact that she is a walking killing machine, Malthyr would've let the girl have him right then and there, killer or not.
She is just staring at him, quiet and still as a cat.
It isn't Malthyr's place to ask questions. Especially not when this boy had dispatched three mercenaries in a matter of moments. Even if the gods had abandoned him, Malthyr still believes in them; they are still somewhere, still watching. He believes, because how else would he explain being saved just now? By Skyrim's Assassin, at that. And the thought of being alone – truly alone – is almost too much to bear, even when so much of his life has gone astray.
The water sloshes in the bowls as Malthyr sets them down on the tiny table beside his bed, trying to keep his hands from trembling too much.
She says nothing while Malthyr inspects the cut on her bicep. Her arm is thick, and rock-hard with muscle. She has scars everywhere – small ones, big ones. She offers no explanation for them, and it seems to Malthyr that she wears her scars the way other women wear their finest jewelry.
Malthyr sets about washing the wound, and Libby hisses softly. "Sorry." Malthyr says quickly. "I put some herbs in there as an antiseptic. I should have warned you." Malthyr keeps a stash of them with his at all times, along with other herbs and his mother had taught him about. Just in case. Even now, Malthyr can't turn away from a sick beggar in the street, and often walks towards the sound of coughing.
"Believe me, I've been through worse."
"I do." Malthyr says. "Believe you, I mean." Those scars and her mangled face speak volumes. And explain the hood. But is it vanity or self-preservation that makes her wear it? "Honestly, I don't know whether to be honored or terrified."
"Though both reactions are appropriate, and it doesn't matter."
Malthyr bites her tongue. Of course it is none of his business. She hadn't given a name to his boss, though. So she is traveling on some secret business, then. "My name is Malthyr." She offers. "Malthyr Elenil."
A distant nod. Of course, she doesn't care, either.
Then Libby says, "What's the son of a healer doing in this pieced of shit town?"
No kindness, no pity. Just blunt, if not almost bored, curiosity.
"I was on my way to Winterhold to join their healers' academy and ran out of money." He dips the rag into the water, wrings it out, and resumes cleaning the shallow wound. "I got work here to pay for the carriage over the terrain, and . . . Well, I never left. I guess staying here became . . . easier. Simpler."
A snort. "This place? It's certainly simple, but easy? I think I'd rather starve in the streets of Winterhold than live here."
Malthyr's face warms. "It – I . . ." he doesn't have an excuse.
Libby's eyes flash to his. They are ringed with gold – stunning. Even with the bruises, the girl is alluring. Like wildfire, or a summer storm swept in off the Sea of Ghosts.
"Let me give you a bit of advice," Libby says bitterly. "from one working adolescent to another: Life isn't easy, no matter where you are. You'll make choices you think are right, and then suffer for them." Those remarkable eyes flicker. "So if you're going to be miserable, you might as well go to Winterhold and be miserable in the shadows of the Mages College."
Educated and possibly extremely well-traveled, then, if he knew the healers' academy by name – and he pronounces it perfectly.
Malthyr shrugs, not daring to voice his dozens of questions. Instead, he says. "I don't have the money to go now, anyway."
It comes out sharper than he intended – sharper than was smart, considering how lethal this woman is.
"Then steal the money and go. Your boss deserves to have her purse lightened."
Malthyr pulls back. "I'm no thief."
A roguish grin. "If you want something, then go take it."
This woman isn't like wildfire – she is wildfire. Deadly and uncontrollable. And slightly out of her wits.
"More than enough people believe that these days," Malthyr ventures to say. Like Tear. Like those mercenaries. "I don't need to be one of them."
Libby's grin fades. "So you'd rather rot away here with a clean conscious?"
Malthyr doesn't have a reply, so he doesn't say anything as he sets down the rag and bowl and pulls out a small tin of salve. He keeps it for himself, for the nicks and scrapes he gets while working, but this cut is small enough that he can spare a bit. As gently as he can, he smears it onto the wound. Libby doesn't flinch this time.
After a moment, she asks. "When did you lose your mother?"
"Over eight years ago," Malthyr keeps his focus on the wound.
"That was a hard time to be a gifted healer on this continent, especially in Windhelm. Ulfric didn't leave much of its people – or royal family – alive."
Malthyr looks up. The wildfire in her eyes have turned into a scorching icy-green flame. Such rage, he thinks with a shiver. Such simmering rage. What had she been through to make it look like that?
He doesn't ask, of course. And he doesn't ask how she knew where he was from. Malthyr understood that his grey skin and red eyes were probably enough to mark him as being from Morrowind, if his slight accent didn't give him away.
"If you managed to attend the Mages College," Libby says, her anger shifting as is she had shoved it down deep inside her, "what would you do afterward?"
Malthyr picks up one of the fresh bandages and begins wrapping it around Libby's arm. He'd dreamed about it for years, contemplated a thousand different futures while he washed dirty mugs and swept the floors. "I'd come back. Not to here, I mean, but to Morrowind. Go to Vvardenfell. There are a . . . a lot of people who need good healers these days."
He says the last part quietly. For all he knew, Libby might support the Ulfric Stormcloak – might report him to the small town guard for just speaking ill of the lord. Malthyr has seen it happen before, far too many times.
But Libitania looks towards the door with its makeshift bolt that Malthyr had constructed, at the closest that he called his bedroom, at the threadbare cloak draped over the half-rotted chair against the opposite wall, then finally back at her. It gives Malthyr a chance to study her face. Seeing how easily she'd trounced those mercenaries, whoever had harmed her must be fearsome indeed.
"You'd really come back to this continent – to the empire?"
There is such quiet surprise in her voice that Malthyr meets the assassin's eyes.
"It's the right thing to do." is all Malthyr can think of to say.
Libby doesn't reply, and Malthyr continues wrapping her arm. When he finishes, Libitania shrugs on her shirt and tunic, tests her arm, and stands. In the cramped bedroom, Malthyr feels so much smaller than Libby, even if there is only a few inches' difference between them.
Libby picks up her cloak but doesn't don it as she takes a step towards the closed door.
Gods, even her profile is damningly gorgeous. Despite his common sense ringing to his pointed ears about her age and abilities, he doesn't want this ungodly beautiful creature to leave.
"I could find something for your face." Malthyr blurts.
Libitania pauses with a hand on the doorknob and looks over her shoulder "These are meant to be a reminder."
"For what? Or – to whom?" he shouldn't pry, shouldn't have even asked.
Libby smiles bitterly. "For me."
Malthyr thinks of the scars she'd seen on his muscled body and wondered if those are all reminders, too.
Libby turns back to the door, but stops again. "Whether you stay, or go to Winterhold and attend the Mages College and return to save the world," Libby muses. "you should probably learn a thing or two about defending yourself."
Malthyr eyes the daggers at the assassin's waist, the sword she hadn't even needed to draw. Jewels embedded in the hilt – real jewels – glint in the candlelight. The woman had to be fabulously wealthy, richer than Malthyr could ever conceive of being. "I can't afford weapons."
Libby huffs a laugh. "If you learn these maneuvers, you won't need them."