~o~

12

The Angel of Destruction

As promised, Soron announced their engagement over dinner with Minegaur and Lord Jeles. Lord Jeles was so delighted that he insisted upon taking Soron to Mournhold to celebrate. They would be gone for three months.

"One final hurrah, before I tie the knot!" Soron cried, raising his mug in jubilation. Though he didn't say so, Peliah was sure that his idea of a "final hurrah" was sleeping with a great many prostitutes and drinking as much flin and brandy as he could possibly hold.

Minegaur assured them that in their absence, he would make all the wedding arrangements himself. And so the date was set for two weeks after their return.

Peliah spent the next two days in her room. She barely noticed the passing of the time. She simply lay on her bed, clutching Tinúviel to her chest and staring at the wall.

It hurt to think, so she tried her best not to. But Kazagh's sweet smell still clung to her pillows and without really meaning to, she imagined him there beside her. "This one is here," he seemed to say. "This one will always be here."

A tear rolled down her cheek. Perhaps it would be better to die than to go on living under Soron's thumb. He would rape her every day and force her to do things that no innocent fourteen-year-old girl should ever have to do. And she would be powerless to stop him.

And to top it all off, she'd never see Kazagh again. The very thought of it was agony. She'd rather die a million times. She'd hang herself—stab herself—poison herself—at the very first opportunity. No one could stop her.

Except Kazagh.

But he didn't come. Peliah couldn't understand it. She knew better than to go looking for him, but she'd thought he would have come looking for her long before now—if not to visit her, at least to find out what had happened to Khiri. But he never came.

Perhaps he knows, she thought. There are ears all over this house. Perhaps he already knows what happened to Khiri.

If such were the case, he probably hated her. He had every reason to. She'd taken his little sister. She'd promised to get her back. And she'd failed.

At this, Peliah broke down and wept. She'd failed him—he the only person who'd ever loved her.

For two days, no one came looking for her. Not even Uradela. For this, Peliah was grateful. It meant that she didn't have to pretend to be okay.

"Three months and two weeks," Peliah told Tinúviel in a whisper. "That's all the time I have left. I won't marry Soron, Tinúviel. Death will be much kinder to me."

The doll gazed up at her reproachfully.

"What else can I do?" Peliah cried. "Kazagh is lost to me forever. Without him, I have nothing—nothing—nothing!" and she broke into fresh sobs, though her eyes hurt from crying so much.

When Minegaur finally sent for her, it was to discuss wedding plans.

"It is my wish that you select your own wedding gown," he said. "I have a catalogue here… pick one, and we'll have it made for you. Your price limit is two-hundred thousand."

"Two-hundred thousand… septims?" Peliah gasped.

Minegaur chuckled. "Of course. This is your wedding, Peliah."

Peliah squeezed her eyes shut tight. The idea of walking down the aisle in a dress that was more valuable than most of the houses in Tear was appalling to her. It was bad enough that she had to marry Soron—now she had to make a spectacle of herself in front of hundreds of nobles, too?

I'll be dead before then anyway, she thought desperately. I'll never have to wear the dress. I'll just pick the cheapest one…

And so she did. Though it was made of satin and sprinkled with jewels, it was rather ugly. Fitting, she thought, for the wife of Soron Jeles.

~o~

The days passed, each very like the one before. Peliah got up, ate breakfast, went to the library, and read until her father sent for her. Together they went over flowers and cakes and decorations. Very early on, Peliah learned to feign interest in all this, for Minegaur became dreadfully angry whenever the words "I don't care" passed her lips.

"You ungrateful wretch," he shouted on more than one occasion. "I'm giving the wedding of the year for you and you don't care?"

This isn't about me, Peliah thought. This is about you. But, of course, she did not say so.

Three months passed with no sign of Kazagh. Peliah wondered if she would forget the sound of his voice. Sometimes she looked at the brightly colored beads (which she'd picked up off the floor stashed in a box) and thought of Kazagh's long, slender fingers—how they'd touched every single one of them—and she kissed them and cried over them.

The day before Soron was scheduled to return to Tear, Peliah took a handful of the beads and strung them together with a bit of thread. She tied them around her neck and tucked them under her gown. That she could take one small piece of Kazagh with her to the gods was a great comfort to her.

On her way out of the room, a bit of stationary atop a stack of books on her desk caught her eye. Perhaps she would write something to Kazagh… if not a goodbye, an apology for what had happened to Khiri. It would, of course, in no way make up for it. But at least it was something.

Peliah sat down, and after a moment's deliberation, wrote, Dearest Kazagh. A lump rose in her throat. She was tempted to crumple the paper and throw it away. But something stopped her. She took a few deep, steadying breaths and put her quill to the paper. Without warning, it flew across the page.

Soron has taken you from me forever, just as he has taken Khiri. It would have been better for you—and her—if we'd never met. Even so (can you forgive my audacity?), I'm glad that we did. Remember the painting of Elsweyr that we found in my mother's old studio? Remember the beautiful colors? Oh, how they dazzled my eyes! I, denizen of the land of ash—I was never meant to see such colors. But now that I've seen them, Kazagh—now that I know such colors exist—I wouldn't trade them for anything. I see them every waking moment. Thank you for showing them to me. Thank you for showing me that there's more to life than ugliness and pain. I know that you'll never be able to forgive me for what I've done. But when I'm gone, know that you were the one streak of color on the canvas of my life. I love you—always.

~o~

Peliah would have liked to deliver the letter to Kazagh herself, but of course, he wasn't in the stable. A tall, burly khajiit with reddish fur was currying Felaróf when Peliah walked in.

"Do you know Kazagh?" she asked, before he could melt into the shadows.

He stared at her for a long moment, as though unsure of whether or not he'd heard her correctly. "Yes, Sera," he finally said. "Kazagh is the brother."

Ah. So she finally got to meet one of Kazagh's older brothers. "Could you give him this for me?" she asked, offering the folded slip of paper.

After a moment's hesitation, he took it. "Yes… Sera," he said respectfully.

As he turned to leave, Peliah bit her lip. "Please," she suddenly said, "please make sure he gets it. It's very important to me."

This plea stopped the khajiit in his tracks. He half turned, his eyes curious and frightened all at once. Then he rushed out of the stable.

He's probably going to throw it in the fire, she thought. She walked back to the house with a heavy heart.

When she got back to her room, she sat down on her bed and closed her eyes. It wouldn't be the end of the world if Kazagh didn't get the letter. After all, she'd told him that she loved him before. But how would he know that she still did, even after everything that had happened?

Suddenly his voice filled her head. Life without Peliah is khis'iro—dead.

Warmth flooded through her.

He knew. Of course he did.

Peliah drew a tiny phial of yellowish liquid out of her pillowcase and clutched it to her chest, smiling. She'd said her goodbyes—the only ones that mattered, anyway—and tonight, before bed, she would drink to a better future.

Suddenly the door burst open. In strode Uradela, smiling most unpleasantly. Since Peliah's discovery of the maid's treachery, pretenses between them were few and far between.

"What is it now?" Peliah said scornfully, surreptitiously returning the bottle to her pillowcase.

"Lord Jeles is back," she said, baring her yellowish teeth.

Peliah's heart sunk. "What are you talking about? He isn't due back until tomorrow."

"Well, they made good time," she said. "And your father invited him over for dinner. Aren't you glad, Sera?"

"Shut up," Peliah snarled. She hadn't planned on seeing Soron ever again. Now she was faced with an entire evening in his revolting company.

Uradela hummed as she bathed and dressed Peliah. Peliah shot her a dirty look now and then, but didn't say anything. She knew why the vile elf was in such high spirits. She actually relished Soron's mistreatment of Peliah.

When she was "presentable," Peliah went downstairs. Soron was visiting with her father in the entryway.

"Ah, here is my lovely wife," Soron said loudly, striding over to Peliah and kissing her face.

Peliah, struggling with the urge to wipe off her cheek, said, "I trust that you enjoyed yourself thoroughly?"

"Quite," he said with a leer that showed that he understood her perfectly.

"But she's not your wife yet, Soron," Minegaur said jovially. "Or have you two love birds gone and gotten married in secret?"

"Good sir! If I were already married to your beautiful daughter, I'd be confined to the bedroom, not gallivanting around the country." Soron said unsmilingly, looking Peliah right in the eye.

Minegaur could hardly miss that insinuation. "What cheek!" he boomed, pretending to box Soron's ears. "What a thing to say, indeed! You rogue! I'm quite fond of you, my dear boy. Now, let's go eat. After you, after you."

Dinner was long and dull. Peliah spent the bulk of it fantasizing about the bottle of poison in her pillowcase. It was a miracle potion. Once she took it, she'd never have to listen to her father's boring dinner conversation again. And Soron—he'd have to find another rich girl to blackmail, because he wasn't getting Dres estate. And he wasn't getting her.

Finally Minegaur said he was going to bed. "I'll let Peliah see you to the door tonight, Lord Jeles. I've got a bit of a headache." And he waddled up the stairs, leaving them quite alone.

"Excited for the wedding?" Soron said when the old elf was no longer in earshot.

"I'm going to bed," she said flatly, getting to her feet.

Soron did likewise. "I could join you. I don't think your father would mind."

Peliah went rigid. "I'm tired," she said, trying to sound more annoyed than terrified. "There'll be plenty of time for that after the wedding."

"Or," he said, advancing toward her, "since I'll own every single slave in this house when your father dies, maybe you should think carefully about denying me now—or ever."

Peliah gaped at him.

He smirked down at her. "What a pretty little thing you are," he said softly. "I do enjoy the sight of my cock in your mouth."

She could only stare at him, petrified. Memories of their previous encounter filled her head and adrenaline shot through her body. She wouldn't let him do this to her—not again. Without giving him any warning, she bolted.

He caught up with her in three long strides, grabbed her by the arm, and yanked her to the floor.

"No!" she shrieked, flailing.

"Shut up!" he snarled. He kicked her in the stomach—hard.

Gasping for breath, she tried to crawl away, but he kicked her again, this time in the back. Too dazed to move, she could only watch as he snatched a steak knife from the table and sliced her dress open from bust to hem. He tore it off of her and did the same to her corset, then her underthings.

When she was naked except for her stockings, he yanked her to her feet. "Go over to the fireplace," he commanded, "and turn around. Put your hands on the mantle. Now!"

"No," she choked.

He slapped her; the sound echoed off the stone walls. "Did you hear what I said? I will kill every last one of your furry friends if you don't do what I say RIGHT NOW YOU STUPID BITCH."

She let out a strangled sob and did as he said. How conscious she was, in that moment, of her defeat—she hadn't beaten him after all. After all her planning, Soron was still going to rape her. She stood with her back to him, trembling, naked, and vulnerable, waiting for him to hurt her.

He came up behind her and spoke in her ear. "You're mine. Mine. Don't you EVER forget it. You belong to me."

An earsplitting crack rent the air.

Peliah whirled in time to see Soron stumbling backward, clutching at his forehead, from which gushed a fountain of blood. Advancing toward him with a candlestick raised in one hand was Kazagh, his eyes burning with hatred, his ears pressed flat against his head.

Soron grabbed the knife he'd dropped on the floor and lunged at Kazagh, slashing the air—Peliah shrieked—but Kazagh sprang out of the way and flung the candlestick right into Soron's face. It struck him in the nose and he screamed in agony, slashing at nothing.

"Peliah—run!" Kazagh cried.

Quick as a snake, Soron lunged at Kazagh, grabbing him by the knees and dragging him to the ground. He tried to stab Kazagh, but Kazagh caught him by the wrist just in time. Then he tried to work the blade into Kazagh's unprotected throat, but the khajiit was stronger than he looked; he strained against Soron with all his might.

The sight of Soron's blade at Kazagh's throat woke Peliah up. She grabbed the soup pot off the table and brought it crashing down on Soron's head, sending bits of yam and potato flying. The elf howled and Kazagh was able to worm his way out from beneath his body and scramble to his feet.

"Run, run Peliah!" Kazagh shouted.

"No!" she cried. "Not without you!"

Soron clambered to his feet and took a drunken swing at Kazagh; Kazagh sprang out of the way and buried his fist in Soron's stomach with so much force that the elf's breath left his body in one great whoosh. He sank to the floor, mouth opening and closing, eyes popping. He looked like a dying fish.

"Hurry," Kazagh begged, grabbing Peliah by the hand. Suddenly Soron reared up and grabbed her by the throat. He dragged her down to the ground, choking her with all his might—

"Get out or she dies!" Soron bellowed. "I'll kill her! I'll kill her if you so much as touch her again!"

Kazagh's lips parted and a terrible shriek of rage tore its way up his throat and out his open mouth. Through the darkening spots in her vision Peliah saw him spring upon the mantle, snatch Akrash from its plaque and land lightly on the ground, his eyes narrowed to slits, his ears pressed back against his head—he was the angel of destruction—beautiful, lithe, powerful—what chance did Soron Jeles stand, anyway?

Kazagh swung with all his might, driving Akrash into Soron's exposed neck. One moment the elf was choking Peliah—the next, his head was sailing over hers, flinging a trail of blood over her naked legs and coming to rest in the middle of the rug. Soron blinked three times, as though in disbelief; his lips moved wordlessly as his blood pooled on the carpet. As his hands fell away from Peliah's neck, a spasm in his cheek marked his final movement, and he died.