THE ECSTASY OF THE INNOCENT
She wasn't important. She had been told so many times, from birth to her sixteen. As long as her mother had been there she had had the strength to ignore that malice, because she knew that Sigrid cared about her. But after her death, indeed, Morrigan felt she no longer was important to anyone.
Her father never failed to remind her of it, in the morning as soon as he got up. He was usually drunk already, and Morrigan didn't know how he could.
"Did you hear what I told you, little bastard? You're not important. Nobody cares about you. What is it now that you want to work?"
Morrigan lowered her head, submissive. She took a step back, didn't want to be too close to him if he got angry.
"I don't know... I thought it was a good idea, we would have more money."
"You're a woman, wemen are only good to empty our balls. But you're not good for that either, you're too ugly and no man will take you. That's why your only purpose in life is to serve me until I die. And you can bet it'll be in a good while!"
He laughed in a rude way. Morrigan couldn't hide her disgust, she had to turn around to try not to get noticed. She had learned to hide her face from her father when she didn't want to show him the emotion she was feeling. Straps had helped her to understand that concept, despite being blind.
She reached the kitchen cabinet, pretended to check the provisions. She swallowed, anxious: she didn't know whether to insist, because she cared so much about the possibility of getting a job, but she also cared about her bones and her life.
"Please, Hammer, listen, I won't stop doing hoseworks. I just want to... be useful in another way, try new things..."
She said it in a low, half-hearted voice, panting with palpitating heart. She really didn't know what reaction to expect, she had never tried to propose such a thing. The fact was that she couldn't bear it anymore, really, she couldn't stay at home all daylong. She wanted to go out, change environment, she didn't care that it was just to go to work somewhere else. She needed to breath.
She heard her father get up, his chair crawling on the wooden floor. She stiffened, aware that he was coming to her side. She speeded up the movements, drying the freshly washed dishes. She winced when she heard him next to her. She panted.
"What did I say, you little idiot? Repeat it."
Morrigan shivered, swallowed, tried to stay calm. She had to put the plate down because she couldn't control her hands anymore.
"I... sorry..."
The Hammer was beside her. He wasn't tall for other people, but he was compared to her, and this intimidated her. She remained still, saying nothing, rigid, hoping it was all over.
"Did I ask your apologies?"
Morrigan shook her head, quick, contrite.
"No. No, I didn't. I want you to repeat what I told you."
Morrigan swallowed again. She clung to the furniture, afraid that her legs would give in and let her fall down.
"I'm a woman and my only purpose is to serve you."
She hoped he would leave her alone, now that she had contented him, and instead he suddenly grabbed her hair from behind her head. He held her tight and pulled up. Morrigan shouted, tiptoed up, trying to ease the pain. But he was pulling up more and more. Morrigan began to feel tears streaming her eyes as she raised her arms and tried to free her hair.
"Yes. You're my daughter and you have to stay here! Don't ever dare to say that you want to do something, never again! You're not good at anything and no one cares about you!"
He pushed her to the ground, making her kneel and then collapse on herself, with her forehead on the floor. He pressed her head down while she whimpered, moaning in pain and humiliation.
"Does this floor looks clean to you?" laughed the Hammer, "ah, yeah, you can't see it. Try to remember it next time, I never want to see the floor again in these conditions. Did you understand?"
"Aye! All right, I'm sorry!"
The Hammer finally let her go, laughing grimly, and Morrigan stayed still, panting. She was crying, she was afraid, she couldn't think of anything else but her life... it was over. It had never started. It was too much, she couldn't take it anymore. But what could she do? She wanted to run away, but it was true, she wasn't important, no one cared about her.
No one cared about her.
.
.
Cicero saw the contact coming out of the inn at ten in the morning. He used to sleep there, Morrigan told him. He was with his wife, but they parted ways immediately. Nazeem did nothing but move slowly and monotonously towards the market.
Cicero lurked not to be seen. He followed him at a distance and, when he realized that he would've stayed in the market for a long time, he sought a raised and hidden position to continue observing him, undisturbed.
He was exactly like Cicero had expected: a coward but ambitious man, weak but shrewd, harmless but presumptuous. From a physical point of view, he emphasized all those aspects of personality: not very tall, dark complexion, exotic, shaved hair and face. The roundish head made one think, to tell the truth, of a person with pleasant attitude, and instead he had sharp words almost for everyone he met. In fact, all morning he stayed at his stall, and it seemed that no one got along with him, nor the other merchants, nor the patrons. He often boasted of his social status, which for Cicero was a godsend, because it allowed him to find out more about his work.
He wasn't a merchant, originally. He had started with his farm, then left it in the hands of laborers, who fortunately didn't work on the last day of the week. He had bought the stand to sell what he himself produced, earning good money. He might have looked poorer than anyone who owned a real shop, but actually most of his business took place outside Whiterun, exporting goods, and this justified the more refined robes he wore than the other people.
He looked peaceful. Coward, of course, but he wasn't suffering for what he had done. Maybe it had passed too much time? Had he ever had any qualms? Cicero still couldn't understand what Morrigan could've done to him. Of course, his psychological profile foresaw that he was presumptuous and he could probably hate someone who touched the fruits of his land; but enough to perform a Black Sacrament? Indeed, enough to threaten a boy of Solitude to perform it in his place?
Cicero twisted his nose, undecided. But he remained silent, patient, while life around them was flowing cheerful and normal, children chasing each other, clouds gliding over the sky, and water roaring towards the valley, from the source of the Dragonsreach.
.
.
Morrigan could hear the children chasing each other, along the streets leading to the market district. They were happy, festive, as she would've liked to be. She was only sixteen years old, yet she often felt like she had already lost all the possibilities, she had already said goodbye to every faint hope, to childhood, to lightheartedness.
She walked slow and silent on the cobblestone, without expecting anyone to help her. Why should they? They had never done it, they wouldn't have started now.
She put one foot in front of the other, one at a time, tired, with the scalp still aching. She put her hand behind her head, feeling the affected spot and hoping that the Hammer hadn't torn off her entire lock. But no, fortunately not, the hair was still there. It was the only thing she cared about her body.
She crossed the road and arrived at the market. People were talking too loudly for her ears, she was scared. She shrugged her shoulders, tried to avoid everyone, not to bother them, because she had the feeling that otherwise they could've yelled at her, in chorus, that nobody cared about her.
Thinking about those things in public wasn't a good idea, she could feel her mouth sag and tears pressing. But she tried to hold back, because it wasn't worth it. Her fellow citizens certainly could hear her screaming while being beaten, yet they never did anything.
Once in the square, she reached the central well, touched it to better orient herself, following the stone curvature. Then, when she knew she was in the right place, she went to the stalls. She had to shop for the Hammer, she had to get the fruits he loved so much. She had to do it, yes, even if she was afraid of the owner of the stall, because... she was way more afraid of her father.
She approached with her head down and Nazeem snorted. Perhaps he thought she couldn't hear him at that distance, nothing could escape her ears, with her more developed hearing. She pretended not to notice, however, and armed herself with the sincerest smile that she managed to simulate.
She swallowed once she got to the stand.
"Good morning. I need... I'd..."
"What? Speak louder, little girl, I can't hear you!"
Morrigan inhaled, squinted, tried to gather her courage.
"I'd like some apples."
"How many?"
"First I'd like... I'd like to touch them, you know..."
"Speak louder, I said!"
Morrigan was panting, she felt the whole world fall on her, her heart palpitating and screaming for help. She was afraid of fainting. By now her whole life was authentic and simple fear of fainting.
"First I have to touch them!" she said, all in one breath, almost shouting, "I have to touch them, my father wants me to buy them ripe."
He wanted her to buy them ripe, yes, he was really uncompromising on that point. Intransigent. Once he had backhanded her so hard that he had flattened her hearing from one ear for a week. She really couldn't come back with unripe apples, she had to touch them. It didn't matter if it bothered Nazeem.
"You can touch one, if you buy it. For the others you'll have to trust me."
Morrigan understood that it would've never ended and a general weakness took possession of her. She agreed. Why did she do it? She was no longer able to keep up with the others, not even to avoid beatings. So there she was, accepting five apples she had no idea how they were, before paying.
Life was disgusting, really, too much for someone like her. She would've liked to end it.
.
.
Nazeem left that the eleventh hour had passed. He walked, in his brown robes, padded and refined, and Cicero behind him. He couldn't wait, finally! He couldn't wait to hear him speak, to hear him plead, to hear him expire.
They walked along the cobblestone streets, where Cicero imagined a young Morrigan walking alongside him. It was a nice place to grow up. It would've been, actually, if it wasn't for the people, with their harmful presence. The Hammer, but not only him, all the others as well.
They crossed the city gate with a few minutes difference. Cicero knew where Nazeem's farm was, not afraid to lose him. But he was afraid of the sun, yes, of the bright day. Although the farm was located outside the walls, it was still in a busy area, especially frequented by patrol soldiers. He had to take him and neutralize him right away, he couldn't let him scream.
He watched him from afar as he walked the barren prairie. He was slow. He hated that he was slow. They had to finish, he had to go back to Morrigan because... he was scared for her, he didn't want to go home and find her dead. Not after all that work.
That thought put him in a hurry, so he came closer, running the risk of being seen. But he didn't care: in any case, Nazeem's destiny was written. There was a corner, in the Void, that was waiting only for his soul. There was Sithis waiting for him, impatient, ticking his long fingernails on his torture chair, for he sure felt mocked by that deceiving mortal.
And then, finally, there was the long-awaited moment: Nazeem who opened the massive wooden door and put the first foot in his property. Cicero looked around, fast. There were no guards. They were far away, not there, they wouldn't have seen him.
And then he decided, he did what a killer should never do: run, standing, in broad daylight, toward his goal. He was quick, put a foot between the door and the jamb, preventing Nazeem from closing.
"Hey? What…?"
But he didn't give him time to be surprised: he pushed the door open and got inside. He immediately jumped on him, covering his mouth. He knew him, he knew he would've screamed. Then, without giving him even the time to understand what was happening, he hit him on the head with the base of the dagger handle.
Nazeem's bald head immediately fell to the floor, with a cut just above the temple. Cicero checked quickly that he hadn't exaggerated, that he was still alive. He was.
Now he just had to tie him up and bring Morrigan there.
.
.
She was about to leave, go home, but something held her back. The inn. She couldn't see it, but she knew it was there, she felt like it was calling and judging her, from its raised position. Her mother had worked there, but Morrigan never came back after... after...
She shook her head, forced herself not to think about it. She just wanted to get away, get away from Nazeem. She wanted to leave, yes, but she didn't want to go home. And then she headed to The Bannered Mare. The Hammer had forbidden it, she knew, but... why not? Perhaps one of those days she would've killed herself, and she didn't want to do it without ever knowing if she could've accomplished something in her life. Just to try, just to know if there was any hope that someone wanted her.
Then she took the first, most difficult step, toward that mirage that was the inn. A place that she feared, as she feared many, but at the same time that she saw as an opportunity to stay away from the Hammer.
When she reached the steps, she almost tripped over the first. She remembered that as a child she had broken an arm that way. Then she decided to go with more caution, always bringing both feet on each step, before proceeding to the next one.
It took a long time to get to the top. But she was afraid, she had always been, and every day she was more and more, for more and more varied things. She knew that she would've never been free of fear, just as she knew that no one would've ever wanted her, no one would've ever loved her eyes, no one... would've ever cared.
When she opened the door, she had the proof of that last thought. She couldn't see the crowd of clients, but she could hear it nonetheless, she could sense the great bodies of the hunters and the warriors in contradiction with her own. She could hear armors clashing, drunk men laughing, a lute playing. There was the smell of burned meat, smoke, cider and garlic.
"Oh, look who's there! Hey, little bird!"
Someone with a husky voice had turned to her, she could feel him, couldn't see him and didn't want to. She tried to pull away from the source, walking along the wall, holding the apple basket tightly: she was afraid they could steal it, and if it happened, her father would've killed her, she was sure.
"Hey! Little bird!"
She moved away more, trembling. It hadn't been a good idea. It hadn't been, no, no. Maybe it was better to leave, pretend it never happened. She couldn't see who was addressing her, didn't want to see him, and yet she wanted to be able to identify him better in that space. Now that he wasn't talking anymore, she was afraid he would've come up behind her and caught her by surprise.
"Hi, little bird!"
There, he was close to her. Morrigan got scared, winced, when she felt a big, warm hand on her shoulder. She had to leave, she had to run away. There it had to be full of people like her father, she felt that everyone was watching and judging her.
"Please! Please leave me alone!"
It came out with a more pleading tone than she wanted. The man took his hand away and Morrigan was grateful to the Nines.
"Hey, come on, leave her alone! Can't you see how scared she is?"
It was a female voice, now. A voice that was approaching. In the end, someone else touched her: it must've been the woman, because the hand was smaller.
"Don't listen to Ulrich, he's an idiot, but he's harmless. He doesn't realize when he's being inappropriate."
She was talking to her. Morrigan remembered that voice: the owner of the inn, she had known her in her mother's days.
"I'm sorry, I... I'm nervous, I'm... I didn't mean to be rude, it's just that I don't know how to react when I'm in a new place."
She heard the innkeeper giggle, easy but not mocking. She continued to cuddle her shoulder to calm her.
"You don't have to fear here. It's not the most refined clientele of Tamriel, but they're almost all good people. They would protect you with their life, really. But you..." she changed the subject, with undecided tone, "you're Sigrid's daughter, aren't you? Long time no see."
"Aye, I... it's me."
"What are you doing here? Would you like something to drink? Or did you walk in the wrong shop?"
She said it innocently, not to scoff at her. It seemed funny to Morrigan and she began to relax her shoulders. She smiled.
"No, no, I wanted to be here. I wanted... I wanted to ask if by chance you could hire me as a waitress."
Silence. The woman didn't answer and Morrigan could imagine the disappointment on her face. She didn't know how it was, actually, but she knew how it sounded, and she expected that tone as soon as the owner answered.
"Listen, Morrigan... your name is Morrigan, isn't it? Listen, no offense, but you don't seem to be cut for this job."
"Oh, no! No, no!" she tried to justify herself, fast, "I know I'm blind, but I can work! At home I always clean the floor, the table, I wash the dishes, I cook and I make the beds. Really, I'm good, I can do everything, I just need one chance!"
A reassuring giggle, again. But that day, Morrigan was determined, perhaps for the first time in her life. She wanted that job before she died. She wanted to prove to herself that she could do something that wasn't receiving beatings.
"Honey, I didn't mean for blindness. Your mother was like you, I know she could work. It's just that... you look so out of place, if you understand what I mean."
On that Morrigan couldn't blame her, but she didn't want to give up.
"I know, but it's only because I'm in here now, after so many years, I need time to... learn the sounds. I swear I'll get used to it quickly. I'd just like you to give it a try, then you can decide if I'm worth it or not. Give me a week."
Silence, again. Morrigan held her breath, while her heart was about to burst. She didn't know if she could've survived until the evening, at that pace. She was beginning to feel weight on her ribcage.
"All right, honey, let's try. Come here Morndas, around eight in the morning. We'll see how you handle it, eh?"
A last squeeze on her shoulder, encouraging, then Morrigan heard her leave. Instead, she remained motionless, smiling, incredulous. She had done it! No one cared about her, perhaps, but anyway she had a job. Well, almost... but she had proveed to be worth something, just a little, the minimum to know she could survive in that terrifying world even without the Hammer.
.
.
When Nazeem opened his eyes, he was seating, the chair leaning against the wall and his limbs tied. His mouth was gagged and he kept shouting, against the fabric. Nobody would've heard him for now. But Cicero hoped he would stop, at least to have a meaningful conversation with him. What could they do if he had attracted the city guard?
Cicero tried not to think about it, to convince himself that if they had done all things right, they wouldn't have had any problems. Then he took Morrigan by the hand, on the edge of the door, and led her inside. He checked that no one had seen them from outside, then locked the door. Finally, he felt calmer.
Morrigan was stiff in the middle of the room and Nazeem, now, had wide, dark, frightened eyes. He screamed more, but not much came out of the gag.
"Little crow, it's your turn, go. Talk to him."
She opened her mouth, but couldn't say anything. Cicero touched her elbow, tried to encourage her, but she was petrified. Then he decided to open the dance himself.
He walked theatrically towards Nazeem, with an exaggerated but forced smile. There was little to be happy, and that was why he wanted to look so as much as possible.
Once he was in front of him, he tilted his head, studying him closely. He reminded him of the Breton whom Galla had fallen in love with.
"Hello, Nazeem" he began, playful and disturbing, as he was with all his victims, "you know, normally Cicero would've already slit your throat, because he knows you're quite a chatter, one who has a bad tendency to rant! But you know, we need you alive and with the gift of speech, today, so may Cicero ask you not to scream? He has to take off your gag so you can answer his friend's questions. If you try to scream, we'll be captured immediately, you can be sure... but you'll die with Cicero's dagger planted in between your balls, so it would be better if you avoid this tragic ending to all of us. Hmm?"
Nazeem nodded, fast, scared. Good. Better, that he was scared, it meant that he was understanding the gravity of the situation. Those like him tended to underestimate others and there was always the risk that, not understanding how close they were to death, they behaved more boldly than expected. A little fear would've served to keep him calm.
Cicero sighed, hoping that the threat concerning his testicles was enough, and took the gag off. When he was free, Nazeem breathed hard, but didn't shout.
"I know who you are!" was the first thing he said, "you're the idiot who shouted to the dragon at the market! I remember you!"
Cicero lit up, smiling. He bowed in a deep and contrite manner, one foot in front of the other and a waving gesture of his right hand.
"Oh, it's always a pleasure to be recognized, really!"
He stood up, giggling, and returned to check on Morrigan. She was breathing a little more calmly now that the situation seemed to be stabilized. Her gaze was lost, however, as if now more than ever she couldn't understand how she had come to that point.
"You're the one who had to kill her, aren't you? Are you from the Brotherhood?"
"Ah, good! Chatty, flattering and even smart! What an interesting victim, today!"
Cicero chuckled. Nazeem, hearing the word 'victim', tried to tug at the ropes that bound him.
"Ah, nah, nah, you can't free yourself. Cicero has had the knots taught by the sailors of the Imperial City Waterfront, he's an expert. An essential knowledge to bind victims or... women during carnal pleasure. Morrigan, we've never tried, damn it!"
He tried to joke, pinched her shoulder, to move her. Partially, it worked: she didn't laugh, but she took a step closer, eyebrows frowned. She no longer seemed intimidated, only deeply curious.
"Nazeem... really? Did you really ask for my death? I have hoped until now that it was a mistake. I really can't understand."
Morrigan was facing him like a mother who can't understand her son's behavior. She was judging him from above, and she could do it, because she was the Princess.
Nazeem spread a nervous smile.
"I knew it, I knew I couldn't trust you! The Brotherhood... a bunch of pychopaths!"
Cicero didn't intervene, he didn't care. He stepped aside, let her talk. It was her contract, he wanted to see how she would've behaved.
Suddenly, Morrigan took on a ferocious expression. Just a moment, something that was rare to see on her. The Princess of the Void, the true and complete one, who stood on the souls of Nirn and judged them without mercy.
"Nazeem, talk with order. Don't be dispersive, I want to understand. Answer only this question: why? Why did you ask for my death?"
"I didn't do it... it was the boy, I actually did nothing..."
Cicero felt annoyance rising up the spine. He wanted to snap and plunge the dagger in his face, but he couldn't, not yet. He allowed himself, however, to give some advice to the pupil.
"He's cursing, Morrigan! He's insulting the Mother! She knows and sees everything, he can't try to hide his cowardice with these miserable excuses. Don't let him talk like that to you, neither to the Mother, nor to Sithis!"
But she didn't know what to do. She knew she couldn't do anything physical except talking harshly.
"Morrigan can't act alone, all right" he helped her, "Then Cicero is her hand. Heard, Nazeem? Don't make her angry, because if she orders to skin you alive, Cicero skins you alive. Try to treat her well, because your future depends on her now."
Morrigan raised her head, more self-confident now that she had a physical threat available. She repeated the question, even more severely.
"Nazeem, tell me. Why did you invoke the Brotherhood?"
He swallowed, shook his head. But, finally, he answered.
"Because I had to try."
"Try what?"
"The value of this Dark Brotherhood that everyone is talking about. Rumors, I thought, nothing more. I wasn't sure that their fame corresponded to their skill, I had to see with my own eyes. I knew... I knew that soon I would've needed assassins, competition in high places is too much. There's the East Empire Trading Company, Maven Black-Briar, many shady interests, usurers... I needed an armed hand to trust. And well... as it'is obvious, I'd say that I was right not to trust!"
Morrigan was increasingly shocked. She didn't seem to have understoodd a word of the speech and Cicero didn't blame her. He too didn't understand. If nothing else, however, the basic reason for the Black Sacrament hadn't been pure and simple fun, there were economic interests at stake. It made more sense.
"Aye, but... what have I got to do with it?"
Nazeem chuckled again, dropped his head forward, shaking it right and left. It was as if he was mocking her with the sole gesture of his head. Cicero felt his hand quiver, look for the blade, run to his neck. But he stayed for her, because it was finally the crucial moment.
"You?" he said, laughing, "you have nothing to do with it! That's why you were perfect, you know... you were a cheap contract, just to try… and who would've ever noticed your death?"
He laughed again, but Morrigan was petrified, her mouth wide open.
"What… what…"
"You're the most useless person of Whiterun, girl!" Nazeem said to her, cruel, arrogant, even if tied to a chair and near his end, "you could've died and nobody would've investigated, no one would've asked questions. The choice was between you and the beggar, I don't even know his name. But you know, he at least walked around, someone would've missed him. But you, well... no one cares about you."
.
.
"No one cares about you, haven't you understood it yet?!"
The Hammer beat her hard that evening. Morrigan had tried to keep the information of her new job hidden, but rumors were traveling quickly in the city, the Hammer had known it thanks to people's stupid gossip. He had entered the house, slamming the door and already had the belt in his hand. He had started to strap on her back, leaving on her cuts and bruises, without even giving her time to try to run or hide.
"You must do anything else but taking care of this house, do you understand? No one cares about you! No one!"
He stopped beating her, but Morrigan knew it was only a moment, he had to catch his breath because he was too old. She remained on the floor, curled up, rigid, expecting at any moment to die. But at least she had tried to do something, hadn't she? She would've liked to be able to prove to her father that she was also worthy of maintaining that job, and she could have a man's company, but that she still thought was impossible, her sense of inferiority was too deep-rooted. I know it, because I know everything, but she couldn't know that Cicero at that time was forty years old and was crossing the border in those days, coming from Cyrodiil. I already knew that they would've met and I was crying that she should suffer so much in the meantime.
Morrigan, feeling that the straps were no longer coming, stood up. She crawled up to her bed, groped for the doll, the one her mother had made for her. When she found it, she hugged it tightly, as she felt the Hammer reach her.
"Mom" she whispered softly, so that only she could hear her, "I did something by myself. I did it. Seen?"
She felt the steps closer and closer, uncertain because of the alcohol. But she didn't care, because soon it would've all been over: she pulled out a razor blade from the doll's dress. She had kept it, it gave her a sense of peace knowing that it was there, within reach, if she needed it.
She grabbed it firmly with her fingers and carried it to the forearm, at the elbow joint, from the inside. She should've opened a nice gash to the whole arm. She had to do it, she had to to be brave. And then the other arm, and then... it would've been Sovngarde. Or maybe nothing, because she wasn't suited for Sovngarde. But she didn't care, everything else was fine, just not to stay there.
She put the razor blade on the forearm, felt it sharp cold, and then... then, suddenly, an idea. Why? Why should she die? Why not... him?
Her mother had told her, she had recommended it. She had never thought of doing it, but now... oh, now there was something more at stake, not just a belt. There was her future. She felt that life couldn't continue with both alive, in that house. One of them had to leave that evening. And since no one cared about her, well... Morrigan had decided to care aboout herself.
She dropped the razor blade, fast, firm. She jumped up, took the doll with her because she didn't want it to be destroyed. She ran to the furniture, grabbed the liquor and started pouring it to the ground.
"What are you doing, you bastard?"
"The floor! Can you see it, this fucking floor? Clean it yourself! I bet you're going to lick it like a pig, not to lose even a drop of this fucking shit!"
She had never talked like that and it made her feel good. She laughed, almost... it was funny, wasn't it? It was very strange to say those words without having the least fear of consequences.
"Morrigan, but... what the hell..."
He was also surprised. Good. He had to be, because he was finally going to see the real Morrigan. Morrigan Death from Above.
"Don't call me by name, dirty old bastard! Don't even dare! You killed my mother, you're the worst person of the Nirn!"
"I didn't kill that slut, I just pushed her! She was delicate, she started to bleed... it wasn't my fault!"
"Oh no, and whose was it? You know, for sure it wasn't mine. And I'm over taking this punishment! I'm over!"
She bent over the fire, took a handful of embers with her bare hands.
"MORRIGAN, NO!"
She threw them on the liquor on the ground, and immediately heard the sound of the fire burning, big, bigger, bigger and bigger. She felt hot and realized that the straw roof was already catching fire.
She laughed, free. She held the doll tight, even with burnt hands.
"You're on the wrong side of the house... daddy!"
She said it with all the malice she was capable of, and finally headed out. She opened the door wide and, as soon as she did, air fueled the fire even more. In a second, it flared up, eating the whole house up to the ceiling.
Morrigan walked away, stepped back, as she heard the deafening noise of the fire, destructive. People were gathering, some women were shouting. But she smiled, free, finally... free.
.
.
"What... what did you say?"
It seemed like she hadn't heard. Now she had a hand on her forehead, as if her head were spinning.
"That no one cares about you! Are you deaf? You're not important! That's why I chose you, because nobody would've worried about you! Did you believed it was for those stupid apples?"
Cicero saw Morrigan shaking her head in disbelief and confusion. He knew how serious those affirmations were to her and he feared she was feeling sick. But it was just a moment, because suddenly her expression changed. She leaned her head forward, serious, breathing with strength and conviction. Her eyebrows arched inward, becoming two straight lines, two perfect accents that made her look like a warrior elf.
"I am important." she whispered, between her narrow teeth.
Nazeem now no longer spoke or laughed. He had noticed very well the expression of Morrigan. No one had ever seen it, not Nazeem, not even Cicero. The only one who had had the pleasure was her father and he hadn't lived to tell the experience.
"I am important!" she repeated louder, even more convinced.
She approached a step, frantic. She wanted to do something and Cicero joined her. As soon as he was near her, he felt her hand running to the dagger. So he unlined it and handed it to her, making her fingers squeeze against the handle.
"Nazeem, do you know what I think?" she continued sternly, undeterred, as if possessed by another person, "I think that the Mother really is very offended by your behavior. Try the Brotherhood, you say? Try? It isn't an alchemical experiment, it's the Dark Brotherhood! It's Sithis, and the Void, and death of everything. You couldn't even perform the Black Sacrament by yourself, see... this is disrespectful. For everyone: the Mother, Sithis, and for me too. You know? I'm blind and at sixteen I still was braver than you, I set my old man on fire by my own. And you? You did all this, and for what? For an experiment? Just to kill... me?" she laughed, genuinely amused, "oh, buddy, you should've better picked your first and only contract!"
Cicero was bewitched, he couldn't believe his eyes and ears. It was her, she was totally her, yet she seemed so similar to... Cicero himself, now that she spoke with conviction and disgust. He adored her. He felt that he loved her infinitely for everything that she was, that she had been, that she would've become. She was a complete person at that moment. She was Morrigan Death from Above and he too feared her. She could've killed him at that moment, he knew. Those were the eyes of an assassin.
"You know what, Nazeem? You were right. I deserved that contract. Maybe not for the apples, but I certainly deserved it for what I did to my father and what I'm going to do to you now."
She laughed and approached. Nazeem tried to scream, but Cicero stuck his mouth, pressing his chin up.
Only at that moment Cicero noticed a certain indecision, but not on what to do, only on the technique. Then he rushed to help her, but no longer as a teacher, no: as a servant.
"Morrigan, this one needs to have his throat slitted. Take the dagger like this, flat. Don't let him scream."
He turned the blade between her hands and she let herself be advised, incredibly calm and calculated. Cicero kept Nazeem's mouth shut and led the tip of the dagger to the right spot, guiding her. Then, however, he left her. He wanted her to do it, he knew she could.
And she did.
She did it, and in an incredibly smooth and controlled way. She was calm, precise, and had a smile on her face, enjoying the moment. And Cicero rejoiced, excited by that smile, because he could see himself in her, he knew that only now Morrigan was able to understand him.
She sank the blade with studied slowness. The tip in Nazeem's neck, and blood began to splash. Nazeem tried to scream, but first he didn't succeed because of Cicero pressing his chin, and later because the knife, flat, plunged into him, blocking the air.
Morrigan sank, firmly, until the dagger stopped, blocked by the handle. Nazeem wriggled just a little more, and then it was calm, peace, the Void.
Cicero let go the victim's chin, walked away a little. He was panting with emotion and effort, and Morrigan was panting with him. He looked at her, devoted, he wanted to bow to her, because now really she was a Goddess. The Princess of the Void. If he had ever had any doubts, there she was, in that room. In the ages to come they would've adored her and he had had the grace to live in her own age, to love her, to receive her love in return and to lie with her. He felt deeply unworthy.
"Morrigan... Morrigan, the Hand..." he couldn't speak, out of emotion.
She turned, calm, severe. Cicero was fearful. He bowed his head.
"What?"
"The Hand, my love. We must do the Hand."
He took her wrist, even more carefully than usual, for fear of making her angry. Now more than ever he had awe of her, it was like being in the presence of the Mother herself.
He led her to the victim's neck. He pulled out the dagger, he took it back, and had Morrigan's hand resting on the open wound. It was a pity she couldn't feel it, really. One of the most pleasing sensations of life was to dip the hand in the warm and still pulsating blood of a victim.
Once it was dirty, always holding her by the wrist, he had her hand on the wooden wall, with the fingers wide open. He pressed hard, to give a precise shape to the figure. When he pulled it off, Sithis' Hand had branded that farm, red, vivid, but a little smaller and more delicate than the ones Cicero had left on his own.
It was over. It was all over.
Cicero cleaned the blade and sheathed it. He looked at Morrigan: she was still serious, but more like the normal Morrigan, the same as always. She was starting to relax her shoulders. Perhaps it was because of the ordinary sense of emptiness, happiness and exhaustion, typical of the moments just after the ecstasy. It was common, Cicero always felt it, as after sexual pleasure.
He approached her, breathing lightly. He took her face in his hands, cuddled her hair.
"Morrigan Death from Above, you... you're a perfect assassin! Perfect!"
She was getting weaker, lowering her eyelids and her head a little. She was losing energy like after a marathon.
"I'm important. I... am I important?"
"Of course, of course, Morrigan! You're important! The Mother cares about you, to Sithis cares about you... I care about you! You've just made me the happiest man in the universe!"
She smiled, tears began to rub her cheeks stained in vermilion. She seemed to collapse like an empty sack. She laid against Cicero's chest, without the strength to stand up. She cried. But Cicero was happy, because it was not a cry of sadness or fear. It was a cleansing cry.
He hugged her, cuddled her head, inhaled the smell of her hair.
"Can you feel it now? Can you feel the real freedom?"