Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks.
Okay - I was going to leave you all hanging for a few days, but I wound up feeling like such a heel! So here – the promised fluff, and insight into human nature.
--
Chapter Fifty-Two: Aftermath
--
Too hard.
It hurt too much. My face was calm, but inside I was screaming. I might as well have driven Sufferthorn into my breast every time I'd whittled down the Sanctuary by one. I was surprised and even angry to find that my hand remained steady as a rock as I knelt and lifted the hidden hatch that led to Lucien's apartments in Fort Farragut.
I felt disgusted with myself – I hadn't even bothered to clean up – I had violated my own rule about cleaning up – the smell of blood hung so thick in the air around me…I don't think that anything will ever pierce it…and the whole world will smell it, and they'll know what I am…what I've done…
I'm such a mess, and I know it.
My bag hit the bottom and I turned, slipping in after it. I didn't just drop to the bottom, I would have done that had I been exhilarated, come back from a perfectly executed mission…
…but not from this…this perversion.
I climbed sedately down like a civilized person…except that…that I don't think I am anymore…and because I had Schemer, riding in my hood, sleeping, his furry side beating gently against my neck as he breathed.
That sadistic part of me wanted, irrationally, to make Lucien feel half the horror I felt. To swear and shout and rage that he hadn't the courage to do it…he'd sent a pretty little Assassin to do it. His dirty work. Because he lacked the courage…but had the gall to send someone else into the ever-open arms of suffering in his place…
But…at the same time…I couldn't bring myself to do it. Any of it. I'd shouted and struggled and railed like a fox in a trap already. I had showed spite, and nastiness already and it had done nothing to help, to prepare me, to soften the blow…it only brought more pain.
More so now.
Because as the horror welled up in me, threatening to overflow…I knew he'd suffer too. Was suffering now. I had seen it. I had seen it – when he'd asked me to sit down, instead of telling me to do it.
I am trying to minimize the damages as best I can! Haven't you wondered why you are being told to do this thing, instead of being left to the slaughter?
But he had sent me to do it. Knowing what it would do to me. Knowing that the irrational, dedicated part of me would want to try and stop him, if he did it. And then I'd be just as dead. And then there would be only one. It was a classic case of 'save as many as you can', just as he'd said.
I shall…try…to be grateful for my life.
I let go of the last rung I needed as I reached the bottom and touched the bloody mark on my throat, where I had failed to drive the Blade of Woe through. I still was not sure if it was the enchantments upon her that had stopped her…or some part of me, some strong part of me, that was not willing to give up. That was not willing to forfeit the chance to make Bellamont suffer, as I suffer. More, even.
I hope Lucien has a good plan, or I'm going to make a valid…
Who am I kidding? Trying to kid? I couldn't even kill the rat. He's still sleeping in my hood.
I clanged a hand carelessly against the metal ladder, which I'd descended so quietly, like a shadow, to herald my appearance. I undid my cloak and wrapped Schemer securely in it. He stirred, but did not wake.
Lucien was sitting at his desk, but he wasn't working. In fact, it was the first time I had ever seen any desk of his orderly. His hands were folded, his head bowed. He almost looked like he was praying. I stopped halfway between his desk and the entrance I had used.
Sufferthorn was lying on the desk by his elbow. How could I have left it here? That's unlike me…I use Sufferthorn as my main weapon…
I meant to hail him, to let him know I was here, but my throat wasn't working. I simply handed Schemer off to the dark Guardian who shuffled forward to take my things. The guardian pulled the cloth back, exposing the rat's head, and then tucked him gently in one arm, and stroked a bony finger along the rat's skull, and bowed slightly.
We will take care of him.
Lucien pushed himself back from the desk and rose, to cross the room.
The guardian shuffled over to Lucien, who paused only long enough to look at Schemer, then his eyes found my face, but I couldn't meet them. My eyes grew heavy as I stood there, most aware of the in out, inhale-exhale of my own breathing, and the painful tightening of vocal cords.
I didn't move, as Lucien approached me, very cautiously. In the back of my mind, I recognized this approach. I've seen horse-hands do it, when the animal is frightened, or otherwise overwrought. Does it work on humans? The fog in my head was too thick.
He could have been bearing down on me, truly angry, and I would have held my ground and looked dumbly, brokenly back at him.
I felt as if my head was in a bag, and all that was left to me was a very basic sense of what not to do. And right now, I was not going to move. I'll stand here, marble white and feeling blood spattered, blood drenched until I had orders…something was broken. Something that could not be fixed.
"Well?" Lucien asked, quietly. I knew from his tone that he was pulling himself together - I still was staring brokenly at the floor between us, counting and not counting the stones that marked the way.
I didn't care. I couldn't. I didn't have a heart left to care with. But he'd asked a question – and he'd expect an answer. "It's done," my voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried like a clap of thunder over rolling plains. I swallowed hard and closed my eyes, feeling pain throb between my temples.
"Painless?" Lucien's voice asked, still quietly, still careful not to alarm.
"As you willed," It hurt to say it…but I couldn't say 'as you asked'…I swallowed and felt my eyes sting painfully. I had no more tears left to cry, and yet I knew there would never be enough tears to assuage the pain, the guilt, the terrible truth that I…I had single-handedly destroyed everything…almost everything…I loved.
I opened my eyes again and looked up until I found his boots. I couldn't raise my leaden eyes any further…and a few moments later, I found I could, but not without great personal cost. It was almost worth it to just keep staring at the floor.
Lucien turned. His mask of composure had chinks in it – gaping holes that showed that while he was better at keeping himself together, he was hurting.
Ashes. I closed my eyes again and let them drop, felt my shoulders and head lose all tension. It's all ashes.
Bellamont's won…and he hasn't even…hasn't even made the worst blow.
Lucien walked over. "Are you hurt?" he asked, warm concern creeping into his voice.
Am I hurt, he asks. Do I look okay? Of course, you can't see the wounds but they are there I assure you…
Petty. Mustn't be petty. He wouldn't ask if he didn't care…in one way or another.
Even this little winding-up of anger made my head blossom, explode with pain.
I reached up, numbly, and touched a sticky patch on my check. My hand came away smeared with black blood, thicker than human. Argonian. I looked at my hand and swallowed hard - and it hurt enough to make my eyes sting and ache. But there were no tears. Not a drop of salt water left in me. "It's not mine," it shouldn't even be there...I thought I'd washed up before leaving…I always was up after a contract…always…it's part of my ritual…
…no, I hadn't. I've gone over this already.
I couldn't raise my voice any louder than that 'just above a whisper' tone. I couldn't look him in the eye, because I knew if I did I'd find no strength. No comfort. I was alone, in a very dark place, and it chilled my blood, to the point of making the tendons in my arms ache.
I look back at my hand, at the dark blood dotted across it, but that was not what had my attention. My gloves and bracers were gone, and the fabric of the clothing I wear beneath my leathers was dark and sticking to my arms.
Lucien took my wrist gently, his thumb resting in my palm to keep control of my hand in case I reacted badly…but the motions were calm and competent and oddly reassuring. At least my nerves still worked, I could feel the warmth of his touch, even though it failed to touch me. He peeled the fabric back, his expression indicating he was trying to be as careful as possible, knowing what he'd find.
There were deep gashes running crisscross and helter-skelter. The flesh not bloody showed red dots, or speckles, clustered like stippled clouds. The wounds were all wrong for a knife.
It took me a few minutes longer than it did for Lucien to realize what I had done. It wasn't a knife – I had scored my arms open with my own fingernails. I don't remember doing it…it must have been while I was thrashing around on the floor, trying to vent pain that was too much for one person to bear.
I couldn't take the sight of any more blood, any more injury – it didn't matter whose it was. It didn't matter how well-deserved.
Lucien's fingers found the bloody mark on my throat and I swallowed under the touch. "This is," what he meant was 'this is yours', and his dark eyes clouded.
I reached up numbly, trying to make sense of too much information, knocking clumsily into his fingers as I found the bloody mar. My hand brushed the injury before Lucien wrapped it in his, as if he saw something in me that I was not yet aware of. The little mark wasn't even as wide as my fingernail, but it suddenly hurt…or maybe it was my throat behind it…or both… "Sweet Night Mother…what have I done…?" I couldn't help it, melodramatic as it sounded, and I felt a new, fresh, stronger surges of pain, horror, terror well up and wash over me, threatening to throw me to the ground and choke the life right out of me.
Lucien's loose grip on my arm became tight, painfully tight and the second arm began to scream in pain as well, and the world – which tried to spin – the erratic motion slowed in face of the discomfort. He had both my wrists and I yelped and instinctively tried to stagger back, but he didn't let me.
I tried to shout out, whether in an attempt to isolate myself, or to vent a hurt that ran deeper than any I'd ever suffered…I don't know. Both maybe, but still, it was a sound I tried to cut short. His grip hurt, but somehow I'm sure that if it didn't, I won't feel it, it won't register: the warm hands against my damaged wrist, regardless of the blood that was no doubt getting all over him…
I choked and began to shake, to convulse. Lucien let go of my off hand, and grabbed my chin, made me look at him. I found his eyes, and found that once I had, I couldn't look away. There was no coldness, no sign of masking, or anything. Just a warm brown pair of eyes. A normal person's eyes, even…
"You did," he said firmly, his voice very husky, as if he wanted to believe this as much as I needed to, "what you had to do. Nothing more. Nothing less."
I tried to shake my head no…that wasn't true - it isn't true! If I had done what was needed, I'd have found the bastard…served him up to the Black Hand with steamed vegetables and strong wine…I'd have slit his treacherous throat and left the corpse staked out with a sign nailed to his remains 'TRAITOR' for the whole empire to see…
I was shaking harder.
I heard Lucien's voice but not the words – not looking at his mouth, I couldn't even read what he was saying. He had let my chin go, I realized, because as I bowed my head, I reached my off hand up to cover my mouth, and there was nothing there to block the gesture. His hand found my shoulder and I looked up again, when I distinguished my name in all the meaningless sound that passes for speech these days.
"Sarielle."
He didn't say anything more than that – maybe because I still couldn't answer. A moment passed and then he carefully –as if unsure whether I'd snap and try to kill him – reached around me and drew me against him, letting me settle my head in his shoulder. I continued to shake, but not to cry. I was out of tears – I had shed them in a haze of pain, both physical, mental, emotional, that bordered on madness.
It did not numb the pain, holding me, letting me hold him back – and I know no binding corset was ever as tight as my grip. But it helped to feel like I was not the last person, thinking, feeling, screaming, left in the world. I don't know how long we were standing there. It could have been several centuries, but time no longer mattered. He would let me stand there until I was ready to be let go, however long it took. And it helped, some, to feel like there was still someone stronger than myself.
I could count heartbeats. I'm the only one wearing armor. I shifted my head so my ear lay flat against him. One. Two…Three…very even, measured…regular.
Time was something that I used to play with – how long until I can do this? How much time does it take for me to complete that? Shave off seconds for the sake of smooth efficiency…
I closed my eyes, but not for what would be welcome –the oblivion of sleep. He was warm – though I couldn't feel that though my armor. Warm and safe…My grip was slackening slightly, less a death-grip and closer to something that might be called 'normal'.
Sooner or later the analytical part of my mind started to function again.
It started with identifying whatever Lucien's soap smelled like, through the smell of blood that hung around me like a noxious cloud. I know the smell – it's something…Sandalwood. I had a small sandalwood box in my bedroom, in Anvil. It was in my bag now. It was the first smell, I realized, that pierced the cloud of blood that seemed to have settled in my nostrils. For indeed, upon identifying 'sandalwood' the smell of blood faded to something in the background, to what a normal person would be able to smell – just the faintest hint of it, from my wrists and throat.
I'm getting blood all over his…this nice, soft shirt. I shifted my cheek against the soft, woven material…it's black. I half-opened my eyes as a hand touched my temple gently, then returned to my shoulder. The magelights are low in their brackets…so as not to hurt tired, sensitive eyes…that's very thoughtful…thank you…I tightened my grip marginally, tangling my fingers in the fabric, feeling them brush against the warm, solid shape beneath, hoping to convey this without words.
This was when I
realized that Lucien could probably still smell my perfume. Cherry
blossoms.
Part of me wondered, inanely, if he liked it. But it
was a distant wondering. It didn't matter…did it?
Something…sparked in me – as if there was some flicker of life
that had not yet gone out, and this little thought was enough to give
it the strength to try and light the tatters of my soul, like
curtains in the burn heap, to rekindle.
Lucien shifted, I think he moved so he could see me a little better, though I was still blocking out the world. I'd never be in this position in the real world...and I knew as that thought trickled into my head that I would have to let go soon…and face the real world. Without strong arms, without this…comfort.
I swallowed. I don't want to.
"Sarielle?"
"Yes." It was not a question. I was surprised how empty word was. It might have been a single word, in its own paragraph, on a sheet of paper.
Yes.
I was coming back to myself. I looked up, moved my eyes towards the ceiling then with an effort I unwrapped my arms from around Lucien and stepped back, swallowing hard. He let me go, hands at the ready, just in case I staggered.
I stepped free, unhindered. It was so hard…pride would keep me standing on my own, keep me from flinging myself back at him, keep me from continuing to block out the world from the very last safe place Cyrodiil has.
But, I'm free again. And I'm alone again…and pragmatism returns. I grimaced and peeled my sleeves back carefully. The injuries to my wrists and forearms were still red and raw and, I discovered, circled around near my elbow. I might even scar from this.
Now that I was standing back, Lucien didn't try to help, or see if I was all right – he could see plainly that I was hurt. I'm not the kind of girl to get weak knees…even now. I looked up from the injuries and found his face, with less difficulty than it previously took. "What now?" my voice was barely a whisper, finding his eyes and silently praying that there would be a plan…something more than emptiness, ashes and wastelands in the ruined landscape of my life.
Whatever he saw in me, he didn't like, but it was more of a sad sort 'didn't like' than disapproval.
"We need to talk," he said quietly.
"Right," I listlessly followed him towards a corner with a pair of chairs and a small table. He checked twice en route to make sure I was following him, and I was. Bobbing along like an obedient terrier.
I sat down and waited.
Then Lucien sighed and got up, shaking his head. "It can wait. Evander," the dark guardian who had taken Schemer reappeared.
"Put Sarielle's bag in the bathroom," he looked back to me. "Sarielle?" I looked up and blinked once. "If you follow Evander, there's a bathroom just down that hall," he pointed, as if speaking to someone very young, or very slow. I certainly felt like both, and was vaguely grateful that he wasn't trying to talk to me like I was an intelligent adult. I just don't feel like one. "You can go get cleaned up and changed. You'll feel a little better."
I stood up obediently and then looked up, for a moment my metaphorical head broke the surface of the sea of misery. "Schemer…?" I was half-afraid I had made an error in bringing him here.
Lucien gently reached forward, took my arm and guided me to face the general direction, where Evander stood waiting, my bag now over his shoulder. "He'll be fine – I'll take care of him," he assured me gently. "Go ahead and get cleaned up – you look about done in," he let of go of my arm and gave me a little nudge in the back and I started forward, following Evander, without free will.
I filled the bath, heated it, and watched Evander putter around for a moment, producing a couple of thick towels, and pantomiming he'd bring me a strong drink, if I liked.
"Just tea, thank you," I said hoarsely, and waited until he'd returned with the tea, then left again. I reheated the water, then closed and locked the door, from the inside. I leaned against it, and then straightened, mindlessly undressing and climbing into the bath.
The hot water helped shock me out of my apathy.
I have nothing left to…
I hissed as my arms submerged. And a whimper of pain escaped me, torn from my throat.
It hurt I hurt it hurt and that shook me back to myself. I looked into the water, swirling red from the blood of the injuries. I was breathing hard from the pain that was beginning to ease.
My arms are a mess…how do you do that to yourself…?
I closed my eyes and tried to focus. Focus was fleeting, but when I opened my eyes, the wounds looked several days old, already beginning to close and scab. I sank back into the water, and then picked up my tea and sipped it.
I was getting tired….so very very tired. I shouldn't feel this tired…
--S--
I finally hauled myself out of the bath, feeling exhausted in a way that I had never felt. I dressed, just normal clothes, linen and cotton – no leather armor, no weapons, except the the belts, which I slung over one shoulder. I re-upped my cherry blossom perfume. I needed the comforting smell, even if no one else did. I used more than I usually would, so I could smell hazily the scent hanging about me – not choking…just more noticeable. And it was comforting - it reminded me of having been pretty, and happy, what felt like a very long time ago.
I had taken the time to braid my hair out of habit. I know it'll dry slower, but I'm not in the mood to have it get tangled up again, either. And in the moment when Lucien looked up at me from where he sat, behind the desk that faced the corridor I had to walk…I thought I saw the faintest, telltale gleam of magenta receding from his eyes.
He wouldn't…would he? Something feebly stirred in the back of my mind, the bottom of my heart….or the pit of my stomach. Or all three. Hope?
I bit my lip – there was nothing there but the usual brown, and the vague flutter in my chest died quietly as fatigue resettled like a heavy cloak across my shoulders. Died like the rest of me would, if I couldn't find a way to revitalize myself.
"Yes?" he asked gently.
"Nothing," I shook my head and heaved a heavy sigh.
I walked over and stood by the alchemy bench, hands resting on the worn, silky-smooth surface. It was not a 'finished' piece of furniture, but something that someone had sanded down to smoothness with sandpaper - the hard way. It was some distraction to me, to imagine Lucien with several inches of sandpaper - used and unused – piled up on either side, trying to get this stupid table smooth and level so it would not set his reagents rolling around. I'm not saying he built it –he's not wood-crafter, that I know of…but you don't have to be to sand something down.
"You should get some rest," Lucien's voice advised – still using that horse-calming tone of his.
I wonder…did he have something to do with horse-breaking as a boy? He certainly does seem to know a lot about them…and he keeps their stories close to home. I looked up at the tapestries of Nightmare, and Svadilfari.
Shadowmere's sire and dam…?
"I'm not tired," I answered blankly. This is not strictly true. What is true is that I don't believe that I can sleep, even if I wanted to. Even if I downed my whole bottle of sleeping draught. The bench was set just a little high for me – it was evidently set up to be comfortable for the one who used it most – unlike the workbench at home...
…at Cheydinhal, which was set up to accommodate the 'average' individual.
My eyes stung and I blinked rapidly a few times, and swallowed hard. "I'm all right," I lied, my voice gravelly with the effort.
I didn't hear Lucien come up behind me – but I felt his presence move. It's something you just…learn…in this business. Knowing when someone's standing close behind you.
"Sarielle."
"No," I said firmly. It was hard enough being awake, when I could control my thoughts…sleep seemed like the enemy just now.
"All right," Lucien said in his almost-usual 'if that's how you want to play' tone. I felt his hands close on my shoulders – for a moment reassuring and even friendly…
A moment later the world seemed to pitch as the spell – a powerful one – leeched into me through the touch.
"Lucien don't…" I managed, but my vision as already fuzzing over and darkness set in, compounding the exhaustion I already felt, after my bath...
But just as my mind disengaged I heard his last comment, "I'm sorry, I didn't get all that…ah, you can tell me in the morning."
--S--
I woke on the padded bench I'd noticed earlier, with Evander standing nearby, skeletal hand on his sword hilt, his whole posture radiating 'yon lady's bodyguard'. I sat up slowly, the blanket that had been draped across me at one point sliding off to land crumpled on the floor, my head pounding like I'd been hit over it…what happ…oh yeah...that fetcher.
I felt a lot closer to normal as anger and resentment bubbled in my belly…Drain fatigue on me will he? And…oh hell…he…he spiked my bath! The gall…Speaker or not, bad day or not, I'm going to kick his ass…just as soon as I find him…dammit!
Drain fatigue on me, will he?!
"Resst." I stopped moving and looked around. The voice was startlingly similar to the voice that the door into the Sanctuary usually used. I looked around – the only other creature was the dark guardian, still standing like a statue. I swung my legs over so I was sitting up properly, and the guardian turned his head. "Resst."
"I'm sorry?" I said this out loud in my puzzlement. Tag, Shuffles and Smethwick have always been totally silent – nonverbal, I mean. And so have all the guardians at Deepscorn.
"Masster ssayss…you resst," the sibilant voice issued from the guardian's unmoving mouth, and blue fires sprang to life in the eye sockets.
Uber-guardians, what the hell?
"Lucien said that did he? Anything else he wants me to do?" I asked bitterly, shaking a little from stress and anger. Anger seemed to be running away the grief, and for that, I was grateful. Anger I can handle. Drowning in pain and misery…it's not something I've ever done before.
"Don't fuss."
That's it. I'm killing him. I am going to take him out the first chance I get…
"You're awake," he sounded surprised.
I turned – intending to snap and snarl, eyes flashing - to see Lucien heading out of the bathroom, pulling a shirt on as he came out of the corridor. Yeah –that went a bit of a way towards diffusing my temper, because that traitorous little part of my brain was admiring the view, and the dialog went something like this 'damn he's got nice abs. I knew it.'
I am utterly pathetic. I have reached an all-time low…the family lies dead and I'm still thinking about a guy with great abs…
I stood up, rather aggressively. The guardian clattered…Evander…I think.
"It's all right, Evander," Lucien confirmed my suspicion, his head popping free of his shirt, which he tugged into place rather unconcernedly - which nettled me even more. "Did you sleep well…ah…no need to answer…" he held up a forestalling hand, smirking slightly at me.
My expression clearly read 'I hate you'. I resent the usurpation of my own free will.
Wow…it's almost like a normal day.
Lucien walked up to me. "You can hate me all you like, so long as you tell the truth: you feel better, don't you?" he asked quietly. His face twitched as he caught he waft of my perfume, and it struck me here, that he might just appreciate the scent.
I still want to hit him –though I know, in the back of my mind, I know, that it wouldn't do any good, I'd only regret it later. I shook my head slowly, in distaste. "Don't you ever pull that bullshit again," my voice was steady as a rock, even if I didn't feel steady. I still feel shaky, and caught in a swing between opposing extreme emotions.
I half-expected him to ask 'or what?', but he didn't.
"Well, it's good to see your sense of humor remains," Lucien said mildly. He seemed to be holding up better than I was. "Do you think you can hold down some breakfast?"
I scowled at him – what game is he running?
The mistrust hurt him, I saw it for a second or two, just before he pulled his mask on.
"Don't…" I reached up absently and touched his face. His eyes flickered towards my hand, or in that general direction – it was apparent that he hadn't expected me to touch him at all, and he wasn't quite sure how to react to it. "That was…cruel. I'm," he raised a hand and touched my lips. My turn to flinch and rest the urge to step backwards.
"Don't. We'll be cruel together," I didn't see his commentary – or even draining fatigue on me – as particularly cruel, but I didn't argue the point. "Breakfast?" he asked quietly, and took his fingers away from my lips so I could answer.
"I'll try…" I couldn't promise.
"Thank you."
"Don't."
Lucien reached up and put his hand delicately between my shoulder blades and we started towards the kitchen.
I get the feeling we're on the same page. We're neither of us happy, we're neither of us as strong as we want to be...need to be. We suffer...except Lucien still has to fill the leader-boots, and that means taking care of his subordinates…making sure they don't do anything stupid.
I reached up and wrapped an arm around him, and closed my eyes. It's not much comfort, but it's what I can offer: if we can be cruel together, we can hurt together. Perhaps there really is some small comfort in that.
--Author's notes appended --
Evander can talk!
