Chapter 18: Ghosts

It was an average Morndas evening at the Bloated Float. Ormil tended the bar as the warehouse workers trickled in from their afternoon shifts, and like most Morndas evenings, Amusei and Methredhel sat nestled in the corner as they shared an early dinner and recounted the details of their weekend excursions. Nim entered the inn after leaving the University grounds and found the pair right where she expected them to be. The two thieves greeted their dear friend with open arms and the trio quickly fell into their normal routine of sharing adventures and gossiping as though Nim had never left the Waterfront at all.

After catching up on the local news and being assured that everyone in the Thieves Guild was safe and in good health, Nim caught her friends up on the erratic past months on her life following the purchase of her home in Anvil. Of course, she avoided mentioning her time with the Dark Brotherhood and remained very vague when it came to specifics of her frustration with the Council. Methredhel nodded enthusiastically, confirming that yes, Irlav Jarol is indeed a useless netch fart despite never having met the man before. Even though Nim had a niggling suspicion that Raminus would have agreed with her were he not so honor bound to his fellow Council members, it felt good to be validated for once.

The young Bosmer sighed, knowing that she could only stay for a one round before she needed to get back on the road, but she would welcome the delay if it meant she could steep in these brief moments of friendly faces and warm embraces for just a few minutes longer. Despite finding herself in the frequent company of her fellow assassins while in the Sanctuary, she couldn't fight the growing loneliness that beat in her chest like a hollow drum.

"You know what you need," Methredhel slurred, popping off the top of her third beer. She turned to Nim, who had just finished outlining her troubles in paradise, and waved her finger erratically before the elf's face. "You need a good lay."

Nim choked mid-swallow and sent a spritz of her mead flying across the table in a desperate attempt to keep her drink in her mouth. Dabbing at the corner of her lips with her shirt, she cleared her throat "A salacious suggestion," Nim said. "I shouldn't have expected any less from you."

"Oh, and since when have you been so prim and proper, huh? Check it out Amusei," she motioned toward the Argonian across their small table with a nod of her head. "Nim buys a house and suddenly she's Chancellor fucking Ocato."

The circle of friends erupted into loud, raucous laughter, heaving before any of them could regain enough breath to speak again. Nim took a long sip and smiled as she eyed her fellow thieves with warm nostalgia flooding her senses. It had been such a long time since they all got together over Morndas drinks in their old haunt, and she couldn't leave for Anvil without at least saying hello.

Methredhel turned to the smaller elf with as serious a look as she could muster with her rosy cheeks and drunk eyes. "I mean it, Nim. You've been on about this wizard for, like, a year."

"It's not been year. Don't exaggerate."

"Yeah, how long has it been then? I feel like I've been hearing about him since they let you into that university. Look at this necklace Raminus gave me! Raminus showed me how to walk on water today! Oh, don't you think Raminus has the twinkliest green eyes? Raminus-"

"Oh, go piss on a mudcrab! I do not sound like that!" Nim shouted. She dipped her finger into her drink and flicked the droplets at the older Bosmer. Though she doubted any fellow mages frequented the tavern on the Waterfront, she didn't appreciate hearing Methredhel put her business on blast.

"To be fair," Amusei began with a slight cock of his head. "It's not a bad impression."

"Look, you've got to get it out of your system. Do as I do. When you're feeling lonely and broken hearted go find some hot bloke and hop on his-"

"Don't be silly." Nim waved her hand flippantly in the air. "I'm not broken hearted. I'm just… stressed out."

"Well you know what's a good remedy for stress? Finding a hot bloke and-"

"Methredhel, not everyone operates on such a visceral plane."

"They do, they just pretend they don't for the sake of propriety. The world would be a better place if everyone took a roll in the hay more often and blew off some steam."

Amusei shook his head at the crass woman and tutted. "When I'm stressed, I go for a nice long run along Lake Rumare," he said with a shrug, rapping his claws against the side of his bottle. "It might do you well to get your heart pumping, and it always clears my head. I bet the morning along the Gold Coast is nothing but sea breeze and wonderful, clean air."

"Yeah, it's remarkably fresh," Nim agreed. "Everything seems to make my heart race these days. You're right, I need to find a good outlet for all this energy that's pent up inside."

"You know what else gets your heart pumping, Nim?" Methredhel quirked her brow with a mischievous smirk.

"You're relentless!" Nim cried out. "And I've missed the two of you so."

Amusei placed his hand on her back and rubbed a small circle over her shoulder blade. "You really ought to stop by more often. Don't forget about us when you're out there flirting with the Archmage or whoever."

Nim didn't bother to correct him, and she smiled at the mental image of Traven's reaction to one of her many awkward advances. "I promise I'll try. I'm all over Cyrodiil these days, and speaking of, I've really got to run. Say hi to Armand for me when you see him, yeah?"

"I will. And Nim," Methredhel called out as the small wood elf gathered up her pack and took out ten one-piece coins to cover the last round of drinks. She placed her hand over Nim's and squeezed gently. "We're all so proud of you."

And to most, a couple of compliments from a pair of thieves who lived in shambled houses down on the Waterfront would have carried little weight if any. To Nim, they meant the world.

Nim spent the night in an almost-abandoned bandit camp just southeast of the marker on her map labeled Fort Sutch. It was well into the dark hours of morning when she found herself in County Kvatch and spied roaming marauders, illuminated amongst the barren hills off the road by the flame of their oil lamps. Her detection spell identified two individuals, and she picked them off with her bow before cautiously approaching. She dragged their bodies to the edge of the campsite and unceremoniously rolled them down the hill into the ravine below. There were mountain lions in these parts, and if they were hungry, it would be good to keep herself from becoming easy prey. Crawling under the pup tent, she found a few hours of rest before the sunlight spilled into her eyes, pouring in from the holes in the canvas sheet above her.

Wolfing down some stale bread and dried fruits by the handful, Nim made her way north and cast her invisibility spell once the ruins of the stone fort became visible amidst the amber landscape of swaying grasses and goldenrods. Knowing she'd need to focus most of her magicka on maintaining her spell, Nim fished through her pack and slipped the Gray Cowl of Nocturnal over her head. She slipped in through the main entrance and waited patiently in the shadows cast by the wall torches and watching as the purple auras of the mercenaries occupying the dimly lit passages became visible.

As much as she hated to admit it, the job at Fort Sutch was indeed made for her. With the aid of her illusion, she proceeded through the fort like a snake in tall grass, undetected, nonexistent until the moment she struck.

Back at Anvil, Nim slept the rest of the day away and completely ruined any semblance of a routine sleeping pattern that she might have had before. She awoke before dawn the following day and by midmorning was already exhausted. Despite the weight of fatigue that clung to her, Nim chugged a pot of coffee in the kitchen of her manor before making her way down the street to the Mages Guild Hall. In addition to the lessons and study sessions on illusion magic that she partook in as part of her apprenticeship, she was to meet regularly with Carahil to hone her repertoire of spells. The two engaged in a spar with Nim on the defensive and Carahil lobbing a series of aggressive illusion hexes against her wards. Her mysticism had always been weak and the eventful past few days and overall lack of deep, uninterrupted sleep that accompanied them certainly didn't make her willpower any stronger. They practiced for several hours, each round ending when Carahil successfully broke through the ward to silence Nim.

The Bosmer slumped against the stone pillar in the center of the room, defeated and disappointed in her performance. Even when she coupled her dispel ward with an absorption or resistance to magicka charm, her mysticism was no match for Carahil's assault.

"You look dreadful,"Carahil stated dryly. The Altmer's candor was refreshing if not entirely requested. She handed Nim a cup of blackberry juice, and Nim could taste the subtle bitterness of water hyacinth nectar as she felt her magical reserves replenish with the aid of the potion. "You're strength's not quite here today. I know the Council has been asking extra of you, but you still have a responsibility to your own health. Get better sleep. Next week, same time, same practice."

"Wards again?" Nim asked, a faint hint of panic rising in her voice. How she dreaded the impact of a strong silence spell, the feeling of lead in her veins as her willpower submitted to utter helplessness.

"You're a Warlock now, Nimileth. There's no point in me teaching you how to become a master illusionist if you can't defend yourself against a silence spell."

"I know," she sighed. "It wasn't meant as a protest."

"Good, I'm not fond of groundless complaints." Carahil nodded and walked to the bookshelf on the far side of the room. She returned with a leather-bound tome and offered it to the small elf. "Here. Have you read it?"

Mysticism by Tetronius Lor the cover read.

"Yes, of course." Most mages had.

"Then read it again. Sleep with it under your pillow if you must. Next week, same time, same practice." And with that, Carahil dismissed herself.

The midday sun was young and vibrant as Nim left the guild hall. With her book tucked under her arm, she made her way to the Anvil Docks in search of a quite stretch of beach to sink her feet into and read. When it came to blowing off steam, the daunting book in hand was far from her first choice of material to leisurely peruse, but at least the mild breeze that blew off the Abecean sea was encouraging of a calm afternoon.

In passing Lelles Quality Merchandise, Nim found her eye drawn to a striking outfit that was on display in the window. The mannequin wore a tight floor length dress of wine-colored velvet with a braided belt of gold fabric resting around its waist. Nim paused before it, contemplating Methredhel's words and concluded that there was indeed more than one way to blow off steam.

For Mathieu Bellamont, it was an uneventful trip back to Anvil after meeting with his Speaker, Alval Uvani. He had tried not to let his boredom show as the Dunmer droned on and on about the purchase of his new winter retreat on the Oleander shores of Alinor. Mathieu had half a mind to slip him some mead right then and there. Just a little trickle of honey into his drink, a swipe along the rim of his goblet and the Dunmer would find himself paralyzed and unable to speak another pompous, patronizing word. The Speaker had really ought to be more careful of who he disclosed the nature of his allergies to. Mathieu had never seen Alval in such a state, but oh how he dreamt of it. He kept the image in his mind all the way back to Anvil

Arriving at the city gate just in time for dinner, Mathieu made his way to the Count's Arms. The inn was busy for a Middas and the music was better than usual. Wilbur must have hired a new lute player to draw in the evening crowd. He made for his preferred table along the far wall and sighed faintly when he found it occupied. A young couple sat in conversation, the man waving his hands enthusiastically as he spoke and the woman looking terribly uninterested as she toyed with her hair and peered out the window.

Mathieu took a seat at the bar and looked back over his shoulder at the couple, now slightly obscured by the musicians gathered in the center of the tavern. He was sure he recognized them from somewhere outside of Anvil. Craning his neck to get a better view, he watched as the woman tucked a strand of copper hair behind her pointed ear and smiled at the man in front of her with all the enthusiasm of a rock.

That was when he recognized her. Nimileth. Lucien's new golden child. In all his time spent in Anvil, he had never seen her before. Or maybe he had in passing, but only until a few days ago when they met could he have put her name to a face. There she sat, hardly 30 meters away in a maroon gown and with a suitor no less! How would the Speaker react if he found her here, scarlet-painted lips and with a stranger's hand on her thigh? He smirked to himself, unable to contain the glee that rose to his gaunt cheeks. Lucien would squirm if he knew, and Mathieu couldn't wait to watch him writhe.

Eventually Nimileth made her way through the crowd and up the bar to order a glass of Surille 415. Wilbur popped the cork on the condition that she pay for the entire bottle should no one else order a glass tonight, and she laughed as though she hadn't agreed to this deal ten times already.

Mathieu zipped across the bar like an arrow, racing to the stool beside her as she turned her head turned away toward the proprietor.

"Were you really going to avoid me all night?" He asked playfully and smiled when he saw the Bosmer jump in her seat.

The voice was familiar to Nim and she felt a jolt of electricity when she heard the chair beside her squeak beneath the weight of a new occupant.

"Mathieu!" She cried out, recognizing the Breton despite his sober appearance and lack of black robes. Her eyes darted to the crowd surrounding them in sudden alarm. "I thought we weren't supposed to speak… you know, in public."

The Silencer shrugged and took a sip from his bottle of beer. "I don't mind."

The reply set her at ease despite knowing that an assassin now sat beside her. Her shoulders fell into a relaxed position and she leaned forward against the countertop on her elbows. "Well then, me either," she smiled softly. From what she gathered of their first meeting, Mathieu seemed rather self-aware and judicious for a Dark Brotherhood member, and she admired him for that. The alcoholism, less so.

"I forgot that Lucien mentioned you lived here." Which was a lie, of course. He knew exactly what house she had moved into when Lucien described their first meeting. No one knew of his residence in the Anvil lighthouse, and he intended to keep it that way. He realized that after they met, he would need to take extra measures to avoid the possibility of running into her. Upon seeing her tonight, he could have easily fled the Count's Arms before she spied him, but when he saw her approach the bar with a relieved sigh escaping her lips as she left her companion alone at the table, he knew that tonight would be different.

"Lucien said that?" Nim asked as she accepted her goblet from Wilbur.

"In passing," the Breton nodded and Nim stifled a groan. "But I'm sure you spend little time here, being as busy as you are."

Not willing to divulge the nature of her employment in Anvil, she shrugged and turned the conversation toward Mathieu. "And what brings you to the gold coast?"

"Business as usual."

"Oh?" The corner of her mouth quirked, and she dropped her gaze to the wine glass. "Anyone I know?" she said darkly.

Mathieu watched her nostrils flare as her stare grew deeper. "I suppose you'll find out soon enough, won't you?"

She raised her goblet to him before taking her first sip. "You're dressed like a commoner," she stated. "It's so strange. I thought you type lived in those robes."

"It's just for show. They're hardly conspicuous when travelling. And what about you in that dress?" He took note of the Bosmer's madeup appearance with a very obvious glance up and down. "Are you expecting someone?"

Nim bit the corner of her lips and shook her head. "Not exactly. Trying to get away from one currently."

The Silencer arched a brow. "That seems counter intuitive."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not judging in any way. You look lovely. If you're seeking attention, I'm sure you'll get it."

"What, can't a girl dress up every now and then without-" she paused, wondering if he had seen her with the man at the table and thinking of an excuse to give him. She quickly discared the idea, and felt foolish for coming out tonight entirely. "Fuck it," she said shaking her head. "What's the point in being modest? I'm looking to get laid. There I said it. Do you think terribly poor of me now?"

Mathieu stifled a laugh and shook his head gently. "No worse than before, but you'd have much better luck at the Flowing Bowl."

"I know. I was going there next if, you know, I turned up empty handed here." He watched in great amusement as her cheeks grew red. "I've had one biter thus far and he's so handsy you'd think he's part dreugh. I'm not looking to be courted or anything, but a little subtlety would be appreciated."

"That man?" Mathieu nodded in the direction of the table by the window. The Imperial sitting there rapped his fingers impatiently on the table as he looked toward Nim. She threw him a sheepish grin and quickly looked away.

Mathieu laughed, much to her chagrin. "You could do better."

"Not to mention he breathes like a horse with a cold. I've had rotten luck tonight," She sighed heavily. "Am I- am I really so undesirable? No, don't answer that."

"Only a fool would deny you, Nimileth."

"Hmph, I'm starting to think that might be just what I'm into."

"Perhaps I should take my leave then." He shifted in his seat as though readying himself to get up. "I wouldn't want to ruin your chances."

"Oh, don't be silly," Nim interrupted, placing a hand on his upper arm. "Please stay if you have time. And it's Nim, by the way. Everyone calls me Nim."

Mathieu ordered another beer and the two assassins fell into a colorful conversation about handsy men, their love of summer weather, and a mutual distrust for pirates. Nim was halfway through telling a story about a group of women down at the Flowing Bowl who liked to rook married men out of their hard earned septims and family heirlooms when Mathieu's mind began to wander.

She looked so ordinary with her lips, stained red like cinnabar, pressed against the rim of the goblet as she shook her shoulders to the rhythm of the music. Just another woman who longed to feel wanted, waiting for someone to slide up beside her, place his arm around her waist, and buy her another drink. He stared at the bottle in his hand as he turned it in circles and wondered what Lucien would think if he saw his prized assassin here beside him all dolled up in her ruby lipstick and looking for someone to take her home.

Gazing up to meet her enthusiastic eyes, Nim looked so ordinary sitting there, smiling at him through fluttering lashes, that it was almost painful for Mathieu to know she would never live the mundane, suburban life that she was so good at impersonating.

"Nim," he whispered and leaned in closer to her, sliding one arm behind the small of her back and gently squeezing her side. "Have dinner with me."

She scoffed. "And here I thought you were only interested in me when Lucien was around." Although she forgot much of that night of the party, she didn't forget their awkward encounter with the Speaker on the top floor of the abandoned house.

"Don't be silly. Have dinner with me."

Nim squinted at the Breton as though in careful deliberation. He wasn't piss drunk like last time, which was one mark in his favor. He had never been terrible company, in fact, her mood seemed to lighten when he was around. But still, he was Dark Brotherhood, and she knew there was something out of sorts in the persistence of his umber stare.

She opened her mouth to speak and Mathieu gently swiped a stray lash from her cheek. She took his hand in hers before he could shake it off.

"Make a wish," she said, holding his finger in front of his mouth. Mathieu peered at the delicate little eyelash on the tip of his index finger and blew a small breath. He watched as it traveled through the air, spinning like a falling leaf before it disappeared amidst the crowd.

What would Lucien think if he saw them together now, blushing and sharing quite laughter on a mundane Middas evening? The thought of the Speaker walking in on their ordinary little slice of bliss sent a chill over Mathieu's arms, raising the thin hairs that grew there as a devilish delight heated his blood. What would Lucien think if he saw them together now, her waist in his arms as he lead her to a table across the room?

The evening bard and his troupe of musicians took a pause from their melodies and the tavern filled with inaudible chatter. Nim and Mathieu sat in the far table by the window as they ate fresh venison and roasted potatoes, making up stories for the townsfolk they spied around the room. The couple at the nearby table were bickering loudly but their argument was undiscernable among the din of the crowd. The pair of assassins came to the conclusion that they were quarrelling over the man's compulsive shopping habits.

"What was he buying?" Mathieu asked.

"Spoons."

The Breton chuckled at her quick reply. "And now there's no room in the kitchen for her mother's antique silver. It's been in her family for five generations."

"The horror." Nim shook her head and feigned a sympathetic frown. "They should just divorce now. It's an incompatibility that cannot be overcome."

The next target of their game was a middle-aged woman at the bar who was obviously looking to have an affair while her seafairing husband was out of town. Nim slapped Mathieu's hand gently when he suggested she go over and exchange advice on how to pick up men. As they came to the end of their meal, Mathieu grew silent. Nim noticed the intense look he was giving her and pursed her lips.

"Hmm? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Mathieu paused before shaking his head. "It's nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing," she teased.

"Nim, do you trust me?"

"Bloody hell no," she laughed and took the last bite of her roast before slumping back in her chair and pushing her plate away. She stopped mid-chew as Mathieu leaned over and took her hand in his, his thumb stroking the length of her palm slowly. Nim suddenly became very conscious of every movement that occurred around her. Mathieu biting the inside of his cheek. The lute player testing the tune of his instrument before the next round of songs. Her mouth growing increasingly dry as Mathieu cleared his throat to speak.

"Let me take you home tonight," he said just as the drummer had started up again and drowned the low hush of his voice. Nim chuckled nervously. She was sure she had heard him incorrectly.

"What did you say?"

"Let me walk you home," Mathieu repeated, hoping she did not notice the slight alteration.

"Oh. Okay," she replied with a whisper. The pair stood up from their seats in silent agreement as they made their way to the door.

Nim walked with her arm linked in Mathieu's and told him the story of Logren Benirus, the necromancer that occupied her house before her. For good reason, she left out the part about the curses and recruiting some of her fellow mages to take down the lich that was lying undead in her basement. As they approached the gate of her front yard, Mathieu once again grew quiet and Nim chose not to fill the silence between them. She opened the gate and Mathieu walked her to the bottom of the steps leading to the porch. She proceeded upward and Mathieu let her unlink her arm from his as she ascended. Reaching the door, she paused and turned to face him. He looked up at her calmly with his hands clasped behind him, the smallest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as though he were waiting for her to return.

"Do you… want to come in?" She asked, her heart hammering in her throat. Nim had all but given up on the goal of her night, but there Mathieu stood just several feet away. if he said no she wouldn't take offense. At least she knew him. That alone put him one notch above anyone else in the tavern. Maybe.

Mathieu took a second to himself before he proceeded silently up the stone steps, and Nim took this as her cue to unlock the front door. She stepped inside and held it open for him to enter. They stood in the foyer for several breaths, tension thickening in the room along with the growing darkness as she closed the door behind them.

Nim led him into the kitchen and leaned back against the dining table.

"Do you want a drink?" she asked sheepishly. Her hands fiddled with the chain of her amulet, and Mathieu found the sudden nervousness endearing.

"I'm fine, thank you." He smiled and let his eyes find hers through the dimly lit room.

She gripped the edge of the table tightly and glanced around her cabinets for anything more to offer him. "What about some light? Would you like me to-"

Before she could finish speaking, Mathieu closed the distance between them and slipped a hand around the back of her head. He pressed his lips to hers, and though they were cold against her mouth, she melted beneath them as if they were burning. It had been so long since she had been kissed like this, since she had felt wanted, and when Mathieu pulled away she found herself short of breath and thirsting.

"Show me to your room," he whispered softly as he pressed his forehead to hers.

She took his hand and led him up the spiraled staircase to her bedroom, the anticipation building in her chest with each step. The room was cloaked in shadow save a single stream of starlight entering through the parted curtains of the window beside her bed. She had only taken one step inside when the door slammed closed behind her and a firm grip encircled her upper arm. Mathieu pulled her against him with enough force to knock her off balance, and she stumbled into his chest gracelessly. He laughed, and her mouth was on him in seconds, licking gently as his tongue found hers. She was warm where he had been cool. So warm that Mathieu wondered why he had let himself stay frozen and numb for this long.

Nim took him by the hands, walking backward and pulling him on top of her as she laid herself on the bed. She unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it down past his shoulders, as they kissed and moved against each other. With eyes locked in darkness, Nim placed his hand over her breast and he kneaded it through the fabric of her dress briefly before becoming distracted by her hair flowing across the blanket beneath her. Mathieu ran his fingers down the length of her copper tresses, not remembering the last time he partook in such a small pleasure.

But the memory snapped back to him with a piercing jolt, as though a knife had been thrust into his stomach and twisted. The scene returned to him, a haunting miasma flooding his senses, and the more Nim squirmed and moved her body against him, the more vivid it became.

Maria beneath him, her legs trembling and arms flailing as he pressed his knees into her chest and held her down. Maria beneath him, her amber eyes bulging, begging him to release the grip around her neck. The purple bruises that bloomed beneath his fingers and the tendons in his hands popping in his skin as he squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.

Nim moaned against his lips, but all he could hear was Maria's rattling breath as the blood churned to foam at her mouth and spilled down her cheeks. When he looked at the woman beneath him, he didn't see copper hair and bronzed skin. He saw Maria, golden curls matted with blood and skin swollen, blue, and distended as the rot set in.

"Wait," Mathieu paused. His breaths grew rapid and shallow as he attempted to return his racing mind to the stillness of Nim's bedroom.

"What's that?" Nim mumbled, her mouth still moving across the skin of his chest.

"I just have to…" he started and trailed off into silence as he pulled away. Nim watched him grow rigid as he turned his head to face the wall, eyes squeezed shut and arms quaking. She allowed a night-eye spell to wash over her vision and chuckled nervously.

"Am I…really so undesirable," she began, but the laugh caught in her throat when Mathieu's gaze returned to her glassy and brimmed with a pool of tears.

"That was a joke," she admitted weakly and crawled out from beneath the Breton. "Mathieu, are you alright?"

"I'm sorry, Nim. I'm so sorry."

She reached out for his hand, but he flinched away, the warmth of her skin now unbearable as he recalled Maria's cold, lifeless body laying limp in his arms.

"I can't stop thinking about her. When I look at you, I see her. But you're not Maria, and I- I just can't."

Nim placed a hand on his bare chest, acknowledging the quiver of his muscles as she curled her fingers around his shoulder.

"It's fine,"she whispered.

Mathieu sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. They grasped at tufts of hair, and he ripped them out at the root with a guttural groan. Nim froze, watching as the man's whole body shook beside her before his shoulders fell. He crumpled against his knees and heaved

"I'm sorry," he cried again. In the darkness, he swore he saw her there looking at him, taunting him from the void through Nim's worried eyes. He couldn't bear to see her again. "I should leave you."

"Mathieu," Nim lurched forward, pulling on his arm to keep him seated before he could rise from the bed. "You don't have to."

He looked over his shoulder to meet the moonlight bouncing off her face. Her eyes were round and terrified and quickly fell to the blanket clenched tightly in her palm.

"Can't I keep you company? Can't you stay, just for a little while?" she asked, her voice a cracked whisper, and Mathieu felt his heart plummet into his stomach as he recognized the loneliness in her desperate plea. "I won't ask anything of you," she promised him.

Slowly, Mathieu rolled onto his side and held either side of her face in his hands. He planted a kiss on her forehead and then tucked his knees into his chest. She wrapped an arm around him.

"Why are you like this, Nimileth? What are you doing, throwing yourself away like this?"

"I just want to feel something warm right now," she mumbled against his hair. "Please, I'm so tired of having nothing to hold onto."

They lay together like coils of rope, frayed at the ends and warped by the tension held within their twisting fibers. Mathieu rested his head on her chest, listening to the slow thrum of her heart as she combed her fingers through his hair.

"All we do is kill and kill and kill. All we know is death," he croaked out pulling tightly at the fabric of Nim's dress as tears rolled off the side of his face. "I'm a monster."

"Shh," she commanded him. "You're just a man."

They laid there as minutes turned to hours and when Mathieu finally stirred and broke their embrace, Nim let him without objection. He left no parting words, only the indent of his slender frame in the mattress and the ghost of warmth that lingered there.