White specks bloomed along the window, the lithe fingers of her right hand tracing the prickling impacts of snow from the other side.
The sky grew darker with each passing moment, the roiling sea below mirroring it. The sun teetered on the cusp of dipping over the horizon, the last vestiges of light in the sky pooling into its searing gaze.
Even through the shrouded glass, it made Marian's hair stand up on her skin. She sat there on the windowsill, left hand playing with an errant few strands of her hair. As though her blood wasn't running thin within her veins, as though there was still weight to be felt in the legs that dangled in the air below her waist.
As though there was any beauty to be found in the muted streaks of orange and pink bleeding out of the clouds. As though there was still warmth to be felt upon her dead flesh.
Her neck slackened, and her forehead pressed up against the window.
Water droplets upon the glass spread over her brow like the cold blood of a spiteful god. Her lip trembled, the touch of moisture condensing in her eyes only seeming to amplify the sting of the sun.
Marian…
She wanted to squeeze them shut, blot out the voice that called out to her in agony from the murky sea.
Marian…
Hoarse, almost lost in a howling wind of unearthly screams.
Her vision swam, rippling as though the tumultuous roil of the ocean splayed out before her had come to envelop her.
There was a touch of pale white she could see within those violent tides. Accented by braids of black hair, diligently tied together by her very fingers. Some murky instinct in her subconscious urged her to fix the scraggly strands that flowed with the rippling tide, the crown of ebony hair that had been torn apart.
Her hand reached out, pressingly helplessly against the glass barrier before her.
Marian…
The mouth that the voice spilled out from hung limply open. The eyes that stared back at her were devoid of the vibrance they used to gaze at her with, the verdant green of their irises stripped away. Blotted out by droplets of cold blood-red, bleeding into them through their brows.
I'm sorry.
Her words choked within her throat, lips sealed shut.
The glass before her rippled, slick with moisture that wrapped its bloody tendrils around her eyes. Sinking its fangs into her neck, brushing her heavy eyelids shut with trembling dead fingers.
Even through the blur, she could see Lady Serana's mouth moving, calling out to her. Pleading for her to follow.
But she couldn't.
All she could do was gaze after her through the glass.
0-0-0
"Marian!"
The hissing voice cut through to her ears, sharp and grating.
Her fingers twitched, skin brushing on dry wood.
Not glass.
Her eyes snapped open, finding themselves greeted by the rugged spine of a closed book.
The sole window in this corner of the library was paces away from where she was, a dim orange light peeking through the closed curtains. The wind outside blew softly, wordlessly, muffled by sturdy stone.
"Marian!" The voice hissed again, a feeble force rocking at her shoulder. It was still enough to remind her of the wood chafing at her cheek.
"I'm up," Marian groaned out in response, waving away the hand that grasped her shoulder.
She peeled herself off from the table, wincing at the strain in her neck, the brief rush of vertigo overtaking the inside of her skull. She let her eyes fall closed again for but a moment, a steadying breath pooling in her chest.
The voice gave her none of the reprieve she sought. No longer restrained by a whisper, its words pounded on Marian's ears, normally dulcet tones sharpened by an accusatory edge.
"You should've been up nearly an hour ago. Have you been here this entire time? What is this?" The ensuing silence all but forced Marian's eyes back open. The chafing grit behind her eyelids was palpable. She found a lithe, pale indigo finger pointing at the stack of books on the table.
"Nephanya, please, not now," Marian said, her head already throbbing again.
The young Dunmer woman stepped around into her view, eyes narrowing on the cover of the top tome of the pile. The sharp frown set she wore on her blue tinged lips softened as she read the title aloud.
"The Real Barenziah?"
The edges of her mouth twitched upwards, though the remark she let slip out was dry of any mirth.
"How scandalous."
Marian groaned again, wordlessly, turning her gaze down to the swirling wood surface of the table.
"Oh, come on, don't act all down and ragged."
"It's not 'acting', I didn't sleep well," she murmured half-heartedly in response.
"On this table, I doubt anyone would. Probably why you shouldn't be sneaking out during the day to indulge in idle fantasies."
After what had happened, could she really be blamed for wanting to escape from reality a little?
She looked up, finding that Nephanya was still gazing stonily down at her. Her yet youthful elven features bore the expression of a scolding mother eerily well.
Marian sighed, her breath stifled by a weight upon her chest she could not rid herself of.
"Yes, it's my own fault, I owe you for covering for me. Is that what you want to hear?"
"A little more of your usual mewling subservience would've been nice, but I suppose this will suffice," Nephanya replied, lips breaking into a wry smile. Though it was not enough to elicit the same reaction from Marian, she gladly reciprocated the Dunmer maid's attempt at a jest.
"Would you like for me to start calling you My Lady as well?"
"Oh yes, please, be sure to wash my apron and powder my face for me too," Nephanya said with a chuckle, combing a hand through some non-existent blemish in the neat bun of hair adorning her head. The dying light seeping through the window cast a supple pink over the strands of snow white.
"I'd ask if you could cook for me too, but somehow I get the feeling your skill at preparing… well, normal meals is a little rusty."
A feeble hum from her throat was all Marian could muster. Her gaze slid off to the side, the mottled pink-stained window on the far side of the library wall drawing up images that were still too fresh in her mind, pulling whispers from the muted breeze outside.
In light of that, she supposed Nephanya's banter was a welcome distraction.
"I'll have you know though, I didn't have to cover for you at all. No sign of Aelanah or Rickon in the sparring pens tonight."
The stiffness in Marian's brows broke as they furrowed. The lingering haze of the nightmare swirling in her skull faded somewhat as she processed the seemingly innocuous remark. Aelanah Frostblood and Rickon Ironmaw were some of the most zealous aspirants she knew of in the clan – their daily sparring sessions often drew a small crowd. Even Lord Sarpa spectated on a close to regular basis. "Are you sure they weren't there earlier tonight? Perhaps you just missed them."
"They're not ones to clean up after themselves, and the pens were spotless. And there weren't even onlookers waiting for the show to start."
Her belly, devoid of matter, felt heavy.
"That's… unusual."
She saw Nephanya shrug from the corner of her eye, picking up the unopened books piled up on the table.
"These are unusual times, from what I hear. The aspirants' quarters were abuzz about… something last dawn, right before everyone went to sleep. I swear, they were chattering so fast I couldn't make any sense of it. Neither could Olen, and that's saying something."
Marian's tongue was leaden, a flood of thoughts gathering at its tip- words she knew could not be spoken.
She bit her lip, the sharpness of her teeth cutting into tender flesh. As though that alone could stifle the truth.
She let a few words trickle out, harmless, news Nephanya would've heard soon enough as it was.
"Lady Serana returned last night. A few hours before dawn."
"'Lady Serana'? Hmm."
The Dunmer maid began to move away before suddenly pausing. Almond eyes widened at Marian, irises glimmering a natural ruby red.
"Serana? As in Lord Harkon's daughter?"
Marian nodded.
For once, a similar silence fell over Nephanya. The Dunmer maid didn't so much as move for a few moments, the sizeable stack of books still cradled in her hands.
It didn't last for long, whatever surprise she might've felt from such revelation washing away quickly.
"Well, that would explain it. Whole court's probably scrambling to find gifts for her return or something such other."
"Most don't know her. She's… been gone a long time."
Nephanya scoffed, walking out of sight. "All they need to know about her is that she's the daughter of their lord."
Indeed. Lady Serana's voice echoed in her ears bitterly in the wake of clacking shoes, marching down the cavernous rows of bookshelves.
"He doesn't even see me as his daughter anymore."
She kept her lips shut, breathing deep through her nose. The finely chilled air of the library flushed into her lungs, making her all too aware of the tightness that seemed to grip her entire chest.
She exhaled through her mouth, throat burning at the passage of air. Her palms pressed down on the table as she heaved herself up, legs still faintly numb of feeling. A quiet groan escaped her as she wobbled in place a little, but her arms kept a firm anchor to the table before her.
The clacking of shoes tapped on her eardrums as Nephanya walked back around to face her, brows slanted in concern.
"You alright?"
Marian just nodded, tensing her thighs against the table. Her feet pressed into the bottom of her shoes, toes straining against the insides of the hard black leather.
She swallowed hard, the lump sitting in her throat palpable, the throbbing in her skull unrelenting. Her arms felt limp as she pushed off of the table, her spine feeling as though it were a bending reed within the wind as it straightened out.
"It's almost feeding hour," Marian mused numbly. "Likely going to be a busy one. They'll expect Lady Serana to attend."
"Expect? Or hope?"
"She never was one for crowds."
That didn't much matter now, of course.
Nephanya grimaced, her supple elven features scrunching together. "They'll be staking out the dining hall for hours."
Somehow, that didn't sound so bad to Marian. Maybe all the bustle would help keep her mind away from her own thoughts.
0-0-0
The silver arms of the chandelier spread over the arched ceiling of the dining hall like a great web. There was a time when Marian might've paused on her way to fill the empty goblets she held, to admire its brilliance. To marvel at dots of arcane flames that fluttered up there, lit by sorceries written upon scrolls older than most who dined beneath their light was.
It felt more as though she were a fly tangled within its grasp at the moment. Fluttering flames cast strobing lights over the oak tables she strode between, that swirling sensation mingling with the din of chatter that enveloped the hall. Her stomach rumbled as she passed by rows of seated Volkihar aspirants, a heavy weight of emptiness sitting in her belly as she watched them sip blood from their chalices. Ruby reds mixed with scarlet, flowing down tongues like velvet.
It was a far cry from the watery concoctions that she sustained herself on.
…
The rim of an empty goblet caught her eye, the lip of it lightly smeared over in blood. The hand closest to it was tapping the table surface absentmindedly, only grazing against the bottom of the chalice every so often.
Marian did her best to tune out the flurry of words swimming over the table as she made her way over.
A weak smile was all she could summon up for the fledgling aspirant by the goblet as he turned to face her. His lips moved, revealing a set of razor teeth as her arm snaked past his shoulder, balancing the modest half dozen empty goblets on the platter held in her right hand.
It wasn't until she felt his palm clamp down on her arm that the hazy bubble she'd enveloped herself in burst.
"Hey! Serving girl! I'm talking to you!"
The words bellowed into her ear, needlessly loud even over the din of chatter surrounding them. She bit back a wince, straining to preserve the tenuous smile painted onto her lips as she turned to face him. "My sincere apologies. What do you wish of me?"
"May I have my meal back?" He shouted, a glimmer in his eyes reminding Marian of the unsettling weight resting within her empty belly.
Her eyes drifted down to the chalice she held, a swill of blood dregs staring back at her from the bottom of it.
"My apologies," she said with a slight incline of her head, the porcelain mask of serenity she carried over her lips straining as she felt coarse-skinned fingers wrest the goblet from her hand. She looked back up, watching as the aspirant tilted the vessel back into his open maw, gulping down the pulpy remnants in seconds. A few drops splashed across his jaw. The white handkerchief tucked into his collar remained unblemished as he thrust the now empty goblet back at her.
He said nothing, and Marian stared for a few moments, mind blank of what the set of gritting teeth aimed at her were commanding her to do. How could she know? She was just a handmaiden-
-she blinked, bowing her head once more as she reached out with her empty hand.
Get it together.
Her fingers faintly trembled as she wrapped them around the stem of the goblet, the whispers slipping into her ears from underneath the chatter ringing around the hall doing little to help her steady her grip.
"Those are the eyes of a vampire alright."
"A vampire serving girl- what a miserable existence that must be. At least the mortal ones can expect the servitude to end in death."
"Wonder what she did to deserve such a fate?"
"Maybe from blabbering away about useless shit like you icebrains."
The goblet slid into its place on the platter she held. The light clink it made against the other empty cups on there was enough to help her shake off the undercurrent of whispers, letting them slide away into the noise ringing through the dining hall.
Even so, she could still feel their eyes on her back as she went on her way.
0-0-0
The knife drew a shaky line across skin, her fingers lacking the iron firm grip she usually possessed. The white razor edge sliced into the flesh beneath, a thin sheet of blood already running down the pale grey stretch of thigh that had been cut open. It flowed thickly and richly, its red tint almost searing in the darkness of the cattle pens. Only a single, eerie light shone down from the corner of the pens, from the halls that lay beyond the single staircase leading in.
A thin stream began to pool in the sluice between the cattle's legs on the bloodletting table it laid on. The weight of the blood trickling into the goblet she held barely registered.
Her nostrils flared instinctively, hairs inside bristling at the faintest musk of ash amongst the metallic scent of the red fluid. A roil bubbled up from her belly- Marian swallowed, saliva sliding down her parched throat.
Her hand grew shakier with each passing second that she fumbled with the knife, shuffling it up and down through strands of muscle. It was as though she could feel each individual fibre fraying and splitting under her clumsy butchery, as though her very fingers were digging around inside the now ruined flesh.
Perhaps that was a good thing- she couldn't see anything past the sheen of blood flowing out. So when she felt the knife brush against something taut, pulsing, she paused. She could've sworn she even felt the cattle's leg twitch at the touch of the knife's cold metal, heard a muted gasp escape it. She bit her lip, slowly pulling the knife back-
-there it was. Pressed right up against the bloodstained edge. A small nudge was all it took to slice open the artery now, and she was only all too eager to withdraw from the flood of rich vital fluid that poured out into the sluice.
Her hand trembled around the knife's handle, palm slick with moistness. An uncharacteristic jitteriness coursed through her arm as she guided it over to the wooden stand at her side- her fingers slipped, and the knife dropped into its place on a tray an audible clatter. Splotches of red spread across the iron surface of the tray from the blade.
Only when she saw the bloody prints left on the handle did she spare a glance at her own hand, breath catching in her throat as she noticed how it was utterly drenched in blood. Hastily, she wiped her hand on a dry rag next to the platter of goblets she'd set down before turning her attention back to the one she was currently filling. Her palm seemed to stick to the cup's silver surface as she steadied it.
Get it together.
The reflection of her face, rippling in the bloody mirage of the chalice she held, stared back at her. Strands of black hair, freed from the structure she'd hastily tied them into earlier, dangled before it.
"I'm trying," she whispered.
The splashing flow of blood reverberated off the damp stone walls of the cattle pens. The distant clamor of the dining hall rang on beyond the open doorway behind her.
And yet, alone in the dark again, it was the echoes in the murk of her mind that rang loudest in her ears.
Marian…
The face she saw in the bubbling blood twisted and churned. It became impossible not to see Lady Serana's visage in there. Cold, dying, lips moving with an unnatural energy to repeat the same name.
Marian…
She closed her eyes, letting her neck slacken for just a moment.
A moment seemed to be all it took for a rush of wetness to suddenly wash over her fingers.
Her eyes snapped back open, finding that the rippling red mirror she'd last seen had already risen to the rim of the goblet.
Blood splashed from the sluice onto the floor as she moved the overflowing vessel away, its surface smearing over with red. Rivulets streamed down her fingers, trailing across onto her palm and down her arm. Even more splashed onto the platter as her trembling hands let the chalice go, clattering loudly against the others.
Her fingers scrambled for the rag once more, sliding clumsily across the wooden stand holding the platter as the pitter-patter of fresh blood washing away onto the floor rang in her ears.
Fill the others first. Wipe later.
Metal clattered against stone as a goblet, mercifully empty at least, was knocked to the ground by her hands as she plucked out another from the platter.
Only when she heard the quiet splatter of blood flowing into the cup held in her hand did she allow herself to release a shaky breath.
"Rough day, I presume?"
The words carved into her senses with a jolt, but she managed to hold herself steady to her duty. She raised her head a little, to acknowledge the speaker- even without being able to take her attention away from her task, the gravelly, ashen tones of that voice were unmistakable.
"Forgive me, Lord Garan. I was lax in my attention."
"No need to apologize to me for the mess. 'Tis not I who will be cleaning the pen floors, nor I who will be drinking from a mere aspirant's cup."
"I- yes, of course my Lord."
Lord Garan simply chuckled, mercifully choosing not to follow up. Perhaps the string of mistakes she'd made already was entertainment enough for him.
His boots clacked against the floor behind her, beating on her skull distinctly out of sync with the flow of blood into the cup she held before her. The metal hinges of one of the side cells squealed open.
"Will you require any aid with the cattle, my Lord?" She asked, entirely out of instinct.
"Are you in a position to aid me?"
Her teeth ground into her lip, brows pinching.
"No, my Lord. Forgive my inability to attend to you at this moment."
"I am quite capable of handling my own prey, Marian. Your apology is accepted."
The blood was pooling past just half full in the cup now. She made sure to prepare the next with her free hand this time. Scooping the fallen one from earlier off the floor, its metal rim scraping on stone, she pressed it against the other she held.
The metal cage door creaked again behind her, clacking boots audibly followed by a pair of shuffling feet.
She was glad she didn't have to meet the empty gaze of whatever lifeless creature Garan had picked out. He, however, did not seem to want to let her off that easily.
"Fancy a taste?"
She didn't respond immediately, at least partly because she kept her attention on switching the now filled chalice over to the empty one.
"It would be inappropriate for me to partake in mortal blood, my Lord."
"Oh? But this is a time of revelry is it not? Surely even a handmaiden such as yourself can indulge herself a little?"
She grimaced, the name that bubbled up to her tongue tasting more bitter than the first time she'd forced herself to down the brew that had been created by the very person who bore that name.
"The order was given… long ago, that I was forbidden from such base pleasures, my Lord. Lord Harkon has never seen fit to rescind it."
"Ah. I see. Forgive me for my presumptions, then," he said, his voice breaking its evenness only so slightly as to take on a placating tone.
"Your apology is accepted," she parroted back to him, the words feeling heavy and awkward on her tongue. The chuckle she received in return did nothing to put her at ease.
"Funny, isn't it? That the blood of a handmaiden is purer than most lords and ladies of this court?"
The flow running down the sluice had slowed to the point that she decided to set aside the cups she held. Lord Garan's gaze met hers as she turned around- glowing in the dark, royal red trimmed by gold.
"May I ask what you mean by that, my Lord?"
"Just commenting on the consequences of your admirably austere diet, my dear. You'd be surprised at how much one's power can diminish after centuries of feasting on mortal blood, diluting the… mere sliver of purity which runs in our own veins."
'Purity', he called it.
She wondered if he still would've seen it that way if he'd been there witness the ritual. To have watched Serana and Lady Valerica's cold and limp bodies rise from the icy stone floor, eyes stripped of the lush greens that they had borne in life.
Her cheeks strained to hold up the smile she wore. "I see. Thank you for clarifying, my Lord."
He flashed her a toothy grin from behind his red beard in return.
"Indeed. I should be running along now- though if I may occupy your attention for just a moment longer, have you seen Lord Sarpa about this evening yet?"
Her brows furrowed as she thought it over. She hadn't seen him at all since the night before- and as Nephanya had noted earlier, he hadn't been in the sparring pens earlier.
"No, my Lord, I haven't."
"Hmm. It is unlike him to be late for feeding. Especially when he specifically requested to see me at the table the night before."
Indeed it was.
That heaviness in her stomach seemed to return, coiling uncontrollably in the bottom of her belly.
Lord Garan's fingers ran through his beard, manicured nails brushing gently against groomed streaks of red hair.
"I'm afraid I don't know how else to help, my Lord," she said at last, the stillness at last forcing her tongue out of its wordless torpor.
"Hmm? Ah, don't mind me. I was just musing aloud. It's easy to forget to watch one's tongue when in the company of a mere handmaiden," he said with a wink.
She said nothing in return, hardly fazed by his last comment, her own mind still reeling over the unusual details she'd gathered. Her face felt numb, maintaining a tenuous hold on her expression.
Lord Sarpa, Aelanah, Rickon… none of them had been in the dining hall, as far as she had seen. None of them had any reason to be elsewhere as far as she knew- and surely they hadn't learned of what had transpired between her and Serana the night before…?
No. No, if they had known of that treasonous conversation, she most certainly would've seen them already.
"In any case," Lord Garan said, mercifully cutting into her spiralling thoughts, "It seems I've taken enough of your time. I should allow you to return to your task. Will you be tending to Lady Serana later tonight?"
"I… most likely yes, my Lord."
"Send her my regards, if you would- and let her know that I would be delighted to make her acquaintance. Whenever she pleases."
"Of course, my Lord. Enjoy your meal."
Lord Garan turned around, cattle in tow. They disappeared up the staircase leading out of the pens, their footsteps blurring with the muffled dining hall chatter from beyond.
And then she was alone once more, standing flat-footed in the dark, stagnant air of the pens. Even then, she couldn't bring herself to expel the tension within her, to sob and retch it all out, collapse in a limp heap.
The rhythmic splash of mere drops of blood was all she could hear on the stone floor behind her now. A quick glance over her shoulder showed the cattle's chest still rising and falling, albeit weaker than before- the flow of blood in the sluice running parallel to its leg was little more than a drying line of dark red now.
Hands still trembling, and faintly sticky with dry blood, she reached for the knife again. Tried not to look at the cattle's blank face as she did so.
It was the only thing she could do. She was just a handmaiden, after all.