AN: TW: Extremely dubious consent in this chapter.

Chapter 20: Into the Void

They tumbled to the floor, Lucien's energy finally giving out as his head crashed against the stone with a dull thump. He stared at the cobwebs on the ceiling of his fort, finding new constellations in the beads of moisture that clung to them.

"I see Sithis coming," he mumbled, his voice raspy and cracking. "Come, Nimileth. Let us welcome the Void together."

Casting a cursory glance in the direction of his eyes, Nim found nothing particularly ominous or amusing. She sighed heavily as she rose to her feet.

"Oblivion take you," she snorted, thinking of how happy the little spiders would be to desiccate his corpse. "I'm not dying like that."

He laughed calmly, serenely and kept his eyes forward. They grew distant and glazed as he stared further and further into the silken strands above. The blood-loss was certainly getting to his head.

Taking a deep breath, Nim stumbled forward and clutched the stone pillar in the center of the room, her vision slightly blurred at the periphery. She looked through Lucien's belongings in search of any corked bottle that remotely resembled a potion. He had alchemy equipment laid out on a nearby table but few of the ingredients that she needed to dispel her silence or brew a potion potent enough to heal the severity of his wounds.

In his pantry she found various fruits, cured meats, and an assortment of dried fungi. Some fly amanita, some green stain. Enough to make a poultice to stop the bleeding, but not enough to repair the flesh. Given the blood loss, she wasn't sure she had enough time to distill all the ingredients to make a proper potion before he lost consciousness. Part of her wondered if it would really be such a bad thing if that were to happen, but she quickly pushed the thought away. Her hands had caused this, intentionally or not. Even if Lucien was a stupid fool who deserved it, she wouldn't let him bleed out in his own home. She had tasted enough of death tonight.

In a cupboard she spied needles and thread. The old-fashioned way it was.

Nim pulled out a bruised aloe vera leaf from her pack and rinsed it of any contaminating properties that might have spilled onto it when her potions smashed. She added it to the mortar and began grinding down the mushroom caps into a coarse paste. She treated her wound first and swiftly. She rinsed away the blood and debris that had accumulated at the site of her cut before applying the poultice and securing it around her waist with a wrapping of gauze. She then approached Lucien with a tray of assorted medical equipment. Bandages, a pitcher of water, and the remaining salve.

Starting with the arrowhead lodged in his shoulder, Nim ignored how Lucien's drowsy stare flitted across her face while she worked. She inspected the wound silently, and Lucien admired the intensity with which she tended to him. His mind felt like it was floating away from him. His body too, numb and icy and so barely there to contain him. All he could focus on was the splattering of freckled sunspots over the bridge of the elf's nose, the scrunch between her brows as she rinsed away his blood. He had never met such a lethal healer in all his life.

"So you are gentle after all," he cooed. "Like the blooming nightshade unfurling her sepals at dusk. The soft scent of sugared nectar-"

Nim dug her finger into the hole below his clavicle, drawing a loud hiss from the Speaker as she pulled out the remains of the shattered arrowhead. He squinted at her through tear-brimmed eyes and laughed as a caustic frown spread over her lips.

"I am only capable of so much empathy, Lucien. Please stop talking to me." She placed a piece of willow bark in his mouth to chew on. As if his flowery garble wasn't already the last thing she wanted to hear, she desperately needed to concentrate in her weakened state. She had trained as a healer in the Great Chapel of Mara with Marz for several months before joining the Mages Guild. Thus, she knew how to dress a wound and stitch skin together, but in the years that followed she had grown to rely heavily upon her magic. Without it, she might as well be naked.

Nim pulled Lucien's robes over his head and was relieved to find plain clothes beneath them. She couldn't imagine how she would react if he had nothing on. As if her failed romantic endeavors and prolonged dry spell were not bad enough on their own, if this had to be the first time she saw a naked man all year she was sure there must be some cosmic joke at play.

Quickly cleansing her mind of such visions, Nim cut through the wool shirt and began to peel away the fabric that clung to Lucien's body, stuck there by the drying blood that had soaked through from his wounds. Rinsing the skin to reveal the lesion, she gasped. A trail of raised scars crisscrossed over Lucien's chest. Her suspicions about the Speaker's lack of training in restoration had been confirmed as she absentmindedly grazed a finger down the deep furrow that ran obliquely along the muscles of his abdomen. The flesh that lined them was pink and smooth, a sign that whatever injury he had acquired had been left to heal naturally over time.

Her eyes wandered over his chest and the jagged mementos left from years of combat. Maybe decades. Nim stared at his face, scrutinizing the shallow wrinkles at his eyes and the sparse wisps of graying hair dispersed along his part. For the first time sitting meeting Lucien, she tried to guess his age. He must be in his late thirties at least. Forties? She focused again on his injuries. They were much deeper than she had initially thought.

"See something you like?" he asked, mumbling with his mouth full of softened willow bark. Nim rolled her eyes at the wicked, blood-stained smile on his lips and continued rinsing.

"Gods, even at an hour like this you're just an impulse incarnate," she huffed. "I cannot fathom how Antoinetta is so fond of you. You're painfully one-dimensional."

"Antoinetta knows my dimensions like no other in the Sanctuary. I assure you, I am very much a multi-faceted person."

A bitter scowl harshened on the elf's face. "That's revolting."

"And I don't see how everyone is so enamored with you," he grunted as she pressed the poultice to his wound. "You're incredibly high-strung without all of your illusion charms."

Nim ignored him and when she had done all she could for his injuries, she hobbled over to the alchemy equipment and began once more to scrounge for anything she could use to dispel the lingering effects of the silence poison infecting her magical reserves.

"There is some dried bergamot in the tin to your right," Lucien croaked out from the floor. He too dabbled in alchemy and knew what she would be looking for given what ailed her.

"Do you have any wine?"

He turned his neck toward her, a curious grin on his face.

"You're drinking at an hour like this? And I thought I was a slave to my vices," he said, his tone ripe with sarcasm and playful judgment. He sat up and dragged himself toward the stone pillar with a groan. Nim looked at him expectantly with a hand on her hip as Lucien leaned himself against the column. He pointed to the table in the far corner and took a few moments to catch his breath, thankful for the mild numbing effect of whatever she had applied to his wounds.

Nim brought the wine and a firestarter to the desk and perched herself before a retort. She couldn't remember the last time she had to use flint and steel to beget flame. Once she got the sparks jumping onto her little pile of wood splinters, she dropped the bergamot seeds into the wine and let the concoction simmer, drawing out the restorative properties of the grapes. It was the best she could do for a dispel potion given the limits of her situation. She sunk back in the chair and let her head roll as she breathed deep and weary.

Lucien attempted to stand with support of the pillar, but his knees buckled beneath him and slowly he slumped back toward the ground. Nim looked over at the crumpled man, beads of sweat pooling at his temples, and snickered.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, biting her lower lip to suppress a creeping simper.

His eyes shimmered, full of perspiration. "Like morning sunshine and a breath of spring air. When is this fatigue going to fade, do you suppose?" The pique in his voice was less than well concealed.

Nim gave a callous shrug, noting that the color was slowly returning to his face. His attempts at humor were promising of a returning mental clarity. A large part of her wished he could stay quiet for just a while longer. "The deer are usually dead before then. I've never tested it on a human."

Lucien replied with a stiff glare.

For the first time since arriving in the fort, she took in her surroundings. Musty was the first word on her tongue. It was neither cold nor warm, but it was mildly humid. Sticky even. Her skin felt damp even where the blood had been cleansed away and ventilation was practically nonexistent. There was sparse furniture and decor aside from the ample bookshelves, Dark Brotherhood tapestries, and mildewed rugs. Lucien had told her about the skeletal guardians that roamed the halls of Fort Farragut. It was likely the only willing company that he had here in this dungeon-like abode. Except for Antoinetta, maybe.

So Lucien lives like this, huh.

If she sniffed deeply enough, she could catch hints of the iron-scent of blood in the air. Of course, they tumbled in with blood dripping off their bodies, but it wouldn't surprise her if there had been sources of the smell from Lucien's previous… visitors.

"You know, I've heard things. Stories about what you do to your victims when you bring them here," Nim said absentmindedly as she peered into the dark passage that lead out from the chamber they sat in.

"Well then, you seem rather calm for someone who is alone in my presence given what you know." The Speaker attempted a smirk, not realizing how pathetic and unformidable it looked in his state of dishevelment. She met him with furrowed brows.

Lucien once again, attempted to stand and Nim watched in amusement as he shuffled around with his back pressed against the pillar. She paused before replying, taking in the sight of him struggling to keep balance and support his weight as he took a step toward the pantry.

"Sit down before you hurt yourself," she chided and dragged a chair out for him. "What do you need anyway?"

"I can get what I need," he insisted with a firm nod as he continued shambling forward.

Nim threw her head back in manic laughter.

"Fine, stumble your way there then. I bet they were just exaggerations anyway, those stories. I hear your lips are quite a rumor mill."

"I bet the stories you've heard are not as bad as the ones you haven't." The undertone of pride in the lilt of his voice left a sour taste in Nim's mouth and she frowned.

"Hmph." She grumbled, choosing to dedicate no more energy to the topic.

Lucien made his way back to the alchemical desk with an assortment of produce and dried herbs. He dragged the chair along with him and slumped down into it to catch his breath before selecting the ingredients for his potion. He chose fennel seeds, a handful of wheat grain, and a couple fresh blackberries. Nim passed the mortar and pestle his way and eyed him curiously as he assembled the materials for a potion of restore fatigue.

"You could have just asked me to make that for you."

"I'm perfectly capable."

"You look like you just ran a mile on one leg," she quipped, swiping a berry and plopping into her mouth.

"And what does that have to do with the price of Kwama eggs?"

Nim held her hands up in defense and returned to waiting in silence for her potion to finish brewing. By his selection of ingredients, she knew his preparation would be weak. There were perfectly good peony seeds on the table which would have produced a far more potent concoction. And wheat grain with fennel seeds?The two together would result in a deleterious side effect that would drain the drinkers magicka. But she supposed Lucien didn't have much need for that anyway.

Amateur,she scoffed internally. Capable my left ass cheek.

Lucien noticed her grimace as he worked and raised his brows expecting a tirade of disapproval to flow from her tightly pursed lips. If she had a problem with his preparation, however, she didn't tell him. Instead she sat demurely as she ate blackberry after blackberry, occasionally worrying the inside of her cheek with bated breath as she silently scrutinized his every step.

When the time was right, the two assassins drank their respective potions and took a long pause from any movement or chatter to regain their strength in peace. Nim let a powerful healing spell wash over her and moaned in satisfaction as she felt the magicka coursing through her unalloyed. Lucien watched with the twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips, finding her reaction more than a little amusing. Her chipper mood quickly fell when she turned to face him and remembered why exactly she had been silenced in the first place.

"I ought to do something about those wounds, Lucien," Nim said, adopting a sober and matter-of-fact tone while holding his eye.

"If that will help you rest easy at night." The Imperial shrugged and peeled back the torn fabric of his shirt, exposing the bloodied bandages she had wrapped him in. "Do what you must."

Nim paused briefly at his words and then scooted her chair in front of his. She set her hand on his chest. A small jolt of electricity leapt from the pads of her fingers and drew a shrill yelp from his lips as he sprung from his seat. The now slightly smoking Speaker parted his lips with an icy scolding ready on his tongue, but she quickly cut him off with a shake of her head.

"You said it. Not me."

"You insolent little child," he growled as the shock dissipated across his shoulders and down to his fingers.

Nim crossed her arms over her chest and met his glare with a lukewarm frown. "No, you."

"No. You-" he paused, a perplexed furrow deeping in his forehead as he tried to understand what the Bosmer had just said. "What does that even mean?"

Nim maintained the impassive expression as she righted the chair and gestured for Lucien to return to his seat.

"It means sit down, please. We're not done here."

"Don't do that again," he requested sternly.

And he sat, despite the tingle that persisted in the nerves travelling along his upper limb. Nim removed Lucien's bandages and worked her convalescent spell over his wounds. The skin healed before his eyes and the numbed pain that radiated from there quickly dissipated. Using her foot, Nim swept the discarded gauze and poultice into a pile at her feet and nodded her head contently.

"I suppose our business together has reached an end," the Bosmer sighed. "What excitement we've had. I can't possibly imagine a more productive use of my evening then skirting the edge of death with you."

"Contain your enthusiasm, Eliminator. Your eagerness is unbecoming."

Nim stood and began to gather her belongings. She peered down at her shirt and frowned at the awful tatters and blood stains that left it in ruins. "You don't suppose I could borrow something from you."

Lucien flicked his eyes across the bloodied skin that peeked out from the tears of her shirt and contained the twitch of his lips."I see nothing wrong with how you're dressed."

She squinted her eyes at him briefly. "I'd rather not have the rest of our Brothers and Sisters question how I met spent my evening. Please? I promise I'll return it."

"Don't bother." He motioned toward the dresser along the far wall and watched with a bitterness in his throat as she scurried away from him.

Pausing halfway to the chest of drawers, Nim spied a curious object in the corner of her eyes. "Is- is that your lyre?" she asked.

Lucien lifted his head to follow the direction of her gaze. He nodded.

"It's quite large and has more strings than I'm used to seeing. It looks more like a half-harp."

The Speaker scoffed contemptuously. "The harp and the lyre are very different instruments in both performance and structure. The arrangement of the strings over the bridge produces an entirely distinct sound. That is an Ayleid Heartwood lyre no less, but I wouldn't suspect you to notice such subtleties given your keen observation."

Normally, the pretentiousness of such a remark would have piqued her, but at mention of the Ayleid, Nim's heart skipped.

"Where did you get such a thing?" He didn't look like much of a treasure hunter. She quickly glanced around the room, hoping to find more artifacts among the shelves of books and scattered cookware. Nothing jumped out at her, not even a Varla stone. But even from a few meters away, Nim could see the intricacy of the engravings on the lacquered wood of the lyre. Small Welkynd insets glimmered in the faint light of the wall sconces. It was undeniably Ayleid in motif. She itched to see it up close, to run her hands along the decorative fretwork, and then describe every of inch of it to Skaleez and Denel in painstaking detail as they debated over the period in which it was crafted.

"On contract," Lucien replied. "It belonged to a collector of rare instruments, and the man who wanted him dead had an eye for Ayleid artifacts in particular. He planned to hire thieves to loot the estate after I had taken care of the owner, but he never said I couldn't take a souvenir for myself."

It didn't surprise Nim that Lucien kept mementos from his marks. At least he had good taste. She bit her tongue to keep from asking whether it was Umbacano who had placed the contract. She knew no other Ayleid collector as ruthless as the old Altmer. "Do you know anything about how it was used in cultural practice?"

Did he know how it was used…bah!

At the senseless question, Lucien shot her a withering look. The next think she'd be asking was whether or not he knew how to strangle a man.

"Any musician worth a dime knows the history of their instrument. The Heartwood lyre was designed specifically for the acoustics of the marble walls with which the Ayleid built their temples. It was played regularly during worship in celebration of Magnus. The bridge is sloped such that each string produces a different pitch. It plays song like you've never heard before."

"Can you play it for me?"

He raised his brows at her request, taking careful note of the earnest sparkle in her eye as she chewed the corner or her bottom lip and rubbed at her wrist. He was sure she would be scuttling off the moment her magicka returned, but without hesitating any longer, he walked toward her and took the lyre to the edge of his bed. He rested the instrument on his thigh and nestled it into the crook of his arm before lifting one hand and then the other before the strings. His fingers ghosted over either side of them as though whispering, persuading them into song.

The Speaker plucked slowly at first, producing wispy notes like gossamer that echoed faintly across the stone walls. Nim held her breathe as though exhaling might shatter the silken strands of music spun through his hands. They danced gracefully and with purpose, plucking notes in careful conversation with the strings held between his fingers.

Nim couldn't remember the last time she heard someone play with such elegance. It must have been back in Castle Kvatch, the night of Count Goldwine's 50th birthday. She had snuck through a vent that lead from the servant's quarters to the grand hall just to hear the travelling troupe perform. When she had gazed around the audience, she saw that everyone was crying, weeping at the lutist's music, and Nim couldn't understand why they were in tears when his song was so beautiful. But then she felt her own eyes and pulled back wet fingertips. The lutist played on and her throat clenched and suddenly she was choking back sobs as she fled back to the kitchen before anyone heard her pitiful whimpering. Though she remembered little of the songs she had heard that day, all those years ago, she would never forget how the music resonated through her blood and stirred something visceral inside her.

In front of her, Lucien bowed his head and played with such fierce focus she swore he was no longer in the same room as her. She sat cross-legged at his feet and watched the creases form on his forehead as his hands danced, each finger skipping to its own step of the routine. Nim closed her eyes and the notes fell like spring dew, soft and barely noticeable on her skin. And then he picked faster, and the song was summer storm, all lightning cracked skies and somber notes. He played a harrowing verse like winter in Kvatch, deathly grey and the despair so thick and palpable in the air that she could drink it right out of the music.

Minutes passed where she sat motionless before the melody, a mist welling in her eyes.

And the tune was lovely, so impossibly lovely that she almost forgot it was the Speaker who sat in front of her. As the music softened to silence, she looked up at him, wiping away the small tear rolling down her face. On the night of the party in the Sanctuary, Lucien had made light of his skill as a musician, and Nim found him terribly incorrect. But he had been right about one thing. His residence truly did have wonderful acoustics.

Nim inhaled softly as though readying to speak or offer praise, but she shut her mouth quickly. She felt her face rumple involuntarily and swallowed against the whimpers that threatened to escape. No words could communicate the wrenching of her heart as the echo of the music lingered in her blood, burdening it with resounding heaviness. She drew her hands up to her eyes and pressed them against the skin there as though pushing the sobs back into her skull.

Lucien shifted and cleared his throat as though waiting for acknowledgment. Nim looked up, rosy-eyed and lachrymose. An applause hardly seemed appropriate for such a performance and instead she clasped her hands together and squeezed, thinking hard on how to react.

"Such theatrics," Lucien finally spoke. Nim blushed and Lucien contained his desire to reach out and wipe at the tear pooling in the corner of her eye. "You look wounded."

"I suppose I am. Shouldn't good music leave you so?" She sniffled, finding herself wordless and cotton mouthed. Using the sleeve of her shirt, she wiped at her eyes, leaving a trail of brown smudged across the temples of her head. Her words tumbled out in a garbled flurry. "It was lovely and hopeless and tragic and it moved me and I don't know what else to say."

"Hopeless?" he asked curiously. "I think you may be projecting a little."

"Where did you learn to play like that?"

"My father insisted upon lessons in my youth. One of the only good things to come from him, really." He gave a casual shrug and quickly moved away from the topic. "Now, will you grace us with your voice? I'll play the melody if you tell me the song."

"Mmm," Nim hummed skeptically. "I don't know. I don't sing for just anyone, especially not people who try to kill me."

"Yet I played for you. Besides, I thought I had made it clear that it was never my intention to cause harm." Lucien stood and walked to a nearby shelf. He returned with two stone cups and a large bottle made of green glass. "Here, as an apology."

She turned it over in her hands, attempting to read the label only to find it was printed in a foreign language. Only the number system was Tamrielic and the date was some decades ago. She handed the bottle back to him.

"I don't know what this is."

"It's Argonian Bloodwine."

"Oh." Her eyes widened to pearls and she looked back to the bottle in his hand as though she had just been told it was her long forgotten lover returning from the dead. "Well then… a sip, maybe."

Lucien nodded and began to uncork it.

"Wait," she called out, shifting onto her knees. "I'm not a fool, you know. "

Lucien glanced up to find her toying with the chain of her amulet and smiled. Except for the ruby inset, It was stained the dark brown of oxidized blood, and in his eyes the decadence made its beauty even more impressive. It rested so perfectly on her decollate.

Noticing the focus of his attention, Nim tucked the amulet away. She straightened her posture and leaned forward on her arms with narrowed eyes. "What are you playing at?" she asked.

Lucien recoiled slightly, as though offended. "I beg your pardon?"

"What is it that you want from me, Lucien? What should I take this to mean?"

A wolfish grin spread across his face as he uncorked the bottle and began to pour.

"Why would I want something from you? It's an apology," he assured her. "Banus Alor gave me the name of his supplier in Black Marsh. You said you would like to try it, and here we are."

"A glass," Nim replied, holding up a single finger and holding her gaze steady on the wine. "One glass."

But one glass turned into two, and two turned into three and soon, the small elf was whirling around the room to a tune she had obviously made up on the spot. She had a voice like morning mist, velveteen and ephemeral as it wafted across the room. Lucien had stopped playing his lyre some twenty minutes ago and now sat on the bed nursing a bottle of beer, ignoring her pleas for him to provide another rhythm. He nodded along to her Ode to Fruit, an original piece she claimed, and he watched as she cast small orbs of starlight around her and twirled with a celestial glow. He too was feeling a jovial buoyancy, or perhaps that was simply the lingering euphoria of the blood loss. It was possible that if she hadn't drunk most of the wine, he might be inebriated enough to join her on the ballroom she had made of his chamber.

The girl sang.

And the apple said to the peach, 'don't we make the finest pear?

Of all the love I've tasted this is the sweetest of affairs.

It won't be easy on the run, but at least we have this hope.'

But the peach said to the apple, 'No, my dear we cantaloupe.'

The song was ridiculous, even in the honey of her lips, but something about the innocent mirth of her giggle filled Lucien with a warmth that outshone the burn of alcohol in his belly. He watched in his drunk stupor, not caring that she was now letting snowflakes fall to his rug which would inevitably melt and give rise to mold. Watching her dance, he felt whole and wretched in the same breath. She must have bewitched him, he thought. How else could he explain the way in which he thirsted? What other reason did he have for holding her face behind his eyes when he closed them? Ever since the Night Mother had requested Lucien to bring her into the family's ranks, he found himself chasing shadows in the shape of her and always she pulled away with that cruel callous smile gracing her face.

But she had chosen to stay for a drink tonight, and that meant something.

Didn't it?

She twirled and twirled, and her aura of starlight followed the listless sway of her limbs. For a second he swore that she was a piece of Aetherius itself fallen to Nirn but quickly shook his head, no. There she stood covered in the rust of their dried blood. She had killed in Sithis name, and one day soon, she would kill for him too. She was no delicate soul, no seraphic being. She wore death and decay like a fetid perfume, and only Lucien saw her truly.

She was a gift from the Void, he thought, and she was irresistibly lovely.

Eventually Nim crumpled to the floor with a content sigh, smiling at herself with her eyes fluttering open and closed and open and closed against the dim flame illuminating the room.

"Am I drunk, or is it me?" she mumbled with a large grin and licked her lips. "That wine was everything I had dreamt it would be." Slowly her breath returned to her and she brushed her hair back over her ears. "Lucien?"

He looked up expectantly and felt his heart in his throat as she stood, shakily, to her feet.

"How long have we been here? It must be so late. Dibella's tits, I ought to leave." She took a moment to stabilize herself against the central pillar and glanced around the room as though wondering where she was for the first time.

"Well," she said, clearing her throat. "Thanks for the wine. 'Twas a good one, very good. Maybe we could do this again sometime, you know, minus the busted ribs and poisoned arrows."

She made her way across the room toward the rope ladder leading up to the exit hatch. Lucien followed after her and placed his hand on her shoulder when she reached out to grasp the first rung.

"Nim, have some water first," he said and walked her toward the nearby chair. She followed his lead and gracelessly plopped herself down as he retrieved a pitcher.

"We're not a bad duo, you and I. My voice, your..." She paused to take a sip of water. "uh, your hands."

"A fine pair, if I may say so." Lucien watched as a drop spilled from the corner of her mouth down her chin. She smiled and small chuckle escaped her along with another sputter of water. She wiped her mouth.

"You have to be the apple though. I'm obviously the peach," she smirked and stood again, thrusting the cup into Lucien's hands. She blushed faintly as its contents spilled down his arm and whispered an apology.

"Nimileth," he started and once again reached out for her. "You shouldn't be walking home like this."

"Oh right, you said you'd lend me a shirt." She turned around to face him and gently removed his hand from her shoulder. "How 'bout that black one laying on the dresser?" Nim took a few steps past Lucien toward the drawers before he reached out and grabbed her upper arm, keeping her still in place. She stared intently at his hand around her bicep and looked up with quizzical eyes.

He chuckled and shook his head. "In the morning, Nimileth. For now, you should rest. It isn't wise for a woman to walk home alone after a night of heavy drinking and blood loss."

"I didn't think you the fatherly type," she replied, shaking off his grip and placing her hands on her hips. "Seems like you're forgetting that I'm capable of killing men thrice my size. Now as I've said, I need to get to the Sanctuary. People might think things, you know."

"Who might think what, Nimileth? Nobody knows you're here."

"Oh."

And suddenly the room grew a little darker. The sweet taste of wine that lingered in her mouth grew acrid at the back of her tongue. Nim tried very hard to concentrate on the grout between the tiles of the floor. A little voice creeped into the back of her head, whispering just behind her ear. A whisper that sounded like the word run.

"What kind of Speaker would I be if I let you wander off and get yourself killed like this?" Lucien brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. On reflex, she stretched her neck to the side, pulling her head away from his hand.

"Well, walk me home then," she suggested, with a shrug that was much more casual in appearance then it felt. Despite the increasing thrum of her heart as it beat against her ribcage, she offered a poised smile and fluttered her lashes. "It's what a gentleman would do."

Lucien grinned wryly. "And what do you know of gentlemen?"

"Well for one, I know I've walked farther with more alcohol in my body. Thank you for the wine. Less thank yous for the overbearing concern. Now are you going to walk me to the Sanctuary or not? I don't claim to know much about gentlemen, but I know not all assassins are as ill-mannered as you. Mathieu would have-"

"You don't know anything about Mathieu," Lucien hissed, his eyes growing narrow and dark at the Breton's name. Without realizing, he had seized hold of Nim again and clenched his palm tightly around her arm.

"Take your hand off of me," she demanded. Once more, she pried herself away from Lucien's grasp, this time not so gently. The shadow darkening her as as he loomed sent a trail of goosebumps prickling along her skin. A knot began to twist in her stomach, and she felt extremely foolish for having stayed down in his fort for so long. "And don't hiss at me again. You're not a snake or a cat, okay? Whatever imitation you're attempting is awfully unflattering."

Lucien combed his hair back along his temple and swallowed the burning in his gut. In a second, his cool expression returned, his mouth just the whisper of smile. "As your Speaker, you should know that my only concern is too keep you safe tonight. Don't be such a silly thing, Nimileth."

"You have a rather strange definition of safety."

"And you're too clever to behave so recklessly."

"And so?" she crossed her arms over her chest. "You dirty son of a mudcrab. What, you want me to stay here? With you?" She laughed at that final suggestion, and the roll of her voice sent his temper into a terrible flare. Still laughing and shaking her head, Nim didn't see how he flinched and ground his teeth to restrain himself from pressing her up into the wall right then and there.

"Is this what you did with your previous recruits?" Nim continued with a sly nip in her eyes. "Attack them in the forest, invite them for wine, and watch silently while they sing about fruit? You really think that's how this works, huh." She shook her head and tutted. "Where's the romance these days?"

She continued with that cruel little smile on her cruel little mouth, and Lucien clenched his fists tighter away from view as she spoke. Who was she, talking to her Speaker with such derision? Did she think herself above him? And here she was mocking him, testing him even after what had happened tonight. The silly girl. She was so far out of her depths, she couldn't even see the surface.

Lucien took a step forward, and Nim pushed herself against the wall behind the hanging ladder to keep distance between them. She smelled the beer on his lips and stiffened again the stone at her back. One of his hands had returned to her shoulder squeezing gently against the bone there. The other was flat against the wall beside her head.

"Step away from me, please," she said, her voice calm despite the blood pounding in her ears. As he drew in closer, she felt herself sobering quickly. Over his shoulder, she could make out the shadowed arch across the room that lead into the fort. When they entered, he had told her it was filled with traps. She debated her odds at making it through them intoxicated and in a panic and quickly discarded the idea.

"You'll only hurt yourself if you leave at this hour. With all those marauders and miscreants about, why risk it?" He said, his voice hoarse and the blaze in his eyes not at all matching the concern of his words. His warm breath blew softly against the bridge of her nose.

"S'not terribly welcoming right here either," she replied with a strangulated laugh and scratched at her neck. "I- I thought you said you didn't want anything from me."

Lucien ignored her, snaking a hand up her neck and into her hair as he pulled her closer. She felt his heart beating against his chest through the thin fabric of his ripped shirt, a rapid beat almost as frantic as hers.

"I was wrong, wasn't I?"

So this is what she had been warned of, and this is how far she let herself fall into his trap unwittingly. How foolish she was to think herself invincible, to think the worst of it had passed. She shuddered as he combed another wisp of hair over her ear. He brought his mouth beside it and whispered.

"Timid, little Nimileth. Admit it. You want to keep fighting, don't you?"

Her mind settled on two ideas. One of fire and one of flesh. The former was sure to give her enough time to clamber up the ladder if not also invoke the Wrath of Sithis. If she made it out, she could cast an invisibility spell and be out of sight before Lucien could smother the flames on his shirt. But then again, she had underestimated his prowess as a fighter before. She was stealthier, maybe, but it was no match for his speed or strength. Having fought him once tonight already, she knew he was no easy mark and doubted he would be half as gentle if he caught her this time.

The latter… well. The latter option was exactly what he wanted.

She looked into his eyes, and they were endless burrows of hickory bark so full of malice that she could feel them piercing her skin. But it's just flesh, she told herself remembering what Vicente had said of Lucien and his carnal interests. It's just flesh, and perhaps that would be enough for him to grow bored of her as it did with Antoinetta. It's just flesh, and she would not be his victim, and this would not be her defeat. It was the price of their little game and the only cost to her would be the rest of this pointless, wasted night.

"So," Nim began with a swallow. She cleared her throat and licked at the salt of her lips. "Are you going to tell me what the price of wine was tonight, or are we going to keep doing this little dance?"

Lucien looked at her expectantly, and Nim's muscles tensed. Despite the hunger in his moonless eyes, he waited for her to move first. He waited for her to give in.

Her stomach lurched and her blood rose to fevered heat, radiating through her skin until her hands trembled beside her. Her veins felt like fire in her arms, and Nim could think of nothing more than burning the Speaker to ash where he stood. She reached up and grabbed his collar, envisioning the cotton fabric going up in a column of flame, but instead she pulled him down to meet her lips and sighed with all the weight of Nirn leaving in her breath.

In a blur, Lucien had her pinned against the wall, drawing her legs up around his waist before she could process the movement of her mouth on his. His tongue worked along the edge of her jaw, down her neck, across her collarbone before she realized they had even kissed at all.

Was this her body in his arms, leaning its head back, submitting? And what was that sensation rising in her blood alongside boiling rage?

There was nothing gentle in Lucien's touch as he held her. Where she was met with passion, she found also anger and a desperate need to consume. Her own performance began to startle her. A minute ago, she was ready to burn the Speaker to a pile of soot and now she was pulling on his hair, mewling against his neck like a cold, lost kitten.

Was she crying, or was she laughing as she writhed against him, watching through slitted eyes as the motion of her hips blew his pupils wide and crazed?

Another whirlwind flash, and she heard the shatter of glass as her back was slammed onto the hard surface of the alchemical desk. Lucien hovered above her, tearing at the final threads keeping her shirt in one piece. Her fingers worked clumsily at the drawstring of his trousers before he grabbed her wrists and pulled them away. Instead, his hand travelled down the exposed skin of her stomach, dipping below the waistband of her smallclothes. Nim's heavy breaths hitched as she arched her body and ground it against his exploring fingers. She watched, terrified and exhilarated, as Lucien lowered his head between her thighs. When at last he returned to her mouth, she caught him between her legs, wrapping them around his waist and sliding his trousers down past his hips.

How did she find herself here beneath him and would she hate herself for it in the morning?

Later, the room was still and quiet save Lucien's slowing breaths, hot and heavy on her shoulder blade as they lay on the mattress. Nim blew a strand of hair away from her face and nestled into the pillow below her head. If she left now, would he chase her?

Lucien grazed a finger along the length of her torso, tracing the outline of her form. "I've never met anything like you," he whispered at her ear and pulled the thin white sheet over her naked body. The fabric was cool against her skin.

"Really?" she asked wryly. "You must not get out much."

He chuckled.

She rolled onto her side and felt his heartbeat slow against her back as they settled into his small, rickety bed. His arms encircled her waist, hands roaming slowly across the damp skin of her chest as he pulled her tighter against him, still searching, still hungry. Nim stared across the room into the black hallway leading out of his chamber.

"Do you remember the night we met?"

Nim released a faint, tepid sigh. "How could I forget?"

"You let me chase you across Cyrodiil only to lead me right into your house. You were so small and afraid then. I could have taken you right there on your bed. Cut you open, painted something beautiful in your blood, and watched as Sithis claimed your soul." He laid a peck on her neck and pulled her against him. "Sometimes I still dream of how it would have happened that night in Anvil. If only the tenants did not bind us."

"You could have done that tonight if you really wanted to. Like you said, I attacked you first."

"The night isn't over."

Lucien rose onto his elbow and lifted her chin to face him. His playful smirk was met with eyes that betrayed nothing. Whatever fire he thought he saw in them moments ago as she clung to him with nails and teeth tearing new scars across his shoulder had been doused and smothered to ash. He breathed deeply against the dull ache that pulsed in his chest and laid a light kiss on the corner of her mouth before returning to the mattress.

"The Night Mother spoke highly of your gift when she asked us to find you. Finally, I see it in the flesh."

"Hmm, I doubt this is what the Night Mother had in mind when she spoke of my talent," Nim yawned, her voice weary from keeping up with his cloying banter. "But I won't go down easy if you try that on me again, you know." She burrowed deeper into the pillow and pressed thought from her mind. If guilt came for her, it would have to find her tomorrow.

"I know, dear Sister," Lucien crooned, petting her softly. "I know."

When his lids grew heavy and fluttered closed, all he saw were her callous eyes staring back at him, impossibly fathomless and darker than night. He fell asleep with his hands resting on her chest, feeling the gentle beat of it beneath his palm.

When the Speaker awoke, he found his bed empty. And had the scent of bergamot and blackberry not lingered in the small indent beside him, he would have sworn she was simply another dream from the Void sent to haunt him.

AN:

Phew. I don't want to admit how many hours I spent watching videos of people playing lyre while writing this. On a darker note, the latter half of this chapter was very hard for me to write because it is supposed to be uncomfortable. I had this scene in mind for some time but kept getting icked out and rewriting it to be less disturbing. Still it was difficult to crank out.

As the author, I don't want to explain myself too much, but I do appreciate feedback. I wanted to stay true to Nim's character. She is flawed and naiive and Lucien is not a hero in this story. It's not supposed to be a romantic or tender moment, and I don't think it was written that way. Just to clear the air.