This is a bit different from the rest of the fic; I'll also be including a chapter like this for Elisif and possibly one for Lucien as well. Italics, in this instance, indicate journal entries.
He remembered all of it.
The day his world ended, the day a man in black leather had destroyed his happy life, how could anyone forget such a thing? So long ago now, but he knew it would never fade from his mind. His sweet, sweet mother, dead as dust in his bedroom. Oh, he woke up hearing it most nights, hearing her screams and cries and begging the youth to stop his misdeeds. It twisted his gut to think the man had enjoyed it, but he saw the assassin's face, the pure bliss that twisted his features that sultry Anvil night.
He grew up fast after that. His father, his wretched, disgusting father, had been the one who ordered the killing, though he didn't find that out until later. His mother had been a lover of his, apparently, and he himself was born a bastard. She'd kept him from his father, his cruel father, his wicked, wicked father, but father found out. Father ordered her killed, had paid a fortune to have it done just so, to have his child bear witness to that horror.
Growing up was cruel. Father was strict and stern and hateful, not like his sweet mother, who loved and held him, who protected him from the things in the shadows. He grew up alone, for the others his age thought him strange, prone as he was to bouts of melancholy. So much of his time was spent alone, reading and writing and scheming. Any money his father left unattended he took, stowing it away for his plans of vengeance.
In a little over a year's time he had learned of his father's foul deeds, of his prayers to the Night Mother. The servants were whispering about it, well out of earshot for most people, but he'd been sneaking about, finding a quiet place to write his musings. He'd paid so much, the servants whispered, and one of the women sighed, shaking her head in horror as she spoke of the handsome, dark-haired young man she'd seen back then, days before the murder took place.
In a frenzy he searched his father's rooms, searched everywhere he could think. His journals held nothing of interest, nothing of real worth, and he thought to stop, to sob and scream, but then he came upon Father's business ledgers. He whipped the heavy ledger from its place of the shelf and poured over its contents. The date of her murder...he'd never forget it. It was etched into his mind. The fool his father was, keeping such detailed records of his funds would be his undoing. He scoured the days prior to Mother's death until he came to one entry. A vast sum of money written in a slightly shaken hand. The name, oh, the name that he'd dream of every night until the bearer of said name was no more.
Lucien Lachance.
father prayed and guess who came the hooded man in Sithis' name who left but then he came once more to pass through window wall and door I lie in fear my mouth agape as wicked blade did cleave your nape for I was watching 'neath the bed to see the falling of your head and when your face lie on the floor our loving eyes did meet once more and so I pledged to you that day the Brotherhood would dearly pay and just as they took me from you I'd find and kill their mother too but there's someplace I need to start and that's with father's beating heart and when that's done I'll sing and dance to celebrate a dead LaChance
killhimKILLHIMkillHIMKILLhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhimKILLHIMKILLHIMKILLHIMKILLHIM
The words on the page weren't nearly enough, but they held him over until his father returned home. It had been months since the discovery of his father's cruelty, but Father had been away on business, and the boy welcomed the man home as best he could. Night fell, night so sweet and dark and (frightening, please, Mother!) protective, and he took out his dagger and stabbed him through the heart. Oh, what bliss, what sweet sorrowful happiness, satisfaction at its peak. Justice for his mother had begun.
He slept soundly that night in an inn far from his home in Anvil, and when he awoke, it was to the words he'd desired for months, spoken in the voice of him who he hated above all others.
"You sleep rather soundly, for a murderer."
Mathieu Bellamont smiled, a real smile of joy and eagerness. Lucien Lachance sat before him, welcomed him into the Brotherhood proper, and the assassin hadn't a clue that HE would murder half the Brotherhood on his own when the chance presented itself.
Cheydinhal, home sweet home, with its vampire, two Argonians, an Elf, an Orc, a Kahjiit, and a disgustingly arrogant new Silencer. Lucien guided Mathieu through the corridors, introducing him to the twisted inhabitants of the Sanctuary, praising his bloodshed and his youth. Apparently the Silencer had been younger than Mathieu's own 13 years when he started, for how else could someone Lucien's age be in the upper ranks?
So the thirteen year old Mathieu Bellamont, Murderer of the Dark Brotherhood, listened, trained, and otherwise did all that he could to plot out his revenge. It would be a slow process, he was sure, but he was able to do little things, treacherous things to his dark brothers and sisters. Within his first few months, he'd risen two ranks, and now four years later he lingered at the rank of Assassin; he had access to knowledge, the trust of his fellow guild members, and best of all, a way to hurt Lachance forever.
Strange how such a cold blooded man could have little attachments. He followed Lachance, though it proved unfruitful. He'd tried time and time again, only to watch him disappear. In fact, it was only by chance that he had discovered the Speaker's weakness. A contract brought him to the Imperial City, for a succulent, sweet girl, a girl living in the Elven Gardens District. She'd apparently not been careful enough, had gotten with child, and then promptly ended it, telling the father afterwards. He later found out that she was the town pump with a list of lovers longer than his arm. The man was heartbroken, his heir destroyed, and so he prayed to the Night Mother to end his lady love. The man did not care how the target was killed, only that a young person, a fresh and innocent face, carry out the deed. She apparently had a roving eye, and so if the assassin was a beautiful youth she'd be attracted immediately.
It was easier than Mathieu ever imagined. He merely walked up to her, dressed in well tailored, trim clothes, blond hair brushed and hanging around his face. He might be befouling himself by associating with the Brotherhood, but he was undeniably pleasant looking, and his "brothers" did tell him he had a look of innocence about him, praising the fear it probably caused in the hearts of others. In a normal world, in a world without murderous cultists, he'd be just that, an innocent seventeen year old (and he looked even younger for his age), not obsessing over some idiot named Lachance-
He forced himself to focus, to block out all the noise in his head. Helena Dontis was her name, a tall, blond Imperial with broad hips and too plump lips. She was merely average in appearance, no great beauty, but she had enough wiles and charms that no one noticed. It was absurdly easy to gain her interest, and the two met for several days. The client wanted her demoralized before she was slaughtered, and what better way to do that than to gain her trust.
Helena apparently loved talking about herself, and she hated other women. This he learned in the first few moments of their acquaintance. After days of meeting in the market, she invited Mathieu to her home where she sat them both down at the window to watch the people passing by. Her neighbor, a small, pale, pretty thing with dark hair had walked out of the house across the street, arm in arm with a mage, and she made a noise of disgust, talking of the harlot named Elisif.
Something about her tone made him keep asking questions. Maybe it was the way she hated the girl so completely. He knew that kind of hate intimately, and seeing it in someone else was a comfort. This Elisif had thought the two of them friends, or at least on friendly terms, but his mark thought her lower than dirt, dallying with one man, a handsome mageling from the university, while another, darker, sensual man actually owned the house in which the girl dwelt.
"I've seen her ways. She's trash through and through. Always carrying on with that mage Raminus. They're together nearly every day except when her mysterious benefactor comes home. And don't I know what they get up to in that house? They don't leave their home for days at a time, and she finally does stick her head out, it's obvious from her appearance what they've been doing. Not that I sit here obsessing, oh no! But you can't help noticing your neighbor's habits, such as they are." Mathieu was quick to change the subject after that, but this only intrigued Helena.
For hours they sat, the woman flirting with him, asking of his past, of his future, of his experience. Eventually she crawled onto his lap, whispering how she wanted him, asking if he'd please give her his innocence, that she'd make such a man of him. For a moment Mathieu considered it; he'd never been with a woman before, after all. And what better way for him to ingratiate himself to her before the kill than to crawl between the sheets with her. Pleasure and business didn't often mix together. Her mouth found his neck, her hands the laces of his shirt, his pants, and then he caught something from the corner of his eye.
The house across the way, the little home of the tart Helena hated- a man let himself in. A man with long dark hair tied back at his neck, a man who was dark and dangerous and so excruciatingly familiar. The man whose murderous glee he saw when he closed his eyes. Lucien Lachance.
Suddenly the woman found her neck seized in the youth's grip, the lust vanishing from her eyes. A smile lit his face as he watched her seize in horror. Lachance would know the pain of loss, of betrayal, and it was all thanks to the lovely dead woman in his lap. He shoved her to the floor, her near lifeless body flopping like a doll before she seized and coughed, her voice pathetic and trembling as she crawled on her stomach and begged for whatever mercy he could provide.
"I'm sorry. My orders are to kill you, and if I do not do it, another will be sent in my stead. Then you and I both would die, and I can't die before I complete my good work." He placed a knee between her shoulder blades before gripping her hair and placing his dagger to her neck, his mouth near her ear. "I should thank you, Helena. You've given me a great gift with your petty hatred." The tearing of flesh and the gush of blood had never been so glorious, so beautiful, as it had in that moment. Each plunge of his knife into her corpse was a song, each slice a cry of joy. He cut her apart like a sacrifice, ritualizing his kill until there was no doubt that it was the work of the Brotherhood.
Days later she was found by the city watch, and they were immediately put on guard. Mathieu looked appropriated shamed as he was scolded for his lack of discretion, but inwardly he cheered. Adamus Phillida was already known for his witch hunts against the Brotherhood, and this only made him more zealous in his attempts to wipe the organization from existence.
After his admonishment, Mathieu was given a reprieve from jobs, his superiors feeling the boy had driven himself too hard for too long. Lachance hadn't a clue that Mathieu spent that time spying on Elisif DuCarne, or that he had intercepted their letters to one another. He learned all there was to know about the girl, a childhood friend of Lucien's, now his lover. She was a talented mage, he'd been told, and a promising chemist. What sealed her fate, however, were the dreams. From what Bellamont could piece together, Elisif was a seer. She had visions of the future, although unlike the waking visions of the old elven crone in the Guild of Mages, Elisif's primarily consisted of dreams. Mathieu never imagined such a thing existed, would have doubted it had he not read her writings and knew them to correspond with Lachance's activities.
For months he spied on her home as often as he dared, knowing when Lachance would be around. Only once did he stay in the city while Lucien himself was there, listening at the window in the alley, full chameleon enchantment in place. It was the coffin nail. It was everything he needed.
In her little darkened room, Elisif huddled under the covers, sleeping peaceful, sweet dreams. I suppose I can see the attraction, Mother; her innocence was as obvious as her pretty face. Lachance probably couldn't help but be attracted to her if for no other reason than to take the naivety from her. At first I thought Lucien just relished the power he probably had over the girl, bending her to his will, warping her, body, soul, and mind. If I left it alone, he'd ruin her himself. He'd drive her to darkness and madness, but no sooner had I thought of the man's selfish cruelty than Lachance bends down beside his lover, a gloved hand reaching out and brushing her hair out of her face. His hands are bloodsoaked and evil and wicked beyond reckoning, but the way he touches her, hands whispering along her arm, resting on her abdomen for one long, telling moment; she is his shrine.
I saw him lean down, saw him whispering his wicked words, too soft for me to hear them, a wolf slavering over a lamb, but then the girl under the covers moved, a smile on her face.
"I love you, too." It was perfect, beautiful, disgusting. Mother, that foul man, that beast, oh Mother, that he can feel something so pure as love...
Oh Mother, I'm going to ruin him.
It wasn't long after that. Bellamont contacted a dark elf named Faren, an affluent nobleman from one of the great houses of Morrowind. He was known for collecting rare things. Indeed, Faren already boasted a great and expansive collection of Imperial and Ayleid artifacts. Hundreds of years to hone his tastes had led to his expansion into rare beauties. He ran brothels, extremely private affairs in Morrowind, technically illegal, but those who had the power to stop it turned a blind eye. A seer, however, he did not have, and the information Mathieu presented was too much for the Dunmer to resist.
The deed was done at night, a day before Lucien was set to return to his home. Minimal damage to the home, minimal noise (not that her neighbor would be waking up), and minimal resistance. Turns out the girl was protective of her assassin, even if he HAD tainted her irrevocably. No violence was necessary in the slightest, the kidnappers even going so far as forcing her to write a farewell note. Nothing fancy, nothing too long, just a simple good bye and good riddance.
What followed was a transformation. Though always cold blooded, always professional in the Sanctuary, Lucien Lachance became increasingly ruthless. A small break, a few months wherein Lachance did not take contracts, did not communicate with the Brotherhood save with Valtieri, and then he was back, professing murder and chaos with his deeds. He was stone and ice, mechanical in his dealings with the others but ravenous for new work. He advanced to the role of Speaker soon after, and then he was rarely seen at the sanctuary at all, dealing with them instead through letters or messengers. It was rare that Lachance would show himself at all, but when he did, Mathieu felt a sharp stab of glee. He still functioned, but his one bright light was gone. Even if no one else knew it, he knew the Speaker's last glimmer of hope was no more. Betrayal, that's what Lucien Lachance surely felt, and until the day Mathieu Bellamont could sink his knife into his chest, until he could destroy him along with the Night Mother, that would have to do.