The hardest part, the most unfortunate part, was that he was a part of her. It was unavoidable, inconceivable; it was horrifying. As much as she cajoled and laughed with Raminus, as many things as she'd done for Martin and the realm, the countless Oblivion Gates and Thieves Guild missions and random quests for even more random people, all these things, and he still was there. How did she ever think to lose him?
He was her first memory, her first and very closest friend. Seven years her senior, a murderer by age eleven, yet he seemed as normal as any person she'd ever met. Granted, her parents were murderers themselves, as was his mum. Perhaps she had been born to it as well, except, unlike with Lucien's mother, her parents hid the entire thing from her. Sure, she had heard their talk about the good old days of living in Cheydinhal, of Vicente and misunderstandings, but it meant nothing to her. They wanted to give her a choice, something she didn't even discover until years after their death.
That was a shock, their deaths. Lucien's mother had died only a few months before, and though he was a young adult by then, off travelling from time to time, it still affected him. He had tried hiding it, and yet as young as she was, Elisif had been able to tell. She'd never understood, never lost anyone before. It had been an act of vengeance, his mother's death, and the same could be said for her parents. The roof burned over their heads, walls and furnishing aflame within minutes. She had crawled out the window, would have ran back inside to get them except that Lucien had been there, had scooped her up in his arms and kept her from running. She sobbed and struggled until the roof collapsed, and she thought she could hear a scream in the all consuming flames.
He took her in after that, cared for her at his mother's old home, more like a brother than anything else. He almost certainly thought that way, but for Elisif he was everything, the sun and stars, her hero. He was her only family after that.
Their solitude hadn't lasted. Within a year he had taken her to the Imperial City, set her up with a tutor at the Arcane University, and after another year in the City, he made himself scarce. She was young, certainly too young to live on her own, but she did anyways, staying alone in Lucien's home in the Elven Gardens District by her thirteenth year. He had made sure she was acclimated, able to fend for herself, and of course she had it much easier than others. Never did she have to fret over food, clothes, or coin. It wasn't as though he had forgotten her; nearly every week she received a letter and some little trinket from his travels. She even had a friend of Lucien's pop in now and again, always checking on her, asking about her studies. An older Breton named Vicente, her parents' friend. Always after dark, and it never crossed her mind to ask why that was, or why he looked so pale and felt so cold. For all his dark deeds, Lucien kept her so tragically naive.
When Lucien did come around it was nearly always on high holidays or her birthday. She always thought he looked a little guilty when he showed up; back then she thought it was because he was so rarely there, but now she thought perhaps he regretted their association at all. Not because he didn't enjoy her company, but because he thought (and he had later told her this himself) that his influence wouldn't lead her anywhere good. It was unfortunate that he'd been right in the end.
It was shortly after her fifteenth year that the visions began. She had fallen ill, a fever that raged for days on end, her body burning so hot and furious that Lucien had been sent for and the temple priests called for funeral arrangements. In all that time, in all the raging swirling dark of sickness, it began. Flickers of people and places, cities in which she'd never walked. Someone bound in dark leather garb, stalking their prey mercilessly, shortsword at their side. Salt clung to the air, a sultry, stifling breeze whipping past their hood. The air of Anvil. Glass smashed, doors flung open, a child rushed under the bed, and a blade hacking at the throat of a sobbing woman. The person who did this thing, this horrid wicked thing, while his face was shrouded in darkness, it did little to hide the pleased smile on his lips. She felt it. Mother (Mother? Whose Mother?) was pleased.
Lucien arrived at her side by the time the fever had broken, her body still weak as a kitten and voice shaky and poor. Still, she couldn't stop the smile that formed when she saw him. Every time she saw him he looked different, more beautiful with each day's passing, and this time was no exception. It was obvious that he had rode hard to get there, circles under his eyes and scruff on his chin. He was still bound in his tight leather armor, and Elisif gingerly sat up before easing her arms around him.
"Welcome home, Lucien." she mumbled, arms trembling with the effort of lifting them. After a moment she slumped against him, and the young man grabbed her quickly, though when he started to move her to lay back down, she protested. Instead he held her, soothing her with warmth and comfort. Her face pressed to his chest, she could easily smell the brine on his skin. "Did you bring me anything from Anvil, dear Lucien?" she asked, and she thought nothing of it when he stiffened against her.
After that fiasco, he stayed away. For three long years he stayed away. His notes were descriptive enough that she knew where he was in general, but it was her dreams that told her the whole story. In that time it became obvious what Lucien's chosen occupation was. Blood, gore, horrors that she'd never witnessed herself, were laid bare in her dreams. Horror was her initial response, fright that he would do such things, and she couldn't even claim that he felt guilt. No, his expression was one of such joy, such unadulterated contentment after the murders he committed, she had no doubt that he took pride in his bloodshed. She should have turned him in, should have done so many things, but instead she started looking forward to her nights, to seeing him. He was a dark vision, a beautiful terror, and every day that passed caused a strange ache in her chest. She wrote to him a little, telling him of her loneliness, begging him to return home. In truth she was frightened.
Madness, that's what she feared in the end, and in desperation she hid it from the world, never mentioning a thing to anyone until a chance meeting with Dagail, a famed seer of the Mages Guild. She'd been at a conference at the Arcane University, and Elisif's tutor had insisted she attend. The elven woman had stared right into her mind, or so it seemed to Elisif, and she seemed to see all.
"Child of night, blessed or cursed?" her wizened hands touched the young frightened girl's face, her own older eyes portraying pity and understanding, "Your mind cries out, fear and dread and death. Do not fear, dear neophyte. Madness is not your fate. Dark dreams cross the veil into reality, and you may touch their passing, if you but stretch out your hand." Elisif thought to ask her for more, for guidance or clarity or anything else, but Dagail seemed finished with the conversation. "He comes soon, Elisif DuCarne, so no more Sorrow for now. You will have enough of that in later years."