The bustle of the tavern beneath her room should have been a nuisance, but Elisif welcomed this. All the fighting and swearing, the shattering of glass and boisterous songs and chants, anything that would keep her awake. She wondered if Newlands had seen better days, then thought better of it. The inn itself was busy, surprisingly so considering its shabbiness, and with the coin that flowed into the place, the owner could have fixed it up to any degree that they pleased. No, shabbiness suited the publican just fine, and the fact that no one paid her the least bit of attention pleased Elisif to no end. After the months of toil and unwanted fame, Elisif welcomed this anonymity, contenting herself with lounging in her lumpy bed of solitude and dwelling on unpleasantries.
The tormented march from Bruma to the Imperial City was dreadful, but she had been happy for it at the time. Happy that soon Martin would sit the throne. Happy that the Oblivion Gates would close and all would know Martin Septim, true heir of Uriel Septim, Emperor of Tamriel. Happy to have served, to have helped save her friend and ruler, to have saved the Empire. Happy to descend once more into anonymity, because surely Martin's deeds would outshine her own. To have such hopes for contentment turn to ash before her was a bitter brew to swallow.
Martin himself had been in good spirits as well, seemingly content to be done with it all. And why not? The Emperor of Tamriel and the leader of his troops, all of his life before him, and seemingly on the march to victory against a Daedric Prince. If ever there were a time for hope, that would have been it. It took three days to reach the capital, and when they inevitably stopped to rest the horses the night before their arrival he had not seemed the least bit panicked, a glowing determination having settled over him, making him more beautiful in his grace than she'd ever seen him. He spoke with gentle confidence and reassurance to his men, and then, when all were at rest save Raminus and herself, he drew near to the fire at which they sat, content to sit in silence as they worked on enchantments and potions. After Raminus had finally retired to his bedroll, Martin still sat there, pensive and solemn, speaking seldomly as he stared into the flames. He looked like his father.
She wished she'd had a chance to really talk with him that night, to have said a proper goodbye to him, because of course their arrival at the Imperial City had been a disaster. Daedra of all manner crawled the streets littered with dead, and everything that was not stone was burning. Still, they had arrived with a good number of soldiers who had been training to fight such blighted creatures for months. It might all have been salvaged had Mehrunes Dagon himself not begun to stroll the streets of the Temple District, towering high above the city and wreathed in flame. Every footfall sent the ground into tremors, the air sparking with heat as the entire city seemed transformed, white stone morphing with the crimson hellscape of the Deadlands. They had arrived too late to stop him with the dragonfires. She fought her hardest, and they had failed. So Martin did the only thing he knew to do, took the only course that was readily available to him and shattered the Amulet of Kings before her eyes, promptly transforming into the dragon of Akatosh, casting the Daedric Prince back into Oblivion and slamming shut the gates once and for all.
All that effort, all the horror that they had faced felt like nothing in comparison to standing in Martin's shadow, staring up at the colossal marble statue that he had become. What had been the point of it all? All the struggles, the fears and doubts, the growth of heroic features and learning how to be a great leader of men? What had been the point of his redemptive actions and tireless nature? The land was safe, but the Emperor was dead, consumed by the magicks of Akatosh. There wasn't even a body for burial. Nothing of Martin Septim, priest, bastard, and dead friend remained save memories.
She had been numb while speaking with Chancellor Ocato, barely cognizant of his veiled sneers and suspicion. Certainly he praised their combined efforts, lauded her as was expected, but the words very obviously soured on his tongue. Still, he couldn't have been too upset with the outcome, because he was once again the de-facto ruler of the Empire, and from the de-facto ruler she turned away impatiently. There was no looking back at that damned statue or the Temple of the One. The walk back to the Mage's Guild was heavy with silence, her movements mechanical as she stripped off the soiled garments of battle and drew a bath. Numb, that's what she was, unable to care that the water was scalding in its heat, only scrubbing the blood and gore from her flesh or removing the viscera from her fingernails because perhaps she would begin to mind its presence. She was alone, had left Raminus in the eerily calm streets where he so diligently tended the wounded. He knew she was safe, had been at her side when Martin became the Avatar, had grasped her hand as their emperor sacrificed himself for the good of Nirn. She knew he would soon follow. She knew also that she couldn't stand to speak to him, to hear his worry, to make it real, so she crawled into bed and let sleep take her.
The days that followed were slow and grey, each one a copy of the previous. In the light she would carry out the duties that she had been neglecting for so long, and at night she lost herself to drink or pleasure, anything to exhaust her so that sleep would be a dreamless retreat. None of it mattered. None of it helped, for whenever she shut her eyes he was there, smiling and wreathed in flame before bursting from the shell of his flesh and becoming the dragon. If not him it was the Dunmeri woman she had murdered, stretched on an altar with another by her side, bare toes squelching in the blood. "Why do you linger?" she would whisper so soothingly, a thin, cold hand grasping her own. "Why do you keep me waiting, beloved child? Your father has been calling you." Chilled lips press to her temple, arms pull her tightly to the woman's icy breast, and Elisif jerks awake. Every night it was some similar torment, no matter what she did.
Raminus was kind then. He was always kind, always there. He did not deserve her madness, and she did not deserve his sweetness. When the nightmares were enough to send her thrashing, he was ever near, rousing her from her troubled rest and wiping the tears from her eyes. She'd have her good days, they both would, happy and normal, laughing and teasing one another. Out about town, ever careful to avoid the Temple District, acting as though nothing had changed. But everything, their whole world, had been upended. How could they continue to ignore it?
Still, time marched on, days into weeks and so forth, and finally Elisif thought she had found a bit of peace. Cyrodiil was not a blighted pit of Oblivion gates anymore, and so she traveled with relative calm from city to city, making the pilgrimages expected of her as Arch-Mage. Raminus had tagged along as far as Anvil and Skingrad, enjoying the countryside and sea salt, but the two parted ways before Elisif continued alone to Bravil and Leyawiin. It was good to be alone for a change, something she had not experienced since her unfortunate capture and fiery escape.
Bravil was the same as it had always been; the Oblivion crisis had done little to worsen its sorry state. The same waterlogged wooden houses lined the shabby streets, and the only buildings worth mentioning counted the Mages Guild amongst them. The same problems in every chapter, it seemed, with petty infighting and ill-fated scroll scribing. This was familiar and comfortable, something she was well equipped with handling, and it took little enough time to mend the woes of her fellow mages. The only harrowing moment she felt was in passing the statue of the Lucky Old Lady as night was falling. Every visit to the city ended with Elisif touching the statue, a superstition in which she joyfully participated, and generally that was all. This time was little different, rain providing little hindrance when she moved closer, touched the palm, kissed the stone cheek. Time had worn away the fine details of the marble woman, but she was fine even still and a work of art that Elisif had ever admired despite its lackluster location. This time was different, troubling. Though the rain was cold and biting, the stone itself was warm to the touch, and she swore that as she pressed her lips to the marble flesh she heard soft murmurings, feminine and familiar and barely unintelligible. The hair rose on the back of her neck, goose-pimples pricking her arms as she leaned in closer, ear pressed to the mouth of the statue, hands gripping the stone shoulders as she listened intently. Again she heard it, and again it was jumbled, quiet. She felt her own lips move, felt her tongue shape words in response, then she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, shaking her from her stupor.
Turning from the statue brought Elisif face to face with a male Bosmer. From the look of it, he'd been as long in the rain as she, his brown hair soaked and slipping from what would have been a very dignified style, fine clothes hanging wet and heavy on his small frame. In his hand he bore a torch, and by its light he looked...frightened? Angry? Knowing? He stood disconcertingly close to her, face inches from her own, eyes narrowed, but what he saw she could not guess.
"I-I'm sorry, sir. Lost in the moment, it seems. Pardon me."
Elisif did not wait for his response, couldn't bear to look at him for another moment and she turned in the mud and sped down the way, out of the city gates entirely and into the dark forests. She ran until her lungs burned and legs ached, heart pounding in her chest so hard she could hear naught else. On and on she ran, until her legs gave out and she was forced to rest, and of course it was in familiar territory. A wayshrine to Talos. It even bore the evidence of her prior visit, random bits of rubbish she'd abandoned in her flight and capture, the start to her entire misadventure with murder.
With a grunt she fell to her knees at the wayshrine, forehead pressed to the cool stone. The basin was still intact, and greedily she drank from it, cupping her hands again and again until she could drink no more. It had been months since Martin died, since she had tried anything so inane as prayer, but she did it then, murmuring whatever words she could think to Talos, to Akatosh, to anyone who would listen. She prayed for the wayshrine's blessing, hoped her bad did not outweigh her good, and soon she was on her feet again, all weariness dissolved away and strength returned to her limbs.
"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me." Elisif groaned, thinking back to the moment in Bravil, so dazed and focused on the whispers in the statue. She knew the words the same as most anyone who had heard of the Brotherhood. Never had she uttered them aloud, but she could guess why it floated so readily off her tongue now. The bosmer had probably heard it, had probably been terrified at the prospect of the Dark Brotherhood being summoned in the midst of the town. It would certainly explain his anger and apprehension.
That was how she ended up in Cheydinhal, her duties to the Leyawiin Guild forgotten, listening to the roar of drunkards and ruffians. The arch-mage could certainly have afforded better, which is why she stayed at the shabby Newlands instead of the much nicer (and cleaner) Bridge Inn, chewing on wormwood leaves or lavender sprigs to stay awake. If she'd bothered to bring alchemy equipment with her, she'd have been bent over the table even now, mixing up whatever brew would keep fatigue at bay. As it was, the wormwood was making her ill, fevered sweat beading her brow as surely as the vigor left her limbs, but lavender helped stave off any serious damage, keeping her thoughts clear and eyes wide as she stared at the plain-as-paste ceiling and admitted to herself that she'd have to come out eventually. The robes she wore had been filthy upon her arrival, and she had done little to improve upon that, sweating and pacing and working up a fever. She stank. Her filthy robes stank. The room she'd holed up in stank. So absorbed in the inevitability of it all was she that Elisif had paid mind to little else. Her throat was raw with thirst, stomach painfully empty.
Reality set in as she moved about, ordering a bath and digging through her pack for suitable attire. She might be joining a group of cutthroat, but she didn't have to show up looking like a hag, and she didn't have to have bits of wormwood and lavender stuck in her teeth. Becoming thoroughly presentable took the better part of the afternoon, but she was able to look at herself in the mirror without cringing, so it was worth it. She didn't bear the look of an assassin, but then, she remembered Lucien often dressing in fine garments when at home, and she certainly was more charming with dark curls and a pretty dress than a matted mane and dirty leathers. Better these assassins think her weak, better that anyone underestimate her than expect a challenge.
Nerves kept her from more than a bit of bread and a mug of ale, but it was enough to strengthen her wobbly knees. It was enough to sustain her walk across town, to turn her back on the Chapel of Arkay and let herself into the abandoned house in the rapidly growing twilight. Her hand barely trembled as she opened the path to the cellar, and her breath came much slower than she'd have thought possible as she walked the winding path to stand before a glowing, menacing crimson door. Her voice was clear and calm as she answered the question, declaring "Sanguine, my brother" with a confidence she did not possess, especially not when the door swung open and she stepped into the surprisingly cheery light of the sanctuary.
Welcome home.