Her words left his brain spinning.
In the pit of his stomach, he felt shame.
Here he stood, nose to nose, hand in hand with his sister's handmaiden, his wife's assassin. Her gaze was steadfast and pointed, her hands still entangled in his. They trembled. Her hands shook with his and the veins in his arms bulged.
Though he towered over her in height, he felt quite small.
Brïka was holding him there, isolated and weighed down by her eyes. He knew she knew this.
His eyebrows knit together, a thousand thoughts racing through his head as quickly as lightning struck. How could he feel this way towards the woman who killed his wife?
He felt nauseous, churning in the wake of her statement.
And fury was there too, it was almost as if he could smell the blood on her now. He could almost see the remnants too.
Then you know no one.
Did he not know Estre either? Could she really have gone behind his back?
Looking at her, really looking at her, all of it, the rage and confusion, died and crumbled under her gaze. Perhaps he hadn't really known, that was possible, right?
She held his hand fast against his tremors.
Brïka's face softened. Her eyes searched up and down his face. Her lips parted and she said something-but he didn't hear it at all.
He felt his ears grow warm.
"I- Malorn-" He tried to speak, tried to look for anything to call her down, but the words stuck on his tongue like a ball of knots. Her eyes focused on a point on his face. Those eyes. Always watching him, wherever he went in town, always preying on his back in the gardens. The kind that pulled at the spine when he walked down a dark hallway.
She was a haunting thing.
Her hand moved to brush a piece of hair away from his cheek, and she returned his statement, "Naemon."
His mouth went dry and something in him burned and writhed. Her hand was elegant and soft. He felt a lump form in his throat. He still held her other hand, feeling a ghost linger where she touched his face. All he could smell was the iron of blood, heavy like a perfume and just as rich.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.
What was he doing?
His composure broke, and he stepped backwards haphazardly, a chill shooting up his spine as the surf broke against the back of his bare ankle.
He found himself breathing hard, the blood smell clouded his head, and his temples throbbed in pain. Not even the saltwater could rinse away this stench.
Naemon felt he could vomit, but he kept it down, resisting temptation to clap a hand to his mouth.
Brïka held his hand still, staying where she stood. Her skin was cold as ice, and it felt like flames against his knuckles.
The wind picked up.
Beautiful.
His stomach rolled.
He held her at arms length, their fingers intertwined and the sea breeze rushing over their arms.
Her nails were primped and clean, like she'd never worn gloves or gone to battle. Her very image was painted in deceit.
The water kept curling around his feet, with it, a lump of panic sewed itself neatly in his chest.
He could not keep himself from barking out remarks at this point. His skin felt too tight-too warm.
"Why are you doing this? What's in it for you?" He begged, wishing he could release her hand. A part of him could not.
Brïka did not seemed inclined to let him.
She locked eyes with him, her eyebrows narrowing, her hair spilling around her shoulders and blending with her tattoos. There was something so off putting but he couldn't pin down the words to describe it.
She spoke again, and he once again could not hear her. Her face held an irritated confusion.
Naemon took another step back deeper into the water. It met the back of his calves.
Only their fingers remained slightly intertwined at this point-still he did not let go.
His heart was doing the equivalent of sprinting in his chest, and he honestly thought he might pass out in the water.
Brïka said nothing more. Nothing that would give him any clue-nothing to figure her out.
He dropped his eyes to the water below, utterly at a loss, "You are so unlike anyone she's had before."
So unlike anyone he'd-
No, that was not what he felt.
Right?
"Naemon, it's unwise to be so near the ocean with Vipers about." Brïka tugged his hand, her palm meeting his once more, and he relented, stepping out of the surf. The wave broke behind him.
Their hands dropped between them, his fingers lingering as she let go. He felt cold. The panic spiraled and blossomed wildly.
He instantly felt like reaching back out.
Reaching for someone who was not his wife.
No, someone who wasn't a corpse.
Brïka took another step backwards in the sand, closer to the manor.
He reached, his fingers outstretched, a sweat breaking out on his brow. It was frantic now.
She watched his hand, spotting the tremors as they returned.
Her face twisted in hunger, for a moment-
And then it was gone.
Naemon's face contorted, twisting in fits of anxiety.
Brïka's hand was just out of reach. No matter how he grasped.
He had to find her out. Why was she here? Where did she come from? Why was it always her?
Do not lose her, Naemon.
"Malorn, tell me who you are." He stumbled towards her in the sand. Her eyes widened, and she kept backing up. Her lips opened, like she wanted to speak. All the words to bring him back, and now she said nothing. He immediately felt toyed with. A fool at his end.
Panic turned to guilt as he gave it a name, shaking in the wake of his own voyeurism.
Voyeurism. That's what this was.
Did you not stare back? Did you not watch as she went? Did your eyes not linger too long in corridors? Did you not search when she vanished?
Naemon's eyes narrowed, he straightened up, attempting to regain his composure. Something blazed deeply in the pit of his stomach, and it controlled him.
He shook still, and he felt his throat constrict and burn. His mouth was unbearably dry, as if he'd not just drank, as if he'd never tasted wine nor water for many years.
Sweat trickled down his brow, despite the cool night air.
His eyes remained fixed on her and her own gaze, amber on black.
"Naemon, come back inside." Brïka whispered, tucking her hair behind her ear. There she was, dark against the pale sand, a rippling image that seemed to coil and tense as he watched, a picture opposite of his wife. He could see the blood now, as clearly as that day.
Estre's blood, no doubt taken from her slender neck. He'd seen Brïka fight. That he knew.
She had taken his wife from him.
Betrayal or not, his wife. Estre.
Naemon grit his teeth, stalking towards her, his entire form shaking.
He saw one foot go back, as if she considered turning away, as if she once again considered vanishing.
Don't try to escape me, nightblade.
He stopped nose to nose with her, towering over her and enveloping her in his shadow.
He could smell her aroma, alluring but obviously blood.
His eyes were dark.
I will not let you go.
He seized her hand as it came away from her ear. He tightened his fist around her wrist, which was so small compared to his hand. His grip increased, but her face showed no reaction.
He would never hit a lady of the court, let alone hurt them, but a murderer? Of royal family? Of his wife?
"Naemon, come away." Her hand moved to caress his face once more. Her nails grazed his cheek.
He caught her other wrist, the fury rising back up, "You! You and your words!"
He wanted to listen, he wanted to fixate upon her once more. He felt his entire body burn white-hot with disgust.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.
Naemon bared his teeth, biting back a snarl.
Brïka shut her mouth, her own eyes darkening now. Her jaw was set tightly. She spoke not a word more. Her arms felt rigid in his grip.
He knew she would lash out if he kept this up.
But standing there, face to face, as set as a statue of a couple.
Naemon found he loved it.
He looked at where he held her wrists, and she looked so small against him.
A nightblade's hands, a nightblade's words, in his grasp but not.
"What?! And now you quiet? Now you speak nothing to me!" He shook her arms, bellowing at her. She stared back. Her pupils dilated under his darkness.
He felt as if a shadow suddenly encompassed him.
Come away Naemon. Come away from the shore.
He tilted his head in closer, his forehead almost touching hers. His nose briefly brushed hers, both of them angular and hooked quite interestingly.
He could feel her eyelashes brush his cheek, and her irises were barely visible in the darkness.
That look. That look, that damned look.
What else had she ever given him? Nothing beyond looks and protection. She didn't feel real.
Come away.
He remembered immediately his shame.
His head hung, pressing against hers in the process.
The bow in his back was deep and he held himself there, so very close to her.
He shut his eyes, trying to press away the anxiety that inwardly gnawed at him, as well as the headache.
He felt Brïka entirely stop, and he knew she had not shut her eyes as well.
"Why do you haunt me so? Was Estre not enough?" He released his hands from her wrists, his stomach doing flips as he saw the bright red marks that would surely become bruised.
You let yourself go too far.
The shadow disappated.
He looked down at his own hands, his palms red from holding her so tightly.
He saw her run her fingertips over the marks on her wrist, and cursed himself inwardly for such violence.
He couldn't read her expression. Was it fascination? Hunger?
The Prince found he could not identify it, and gave up altogether. For all his knowledge of people, for all his practice, this escaped him.
He could feel her breath on his lips. The breath shallow, tensed for a flight if needed.
He would not give it to her.
Naemon pulled his face away from hers. The metallic scent had gone, as if it'd never existed. The heaviest of perfumes, gone like a flash.
"Tell me, Malorn." He whispered, reaching back out and more gently taking her wrist. He examined the marks again. He turned her wrist over in his hands, running a quick finger over her veins.
He would apologize as sincerely as he could in the morning, perhaps with a day off, or have something drawn up for her.
Your wife was a traitor, who would've overturned the Summerset isles.
He knew this, in his heart. How couldn't he have seen?
The fault is not her's.
Naemon buried his teeth in the side of his cheek. He knew it, and it nagged at him like a nurse maid. She wouldn't have killed Estre had it not been necessary.
Estre really had tried to overthrow Ayrenn.
And now, with her executioner in front of him, he was at a loss.
"I will tell you when you ask of me something I can answer." Her voice lingered above a hush. A snake's hiss. Of course she would persist to be aloof. Why would she ever give something so private to him?
Naemon ran his thumb over the marks on her. Brïka was a woman of the court now, and whether he liked it or not, she had followed his sister's request and vanquished a threat to the Crown.
Whether you like it or not, she's apart of you now.
But you do, don't you?
"Forgive me, dear assassin." Naemon sighed, squeezing her wrist gently in his hand. How could he have let himself go like that? She was far from delicate but a man of his stature shouldn't have used force.
Brïka really had lovely hands, and wrists, and such grace.
He wished to study them more closely, if he had the time.
In the wake of that urge, his stomach tossed. How could a man's opinions turn so easily?
Brïka's eyes danced between her arm and the crease in his eyebrows. Her expression turned something akin to bitter.
Naemon brought her knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentlemen's kiss to her hand.
His blond hair spilled over his shoulders, blocking out the world around him.
"Forgiven."
He barely heard it. He smiled against her hand.
Naemon took another step forward, and Brïka stepped back in alarm, and then sharply inhaling and jumping forward into his chest. The sound of glass shattering rang out.
Naemon felt compelled to look around for attacker's but alas it was below their feet where the problem lie.
The sand was stained a dark red, a mix of wine and blood.
The glass glittered in the moonlight, extremely sharp like hooked claws.
Naemon steadied her, his previous emotions of the night absolutely to the wind. A wave of panic ensued.
Brïka picked her foot up and held onto his shoulder.
Naemon felt his face grow warm.
"I don't think you'll want the rest." She muttered, picking glass out of her foot like it wasn't a deep cut. Shards of glass were deeply embedded in her bare foot.
Blood oozed out of the cuts and over her fingertips.
She flicked pieces of the green and now red glass aside.
"Brïka, are you quite alright?" He placed a hand on her stomach, to further balance her, but she hardly looked like she needed it.
She said nothing, but wrenched another large shard out of her foot.
Naemon had seen his fair share of blood, but this was quite sickening to watch.
Brïka's eyes were downcast in determined focus on her task, and soon enough, only a few pieces were left. Her foot looked quite mangled.
Brïka pushed back from him, taking one last large piece out.
She put her foot down, red seeping into the ground.
He thought she must be in incredible pain, and it would have to be treated as soon as possible, not to mention the wound would need to be cleaned and-
"Here, a gift." Brïka extended her hand, once again marred by blood.
Naemon blinked a few times, in confusion and then disbelief.
So this sort of thing was a normal occurrence? This wasn't any bosmer custom he'd ever heard of.
Of course it's a normal occurrence, she's always barefoot.
He felt like slapping a palm to his forehead.
"A thank you." Brïka kept her hand steady. Naemon stared at the palm of her hand, dumbfounded that clearly she wasn't joking.
In the center of her palm, was a piece of the bottle stained with her blood. The biggest piece, and yet the most elegantly sharp.
He locked eyes with her, his mouth hanging open, searching for anything to say. Her personality, to him, was so incredibly unsatisfactory, and yet, he needed to see more.
Take her blood? Was she insane? What gift was this?
When he didn't take it, she stepped forward and pressed it gently into his palm, taking his other hand and closing it over the top.
"Blood for blood, my Prince."
Only yours.
Naemon's stomach did somersaults. He felt the glass in his hand, wet from blood and dangerously pointed around the edges.
Her blood, payment for Estre. His wine bottle, her blood drawn.
"Brïka, I can't take this." He held it out but she simply shook her head and pushed his cupped hands back.
"Malorn." His eyes drifted down to Brïka's foot, then back to the glass it came from. It needed treatment, even though she acted as if she'd only stubbed her toe. Another facade, surely.
She was adamant about this, and he could tell by the crease in between her eyebrows her mind would not be swayed.
Naemon sighed, at a loss for communication.
The blood in the sand continued to seep.
"Come, we'll have your foot bandaged. The Queen's favorite can't be out of commission." He pocketed the glass, holding out his arm as if to ask for a dance.
Brïka bowed her head, accepting his arm and leaning on him for support.
He wished this were a dance instead.
Estre was never a good dancer.
The sand she stood on was smeared a dark red, and he knew he had to get her wrapped up quickly.
"I'll have my sister go easy on you tomorrow. I'll tell her it was my fault." Naemon half apologized, and began to lead her back towards the manor. Leaning heavily into his shoulder, Brïka side eyed him, softly, but she spoke not a word.
For how short she was in comparison to him, she was quite heavy, and he found he had to shift his shoulder entirely under her arm and hobble awkwardly to help her up the steps and to the door.
As his hand lifted to pull the door open, it opened inward unexpectedly.
Damn cat.
Razumdar blinked in surprise, clearly not expecting to find the Prince and Brïka, her arm strung over his shoulder and one foot picked up, spattering blood onto the marble flooring.
His tongue flicked between his teeth, as if he was trying to decide what to make of the situation.
"Ah, Prince Naemon," Razumdar said finally, and opened the door and bowed slightly to let them both into the manor, "This one did not expect to find you out so late. And with company."
Naemon furrowed his brow, and helped Brïka inside. She looked a little worse for wear, and not willing to put up with Razumdar at the moment. Her eyes were half lidded in annoyance and her mouth drawn down in a grimace.
She even placed her bad foot down to move the two of them forward faster, leaving a large red mark on the white flooring.
There was another thing he shared with her, mutual dislike for the other favorite Eye.
Razumdar spotted the blood, and bristled against the door, "What happened?"
The door shut more loudly than he obviously had intended, as it just seemed to raise tensions.
"My fault." Naemon said curtly, turning away from the khajiit and continuing down the hall. Razumdar followed at his heels, not satisfied with the answer.
Naemon's patience was running incredibly thin.
"Specifically, this one would like to know what happened." His lip curled, clearly the dislike for one another was shared.
Brïka straightened up, her chin held high and her eyes staring though him. She barely held Naemon again, as if her foot wasn't bothering her, "Out for a late evening stroll are we?"
Razumdar looked as if he wanted to say more, but shut his mouth sheepishly as Brïka stared him down.
Even Naemon found himself a little rattled by the sight. He shook the feeling.
Naemon sighed loudly. It was too late to be bickering in a corridor, and too dark for any sensible company to be wandering the halls.
Not that he particularly felt Razumdar was sensible company.
Of all the servants they had to meet, why'd it have to be the most coy and jumpy one?
"My dear, let us tend to your foot, yes?" Naemon placed a hand on Brïka's shoulder. He saw a tinge of red float about her mouth. Clearly if this went on longer, she'd just use her nightblade abilities to leave.
Dear.
Razumdar looked highly suspicious.
Thinking I'm out for revenge, cat?
Naemon jolted slightly as Brïka collided her weight with his shoulder once more. Did she really need his help?
Perhaps not, but he knew as well as any gentlemen not to let her go alone while wounded.
Besides, she was not at all awful to have on his arm.
"My foot hurts." Brïka sighed plainly, her tone laced with weariness, mock collapsing against Naemon as he did his best to catch her.
She knew how to put on a show, given the present company, it seemed less than needed.
"This one will inform her Majesty of this in the morning." Razumdar turned down the hall back towards the door once more.
"No need. I will inform her myself." Naemon snapped, scooping up Brïka so she did not have to stand at all. Last thing he needed was that damn cat whispering to his sister that he hurt her precious Eye.
He heard Razumdar scoff viciously behind him, but it was of little importance.
Without another word, he proceeded to head up the manor's stairs and stalk down the dimly lit and quiet hallway until he reached Brïka's room.
"You're quite the actress, Ms. Malorn." He felt his laugh draw up from his chest. His fingertips pressed into her skin.
"I don't know what you mean. I find myself exhausted." Brïka let out a hiss of air from between her teeth.
Only once he was inside did he realize how tightly he was holding her to his chest.
His face flushed.
"I'm sorry, my lady." He moved to set her down on the bed, but she pushed away from his chest and to her feet with ease.
She sat down on the bed and grabbed a linen cloth, and began to hastily wrap her foot. It was meticulous and precise, but quickly done. This was a normal occurrence?
How much blood did she lose? It seemed to be of little consequence.
"I'll explain to Ayrenn if she asks. Do not worry, Prince." She didn't look up from her bandaging. Naemon stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of whether to go or not.
The blood was seeping through the first few layers.
"I'll fetch you more cloth." He started to turn to leave.
"Cloth and carrying? You act as if you're the servant here." Brïka gave a coy smirk, tying off the bandage on the top of her foot and perching on the edge of the bedspread.
Naemon leaned against the doorframe. The feeling in the pit of his stomach bubbled up again.
He would have someone sent to bring her real bandages as soon as he could, and maybe a healer too if she didn't accomplish that somehow on her own too.
"Blood for blood, isn't that what you said?" Naemon's hand moved to his pocket, thumbing the smooth side of the glass.
"Promised." Brïka corrected, getting up and moving to the doorway with him.
"People will talk if you linger around the room of the Queen's favorite." She whispered. She was almost nose to nose with him now, and he could smell her breath, still hinting of wine.
"Promised." He returned, before bowing slightly and stepping out of the doorway, "Sleep well, my lady."
Once a little further down the hallway, he turned and looked at her through the slight crack in the door she left.
"I will know you."