It was the kind of memory that came back to him often. A tart, thinly veiled memory, riddled with personal bias. That first summer of her employment. How charming she had seemed, how elegant her introduction into his very life was. His sister knew how to pick her servants, and she chose interestingly and in a way that left strange impressions in one's psyche. Yes, that first summer had forever altered his life, and he knew it would continue to until the day they had both died, however far away that may be. The parties, the business trips, the meetings, and the remarkable meals. The memory itself left a sour taste in his mouth, and yet he could not help but think of it in a bittersweet manner. It could only be thought of as bittersweet, in truth.
Oh yes, the company meals, in their truths, were among his fondest memories, they always would be. They had been so exquisitely exciting, though little more than conversation had ever happened. And yet, for her company being such a wonderful addition to his daily life, the memory itself was odd.
Prince Naemon looked up from his lunch, a cherubim blush glazing his complexion, and feverishly hummed, "How beautiful, how divine a creature!"
The surrounding company tittered in agreement, and tucked into their meals. The arising topic of the woman, the Queen's new Eye, was a heated one. On the one hand, she was delightfully charming, and acted as if the high society had been one of her upbringing, and she made the most exquisite conversation partner. On the other hand, the Maormer tattoos could not be fully covered by most garments, especially in the heat of the early summer days and the humidity of the great halls. But, for all the suspicion that it arose, her stories put the disgraceful markings to complete shame. It would have to be worked out of her, practically begged for, but she would relent and speak the horrid tale to life. Tearfully, she could weave a tale of a humble upbringing, and the abuse she suffered at the hands of the pirates.
Yes, she was charmingly false.
"Oh!- Look how they marred me! I can no longer bear the sight of serpents, and yet I'm branded with them forever!"
Halfway through, she always wistfully and tragically wiped away a tear, and with a sorrowful gasp would cry out, "I'm sorry, it's just too much to bear-I simply cannot go on! I must live with this on my own."
The surrounding rabble would give anguished sympathies, and pat her on the shoulder. What a brave young bosmer woman! How stupendously independent! What a soul Queen Ayrenn had truly stumbled upon! What divine luck!
Prince Naemon would listen eagerly, but sit back and laugh to himself once the crowds turned away, for Brïka's face would go quit stoic, and all practice of agony would go from it like a stone from a young boy's sling. Of course, the joy would mask when she turned to another conversation, but a mask it was. For, he had seen her drenched in blood, and that did not stir her tragedies one bit. He, himself knew the trials of the court, and it seemed to him that she had quickly, and almost effortlessly learned to manipulate it as quickly as she had aligned herself with the Queen.
Truly, how beautiful and intriguing a creature she was. And, therefore, she was entirely, dreadfully alluring.
And so it was that later that summer's afternoon, he would find himself walking with her through the rose gardens, her arm gently tucked in his elbow as the two strolled along. She was quite small in stature compared to him, and therefore looked almost younger than she was, and it added to her affect. The sun could kiss their complexion, and to their company be a delightful addition to the lunch that was served earlier. The waves crashed upon the somewhat distant shore, and all was right in that late afternoon.
"Now, Ms. Malorn, I should find in myself a good man to tell you that you've captured the interests of the court's nobility." He said to her, a wry smile upon his features.
"And, I should find within my depths, a good woman to say that it is to you I owe the opportunity! Without your invitation, I shouldn't have presented such a story." Brïka laughed, a warmth spreading over her face.
"A dreadful tale." He shook in mock disgust.
"Oh, completely inane and dreadful!" She sighed and threw one immaculately kept hand over her eyes, "I shan't ever tell it again!"
"Truly, it's too depressing a story for any decent man's lunch." Naemon shook his head in mock disdain, giving a gentle squeeze to her arm.
"Pirates and sad women put you off your meals? I shudder to think of how you manage this state!"
The two laughed warmheartedly, as if they were talking about a recent opera, and continued to walk.
"Speaking, so, of the state, how is your wife, my lord?" Brïka's face had shifted to an expression one gets when the courier is late, and she had pulled the stroll to a stop in front of a bush of nightshades. Naemon had often wondered why they kept them in the garden. They did not match the surrounding Dragon's Tongue or mountain flowers that they had shipped in from Riften. They looked like a ripe bruise on tan skin, and they were so sorely out of place in the direct center of the garden.
Yes, he would take it up with the gardener to have a replacement put in. They were such an eyesore, and were they not toxic? Obviously, he would not eat them, but they really were so out of place. Yes, he would have them removed immediately.
He became vaguely aware that he had still not given her an answer when she shifted to face him more directly, giving his arm a slight tug.
"She won't attend my parties, but is quite well all the same. Perhaps, she is sick of theatrics." Naemon's face kept his wry and cheery disposition, but a look of unease crept in around his eyes as he continued to stare at the nightshades, "Say, why do you ask?"
"I see her less and less, and in all honesty my good prince, I get the feeling the woman does not like me." Brïka clucked. Naemon looked at her in shock, and then a guilt came over him, and he resorted to a fib.
"I've noticed no such thing!"
Brïka stooped and plucked a nightshade with her free hand, twirling the stem between her thumb and index finger.
"You're quite kind in her absence, my lord." She looked at him, warmly, handing the soft purple flower over, "These are my favorite, don't you know? My mother loves bluebells, but I prefer the nightshade's darker complexion."
Naemon took it, studying the toxic thing intensely, understanding now why there were in the garden at all, "Only as kind as she is to me. I'm afraid my explanations of her absence do her no great justice, I only wish she'd accompany me."
Brïka shrugged absently, "You'd do well to not hang your heart on others."
He sighed, and tucked the flower in his vest pocket absentmindedly, and patted her hand affectionately, "Do tell me more of your dreadful stories, Malorn, I have tired of this subject."
He began to walk again, the ill mannered talk of his wife wasn't suited to his style, though he knew Ms. Malorn only worked eagerly to speak her thoughts. After a moment, he spoke out again, "I must say, your mother has wonderful taste in flowers. I think a powder blue would fit the garden much better than nightshades."
"Is it not one's obligation to stand out, Prince Naemon?" Brïka laughed, "I quite like them. I asked the gardener to plant them for me."
"Perhaps you could ask him to move them out of the center?" Prince Naemon sighed emphatically, "Do you have another favorite that is less striking?"
Yes, her style was unique and striking, much more suited to her lifestyle than his. For being his sister's personal viper, she made for entertaining company.
"None. Oh, please leave them be Naemon." She flashed him a strangely endearing smile, her dark eyes mocking his annoyance.
He threw his free hand up and waved it off, "Next thing I know, you'll be replacing the gold drapes in the hallways!"
"Oh yes, and then the silver spoons as well." She chuckled, "I have much planned."
"Do not." He chided. Brïka rolled her eyes.
"I jest. I only work for Queen Ayrenn, I don't run her kingdom, nor would I ever desire to."
Naemon shrugged in response, "I don't suppose you would."
True, it was a monumental task, but he would've put his heart and soul into it, and here he was, fussing to himself over flowers and silver spoons. What were silver spoons in comparison to a golden crown? Was his brow not as noble as his sister's? Was playing warrior not a good enough triumph for Ayrenn?
Estre had taken it worse than he had, in fact, she's practically spat when Ayrenn returned and took up the conversation with Naemon, and refused to leave the room.
"I think you do well," Brïka cut across his thoughts, "That is, in advising her. You've got a social mind, Prince Naemon. Queen Ayrenn loves the fight for the kingdom, not the fight for the favor of the nobility."
Naemon felt a small flicker of pride from the compliment. The same blush that had plagued his tan cheeks at lunch once again made a shy appearance. He smiled at her, "You're quite kind, Ms. Malorn."
"Only to the deserving." She replied, letting her fingertips brush over the flowers and grasses as they continued to walk.
"Am I truly that deserving?" Naemon pondered, finding himself intellectually stimulated in the pride of his own advisory skills. He quickly chastised himself for it.
Yes, that was right. She was a great actress, and he mustn't forget that, no matter how charming her compliments.
"The only deserving one, my lord." Her voice had dropped in tone, her dark eyes wandered the ground, for a moment, "I find it hard to give any worthy compliments these days."
She suddenly looked up at him, stopping in her tracks and bringing her free hand to grasp his elbow. The sudden movement startled Naemon, and he clasped his hand over top of her's.
"Ms. Malorn? Are you quite alright? You look seized by something." He leaned in close to her, and she leaned into him.
Her face had drained of all joviality, the smile that had crept so wonderfully into her eyes that afternoon had vanished as if it had never been there at all.
Naemon found himself captivated, an anxiety steeping pungently in his stomach. The image of her soaked in crimson slipped dramatically through his head.
"Naemon, are you so sure Lady Estre has your best interests at heart?"
Naemon looked at her, pulling back with a start, mouth agape in shock, and then almost anger, "You do her ill to speak like that! Never say that again!"
"I am only asking." Brïka was steadfast in her opinion, "There is much in Cyrodiil that you do not know of. I think your advisory skills are of vital influence to Ayrenn. I repeat, my lord, does Estre have your best interests as heart?"
"Why? Are you so sure she doesn't?" He felt his blood begin to run hot, "I know of the situation in Cyrodiil! Are you so sure, with your Maormer roots, that you have the Queen's best interests at heart? Speak Malorn!"
Brïka turned her head away, releasing his elbow from her grip and beginning to walk off on her own, as if something else had immediately become of great interest to her.
"I will see you at dinner, Ayrenn wants to discuss the state of the war, Prince Naemon." He heard her say, and before his eyes, in the true spirit of any nightblade, she vanished neatly into thin air.
Naemon held his hand out, waiting for her to reappear, waiting for the chance to apologize. The Maormer comment had been too far-she was no snake in the grass, Ayrenn would not have brought her in had she any doubt about her.
The guilt washed over him like the waves on the shore below. Yes, he would make his amends before dinner.
A shiver ran down his spine, and something drew his attention with great intensity up to the window.
There, in the window, stood the Lady Estre. His eyes met her, and she gazed back at him with no warmth.
The drapes dropped from her hands, and like Ms. Malorn before her, she was gone too.
The nightshade, although a weightless thing, felt like lead in his vest pocket.