My head – my head aches. A slow throbbing, swelling. Corpses often develop a build up of gas in the intestines and belly. Am I dead? Bolor could fix me, couldn't he? I try to speak, to say something, but my words crawl through my throat like shards of glass. My tongue is thick and stupid against my teeth. Help me. Please, please, I promise I'll be good.
I'm not – where am I? The table. The dining table, but it's impossibly huge, stretching through the void and at its end sits my stepfather. Dim, flickering candles float in nothingness, and a sickly sweet smell haunts the breathless air.
His fingers tap against wood, terribly loud cracks of reproval in my ears. I am a little girl again, squirming in my seat, feet dangling above the floor.
You can't do anything right. He speaks as though through a mouthful of gravel, eyes narrowed, beard bristling. You're cursed, girl. Everything you touch dies.
No. No. No.
Yes. First your father and his little secret, then that boy. A sigh of exasperation. Now this.
I don't care what you think of me.
No? Then why are you crying?
And I am crying, like the little girl with scraped knees and a corn dollie I once was. I can't stop. I choke on my own sobs, sputtering, my eyes burning as I squeeze them shut.
Drink this. It'll make all of this better.
Something cold against my lips, something cold and sweet yet bitter and – and wine. Poison. No, no, no, I won't drink, I won't let you do this to me you bastard!
I did nothing. You poured the wine. Now drink. A mingling of voices, harsh and strange. Drink up, Dusty, drink up.
"Come on, Dust."
"No!" I jerked awake screaming, cringing as cold water splashed on my neck and dribbled through my gown. The world seemed bright, far too bright and loud compared to the deadly silence and cruel voice of my dreams. Another voice reached through the fog, wavering.
"It's alright, Dust. You're safe."
"Tar-Meena?" Blankets. I'm in a bed. I groaned, gingerly reaching up and cringing at the throb of protest from my head. "Where am I?"
"Your room, now. We took you from the infirmary. Thank Mara you're awake." I whimpered as Tar-Meena caught me in a sudden hug, smiling half-heartedly at her mumbled apology. She pulled away to meet my gaze, eyes clouded. Her hand slid against mine, curling gently. "I was so worried."
"I don't…" I blinked grit from my eyes, the remnants of a bitter dream still tainting my throat. Toltette. But that was a dream. I shook my head slowly, trying to drive the memory back as long as I could. Or a nightmare.
"Jolga said you might have problems remembering." Tar-Meena seemed to speak softly for my benefit, and a glimpse out the window and jar of pain made me grateful for that. Why does everything hurt? My head felt as though it might roll off my neck at any moment, and I would have been grateful for the relief. 'What can you remember? From last night?"
"I remember…" I pursed my lips, squeezing my eyes tight and grimacing at the resounding ache. The grounds. Ocato. Walking with Bolor. Traven. "The emperor, the emperor is dead.
A rasping sigh. "What else?"
"I think…" Bolor. His name stuck to my tongue like a burr, and I couldn't shake the sickly dread from my gut. The memory crept slowly from inside me, swelling until it tumbled from my lips in a gasp. "Bolor was with – that thing. And he attacked me."
"He paralyzed you, we think. You fell, hit your head and blacked out." Tar-Meena gave a shuddering breath. "I was looking for you downstairs when Bolor pushed past. He didn't even look at me, kept walking when I asked where you were." She clenched her fists, eyes flashing with sudden ferocity. "I saw you on the floor, and the undead - " A shake of her her head, as though trying to throw off the memory. "The thing kneeling over you. By the Nine, Dust, I hardly blasted it to ash before I ran to you. I thought you were dead."
Bolor. Bolor is gone.
He hates me.
"Oh." A simple murmur of understanding, calm and emotionless. "What happened to him, then?"
"Bolor left. No one stopped him, they didn't know. There's a warrant for his arrest, but by the time I was able to get help..." She shrugged, sighing. "He must be halfway to Morrowind, by now."
"I see." Why can't I feel this? My own mind raged at me, a furious heat under my frozen, crooked smile. Cry, laugh, scream, something!
"Dust?" Tar-Meena nudged gently, voice soft and sweet. "You shouldn't bottle this up. I know you're being strong, but I'm your friend. You can let your guard down."
No sense in keeping it all bottled up.
"I should have known better." The pain in my head blossomed, throbbing with each syllable. I squeezed my eyes shut. "It was too good to be true."
"Dust." Tar-Meena frowned, brow furrowed.
"I think - I think I need to be alone."
One final, sad whisper. "Dust."
"Please."
I listened to her footsteps, soft whispers against stone until the creak of a door and click of a lock left me alone, in silence. I gazed at the ceiling, watching as the colours of sunset bled through the window, staining it gold. I raised my hand, curling my fingers in a dim beam and playing with the floating specks like I did when I was small. Only half-awake, until at last sleep took me again.
I don't remember much, from those days. I remember Tar-Meena by my side when I was awake, and the bitter taste of potions forced down my throat. Whatever spell Bolor used left its mark - the pain lingered, dull and aching. I remember thinking in a daze of how to make those foul potions taste better. My potions, the aphrodisiac - already labeled and packaged, Tar-Meena said. By Bolor, before he'd left. They're selling well. Somehow, that stuck, and I feel asleep after that with a bitter smile on my lips.
On - the fourth night? Fifth? I awoke, rubbing grit from my eyes and wincing at the sudden sharpness and clarity of the world.