I read the book over and over, first with the curtains open, then by candlelight as night fell. They really were myths, the sort of things you might read to children before bedtime if they weren't so horrific. Lutes made of a woman's tendons, children born mad in a city of practicality, and the last tale…

"Sheogorath is already inside each of us. You have already lost."

An echo in response, darkly amused from my memory. "But let's play, anyway."

The Nine Divines had never suited me. My father served Stendarr, the god of mercy loyally, and what good did it ever do him? He was murdered by his wife, mercilessly, left in a shallow grave. Even my given name – Gabriel, 'Stendarr is my might' – I'd left behind long ago. I served the Night Mother out of fear, cowed, not because I had any connection. Hadn't mother said it herself? I was too soft, too full of life for her to have chosen me to train. The voice in my head at the shrine, too – I didn't dare name it as the Madgod, even though I knew inside it was.

"Ye've more colour to ye." More than shadow black and blood red. I remembered those feelings at the shrine, even when the hallucinatory smoke had released its grip. Watching the cultists, so delighted and raptured in the moment. Welcoming the gifts of creativity, and the gifts of the deranged.

What kind of alchemist could afford to dismiss creativity? I'd welcomed that gift all my life. But of the other…

Did I already have it? Did I have a choice?

I set it aside, for now. One thing at a time. It was hard enough just to think straight, to sort out what had happened in the past weeks, where to go from here. Whether to be led along on a rope, like the dog. I managed a smile at the memory of the innkeeper's reaction to him. He'd be safe and warm in the stables, anyway, even as late night fell.

I rose, chair creaking, knees creaking from the time I'd spent hunched over and reading there. My eyes stung. A vague scolding from mother when I was a girl, about ruining my eyes. My throat closed tight, a shiver moving down my back.

It was time. Lucien had set to meet him near the castle gates, though why there and this late, I couldn't fathom. But I'd follow, for now, until I could figure out exactly what I was going to do with myself from here. Stay bound, a servant to the Dark Brotherhood, to the spirit I hated? Stay with Lucien, who made my blood race for both good and ill?

I needed fresh air.

It was cooler at night, at least, a much-welcomed relief from the oppressive humidity of the day. Crickets chirped noisily, fireflies hovered like tiny lanterns over the canals as I made my way to the meeting place. In the distance I could hear the call of owls, newly awoken to begin their midnight feasting. The water, too, gently lapping in the canals. Altogether, the sounds hummed into one. Peaceful. I almost didn't want the walk to end.

I found an alley by the road between clustered houses and waited. Ten minutes turned to twenty, then a half hour, my impatience growing. At last, soft footsteps, those of a practiced padfoot. I glared over my shoulder to their source, hand on my hip. "It's about time you – "

In a flash of movement, there was a dagger to my throat.

Not Lucien. I swallowed back a cry, holding my breath, releasing it in a gasp as I was forced back into the arms of the one behind me. A man, - a thief? - arm circling my waist to hold me tight, the other keeping the dagger close enough to my throat to prick if I so much as twitched.

"I – I…" I scrabbled desperately for something to appease, terror bubbling up. "I don't have money."

He remained silent, holding me tight, tight enough to hurt. A horrific thought – what if he didn't want money?

I struggled, and screamed for help.

More footsteps. More footsteps! Someone had heard, someone was coming. Lucien? With a grunt he struggled to keep me held as I fought, twisting and spitting like a cat in his grip, trying to bite at his arm. Only when a silhouette came around the corner, taking his attention, did I succeed. A mouthful of burlap and flesh, my mouth tasting of copper, a deep snarl in response.

Suddenly I was on the ground, the impact leaving me dizzy. He's thrown me. My gaze rose to the shape now blocking the alleyway, blade drawn. A familiar face, aged and noble, chin raised fearlessly. The retired captain, the man who'd found me on the road outside Kvatch and had brought me to Bravil. Yes – I remembered now, he had been coming here to retire.

To retire. He was old. Larger than me, battle-trained, but old enough to be retiring. Could he fight? I had to help, I had to. How? I dragged myself to my knees, the thud of a sheath against my thigh reminding me.

My wakazashi.

I drew it clumsily. The man was shouting now, sword raised in threat.

"By order of the Imperial Guard, drop your weapon, thief!"

It all happened faster than I could see. One of the thief's gloved hands closed around the tip of my blade like he knew it was coming, pulling me helplessly forward with his momentum as he lunged. With the other, he buried his dagger into the man's gut.

A gurgle. The blade was twisted, then drawn free with a spurt. He fell to his knees, gasping, and the thief ran, leaving us collapsed there.

No, no, no, no. I dragged myself to the captain, gasping, inhaling a sob. He gurgled on the ground, a pool forming beneath him that in the darkness looked more black than red.

"Hold on, just hold on," I moved my hands to his chest, summoning up my magicka, trying to fight back against what I already knew. The blade had struck true, severing the major aorta in his stomach. He would bleed out in short minutes. And a scent – vague and bitter, the flesh around his wound necrotizing and retreating unnaturally fast, his blood thinning and flowing all the quicker. It would leave me unable to draw the flesh together and seal the wound, unable to stop the bleeding that would be his death. It was made for deer, to let the hunter bring it down quickly and mercifully without a long, painful chase.

Poison. One of my poisons.

My heart raced. Had it been sold place to place through a merchant caravan? I had dealt with them once, at my shop. Or had I sold it to the thief myself, to follow him here and now?

I fought it. As hard as I could I willed my magicka to push back against the poison, to allow split flesh to mend, or at least to coagulate the endless gush of blood. Between wracking sobs and gasps for breath, I screamed for help.

By the time help came, it was too late.

They comforted me, told me there was nothing I could have done. Questioned me for what little I could tell about a hooded man during my midnight walk. They gathered up the body, to be taken to the Hall of the Dead where it could be examined before interring. A guard helped me back to the inn, my gloves and sleeves wet with blood, and I retreated to the room I'd rented.

Another life lost because of me. Another life I'd failed to save.

If I had drawn my blade just a moment faster, if I had been just a bit more aware, he would still be alive. A stranger, but a kind one. He'd found me, helped me here, and I'd failed him and myself.

How could I hope to choose my own destiny, to forge a path for myself if I couldn't even defend myself? If a thief left me screaming for help, putting others to death?

It was my poison.

Better I stayed on the leash. I might do less damage that way.

The door creaked open at my weight to show I was no longer alone. Lucien waited, brow arched, then his fade hardening at the sight of me. He stood and moved to me, both possessive and comforting at once. "I was delayed at the meeting point and came to see if you were here. You're bleeding. What happened?"

"It's not – "I inhaled, trying to calm myself, and broke down into sobs. "It's not my blood."

He listened patiently to my explanation. One arm, then another moved to circle me, and I buried my face against his chest and sobbed. A hand moved into my hair, fingers stroking, slowly soothing me into silence.

I couldn't fight it. I hated him, everything he stood for. The Brotherhood, the Night Mother, knowing he would slip a knife in my back just as his hand moved to caress it, but I couldn't turn away. Whatever invitation Sheogorath had extended me, whether I was mad or not, what did it matter? The idea of pursuing it, chasing my own destiny was a child's dream. This – here in the arms of a man I both hated and needed – this was reality.

We'd been through so much, together. The weeks in the Sanctuary, the training, the treachery, through hell and back. Holding his hand when he was blinded, him catching me when I leapt through my fears in Oblivion. If the Night Mother hadn't spoken through me that night, set the traitor aflame, I'd be dead. If Lucien hadn't coaxed me to jump, I'd be dead. If mum hadn't been a Sister, hadn't given me her dagger so long ago, I'd be dead.

I was helpless, without a family.

We left that morning to begin the long journey back to Cheydinhal. The hound seemed to sense my sadness when I collected him, whining and rubbing against my legs, licking at my face when I knelt to untie him, solemnly gazing at me with those round, brown-red eyes. More for my own comfort I pat him, running my hands up and down his body before finally submitting and wrapping my arms around him. He tucked his long snout into the crook of my neck, silent and patient.

I hated how much I wanted his comfort. How much his loyalty meant to me. I held him anyway, until Lucien arrived – something he had to collect, he said - and we set off. Astride a horse with a dog at our side, both from the void, sitting with the man who heard the Night Mother's words in his head.

It surrounded me. How did I ever think I could escape it?

We rode on.