The Mage
The fight is long and bitter, the hardest yet. Gone are the days when your targets were weak and unwary and a single well-placed arrow was all it took. This one senses your approach before you can so much as put hand to bowstring, and he turns to fight you for his life with all the ferocity of his Dunmer heritage.
He commands the destructive magicks as if they were tools fashioned for his hands alone. Bursts of enchanted fire leap from his fingertips, followed, without respite, by a barrage of crackling blue-white energy that strafes every nerve and sets your teeth juddering. You reel with the impact. But if there's one thing a caster dislikes, it's close combat, so you down bow and arrows and close with him. And in the end you prevail.
You move close to witness the last breath, as has become your habit. It fascinates you, this moment of ultimate transition. But you've never considered yourself a sadist. Call it job satisfaction.
Besides, this is an act of worship. He's about to meet Sithis. You almost envy him - almost, but not quite. An assassin with a death wish is a dangerous thing indeed. And you're more vulnerable than most. You're alone. No Sanctuary to seek refuge in, no brothers to trade stories with, no sisters to congratulate you when you return, bloodied and triumphant…no Speaker to warm you with words of praise. At least not in person; the sheaf of letters tucked inside your now-scorched clothing is the closest you'll get.
No, you're alone. The Brotherhood values secrecy even within its own ranks, and you could pass your dark kin on Cyrodiil's streets any day of the week and never know it. You have only swift, faithful Shadowmere to carry you across these lush heartlands to your next fated meeting.
Uvani gasps, and you stoop down to lay a wondering hand on his chest. A heartbeat. A pause. Another one, weaker. The mortal shell, as always, strains against the inevitable. Blood pulses from the fatal gash in his throat, once, twice, three times, and then no more. His skin, already ashen, gives no sign, but the crimson eyes dull with death's inimitable glaze.
Silence.
It's complete, beautiful, perfect - the transformation from living mer to inanimate flesh. Somewhere in Cyrodiil tonight, someone will be sitting down before a roaring fire and toasting the Dark Elf's demise with a tumbler of brandy (or mead, just for the irony). And you wonder, with a vague, passing curiosity, just who that someone is. For a travelling merchant, he was a formidable opponent. Small wonder they didn't want to do it themselves.
No matter. You have schooled yourself not to dwell on such things.
A little way down the road, Shadowmere tosses her fine midnight head, one forehoof scraping restlessly at the ground. It's time to leave.
You've done your part, and Sithis will be pleased; you hope Lucien will be proud.