The Lord
It was raining in Bravil that day he came to you. This, in itself, is nothing remarkable; it's always raining down south, sometimes you thought the dull brown and brownish-yellow timbers of Bravil and Leyawiin never got the chance to dry out. But that day the rain came and never stopped, filling the river to its brim and soaking into the already sodden soil; a steady, unending veil of tears. When it rains like this, it's because the gods are weeping - or so your mother used to say.
Ungolim, at last, lies dead, and you straighten and exhale deeply.
"No!" It is a shout of rage and despair. And incredibly the voice is your mentor's, your own Speaker's - for once heedless of his surroundings and of the curious, alarmed stares of the townsfolk.
You stand stupefied in the pouring rain while his words lash you like a whip. His eyes blaze unutterable fury, and you are truly afraid of him.
"You have betrayed me...you have betrayed the Dark Brotherhood! Why!?" roars Lucien, and at the word betrayed you flinch as though he has struck you.
He steps closer, his voice dropping to a rough uncharacteristic snarl. "I am here to end your miserable life, to..."
You can only imagine how your face must look, shocked, blanching, your eyes huge with terror and pain. He sees it too, and stops - and then come the explanations, the awful realisations. Like the still-warm corpse beside you, sightless eyes upturned to the heavy skies…he was no adulterer, but the highest ranking member of your order. The one you should have made obeisance to. The one who, instead, you slaughtered like an animal.
Even now it would be all too easy for him to sacrifice you to save himself, to drag you before the remainder of the Black Hand and make you the scapegoat. But instead he says, softly and sadly, "You and I have been deceived, dear friend," -and at that, you understand that he considers you are both in this together.
You tell him that you are his to command - as if he didn't already know it. And he in turn tells you what you must do, and you stand mutely, bloodied weapon still in hand, and watch him leave.
The wind turns. Grey curtains of rain drift in front of you, obscuring the familiar, beloved shadow from your sight - for the last time, though you don't know it yet. If you did, if you could see what's coming, you'd forget decorum, hierarchy and the rest, you'd run after him and beg him not to go.
And the water keeps on falling from the heavens to slide down your cold face in glistening drops - Mara's tears, maybe, or Akatosh's himself. Not Sithis'. You doubt he is given to weeping, although he should.