Vaermina's attendants were persistent. Dianthe pressed her boot into the Bosmer's chest, yanking her steel bolt from the elf's skull. How many was that now, fourteen? Twenty? In the last week alone more and more of the Prince's worshippers had been coming out of the wood work, each of them following visions given by the Weaver of Panoply. Visions showing Dianthe's location, showing that whosoever killed her would receive favor in the Prince's eyes. She knew aiding in destroying the Skull of Corruption had been a risk, but now she knew it had been a mistake.
Dianthe finished salvaging what bolts she could and wrapped her tattered cloak tighter, bowing her head against the burning cold winds of the Pale. She trudged up the snow-addled steps of the shrine, fear and hunger twisting in her gut. Dianthe had grown desperate with each of Vaermina's assassins, with every night that passed where she couldn't rest. If she wanted to survive she needed help. Erandur had found freedom from the Prince's hold through his Lady Mara, but Dianthe didn't have time to earn her favor. She ascended the last step, her boot slipping on the snow crusted plateau, and squinted up at the grimacing visage of Mehrunes Dagon. She shivered in the presence of the shrine; knowing whatever was to come she had to succeed. This was her last chance.
Silus had been a fool to think both of them would be able to step foot from this shrine again, that gold would dissuade Dianthe. The Prince of Destruction had said his share, ordering the mortals to duel, Dianthe was more than willing to oblige. It was a small comfort when the man had fought back with flames but Dianthe was quicker, more precise, and too desperate to fail. When his body fell lifeless into the blood-speckled snow, the Razor began to reassemble. Dianthe had barely plucked it from the altar when the Dremora exploded forth from summoning portals. Beaten, bloody, and weary, Dianthe dropped into a defensive crouch. She ignored the pull of the charred flesh on her arms and face, of the cracking black skin as she dove from heavy swings of the burning greatswords.
She ran out of bolts before either Dremora showed any hints of fatigue. Her magicka was drained just healing the wounds that threatened to bleed out. The first daedra's death was a fluke; the beast had charged her with his arms overhead, bellowing his joyous war cries. Dianthe clutched the Razor and dropped to a low crouch, springing up and meeting the blade between the plates of his armor. The Dremora's cries cut short, the massive beast dropping his sword and slumping forward, dead. He collapsed on Dianthe, pinning her beneath his immense body. She wriggled, helplessly locked under the gargantuan form. Over the spiked shoulder, Dianthe saw the other Dremora quickly approaching.
Dianthe gave one last heave, managing to lift the corpse enough to free her arms. She yanked a crinkled and torn scroll from beneath her armor, throwing herself into the words and reciting the stolen scroll with haste. The words poured out from her swift lips, the edges of the tattered parchment already beginning to char as the spell built. The daedra snarled, swinging his greatsword just as the parchment disappeared. With a frightened cry, Dianthe hurled the Razor, the thin blade just catching the Dremora's ear. He remained unfazed, ready to bring the blade down on the trapped girl.
But he faltered.
The Dremora's confusion was apparent. Coming to a stop over her, he once more attempted to decapitate the trembling Breton. Before the blade bit into her soft creamy flesh it veered off, digging into the stone just a hair's breadth from her pulsing jugular, a burst of silver sparks showering her cheek. Hissing curses in his native tongue, the Dremora sheathed his greatsword and dropped to a knee, ready to liberate her head from her shoulders by hand. Yet again, he found his hands only grasping her throat. Not even capable of cutting off her breath. He snarled, blood trickling down his pointed ear.
"It worked," Dianthe breathed, relieved tears springing to her eyes. She had the audacity to rub her cold face while the daedra gnashed his teeth and continued to try and clench his armored claws around her throat.
"What have you done to me?" he bellowed, not an arm's length from her face. To her credit Dianthe wasn't so confident as to not tremble when faced with an infuriated servant of Mehrunes Dagon. Swallowing thickly, her voice shook, "I've bound you. For as long as I live you obey my will."
The Dremora recoiled, stepping back and looking sharply up at the stone visage of his lord. The daedra shook his head slowly. No, he had not been forsaken like this. He stared at the small girl as she continued to try and wrench herself free from his fallen Kyn, to the Razor lying in the snow behind him with just a drop of his dark blood.
"Please roll this daedra off of me," Dianthe called. The living Dremora clenched his fists, striding forward to tear off her jaw, but found himself complying to her will. She struggled to her feet, shaking off snow and shivering. Gathering up the Razor she glanced up warily at her bound Dremora.
"Tell me your name."
"Tachkal," the word forced his way past his clenched teeth, the daedra shaking with fury as his body betrayed him. The mortal nodded, running her fingers through her pale blonde hair, brushing blood stained snow from the strands. Shuffling her feet and clearing her throat, Dianthe glanced up into the enraged black eyes of her new guardian, unsure of what she'd gotten herself into.
"Explain," he bit, taking a step closer. Dianthe barely kept her ground, having to force herself to not look away from his boiling eyes. Taking an unsure breath, she began, "old magic, a binding scroll to create a pact between a mortal and a daedra."
"A pact implies I am not your slave, that we both have given sacrifice," Tachkal hissed. Dianthe nodded hurriedly, "yes, you're bound to me until I die but after that you're free from my influence," she hesitated, "and my soul will be tied to you. Our roles will reverse, in a way."
The Dremora paused, searching the ground as he absorbed this information. Slowly, a fanged grin spread maliciously across his lips, "you trade your miserably short life for an eternity of torture. Truly you are a fool." He chuckled at her flinch, flexing his clawed hands at the thought of what he would do to her body when the time came. Shaking herself, Dianthe's resolve returned. She stood straight, squaring her shoulders, "if that's what it takes then I don't particularly mind. You're not to harm me while I live. Protect me and don't kill people that aren't hostile," she paused, trying to figure out if she was missing anything. Shrugging off the contemptuous sneer he gave her, she offered her hand.
"I'm Dianthe the Unbidden," she hesitated, "sorry about this, Tachkal." He didn't move to grasp her arm in camaraderie and Dianthe didn't press the issue. Sighing, she ordered him to follow her and together they left the shrine. Tachkal glanced at his fallen brother, for once envious of a disgraceful death.
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/AN: I'm totally fudging with Dremora culture. Sue me./