Note: I'm done with build-up now. This chapter has been difficult to write. Very difficult to write. I feel bad for putting it off for so long, not just for the lovely people who have actually bothered to read this far but because it's bugged me about my own staying power, but hopefully I'm over that now :p I basically spent far too long trying to keep Aela dead in character before I kinda twigged that it was impossible to do 100% given that it's a depiction of the pinnacle of her madness and despair. She is erratic and confused, I've done the best job I could of keeping at least part of her alive in the chaos and not just giving into writing her Cicero-crazy. Just feel safe in the knowledge that she'll be back shortly, playing for a different team.
It was the second of Sun's Dawn; the atmosphere was strange, heavy, dark and foreboding. The air was still crisp and thin, even indoors, so much so that even the mead in the bottle Aela languidly carried by it's neck was still kept cold despite being held; droplets of condensation collected on its body and trickled down the brown glass, glistening amber in the torchlight, though she did not notice. Aela felt in no doubt that what she was about to do was the only way forward; she had spent almost three weeks making desperate, futile attempts to come up with a way to drive the Companions back to their former glory whether they were aware and willing for it to happen or not. She had taken many contracts in an effort to get the others to follow by example but was met only with praise on re-focussing energy into her work. She had approached the brothers with a façade of forgiveness, spinning tales of previous battles, hoping to re-ignite their thirst for the field but only managed to bring about reminiscence and nostalgia. She had attempted to sew seeds of doubt about the competence of her contemporaries in Leonidus, hoping he may offer them guidance but was only given his best cold smile as feedback. She had considered outright conflict, an insight of mutiny amongst the lower-ranks to overthrow the deadwood in the circle but she was a hunter, not a politician. As she passed Vilkas and Liset's open chamber door that night, it was as though the moon had finally risen, sharp, silvery, with a clarity that she hadn't experienced in what felt like an era.
A baby boy who had been named Aleksi the night before, lay wrapped in thick, blue and green blankets inside a pale, woven basket in the corner of the room. His mother lay in bed, barely conscious, sweat beading on her brow, her long brown hair, now slick and greasy sticking to her skin as a high fever boiled her blood. She had developed an infection and was fighting furiously but all could see it was a struggle. Vilkas sat at her side, hunched and forlorn; he wore only lightweight leathers, was tired and unwashed, his face stained with black war-paint, faded to grey where it hadn't settled in clumps, that had run down his face with the tears that he had strived yet failed to hold at bay. The sight of the once strong, noble warrior in such a state disgusted Aela. The man had lost muscle density, over the last few weeks, now too lost the furious spirit and tacticians wit that she had previously so admired, all because of the damned woman lying in the bed under his bleeding heart. Aela stood in the doorway unnoticed, possibly ignored, she was not sure, but either way not acknowledged as she glanced over to the little boy born to a man who had lost his way. Her rage returned, mixed with pity that he would not have the warrior's upbringing that he had a right to as the son of a Companion, an upbringing that he would be robbed of by his own mother. It was then that she knew; She was a hunter; She ran with a pack and for the greater good of that pack, in order for it to heal itself as a unit, the weakest member would have to be expelled whilst an opening was in sight.
She retuned to her chamber.
Aela sat on her knees on the floor of her dimly lit room; tending to her bow as she waited. She had begun to feel a sense of unreal euphoria as the muscles in her strong arms flexed to draw her bow, she felt almost electrical tension between her thumb and forefinger as she clung on to it's little barbs of power when she fought. The feeling of release when she let go of each arrow; let them fly away at lightening speed to decide the fate of her enemies. Wild deer, trolls, Draugr; they had all become the same to her, simply living targets representing all of her pain, her fears and frustrations. She had made the connection that she could kill her pain this way; physically kill it, smell its blood, flay its skin, stamp on its remains if she chose to do so. She was beginning to reach a state of mania on her hunts, which, when paired with the despair and restlessness of her nights was leaving her constantly exhausted and she was tired of being tired. She was no longer concerned about her sanity, at least anyone else's perception of it, or 'right' or 'wrong' by society's rule She missed the comfort of her self-assured old-self but was falling further and further away and could not see a path back. She was an animal, protecting her pack and she could not spend any more time crying.
She stared at her bow; her old friend. Her bow had seen all that she had seen, fought with her when things were good, fought for her when drawn in anger and sat in her lap, put texture in her hands when the rest of her felt torn apart and numb. She placed it to one side and stood, a strange lucidity overwhelming her. She knew what she had to do; the only thing that would kill the static; the only thing that would make things right. At least put things back on the right track. The voice in the back of her mind was still screaming but for once, for all her furious polishing, it was so distant, almost quiet. She placed her bow on the floor, delicately ran her fingers over the intricate metal work and stood. She felt as though the winds were carrying her as she drifted to her dresser. She stooped, placed her hands tentatively on the grainy wooden surface and carefully opened the top drawer. A dark green glass bottle shimmered as it's slightly irregular corner caught the torch light; partially buried under furs and an old linen tunic it was not particularly easy to spot but it shone to her like a beacon. She took the bottle with her right hand and placed her left on top of it, cradling it like a child would hold mouse. She sat on her bed absently caressing the bottle with calloused fingers and there she waited and she listened. She was hunting.
It seemed like a lifetime of waiting before she heard the footfalls of someone heavy, weary pass by her chamber. It seemed by the trudging gait that it would unlikely be anyone but her quarry's guardian; Vilkas was huge, even in his misery he needed to eat. As soon as the footsteps passed, she made her move. Silently she approached and opened her door, then began to move down the shadowy corridor. Although the room where Liset anguished was merely a few doors away, it may as well have been a mile.
Aela stayed close to the wall, hoping that the edges of the floorboards would be less likely to stir and squeak beneath her weight. She was cautious though not nervous; she had stalked prey since her childhood and this docile female had fewer wits about her than a young rabbit. Nonetheless if one of the others should become aware of her presence she feared having to make her excuses and wait for another chance that promised no definite arrival. She pushed on, arriving at the door of her companion's chamber unseen. Giving her surroundings one final check, she softly pressed her hand against the door to dampen any sound and then turned the handle. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, sharpening her senses as she crept towards the bed where Liset had slipped into what appeared to be a troubled sleep. She crouched close to the ground, her breath silent and shallow; once she arrived at the head of the bed her heart was beating so fast that she could feel the beating of her own pulse in the sides of her neck, nonetheless now was not the time to break her focus, even the most tiny of errors would result in her discovery; The best case scenario if the woman were to awaken would be that she would slit her throat and flee Jorrvaskr before a sound was made to draw the others to her, so that they might catch her in the private room carrying the bottle of poison. She did not want to flee but in the event that it was necessary she could at least go with the knowledge that the Companions would now have a chance to heal themselves without her. The bottle weighed heavy in a pouch she carried from her belt; she carefully ran her fingers under its base, supporting its weight as she undid the knot at the top with her free hand and withdrew it.
Aela stared at what she had in her hands for what must have only been seconds but her thoughts raced uncontrollably, and seemed to fall into slow motion at the same time; just a lagging jumble of noise and static darting by before she could interpret a one. She wanted desperately to hold her breath as she attempted to remove the bottles cork as quietly as possible, though knew that doing so would make her breathing too heavy and give her away when she let go to her body's need for air. With one final surge of adrenaline she gripped the bottle tightly in her right hand and loomed in over the still sleeping Breton woman. Aela delicately touched Liset's hair, partly testing to see how soundly she slept, partly hoping that it would subconsciously lull her into being used to her touch. Liset did not stir as Aela tentatively began to stroke her long brown hair, followed by her cheek, then finally, confident that she was used to her touch rested her hand on her forehead. She brought up her other hand, still holding the bottle; she tipped it slightly, staring as the green, viscous liquid oozed around the neck of the bottle; her gaze did not falter as she tilted it the other way slightly, then back, coating the inside of the rim in the sticky liquid.
Leonidus felt strange. He couldn't quite interpret the atmosphere in Jorrvaskr; it felt almost as if he were home in Dawnstar. As he sat at one of the long, wooden tables in the Great Hall, nursing a steel tankard of mead that he had poured more out of habit than anything it struck him; it was too still, too heavy, too quiet. Of course there was tension among the ranks with many too concerned with provoking Vilkas into rage or worse, tears, to say anything, but that wasn't it. Leonidus was the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, he had been around murder for long enough that he could almost smell it, still he sat and stared into his drink.
Surely not in Jorrvaskr…
He attempted to shake the feeling; perhaps it was just the fact that silence was a fairly unknown commodity in the place, perhaps he was misinterpreting the strange for the sinister. Perhaps he had just forgotten how to deal with awkward silences. He longed to Hear Nazir, hear some dry, sarcastic comment about how his cushy Imperial upbringing and over-active imagination had turned him into a frightened little girl, how Babette should study him for a more convincing con, or how no one had truly sensed death until they found themselves alone and unarmed with the winds of the Alik'r Desert licking the back of their neck. He smirked at the thought that even Cicero would be a welcome distraction at present; dancing around or chattering like a fool he was, just something to take his mind away from the tension. The thought that most frightened him was that as the Listener there was a chance that this was not simply paranoia. What if the Night Mother was calling to him? What if her voice was so feint that he could only hear it as a whisper? What if it was Sithis Himself, calling from the Void to find another one of his Dark Siblings? Here. In Jorrvaskr, his old Sanctuary, one of the last places in Tamriel where old honour and justice still meant something to it's people. He served the Black Hand because the darkness was in him, he revelled in it, it soothed his soul like wrapping a scared rabbit in a blanket to calm it down, but to see it's grasp reaching into this pocket of light upset him in the way that even a hardened cynic can feel disheartened by the corruption of an innocent child.
Leonidus' usually gleaming, jade eyes were dull and flat as he stared ahead into middle distance. His handsome, pale face now vacant and distracted against its long black backdrop of hair, would have made him look like a pallid white stone carving from an Ayleid ruin back in Cyrodiil, were it not for the significant lack of embellishment on the old hide armour he'd chosen to wear whilst not on contract.
He barely reacted to the heavy, trudging footsteps approaching from the stairway to his left. The footfalls were irregular, weary but quick, not one set, he ascertained, two, definitely two well built men. Too light for Vignar or Brill and too sober for Torvar. Farkas and Vilkas, then, undoubtedly. As the footfalls drew near and stopped he broke his stare-into-nowhere and turned his head to look at the weary twins. Farkas nodded and forced a half-hearted smile in recognition; he was blatantly feeling his brother's pain. Vilkas slumped down in a chair along the table; his back hunched and arms still hanging at his sides, apparently ignoring the world around him, focussing only on the internal skirmish he was fighting with his own emotions. Farkas joined him on the next seat along, took a metal jug and poured two tankards of mead, placing one in front of his brother who disregarded it completely, and drinking quickly from the other before placing it on the table in front of him and joining in with the three-in-a-row staring-at-nothing contest between Vilkas and Leonidus, who had also resumed position.
There was barely a sound in the Great Hall apart from the crackling and popping of the wood in the fire pit in its centre.
The three men sat in a row in their near-meditative trance until Vilkas eventually moved, lowering his head until his brow nearly touched the wood of the tabletop, and smashing his fist down with a thud that shook the crockery. Mead splashed from the tankard in front of him and landed in his tangled, neglected hair, causing it to stick to his face, although he did not notice.
"The damned Gods have cursed me!" He roared, his face contorting in agony, "Cursed this prodigal son of Hircine! Where is His loyal Huntress? Surely she has time to come here to mock me as well!" His forehead met the table, hands crossed on the back of his head, his biceps and abdominal muscles twitched in rhythmic spasms as the tears he had been fighting so hard finally overwhelmed him.
Farkas' glance darted to Leonidus, silently pleading for help, his eyes angst-ridden and childlike without his brother to give him guidance. Leonidus stared back, melancholy and seemingly still not quite there. It was so disconcerting to see either of his friends reduced to terrified animals this way, full of rage, fear and confusion, possibly a glimpse into their traumatic early life before the Companions. However they had suddenly lost their place in the list of his priorities. Aela was strikingly absent; by Sithis why had he not made the connection before Vilkas' outburst? He tried to hide his frantic impulse to run to the living quarters as he stood, still abruptly, to leave the table.
"I'm sorry, I have just realised I have business to deal with," He bluffed as he made his way past the terrified Farkas, patting him on the shoulder and pausing, "Try to get him to eat something, will you? There's nothing productive about him making himself ill as well." He added, staring into the terrified mans, ice blue eyes before swiftly heading towards the stairwell to the living quarters.
The atmosphere in the room had grown dreamlike. Aela's senses were screaming at her; she wondered if this was what it felt like to slip on ice coating the side of a mountain, out of control, unaware of the outcome; unaware of what would be waiting in the valleys below even if the fall did not kill her. Murder was not in the repertoire of a warriors actions but she had come so far, was so close to the bottom that to stop now would only bring with it new dilemma, a new set of regrets and a different sense of failure. At least this way the Circle could be salvaged. She repeated that thought in her minds voice like a mantra. With a deep breath she tilted the bottle; the viscosity of the liquid she had already applied to its neck slowed its flow and it dripped slowly. Liset's face contracted as the liquid reached her open mouth but she was not awoken. She licked her lips as another drop fell, then another until six drops flowed into her system. The poison was potent and her quarry already weakened, Aela was confident that she had succeeded until she heard the hurried footsteps outside the door. In the blink of an eye she placed the bottle on the bedside table and drew her sword, initially only identifying a dark-haired man burst through the door. Leonidus froze; staring wide-eyed at the scene before him, then lunged forward and caught Aelas' sword-arm as she desperately raised it to an attack stance. She briefly struggled before he pulled her close, grabbing her sword as she lost grip and stuffing it in his belt before it could fall and make a sound.
"Shhh!" He hissed abruptly, loosening his grip but his glare still intense.
Aela staggered backwards, visibly stunned, confused. Seconds passed, the Harbinger's eyes were wild but he had not called for help. She dropped to her knees as he walked past her, never averting his gaze, picked up the green bottle and briefly inspected it before walking back to the doorway and beckoning to her.
"I am sorry I did not arrive sooner," he uttered flatly, unemotionally, "Come with me, Vilkas will find her now, he will grieve for letting her die alone, it is him you must fear for." Aela sat still in shock as Leonidus turned to the doorway, then looked back over his shoulder, "Come with me now" He repeated, snapping under his breath urgently, "I will console Vilkas in the morning as Harbinger, then I will persuade him that he wants to be left alone with his son," He glared with such ferocity that she staggered to her feet before he added, "and you will then accompany me to Dawnstar, Sister."
Leonidus grasped the still-stunned Huntress by the forearm, ushering her through the door towards her chamber. Terror struck Aela, her face drained of colour, and no words could find her throat as realisation sunk in. She went over and over the last words that the Harbinger had spat in her ear in hushed tones before bundling her through her door, locking it from the outside.
"Hail Sithis."
He had said "Hail Sithis."