Chapter Three: Paranoia

Fredas, 13th of Hearthfire, 3E433.

It is time. I cannot delay this any longer. Almost two weeks have past, and the evidence grows by every second. I should have known from the start that she was involved with them! She is most certainly with the Marukhati. Why hadn't I noticed it sooner? She has that look about her. Behind the pleasant wine-worker, there it is: silence.

I do not trust silence. And yet she is not silent! Her every move betrays her motives! I know too much, heard too many things. It's why she's out to get me.

And it is such a pity. I always thought she was a... tolerable woman. It is most likely that Bernadette Peneles corrupted her and recruited her. A shame, really, but I must put myself before anything else! I am Cyrodiil's only chance of cleansing. Maybe I can cure this poor creature. I must cure her before she purges me from the world! Who else will give light to the secrets I've collected throughout the years?

Her death will guarantee my safety.

"Fredas: worst day of the week," Ismene sighed as she hung her apron on a peg. "Why's it that everyone in the city chooses this one day to drink themselves under the table?"

"Because they do not need to rise early for work tomorrow," Bernadette said. She smiled and squeezed Ismene's arm. "Just be glad the night's over and done with. You only had to put up with Sir Lizard for a short while, too."

Ismene rolled her eyes and pulled her kerchief off. "Don't remind me, Bern." As she walked Bernadette home, Ismene couldn't help but to glance occasionally over her shoulder. Glarthir hadn't approached either of them, and the crazy Bosmer seemed to be keeping his distance. All the better, Ismene thought with a small sigh. It took her a moment to realize that they had already reached Bernadette's house and that her friend was leaning against the door, studying her face.

"You're exhausted," Bernadette said quietly. Ismene gave a small nod and tried to smile. "Do me a favor? Sleep a couple of extra hours tomorrow. It's not normal for us vintners to have such pale cheeks, given that we're out in the fields many hours of the day. And I know your complexion is rosy, not milk white."

"I'll try," Ismene said.

Bernadette shifted her weight to her other leg and frowned. "What is it? Do you want to come in for a moment?"

"No, no," Ismene said, shaking her hands. "It's just mother. She's been writing me constantly." When Bernadette moved her hand, as if to say 'continue,' Ismene added, "And I haven't replied to a single letter."

"Oh, Ismene," Bernadette sighed, "she's your mother."

"I know," she said. "I probably have a new letter waiting for me; no doubt she's still pestering me about marriage and grandchildren."

Bernadette smirked and folded her arms over her chest. "Well, you are her only child, Ismene, and your mother is a Benirus. Her family's reputation isn't as glorious as it once was, and she only wants the best for you."

"Ever the voice of reason," Ismene chuckled. "Fine. I'll write to her tonight. Good night, Bern."

"Good night, Ismene."

Mog had brewed another pot of Orsinium tea, and Ismene took a sip from her steaming mug. She ripped the Benirus seal from the parchment, not surprised that her mother used such formality even for her own family. She rolled her eyes when she heard her mother's voice in her head as she read the letter.

Ismene,

It's been almost a month since you've written me back. I understand that you are a grown woman, capable of looking after yourself. But please, Ismene dear. As a parent, I will always worry over you. A mother never stops thinking about her children, not even for a moment. I know you are occupied with your work at Tamika's winery, but please, I hope you will find the time to write me and let me know that you are alright.

I am doing well, by the way. The move from Anvil to the Imperial City went smoothly. The city is wonderful to me, Ismene. Your father brought you here for your seventh birthday. Do you remember? You were the happiest little girl, that day. I wish you would visit me here, but I know your days are full of hard work. I'm so proud of you, darling, even if working in a winery is not proper Benirus behavior.

There are many fine men here in the City. I know you are probably rolling your eyes, but darling, you should find someone to provide for you. I worry how a young woman fares in these times, and it will help put my soul at ease knowing that someone capable is caring for you. Oh, listen to me. I'm tearing up just thinking how much you've grown into a lady.

Please write me, darling.

All my love,

Coretta Benirus, your mother.

Ismene sighed and idly scratched Mittens behind the ears as she put the letter down. "Oh, Mother," she breathed out, "always clucking after me, always prattling on about men. Some things will never change, will they, Mittens?" The cat meowed and rubbed her head against Ismene's hand. She smiled and turned her attention back to the parchment. "I suppose I should humor her, though." She dipped her quill in the inkwell and started writing, mindful of the tail occasionally curling against her chin.

It was well into the night when she was satisfied with her letter. Crumpled up sheets of parchment laid scattered about her desk, and Mittens wriggled on her back, tearing her claws through the paper. Ismene sighed and rubbed her eyes. "There: short, simple, and to the point. If she wants any more than that from me, she'll have to visit me in person." Elaborations were never her strong suit, at least in writing. She was a bit like her father in that sense.

Ismene stood from her chair and stretched her arms out before placing the letter on her nightstand. She'd have to remember to ask Mog to send the letter out with the next courier. She cringed when she thought of all the letters signed Coretta Benirus the Orc must have been receiving lately.

She dressed into her nightgown and ruffled her hair, mussing the short strands. With the candles blown out, she collapsed into her bed, her body giving a great sigh of relief when she finally gave her aching muscles a rest. Mittens sprawled herself out by the pillow, idly rubbing her face against the sheets until they both fell asleep.

And what a sound sleep they had; no dreams, no worried thoughts, no planning out the next day's agenda—have to mail Mother's letter, need to buy more ink and parchment, pay my tab, visit Salmo, tell Mittens to stop hissing—

Just the black and dark purples of closed eyelids—tell Mittens to stop hissing.

Ismene's eyes flew open, and when her eyes did not adjust to the darkness of the room, even when she conjured a dull magelight from her fingertips, it took her a few moments to realize why. Something was covering her eyes. Pain erupted right where her neck met her collarbone, and her magelight flickered and died from raw panic and fear distracting her. She kicked out with her legs and felt something move on top of her, heard another hiss—Mittens—and grappled at her neck when she felt it being compressed. She should scream, scream at the top of her lungs for Mog, for the guards, for anyone, but with the fingers—fingers—wrapped around her throat and her chaotic thoughts, vocal cords became obsolete, useless things.

The fingers were gone and replaced with something else. Something sharp nicked at her neck, and she gasped when cool air met blood, making her entire body go rigid in fright. "You will not struggle."

She knew that voice, knew the paranoid tremors rippling through each syllable he whispered. No, no, no, that can't be—

'Sometimes I see him staring at me from his window.'

"You will not struggle," he said again, his hand slowly moving from her eyes. She could only make out a mad gleam in his eyes, his eyes that were darting around everywhere at once. "Don't," he warned again, moving the blade—axe—closer to her neck. She bit her lip and swallowed, the motion slowed by the metal biting into her skin. A breath escaped him, a chuckle that sounded far too pleased, as if he himself could not believe what he had accomplished. "You thought I wouldn't notice you," he said in a whisper-like cackle. "Oh, but I did. I have to give you some credit: it was difficult figuring you out. Oh, but I did, I did."

Ismene sank her head as far back into the pillows as she could, hoping to put distance between her neck and the axe that shone just as madly as Glarthir's eyes.

"At first, I thought you were immune to them, that you were far too strong to fall into their traps. You weren't in the city as long as them, after all," he mused, his eyes sliding away from her face to stare into a dark corner. When she tried to inch her body away from his, he slashed his gaze back to her, his lips parting to bare his teeth. "But you were one of them all along! You were just a rendezvous for them, another member to refer to! Don't you see?" He tangled his fingers in her hair and forced her head back, exposing her neck. "Your conspiracies don't just start and end with Skingrad. They seep all the way into The White Gold Tower itself!" He lowered his face closer to hers, and she closed her eyes when she felt and smelled his breath, disgusting and laced with something sweet—

"I-I d-don't know—"

"Quiet!" he hissed, angling the axe so that it opened up another cut on her skin. "Quiet," he repeated, taking a shaking breath to try and steady himself. "You Marukhati are always the same: you plot, you scheme, and then when you're caught, you try to blubber your way out. Is it guilt that compels you?" He sneered and shook his head when he heard a sob escape her mouth. "No matter, no matter! Once I'm finished with you, the others will pay! Just have to take matters into my own hands. The only way now, Glarthir, the only way." His words slithered into another cackle, one that made his lips twitch and teeth click together.

Others? Ismene's heart froze when she comprehended his words. The list. He was too busy raving on about how he was the savior of Tamriel, how he would purify Cyrodiil by first cleansing Skingrad and then moving on to the other major cities, to see her gaze harden into one of fury. Fear was the least of her concerns. Bernadette's life was on the line, her most trusted friend and companion. Glarthir had hoped that the dark room would give him the advantage of fear and domination, but it only served as a cloak for her as her hand slowly crept underneath her pillow. She prayed that the Divines would bless Bernadette for convincing her to keep a knife under her pillow at all times, just in case.

Just in case.

Her fingers brushed against something cold and sharp, and she winced when she felt metal slice through her skin. If he noticed her cringe, he chalked it up to her terror.

"Now you will know paranoia," he said at last, concluding his rant with a tongue wetting his lips. He shifted above her, trying to find the best position to cleave her head from her body. She gripped the hilt right when he moved his knee, and knew that someone or something out there was looking down at her right now, for they granted her one and only one chance.

Glarthir's knee moved right onto a tail that belonged to a cat that had stayed quiet for some time. She hissed and spat, making the elf gasp and fumble for his grip on the axe while the cat dug her claws through his trousers and into his legs. There was no time to think, only to act. With danger no longer posed to her neck but still very much present in the room, Ismene tightened her grip on her dagger, and lunged.

It would have helped if she held the dagger correctly and if she could see—her closed eyes weren't helping her in that respect. She gasped when she hit Glarthir, her shoulder bashing into his, her free hand gripping his tunic to keep her from falling forward, the knife missing its mark. He managed to hold onto his weapon, but with a cat tearing at his flesh and with his axe too heavy to hold upright with one hand, she was left with the advantage.

Ismene attacked again, not thinking, not breathing when she felt the knife plunge into something soft. She heard him gurgle, and when the knife met resistance, she pushed it further, feeling something warm and wet seep onto her hand.

It happened too fast, too suddenly for her to realize that the elf was already dead. She twisted the knife this way and that, tears dripping into her mouth and keeping her from opening her eyes. It wasn't until Mittens nudged her head against her side that she jerked the knife away with a jolt, her fingers tearing at Glarthir's tunic to put as much distance between herself and the madman.

She crawled backward on the bed, sending the cat and blankets to the floor in her mad rush. Her breathing became labored, staccato pants, and she shook her head at the outline of the figure at the foot of her bed. No, no, no, no, it didn't happen, I didn't do it, it wasn't me, it didn't happen, it didn't happen. She mouthed these words to herself like a priest pleading in prayer, and for long minutes, she sat there, gripping the knife between her hands, not noticing that the blade cut into her palms and fingers.

She would wake up, she would spend the morning about town, doing errands, and then she would work the afternoon shift. Salmo said he wanted her to help him bake a cake, and Bernadette would need to be walked home because of—

Glarthir.

Ismene clutched her hair, the heels of her hands covering her eyes. She shook her head and took in a deep breath. I didn't do it, I didn't do it. She was tired; it was just a nightmare after a hard day at work. The hair on the back of her neck rose when she felt someone staring at her. She looked about the room, finding Mittens's eyes the only pair. The cat blinked at her and looked away. Ismene's skin broke out into gooseflesh, and sweat began forming on her brow. Before she could stop herself, her fingers twitched and formed a magelight. It was just bright enough to illuminate most of the room, and this time, she did scream.

She threw her hand over her mouth to muffle her shriek. Another pair of eyes stared at her, a pair lifeless and still glazed with madness even in death. They were no longer flecked green, but black and—

Cold as winter ice and shrouded in shadow.

She bit her hand, trying to not scream and to wake up from this horrible dream. She would wake up, wake up, wake up, WAKE UP. Something from the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she whipped her head around, her breath stopping short for a moment. It was there: black, billowing, tall. It made the temperature drop considerably, made the dark corners of the room profound and angular as shadows stretched across the ceiling, oozing like blood across the floorboards until they crept around her bed. When she blinked, the figure and the shadows were gone. She was left with the cat, herself, and a dead body. A chill set through her body, making her hands shake and spine straighten until she thought it would snap.

Dream or no dream, she could not stay in this room. Not with this suffocating air, not with Glarthir, not with the blood pouring out of his neck.

Realization dawned upon her: she could not stay in Skingrad. The guards and citizens knew who she was, knew that Ismene Fiore worked for Tamika and lived in The Two Sisters Lodge. This knowledge led to the thoughts of having to run away, of becoming a criminal. If she went to the guards, would they believe her? She wasn't a noble, they would need solid evidence of Glarthir's madness. A list of names would not prove herself innocent.

Was she innocent?

She ground her teeth together and forced herself to not even dwell on that question. Innocent or not, there was only one course of action to take. She threw her bloodied nightgown off and shrugged into her grubby clothes she reserved for tending to the fields. Her fingers fumbled over ties and laces, and not wanting to spare another moment, she let them dangle undone. She filled a small pack with whatever her hands touched, not realizing that she had packed plates, cups, a quill, and a crumpled piece of parchment.

She opened the door to her room, letting Mittens sneak past her legs and into the hallway. The cat turned to look at Ismene as the woman hurried out of the inn, stepping on squeaky floorboards and tripping on carpets all the while. Mittens blinked, fluffed her fur out with a shake of her head, and went on her way, finding a cozy corner to snooze in.

A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating! But summer's here, work hours are pretty reasonable this year (thank God), and the next chapter is already in the works. All feedback is appreciated :)