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Chapter Text

Prologue: Skirting the Black Road

A week had passed since the Night Mother whispered the name into her dear Listener's ears. "Find her," the Listener had instructed. "Bring her to us." A scant description, an address, no further information provided, and so were the orders Lucien had been given.

How typical of Ungolim to skimp on the details, Lucien lamented as he saddled Shadowmere for the journey west. So tight-lipped his dear Listener was, and Lucien thought it rather cruel of him given the very decadent nature of this very peculiar crime.

From what he had gleaned of the rumors and hearsay, the mutilated body of Countess Alessia Caro had been found on the Black Road just outside of Chorrol, her guards unconscious beside her corpse. Now, this wasn't Morrowind, and it wasn't every day that a noblewoman was assassinated in such grisly fashion; Lucien couldn't recall a bigger stir since the death of the Emperor two years prior. Resigned to his status as Speaker, he lived vicariously through moments such as these, and with burning curiosity, he snatched up the first copy of the The Black Horse Courier he could find.

'Unrecognizable, the state the Countess was found in,’ a witness report had read. ‘A heinous crime. An act of true evil.’

Yet to Lucien Lachance, such carnage read like a work of art. Beautiful, it should have been hailed if the rumors were to be believed, and he shivered as he studied the details, savoring that grisly cold, for these days Lucien did not find himself so chilled very often.

New blood for the family. A murderer, freshly minted. A tendril of excitement slithered up his spine to be sent out to hunt for the Dread Father again. Heeding his orders, Lucien traveled straight to the coastal town of Anvil only to find her residence empty. Benirus Manor stood tall and vacant, its windows shadowed and the front door locked shut. It was a stately address that sat beside a glittering pond at the end of the main road with a well-manicured garden blooming behind a short cobblestone wall. In truth, Lucien thought he'd be looking down at the docks for a thieves den tucked away in the maze of back alleys or one of the beaten down shacks lining its salt-crusted harbor. He had imagined a marauder, a mercenary, a spellsword for hire. This was… picturesque. And not at all what he had expected.

Standing on the veranda in the silence of the night, Lucien let the smell of torch smoke and sea air roll over him. Seeing as he now had nothing left to do in town but leave it, he decided to let himself inside. Three sets of locks lined her front door. A bit paranoid, she seemed, and if she was in the business of assassinating nobility, she certainly had reason to be. Lucien scaled up to the balcony, found the door there much less guarded, and slipping on his night-eye ring, he surveyed the hallway to find a cat staring up from the nearby chaise. It looked mildly annoyed as it bounded to the floor, slinking off into the bedroom, away from him. Not much for defense, hardly even alarmed. What a useless creature. Perhaps it made better pest control.

The door directly across from him stood ajar. He could see through the crack, the far wall lined with bookcases, and pushing the door open further revealed a modest study. Laboratory was perhaps more apt a description as plant clippings and assorted ingredient tins covered every surface that was not otherwise occupied by notes or glassware. On the desk sat a journal and a box of opened letters, and an itch climbed Lucien’s skin like a spider. Though his fingers twitched toward them, he maintained his self-control. The hunt for his new initiate had only just begun, and as interested as he was to learn who exactly he was recruiting, ransacking would only spoil the surprise. It would be better, surely, to hear from her own lips.

Lucien crept quickly down to the first floor and cracked open a window, left it unlatched should he need to return. On the streets again, he approached a local beggar who sat slumped against the border wall, and with a few septims at the ready, he asked about the woman who owned the manor.

"Nimileth? The alchemist down the road?"

The beggar described her as 'a gentle soul' and 'fervent follower of the Nine,' and Lucien bit the inside of his cheek to keep from scoffing. He knew few devout disciples of the Divines and even fewer who shared his occupation. For a few more coins, the beggar revealed that if she wasn’t home, she was likely at the Arcane University conducting business on behalf of the Mage’s Guild. A murderer, a chapel-goer, and a mage? By now, Lucien’s interest was piqued.

And so he left for the Imperial City, willing his irritation back to latency, for Lucien tried to avoid the Capital when he could. He harbored a deep seated disdain for the bustle of city life from which the Imperial City in all its grandeur was most certainly not exempt. The guards in their gleaming armor, the ever-swept marble walkways— mere illusions of opulence that masked the seedy grime beneath. Shadowmere carried him east, and all the while Lucien imagined the swarm of pickpockets jostling him in the streets, all those dark alleyways through which to vanish. Save for that zealot of a guard captain, Adamus Phillida, the Imperial Watch were overworked and terribly slow of mind. It made contracts in the Capital too easy for him, and when jobs in the city crossed his desk, he gladly passed them along to his Executioners to distribute. These days, with the honor and independence bestowed by his title, if there was no challenge, no pleasure in the wetwork, Lucien saw no point in taking it upon himself at all.

Days later, the city gates wailed open. Knowing full well that the Arcane University was off limits to him, Lucien made his rounds through the districts to gather information, and the beggars here knew of this Nimileth too. Strange, how loyal they seemed to the woman. Protective even. Most feigned ignorance when asked about her usual haunts. They eyed him with suspicion, weighed their words carefully, swallowed down most before darting into the backstreets to disappear like roaches amidst the waste. Only in the Imperial City would the beggars have more honor than the guard, and only after he threatened to rip a man’s tongue from his mouth and feed it back to him did Lucien receive the information he had come for.

On the Waterfront, Lucien approached the rickety shack, second down from the end just as the beggar had described. The ramshackle house was quite a step down from her Anvil manor with an ill-fitting door that stood bloated in its frame. The pillars slanted to the left, the front window was cracked, and Lucien wondered why a woman of her supposed wealth would choose to stay in this dump of all places. Stalking up to the window, he was surprised to count not just his target but three other women inside. All were asleep save the one who sat idle, her back turned to him as she read before an empty hearth. He couldn't see much of her, just her hair: a rusty brown, two pointed ears sticking through. Just like the description Ungolim had provided, and on that night, Lucien waited.

Under the chameleon shroud bestowed by his enchanted ring, Lucien checked on her periodically. By the stars above, he guessed it was half past two when she began processing an herbal draught. It was a remedy to stave off sleep, if he trusted his knowledge of the herbs in her selection, which he did, of course, as he'd drunk a similar concoction at the start of the night himself. She took her potion, returned to her seat for more reading. A yawn. A sip of the potion. More reading. A break to stretch. Another sip. She was fighting sleep and losing badly. Every ten minutes the book slipped from her hands and began a slow glide across her lap. When it hit the floor, she’d jolt awake, reach for her potion, down another mouthful. It would happen again. And again.

Was this her, the Countess’s killer? Lucien wondered what she was waiting up for, if she was expecting company at this late hour. Were he in a better mood, he might have found it pleasantly ironic, but given the promise of rain gathering in the clouds above, he did not laugh. He did not smile. Growing increasingly agitated, he grumbled silently to himself and retreated to the trees along the shoreline.

Morning rose and with it dark skies. Lucien nursed his grievances as a nip of storm wind swept the hood right off his head. Even if this woman was a seasoned assassin herself, it was a waste of his time to chase her across Cyrodiil. He had his own duties to attend to, his own contracts to fulfill, and the sooner he could convey the Night Mother's message, the sooner he could return to his Sithis’ given responsibilities. As interested as he initially was, he began to question whether anyone was truly worth this wait, and he wondered how he might react should this Nimileth deny the invitation. Should he learn all this waiting had been for naught.

A crooked smile unfurled across Lucien’s lips like a drop of blood in a goblet of wine. His mind filled with wicked, beautiful thoughts. Perhaps he'd take up his blade if she denied him, make some artwork of his own…

Oh, but the Listener had been so insistent that he recruit her, and as it was the Night Mother the Listener spoke for, Lucien was in no position to refuse.

Fog rolled through the Waterfront as watery, silver light beckoned the spread of dawn above. At last, the door of the shack creaked open, and a woman stepped out into the crisp and misting morning, shrouded in a dark green cloak. It was the woman he had watched all night long— the small, sleepless one with her strange nightly routine. From the shack next door emerged a plump and balding man, carrying his tackle, and he called the woman’s name, waving with a grin. She greeted him in kind, and her voice carried a cheerful ring. Too cheerful and unbothered by the blood on her hands to belong to anyone but a remorseless killer.

Shutting the door behind her, she took one step into the road before she paused, staring at the tree before which Lucien stood. He held his breath on reflex, kept himself as still as stone. Glancing down, he confirmed that his chameleon charm remained effective, but still she stared, and she stared for a long time. Long enough for Lucien to deplete the air in his lungs. Long enough for them to burn.

Lucien should have realized then that the woman knew.

Days passed, nearly a week, and by now, Lucien was nearing the limits of his patience. Despite his best efforts, he'd been unable to approach the woman alone with his family’s proposition, and by now, he swore she’d been leading him on a wild-goose chase for the sake of her own entertainment. She’d travelled to Bruma with a housemate, then to Chorrol where they parted ways. Lucien sighed in premature relief, assuming she’d make her way to an inn, that he would finally have the chance to catch her alone. He did not.

Leaving town, she disappeared through the forests south of Cheydinhal, avoiding the Black Road all the while. Lucien parted with Shadowmere to follow after her, all the more annoyed. She walked, her pace ambling then quickening, ambling then quickening, and every now and again she would take a sharp turn and sprint away for no rhyme or reason whatsoever. Not unless she knew someone was following. Lucien considered this. He’d kept his distance, kept himself concealed, and really, he’d never been caught before, so after another moment’s contemplation, he discarded the idea. More likely it was her lingering paranoia so near to the scene of the crime. But of course; the Countess's blood had only just dried.

To his amusement, the girl stopped at a wayshrine near a remote farmhouse, and Lucien nearly snorted when he saw her kneel before it to pray. He had assumed her piety was mostly for show, for what dutiful servant of the Divines could leave such destruction in their wake? Yet here she was, head bowed and humbled with no one to watch her. Except for Lucien. And he watched her for some time.

She proceeded to the farmhouse, knocking on the door. Two young men, twins from what he could tell, welcomed her in with open arms. By Sithis, Lucien grumbled as he withdrew to a nearby tree, for what sin am I made to endure this? Hunkered down, he prayed to his Matron for strength and reflected solemnly on his life choices. The life of a Speaker was not as glamorous as he'd once been led to believe, and the aches of travel had grown all too noticeable. Gone were the days of his youth when he could trail a mark from Greenshade to Daggerfall with reckless abandon. Limber as he was, even Sithis' best Speakers needed a proper night's rest.

Lucien awoke sun-dappled the next day, pale light shining through the maples, and he waited, expecting the girl to leave for the next leg of her journey, but she never emerged from the farmhouse. Slipping on his detection ring revealed the worst of his suspicions were true; she was gone, the trail cold, no sign of her. This left Lucien with two options— assume she fled and request her whereabouts from the Dark Brotherhood’s Eyes or wait for her return in the city where he knew she lived. So he began his trek back to Anvil, begrudgingly so, wishing he’d tempered his eagerness and remained there from the start. In Anvil, Lucien clung to the city walls by day. The week was nearly over before he spied her again. She approached from the dock gates, her face blurred in the distance. Warm Midyear rays shimmered along the length of her hair, which was unkempt, a bit slovenly, billowing up and down and up and down, full of static in the dry air. She walked calmly down the road. Leisurely. Languidly, he dare say, as if no trouble in all of Mundus could concern her. Such a clear conscience. That was a good sign. She'd need a clear conscience given what he intended to propose.

Pressed against the wall, Lucien watched her enter the large house at the end of the street, a house he considered much too large to belong to such a small, inconsequential person. He kept a watchful eye on the manor as evening faded. The flickering orange in the windows extinguished room by room, and when the last light was gone, his heart thrummed a familiar cadence. In his blood, the thrill slithered down every limb.

Lucien considered scaling the roof again, but that seemed far too characteristic of an assassin or a thief, and for today at least, he didn’t come to act as either. The window he'd left cracked remained open. Letting himself inside, he slipped on his night-eye ring and adjusted to the patina of blue. He regarded the foyer as he hadn’t the first time. It was lavishly decorated, plush rugs and a garden's worth of house plants sprawling out in every corner. Welkynd stones lined the mantle next to assorted minerals and small animal skulls. On the far wall hung an oil painting of the Cyrodillic landscape. A Rythe Lythandas original, he noted with a nod of admiration for those were rare, masterful works that most certainly didn't come cheap.

An admirable taste in décor, though too opulent for his own preference. Though Lucien wasn't shy in his spending, he preferred simplicity, something practical and well-made. He was curious, however, as to what profession could afford a young woman such luxuries, for the alchemy business was stable but not booming. She didn’t seem of nobility, certainly didn't dress like it, and the way she traveled reminded him that she was, whether the guards knew it or not, very much a criminal on the run.

Lucien proceeded silently through the house until he reached the winding staircase that led to her bedroom on the floor above. Faint yellow light danced through the sliver beneath the door. He sat down at the dining table and there he waited. In times like these, Lucien prided himself on his patience. He didn’t like waiting, but oh, he did it well.

Amidst the lull, his mind strayed, never far from the task at hand, but wander it did. He'd spent over a week in pursuit of this woman, and the travel had begun to grow taxing. Were he not on business, she might be dead for the offense of wasting his time if nothing else, and Lucien smiled to himself in anticipation. Maybe she would refuse his invitation. Maybe she’d fight him, attempt to, and if she raised her blade, then Lucien would simply be forced to draw his. And if the tip of his dagger kissed too close to the carotid, would he truly be at fault?

Blood— hot, scarlet, and arterial— flooded his thoughts like summer rain. The prospect of release after such an endless chase excited him more than he cared to admit.

Catching himself adrift in the heady glow of the thrill, Lucien chided himself: Don't grow reckless, though ‘reckless’ was a word seldom used to describe Lucien Lachance since his rise to Speaker, and he had no intention of taking it upon himself ever again. He was supposed to recruit her, no matter how tempting the alternative was, and he imagined instead how he would propose his offer. How he loved the suspense before an introduction, the sharp gasp of fear wrenched from the lungs of an unsuspecting recruit upon learning that they were not as alone as they'd once believed. For half a second, they would think they were still dreaming before the cold, leaden reality set in. Some would look on in silent terror. Others would shriek. Some would cry. Most exciting were the ones with quick reflexes and a dagger beneath their pillow, and Lucien wondered what this Nimileth looked like when she slept. Was she haunted, face pinched in distress? Did guilt plague her even in sleep? Or was she silent, surrendered to the bliss of unconsciousness, and what did she dream of, the new murderer that she was? Were the visions idyllic? Were they violent, cruel? Yes, Lucien wondered indeed.

Night bled across the sky, growing darker, deeper. An hour passed before at last his moment dawned. Yielding to the will of the Dread Father, Lucien climbed the stairs, suppressing his joy for these were precious moments when he ought to be composed, collected for the sake of professionalism. His hunt was soon ending. He was close now. He'd caught her. At the top of the landing, he stifled his mounting grin.

Ear pressed to the door, he listened for the click of the pins as he worked his lockpick against them when—

“Come in,” a voice called from the other side. He heard the tumblers release though no footsteps sounded beyond the door. An alteration spell, he reasoned. She was a mage after all.

And in retrospect, maybe he shouldn’t have been this surprised to find she expected him. He'd noted her suspicion on the Waterfront, the growing paranoia as he followed her from town to town. He hadn't, however, truly believed she'd been aware of his presence, that anyone could be, and now found himself caught uncharacteristically off guard. Oversight on his part. He would not make this mistake again.

Lucien touched the hilt of his dagger, opened the door, and stared into the pitch black of the bedroom. When he stepped inside, the darkness swallowed him whole. Not a second later, a burst of flame flared before his eyes as soft, lambent light settled on the tray of candles at the windowsill. A shrill feline hiss, and Lucien snapped towards the bed where a small black cat glared at him with piercing, yellow eyes. So now it wanted to make a fuss. How very brave.

“Please, sit,” the voice said again.

Lucien looked to his left. This was the woman who had butchered Alessia Caro? This was the monster the papers had written of?

She stared with eyes that betrayed nothing, dark in color, overwhelmingly brown and comically large for the small frame of her face. They reflected the flame of the surrounding candles like plates of polished brass, and despite their intensity, they lended her a youthful mien, imparted an air of innocence that felt awfully uncanny when paired with such a stolid expression. He flicked his gaze lower. Boldly bared in a sheer shift, her skin was ochre deep, cast in bronze by the firelight, and even through the dim and dancing shadows he could see the darker sunspots that adorned it. Lucien thought she was... strange to look at. An unfamiliar yet arresting quality to the arrangement of elven features but more intriguing, the contrast of such youth masking the violent, vicious nature within.

“So we finally meet,” the woman said dryly. Beside the bed was a small nightstand and a wooden chair set to face her, two silver goblets and a bottle of wine. Lucien took his seat, and she stared blankly as if watching a bloom of dust carried off in the wind. Practiced indifference. What game was this? Lucien made himself comfortable. “Can I interest you in some Tamika's? 399 was a particularly good vintage. One of Skingrad’s finest, I think.”

In her voice, the slightest quaver, a pinprick of emotion that belied the hollowness of her stare. She swallowed hard, and if Lucien had blinked, he would have missed it. Fear. He recognized it like a sixth sense, and it overwhelmed him now, so very palpable in this brittle air.

“You are most hospitable," he said with a nod. "It would be rude of me to decline.”

When she reached for the bottle, Lucien expected her hands to tremble, found himself quite disappointed when they did not. She uncorked the wine with a snap of her fingers, poured it out while the cork floated itself back down. “I’ve had worse first impressions,“ she said, pushing the goblet toward him. Lucien made a swift calculation. He sniffed the wine discreetly, detected no nightshade nor harrada. He knew his poisons better than his restoratives, had mithridated himself against the most common ones, so he sipped it in silence, let it settle on his tongue, and watched as she receded into the mass of pillows at her back. “Now is as good a time as any for introductions, I suppose.”

Lucien replied with a cool, cultured smile. “I must apologize. I feel terribly impolite. Had I known you were expecting me, I would have brought something to share myself. I'm afraid my company will have to suffice.”

“Yes, well, I’ve grown accustomed to people turning up uninvited in the night. I don’t see the difficulty in writing ahead of time, yet here we are." With a sigh, she stared longingly into her wine, swirled it around, let it slosh against her goblet. "Still, if you’re intent on making yourself a guest, I might as well play the part of a welcoming host. Red for this occasion. Seemed fitting.”

“A good guess.”

“I’m quite good at guessing. In fact, I might hazard another one as to why you’re here.”

“Is that so?”

“You’re a member of the Dark Brotherhood,” she said bluntly, so bluntly that Lucien had to restrain himself from showing his surprise. “You’ve been following me for the past week and have had numerous chances to kill me, so you’re not here on, um... contract.”

“And how can you be so sure I’m not?” he asked, unable to stave off the temptation. To his delight, her eyes flared anew with fear before she swallowed again and cleared her throat.

“Well, you’ve already drank my wine, for one. I could have poisoned it, yet you haven’t even waited for me to drink. It's abundantly clear that you don’t consider me a threat.”

“Mmm, I see. Quite a risk to take.”

“You took one as well, meeting me here alone.”

Lucien cracked a grin. "Ah, so very foolish of me." How charming. She thinks I have something to fear.

“I think you're here with an offer,” she continued, “if I may be so bold.”

Lucien had to admit he was impressed, and very little impressed him these days. Although it wasn’t the first time he'd met a recruit aware of the Dark Brotherhood's existence, it was the first time one had anticipated his offer. He studied her again for a quick, hard moment. She was already far from what he'd pictured of the Countess's assassin. Younger, educated, a productive member of society in good standing for all he knew. Had he reason to believe she was a trained assassin of another organization, a member of the Morag Tong perhaps?

The prospect renewed his excitement. His heart fluttered, fingers aching for his blade. “And are you?” he asked.

“Am I what?”

“A threat.”

Nimileth took her first sip of wine and shrugged. Apathy, dare he say boredom, coated the gesture. “I suppose that depends on how sweet your offer is."

So it was that the suspense held steady, and Lucien was pleased indeed. “To know of my order and my intentions— I admit this is a first. Either someone has shared information with you that they shouldn't have, or you are expertly trained, in possession of a unique and valuable set of skills that has allowed you to acquire it on your own.”

“Huh?” She looked at him curiously, almost a bit confused. "There’s no special skill. I have eyes. There's a little trick I like to do every now and then called 'looking through 'em.'"

"If you would be so kind as to enlighten me, how is it that you know I come representing the Dark Brotherhood?"

“I’ll tell you after a proper introduction. Why don't I begin?” She brought the goblet to her lips and downed its contents in several long gulps, then swiftly poured herself another. “My name is Nimileth," she said. "Nim is the name I prefer, and yes I killed Alessia Caro.”

Throwing her hair over her shoulder, Lucien found that holding eye contact was beginning to prove difficult, but he'd been in far more precarious situations than this and with far more appealing vistas. He wouldn’t let his eyes wander for the sake of professionalism, if nothing else.

Nimileth raised her brows, stared at him incredulously as if wondering why he was still there. “Well? Whenever you're ready, I suppose. I’d like to hear it in your own words. Tell me, why is it that you've broken into my house like a common street burglar? The suspense is agonizing, practically killing me, and I imagine you don’t want me to die like this.”

“My name is Lucien Lachance," he obliged, "and I am indeed a Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood. Tonight, I come to you with an offering, an opportunity to join our unique family.”

“That's a word for it.” She chewed the inside of her cheek, sighed, and Lucien couldn't tell whether it was out of dismay or disappointment. “Very well. Fair’s fair, I’ll tell you how I knew. I saw you on the Waterfront, waiting for me to fall asleep. It was just a few nights after I killed— after Alessia Caro was found dead.”

“You already admitted to killing her, dear girl. No need to be coy now.”

“All I’ll say is good riddance, and I’ll drink to that." She raised her glass, then waved her hand dismissively when Lucien made to raise his. “Anyway, it doesn’t take a scholar to put two and two together. A murder and then a strange cloaked man in a chameleon shroud? I’ve heard the rumors of the Dark Brotherhood, that they come in your sleep to recruit you. All it took was a detection spell to see you following me through every town on my way back to Anvil. A very weak detection spell, mind you.”

Lucien bristled. “Ah."

“Not to mention, I've seen those before.” Nimileth waved a finger wildly in his direction. Those what? What was she pointing at? “Those robes," she added. "Stole a damn near identical pair along with a rather odd book and a very incriminating letter from the basement of a house in Bruma last year. Like I said, it doesn’t take a scholar to put two and two together. Perhaps you know the owner?”

It took a moment, but eventually Lucien caught on. He knew exactly which house she was referring to, as he remembered J’Ghasta meekly approaching Arquen about a new set of robes sometime last year. ‘But how does one manage to lose a set of robes, Brother?’ Arquen had asked him. ‘They grew legs? Walked off? Just disappeared? Are you certain it’s not possible you could have, ahem, left them somewhere? Perhaps someone is holding onto them for you?’

Lucien could have sworn he saw J’Ghasta blush, if that was even possible for those of his ilk.

"By that look in your eye, I take it you do," Nimileth said, and then she offered Lucien a smile, small and mischievous. Genuine or a crafted guise? He couldn't tell. “I hope this hasn't counted as betraying the Dark Brotherhood's secrets. It wasn't really his fault. That said, I don’t want to be responsible for invoking a wraith of the sith or whatever it was his book had said."

"Invoking a—" Lucien looked at her askance, stuttered on his tongue, then let a small, breathy chuckle crest his parted lips. “I admit I haven’t been this surprised by a recruit in years," he praised her, and he savored the words for they were rare. "No doubt this is a sign from Sithis himself. He has need of your gifts."

"Sithis? My gifts?"

"Your curiosity. Your initiative. Our Dread Father has guided you to the doors of the Dark Brotherhood just as I have been guided here to you. It is fate, sealed in the hollows of the Void, and I am honored now to be the bearer of our family’s invitation.”

“Well, I do hate to disappoint, but I can’t possibly be what you were expecting. You see, I’m not really a murderer.”

Ah, the denial. Lucien did so love the denial. “No? The Night Mother seems to think otherwise.”

“The who?" she asked but gave him no time to answer. "I was quite justified in killing that vile woman, you know. Therefore it wasn’t murder. Justice, that’s all it was. She deserved that arrow.” Nimileth added a series of quick nods, very matter-of-factly.

“And the knife that succeeded it?”

“All a matter of necessity. Simple really.”

“So you admit you’re a cold-blooded killer?"

"I..." She restarted. The question had clearly taken her by surprise. "No. That's a bit of a stretch, the way I see it."

"The way I see it," Lucien said, smiling fondly, "is that you are a harvester of souls capable of taking life without mercy or remorse. The Night Mother has been watching, and she is most pleased with your work, your deathcraft, your—”

Caught mid-sip, Nimileth choked back a mouthful of wine. It spilled from her chin, down her neck, pooling in the dip of her collar bones. Sharp, abrupt laughter filled the room, and Lucien refrained from recoiling. Even the cat jolted up from its curled position at the foot of the bed, and Lucien stared, dumb-founded, as Nimileth slammed her fist into her chest and attempted unsuccessfully to clear her throat.

“Oh, excuse me!” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. “Now let’s not get ahead of ourselves! Please do not mistake my indifference for enthusiasm, Mr. Lachance. I admit to killing the Countess, the horrid woman that she was, but only because I believed it had to be done. Justice where it’s due, that's all. I don't kill the innocent. Steal from 'em, sure. Even lean on 'em a bit if I'm feeling tough. That hardly makes me a cold-blooded killer worthy of joining your ranks, does it?”

Lucien resisted the urge to scoff. I don't kill the innocent.

Admittedly disappointed by this virtuous facade, he still saw the crack, only needed to slip his blade into it and twist. This, he could work with, for she was a murderer in the eyes of the Night Mother whether she accepted it or not, and he had no doubt that if pressed, she too would heed Sithis' call. They all did. New murderers were pliant, he found, like old snags of dead wood. One gentle push and the roots released their grip.

“But would you do it again if you believed it ‘just,’ as you might call it. If you believed it fair?" Nimileth blinked at him and coughed up the lingering wine, attempting to keep the action discreet and failing. "Did you not enjoy making something right in your eyes by taking the life of one you deemed wrong? Tell me, Nimileth, did you take pleasure in watching that wretched woman cling to her dying breath? Did you not enjoy it more knowing it was your hands that wrought her end?”

She paused, the blank stare returning as she wiped the streak of wine from the corner of her mouth. “Yes,” she said flatly. “I’d do it ten times over.”

“Walk with us, and we will show you how to harness that hunger, how to shape it into something greater than yourself. That power is a rare, beautiful thing, Nimileth. Join us, and you'll find the Dark Brotherhood can offer you the chance to wield it. We offer you this and so much more.”

“More?” Nim sat silently eyeing the bottle of Tamika's beside her. A long moment passed before she refilled her goblet, raised the bottle, and motioned towards Lucien. He nodded. She poured. “Well only if there's more to it then. Please continue, Mr. Lachance. You have my undivided attention.”

“Ah, I must say I find your etiquette most refreshing.” He offered her a smooth smile, velvety and dark much like the wine flowing into his glass.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: A Dark Thing 

Nim rummaged through her pantry in a panic. It was absurd to think she hadn't picked up a tasteful vintage since she moved into her new house, yet here she stood, cabinets void of even last year's Surille's. She supposed it made sense. Lately, she’d been doing most of her drinking down at the Anvil docks and few individuals at The Flowing Bowl cared for expensive wines. Unless by care one meant guzzled goblets down without coming up for air, but pay for a bottle so expensive they most certainly did not!

Perhaps Benirus kept a stocked supply before his violent end? Even necromancers needed to let loose, Nim figured, and offered up a prayer to the Divines as she headed down to the basement to search. Among the near-rotted boxes and barrels, she spied the cream label of a bottle of Tamika's, cobwebbed and nearly white from age. Coughing as the dust funneled down her lungs, she read the label, Vintage 399, and nearly squealed in relief. She would be having an unexpected guest over very soon, and she hoped he appreciated a fine, full-bodied red.

The guest in question had been following her across Cyrodiil ever since she'd left the Waterfront. To Bruma, to Chorrol, and now here, to her very home. And to think he had the gall to conceal himself beneath a chameleon shroud all the while. A chameleon shroud! Nim winced. Still cringing in second-hand embarrassment, she recalled his shimmering form, the way it had flittered beneath the sun’s ray, a measly fifty-percent strength at most. Didn’t that idiot know chameleon was useless in broad daylight? All it took was a detection spell to confirm that he was indeed trailing behind her as she left the Waterfront. And a weak detection spell at that. Such an amateur!

But by the time Nim had reached the Jemane brothers’ farmstead, Nim had begun to lose her nerve. Whatever the man wanted from her must have been important. Why else would he have followed her from city to city while she tended to her mundane errands? If she were feeling particularly charitable, she might have pitied him. It must have been dreadfully boring. 

From the window of the farmhouse, Nim had watched him, and when midnight loomed, he let his shroud fall, revealing a man dressed head to toe in black robes. A set of black robes that Nim had recognized. Her heart sunk three feet into her stomach when she realized from where, and that night she left through the farthest window she could find.

Now, Nim stood in her bedroom. Now, she was waiting for him. She refreshed her detection spell, confirming her suspicions as a large aura glowed at the bottom of the stairs. She readied herself for bed, stripping off her day clothes and changing into a wisp-thin chemise. It wasn’t the most practical choice for a meeting with one's stalker, but if he fancied women maybe, just maybe, a bit of skin would give her a slight advantage. A distraction, if nothing else. 

Strapping a dagger to her thigh, Nim crawled beneath the covers and willed her racing mind to stillness. The strange hooded man had made his first appearance in the days following the death of Countess Alessia Caro, and he was dressed in black robes nearly identical to the ones she'd stolen from that house in Bruma years ago. She remembered the books she had stolen along with it: Brothers of Darkness and The Five Tenets. Between the pages was a letter addressed to someone with the title Speaker. Was this man a member of the Dark Brotherhood too? She had heard the rumors. They said when you murdered someone, the Dark Brotherhood came to you in your sleep. It was how they recruited new members. And it was true, she had killed, but maybe the man wasn’t here to recruit her. Maybe he was here on contract.

No, she told herself with a shake of her head, working neurotically at braiding and unbraiding her hair. He had numerous opportunities to kill her while she travelled the roads alone. It would have allowed for a much cleaner disposal. Chop up the pieces and dump them in the woods for the wolves. That’s how she would have done it.

But maybe he didn’t want a swift kill. Her stomach lurched. Maybe he didn't care about efficiency or getting the job done quick. She supposed there were certain breeds of people out there who killed for pleasure and pleasure alone. Maybe it was about the rush of the hunt, the sport of it. Nim shuddered and cast her questioning aside. She didn’t know how murderous psychopaths worked and certainly didn’t count herself among their ranks!

Minutes bled into hours. The man ascended the stairs slowly. She heard the soft click of his lock-pick working against the tumblers, and with a small wave of her hand, released the lock with a spell.

“Come in.”

The voice in her throat was calm and level, a product of the charm she'd imbued herself with and not at all what she was feeling as her blood turned to frost. When the man entered, she let her flame find the wicks of the candles around the room, and in the dim light, she could see him, albeit shadowed beneath his hood. Human, light skin and dark features. Middle aged, medium height, athletic build. He was garbed from head to toe in the black robes she'd seen before, and he was undeniably Dark Brotherhood.

“Please, sit with me,” she said. A paralysis hex danced on the tip of her tongue, but he made no sudden movements, and he too looked surprised.

She offered him a drink, sweeping her hand across the table and praying to the Nine she didn’t knock anything over. When he accepted, she uncorked the bottle with a snap of her fingers, and by now, he must have caught on that she was a mage. She hoped her little parlor tricks were enough to convince him that fighting her would be a less preferable alternative to sitting down for a brief chat, because the wine would be good even if the talk was tense. She wouldn’t go down easily if he tried.

Lucien Lachance, a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood, had left Nim with an ebony dagger and a brief set of instructions that boiled down to kill this old man and welcome Sithis into your heart . Whatever a Sithis was, Nim had no idea, but the first half she understood plain as day. The task was simple enough to follow. Simple, sinister, and entirely void of morality. 

Lucien had laughed when she'd asked why Rufio was wanted dead. " Somebody else seeks justice," he had told her. But what exactly this Rufio had done to beget a bounty, he didn't share, and what excuse she had to end another life, he could not explain either. She contemplated her options when he took his leave.

The reflection of the candle light danced across the black dagger, gold flame licking at the ebony edge. The Blade of Woe, he’d called it, and she’d snorted. How cliched. But in her stomach, tiny teeth gnawed and twisted, burrowing so deep she began to grow nauseous. 

“We offer you this and so much more," Lucien had said. More what? More gold, blood, pleasure? The offer had rattled her enough to leave her queasy, and yet... it had enthralled her. Nim found it difficult to reconcile the two emotions.

It's just a job. It would hardly be the first person you've killed. The Council already has you slaying necromancers left and right as if they’re nameless beasts, so is it really so different from what you've done before?  

Nim was not without her vices, but she wasn't evil, was she? One well-placed arrow into the jugular of a truly wicked woman, and now she was a cold-blooded murderer? The two hardly seemed equivalent. Sure, she had been a thief. Maybe brewed a little skooma in her youth. Maybe a lot of skooma. And her formative years spent in Mephala's coven— regardless, those times were behind her. Now, Nim was a University trained mage, an upstanding, Gods-fearing member of society. Life was beginning to turn around for her. Things were better now. She had changed.

Nim meditated on the commands of the Divines. Above all else, be good to one another.

Probing blindly at her end table, she felt for her glass of water then promptly threw it in her face. With a gasp, she stared into the dull mirror on the wall as droplets rolled off her chin. Who are you? I can’t even tell anymore.

Kynareth had blessed her with an agile form. Dibella had given it symmetry. Stendarr had granted her compassion with which to protect the weak, and through the wisdom of Julianos, she knew better than to ignore the glaring corruption that plagued this world. And plague it would whether she was a part of it or not, festering until the roots rotted out from underneath her. Surely, Julianos knew Alessia Caro would not receive justice at the hands of the law. Surely, the Gods above could see that. The Countess's death was but overdue punishment, an end to a blight that ravaged Leyawiin's people. The Countess had been an evil woman, truly evil, and though it was up to the Gods to determine punishment in the afterlife, in this life, justice would not deliver itself.

Shaking the water loose from her hair, Nim rolled onto dry pillows but sleep did not find her easily. All night she tossed, thrashing amidst the darkness, her hypocrisy gnashing its short, pointed teeth. Ever since the coven, it had always been this way, hadn't it? She sinned. She repented. She transgressed again. Despite the hours she'd spent at chapel, the prayers she'd offered, the alms she'd paid, she had never truly lived without one foot in the sphere of avarice and appetite, and it mattered not whether she called herself a scholar or a thief. She had sacrificed so much for the promise of knowledge and its power, and what she had gained in Mephala's coven did not come without a price.

Did the Webspinner still own a shard of her soul? Did Mephala's teachings endure? 

Forget it, Nim thought, yet there was a voice at her ear, attempting comfort and beckoning her closer. Mephala? Mother of Secrets? Recorder of hidden guilt come back to unburden her of all her sins? Should it be any surprise that you now find yourself a murderer when the reward had been so sweet? After all, if the Gods cannot enforce their own commands, might that mean they’re not worth upholding?

"Haven't I gotten rid of you?" Nim asked the nothingness in the room. "For Gods' sake, what's it going to take?" 

But the night was a cruel mistress, and her echo spoke so loudly. Masser, having reached its zenith, began its descent across the bruised sky, Secunda shining like a slivered pearl on its trail. Nim listened to the night songs beyond the window and forced herself to shut her eyes. She thought of J'rasha, her lover long gone but now avenged, and she had only acted in retribution, had merely done what was necessary to lay those lost souls of Leyawiin to rest. But then again… had she truly killed the Countess to honor J'rasha's memory? Or had she done it for herself?

Darkness burned across the underside of her lids, a cold and swallowing nothing. The murder of the Countess had undoubtedly changed her tapestry, just as the hymn of the Webspinner foretold: Pluck one thread and the whole weave comes undone.

And whatever the Dark Brotherhood was offering was bound to cost a piece of her soul; after all she’d done, all she'd destroyed, Nim wondered if there was anything left of it to sell.

At the Inn of Ill Omens, Rufio appeared untouched, his hands pressed together beneath his head, eyes closed. There were no signs of struggle. Not so much as a wrinkle in the bedsheets. No one would ever know Nim had been in this room, and if it was her own little secret, had it ever truly happened? Lies were truth, after all. Mephala had taught her that much. With a shaky step backward, Nim let her racing heart slow.

She had designed the killing hex in her beginner’s spell-crafting class last winter. A draining spell to siphon away one’s lifeblood, a dash of paralysis to prevent a struggle. What would Gaspar Stegine say to her if he knew? Murdering an old man days away from death's door was far from an impressive feat. In fact, it was despicable, deplorable, should land her back in that prison cell she'd narrowly escaped, and as she stared at Rufio's dead body, she tasted the bitter contents of her stomach clinging to the back of her tongue. Guilt? Not quite, something sharper, less describable. So why had she done it when walking away was infinitely more simple?

Because why not? Because she could.

Well, you've most certainly done it now, Nim thought and cast one final look at Rufio, cemented it into her mind, then turned to take her leave. She slipped out of the inn under her cloak of invisibility and vanished into the humid summer night as she had so many nights before. Nim darted off the road and by the quilt of stars above, guessed it must have been past two in the morning. She trekked a small ways north to the Fargeyl Inn where she had rented a room in anticipation of fleeing the scene of her crime. Disappearing, after all, was what she did best. 

Nim climbed in through the cracked window, and once in the safety of her private room, stripped off her clothes and crept into bed. Nestled beneath the sheets, she thought of Rufio. What kind of man had he been? Was he so different from the bandits and necromancers she had killed without remorse: flesh and blood on the inside, skin and sinew a layer above? Murder for hire, was it truly so terrible? There were other parts of the world that sanctioned it, after all. People who performed it under the name of the God she once worshipped. Death is life. Another one of Mephala's whispers.

Nim blinked into the darkness. In the silence of the room, the nerves in her stomach had come unbundled, the adrenaline rush long quelled. Now, she felt only cold, as if a stray draft had blown in through the window, and it wound around her like a second skin, creeping between body and blankets as she waited for the guilt, that rolling, lurching shame to flood her, make her ill, make her sick. It did not.

Burrowing deeper into the sheets, Nim staved off the urge to shudder. What now? she asked herself. What now? What have I done? But all she could think to do was wait. Wait for one Lucien Lachance to hear word of her murderous exploits and come looking for her again, offering more.

But more what? Nim didn’t want glory; she wanted the secrets he had promised her, the answers to the mystery of why the Countess’s death had felt so right? And while she was in no rush to be trespassed upon again, the thought of payment in gold made the idea slightly less disagreeable. She wasn't destitute by any means, but she had her expenses, and if the Mages Guild wasn't compensating her justly, it was high time somebody did.

Nim rolled onto her side and pulled the covers over her head. After the many days of sprinting away from Mr. Lachance, she yearned for one adequate night of rest, but not an hour had passed before she felt it, the thickness in the air, the pair of eyes upon her, the sudden spike of claustrophobia as if the very walls were caving in.

“So the deed is done,” a voice called from the dark of the room.

Nim gasped as she sat up. At the table in the far corner sat a cloaked figure that had not been there when she entered. Through the stray beams of moonlight, she caught only the outline of a man and beneath the hood, the shadow of a smirk on his lips.

"Mr. Lachance?"

The man's smile grew, and it was a dark thing, as dark as the silk that adorned him.

Nim combed through her disheveled hair, attempting to dampen the storm-cloud of fear in her chest. “Have you... have you been following me?"

“Indeed.” 

The word slithered in her ears. She hiked her sheet up, shielding her scantily clad body from him. Despite the near identical scenario not a few days prior, she felt incredibly exposed now having been caught unawares and wondered if this was more what he was accustomed to, the startled recruit, wide-eyed and powerless and damn near crawling out of their skin with fright. “This is all rather unnecessary," she said, clearing her voice, loosening the nerves there that had once again grown too tight. "You mean to say you've had nothing better to do than follow me around for no reason? You weren't even certain that I was planning to kill him.”

“Not for no reason,” he corrected her. “You are a child of the Night Mother truly, too curious to resist. She knew you would join us, and here you sit before me as predicted. I merely came on her command."

Nim said nothing, simply narrowed her eyes in displeasure, wishing he'd hurry up, get on with it and get out. 

"Sithis has called upon you, and you have embraced his chaos. The slaying of Rufio was the signing of our covenant. The manner of execution, your signature. Rufio's blood, the ink. The family will now welcome you with open arms. Well done, Nimileth. Well done.”

Nim met his praise blank-faced and silent. She had no idea what the man was talking about. Sithis? Covenant? They were assassins, nothing more than homicidal cutthroats who took gold in payment for blood. Why did he make it sound like she had sold her soul to a Daedric cult? And if she knew one thing about Daedric cults, it was that she had little desire to return to them again.

“You prefer silence, then?" Lucien said. "As do I, my dear child. As do I. For is silence not the symphony of death, the orchestration of Sithis himself?”

Nim rolled onto her side propping herself up on her elbow. She studied him briefly. What a creep, she thought, can’t even knock on the front door, and now all he wants to do is wax poetic. "What do you mean by ‘Sithis? ’”

Lucien smiled deeply, and it was a sinister thing that seemed to transform his dark features entirely to shadow. “Chaos. Doom. Discord. Sithis is the Void.” He walked to the foot of the bed, and Nim pushed herself backward against the pillows when he sat down, his gloved hands folded demurely in his lap. “Imagine a perfect, cloudless midnight, cold as winter ice and shrouded in shadow. He is the endless shape of shade, the emptiness that fills the abyss. That is our Dread Father.”

Nim scrunched her face in confusion. Hearing an assassin speak in such honeyed tones of adoration made her inexplicably squeamish, and his explanation still made no sense. Then Lucien continued on, quite fond of his own voice, and Nim didn’t know what he expected her to do but nod along. She supposed his voice was oddly pleasant background noise despite the macabre nature of the subject. It was rich and empty all at once. Warm but temporary. Like cinders.

Head cradled in her palm, Nim winked in and out of sleep, thought she heard something about a Night Mother , a Listener , Four Fingers and a Thumb—

“What?” That couldn’t be right. Nim was too tired and as Lucien prattled on, his descriptions were becoming more verbose, more metaphorical. Suppressing a sigh, she resigned herself to the fact that continuing the conversation was futile. “You sure say a lot of words for someone who claims to prefer silence.”

“My burden to bear as a Speaker for our family.”

Our family, he said. Nim had never had one of those before. Then he told her of an abandoned house in the city of Cheydinhal, a sanctuary that was to be her new home. “I already have a house.” Lucien merely grinned. "And where will you go?" she yawned, mouth sticky with exhaustion, not sure why she asked it, already half asleep and slipping away.

"I go where Sithis says I must."

“And can Sithis kindly tell you to get out of my room?”

Lucien laughed, retreating into the darkness whence he came. Nim said no more to him that night. She fell soundly asleep as the conversation trailed off, never noticing the shadow that remained in her room long after she had drifted out of consciousness.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Home, It's Cold Loving Embrace

Nim blinked furiously at the neat little row of beds and wished immediately to return to Anvil. She had spent the majority of her life sleeping in cramped spaces such as these: the orphanage, the servants' wing of Castle Kvatch, drifting around Leyawiin with J’rasha. Only a few months ago, she’d been living on the floor of Methredhel’s home, and compared to this musty stone dungeon below Cheydinhal's streets that shack seemed damn near palatial. At least it had a window. 

And at least it’s a real bed and not a bedroll, Nim told herself, but her discomfort was in no way assuaged in knowing that she was to share these sleeping quarters with eight other assassins, several of whom she had met only an hour ago. The rest were still strangers. 

Deadly strangers.

Strangers who spilled blood for coin.

“We passed the washroom and latrine on the way in," Ocheeva, the sanctuary ’s mistress, said. Sanctuary, bah! So funny, these assassins. Ever clever with their baffling names. "There may not be much room for privacy, but I assure you our family has nothing but respect for one another. Now that I've shown you both the training room and the living quarters, you've seen all the facilities we offer. Feel free to claim this bed and chest. They’re yours as long as you’re with us.” Ocheeva pointed to the bed nearest them, the one at the end of the row, and the as long as you're with us echoed strangely in Nim's ears. How long was that for most assassins?

"Thanks."

Ocheeva smiled warmly, and her sharp teeth flashed a brilliant white in the candlelight. "I hope it becomes home for you as much as it has for me."

A second home? Underground? What did these assassins take her for, some burrowing mudcrab? Nim did not ask and instead nodded graciously, a taut grimace of a smile on her lips. "Is that mine as well?" she said, nodding to the box atop her bed.

"Indeed. You’ll find a suit of augmented armor inside. We were all gifted a set upon joining."

"We have matching armor?" Nim reached inside the box and pulled forth a dark hood. The enchantment weaved into the leather hummed beneath her fingers. An alteration charm? She hadn’t the skill to discern it.

“Try it on when you have a chance. If any modifications are required, you need only let me know, dear Sister.”

Dear Sister, Ocheeva had called her, and before that, she’d called the sanctuary's denizens a family . And now what was this, matching uniforms? Nim shifted awkwardly, clutching the hood in her fists, and by now she was damn near certain that she had joined a cult. Again.

“Thank you," she said, trying her best to appear composed as she returned the hood to its box. "And where do the remaining assassins, er- brothers and sisters sleep?”

“Pardon?”

“Well, there are only six beds. Lucien- er, our Speaker said there were eight others in this sanctuary beside him and I.”

“Oh, yes. As Executioners Vicente and I have our own quarters."

“Executioners?” Nim looked at Ocheeva with wide eyes.

"It's just a title, Sister. Just as you are newly a Murderer."

"I'm a what?"

Ocheeva chuckled, gave a small shake of her head. The gold adornments on her spines jingled as she did so. "Vicente will explain it all to you soon enough. Now, who am I forgetting? Ah, Lorise has a house here in Cheydinhal. I'm sure you'll run into her in between contacts. She's quite fond of the training room, and... well, I'll let Vicente explain the rest.”

Lorise? Nim recognized the name. But it couldn’t be… "Lorise Audenius? The arena Grand Champion?"

When Ocheeva nodded, Nim recoiled in surprise. She’d never seen an arena match before, never much cared to, but she had read details of the fights in the papers. As arena Grand Champion, Lorise Audenius had been given the title The Butcher , and for rather unimaginative reasons at that.

But even so, an arena combatant was considered a respectable occupation. How then did the Grand Champion find herself in the Dark Brotherhood, and for that matter, why? To dedicate that much time to mastering the sport of killing must require a certain gusto for bloodshed. Is that all one needed, a desire for violence? Why, to Nim making a life out of murder sounded quite unhinged. 

Staring at her bed, Nim drew in a sobering breath. Did this mean she too was unhinged? Sure, she had killed before. Necromancers mostly. Some highwaymen on the road here and there. But that had been out of necessity. She didn't like it per se. It had simply needed to happen. Mostly.

Nim shifted, feeling uncertain, the current of doubt gentle but cold. When she’d killed Alessia Caro, she had enjoyed it, had reveled in it with a savage delight. But that didn’t make her a ruthless killer. No, that was different . She was not unhinged. In fact, she'd felt quite sane. Mostly.

Soft laughter pierced her thoughts. "You look so startled,” Ocheeva said. “Are you a fan of hers?" 

“Huh? Oh.” Nim stumbled stupidly on her tongue. “Mhm.”

"Yes, Lorise is a bit of a local celebrity, but you'd never know it by speaking with her. Humble thing, really. All that extra gold from her matches, she could buy a house in every city if she so pleased. Yet she chooses to stay close to her family."

Family. That word again. Ocheeva said it so dotingly, Lucien with much the same tone, and when referring to the Butcher, it was no less disquieting. “It, um, must be very convenient to live so close.”

"Indeed. And such a hard worker, our Lorise is. Always staying busy with her contracts. A model of excellence. You’ll meet her soon, I'm sure.”

“And Lucien? Does he… does he live here?”

“Nearby but not in the sanctuary. He visits as his responsibilities permit."

"And what exactly are his responsibilities, if I may ask?" And Nim didn’t know if it would make her feel better or worse to know he had any besides standing menacingly in corners.

"He delivers the contracts and recruits new talent for the family, such as yourself." 

“Ah, how keen."

Nim allowed herself a sigh of relief that was unfortunately rather short lived. Are all the assassins here as terribly unnerving as him, she wondered, then wondered if she should be scared. Was it safe among such a deadly crowd? Were they quick to anger? Did they draw blood in a fight? What violence lurked behind these cheery smiles and welcoming words? 

Ironing out her growing frown, she asked, "From whom did you say I'll receive my contracts?" And Ocheeva's smile grew warmer, fonder. To her surprise, it looked startlingly sincere. 

"Eager to begin, hmm?" But before Ocheeva could muster out another word, the door of the living quarters whipped open with a bang! A high-pitched squeal sailed in, pattering footsteps following closely behind.

“It’s true! Our new sister has arrived!” 

Nim turned to greet the owner of the voice. Hardly a foot in front of her stood a petite blonde woman bouncing on the tips of her toes. She shrugged her travel pack to the floor and beamed radiantly, big blue eyes brimming with excitement.

“Oh, Antoinetta, let’s calm down!” Ocheeva said, exasperation thinly veiled. “Nimileth has only just arrived today. Please give her time to settle in.” 

Nim tried to force out another smile but came up dreadfully short. She managed a weak, “hello,” and looked down reflexively to where a rat the size of a small dog sat back on its haunches, staring straight at her. Nim wondered if she should greet it too. 

“As you can see, we’ve been quite eager to meet you,” Ocheeva said. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen new blood.”

“Er, thank you.”

“Our Speaker told us so much about you,” the blonde woman said. She scanned Nim up and down, taking in her dimensions the way an orc might eye a horse when deciding to use it as a faithful mount or for dinner. Nim hoped she did not look particularly appetizing today. “He didn't mention you were so pretty." 

“Er…” Nim’s cheeks grew fiery hot, her tongue fat and useless. Compliments and from a pretty woman no less? What was she supposed to say now? Was she flirting ? “Thank you,” Nim croaked out only to realize she’d said that a moment ago and at once wished to disappear completely.

“Oh, where are my manners? Welcome, Sister! I’m Antoinetta Marie. I hope you’ve been enjoying your tour of the sanctuary. It’s a wonderful place, isn’t it?" She looked to Ocheeva, then back to Nim. "Ocheeva has given you a tour, right?"

“Yes, Ocheeva just finished showing me around. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Nim was halfway to offering a hand to shake when Antoinetta wrapped her in her pale, spindly arms. "Oof," Nim squeaked.

“That’s quite enough, Netta. You’ll suffocate the poor girl.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, heehee.”

With a satisfied sigh, Antoinetta pulled away. She looked Nim up and down again, said nothing, simply stared. Nim looked to Ocheeva for reassurance and in her eyes, only mild concern. How relieving. 

“Right,” Ocheeva said. “I’ll leave you to get settled. Antoinetta, don’t... don't overwhelm Nimileth, please. Now, I’ll be in my quarters should you need me.” Then Ocheeva nodded, turned, and left. Nim watched longingly as the door closed shut behind her.

The moment Ocheeva vanished from view, Nim heard a clap so loud and abrupt that she jumped half a foot into the air. Eyes as wide as saucers, Antoinetta rubbed her hands furiously. Had there been kindling nearby, it might have caught aflame. “I must know all about you," she said and plopped down on Nim's new bed. "I can tell we’re going to be the best of friends.” 

Nim stood still and speechless, scuffing her boots against the floor and feeling rather wormly. Maybe a burrow in the earth was exactly where she belonged, some place to hide and press in on her from all sides. "I'm not sure there's much to say." 

"Oh nonsense. Don't be coy. I heard our Speaker discussing your recruitment with Vicente. He certainly had a lot to say about you."

Oh bugger. Not even a day in and already there are rumors . Nim shrugged helplessly, but before she could reply, soft fur brushed her shins, then whiskers. They tickled. The rat had inched closer to poke its nose about her sandled feet. "Hello," Nim said to the rat. It did not reply.

"That's Schemer. He's a good rat, won't bite or nothing. All he wants to do is eat. Isn't that right, you fat, fat, fatty?" The rat chittered in agreement. 

Nim reached down to scritch behind his ears, and Schemer wiggled into her palm. "Oh, he's nice.”

"See, I told you."

Nim stroked the length of Schemer’s back, from nape to tail, then up again. Schemer chirped contently, pawing at her shins, and Nim concluded that she'd seen stranger pets. This one, she could get used to.

“So tell me, where are you from? What was Nim short for again? Nimriel? No? How about Nimredrehl? Have you been in Cyrodiil for long? My, you look so young! May I ask how old you are?”

Nim, as calmly as she could, replied that Nim was short for Nimileth and that she’d lived in Cyrodiil all her life. Before giving her age, she paused, debated whether to lie. A young assassin was not the same as a new assassin, and a young new assassin who had killed a countess was bound to stir up questions she’d prefer not to answer. In the end, Nim said that she was twenty.

“Twenty, my goodness!" Antoinetta gasped, her eyes so wide and blue they looked unreal. "Merely a child. You could have said you were sixteen, and I wouldn’t be any wiser! So young for a murderer. Hard life? Must have had some rough…”

Nim nodded her head and let Antoinetta babble on, trying not to take offense. It wasn't Nim’s fault that she was elven nor malnourished as a child, and she certainly didn't need the reminder. Doing her best, she maintained a closed lip grin, gave the occasional ' oh, yes' and 'mhm' as she stared through Antoinetta to the wall behind her. Moss-lined stone stared back, the patches so thick in some places that it filled the grout like a soft, green river. In the corners, amorphous clumps of fungus fanned out in velvety brown puddles, and she shuddered to think of the spores drifting through the air and funneling down into her lungs. 

“...reminds me of myself at that age," Antoinetta said wistfully, and Nim, who had only been listening with half an ear, scrambled to find something to say.

"Hmm, why's that?"

"I fled home in my youth and was on the streets before I joined, had to do whatever was necessary to survive."

"Oh," Nim mumbled and felt a fool for not knowing how to respond more meaningfully. "I’m sorry to hear it."

"No need to be sorry. Without those challenging times, I wouldn't be here, and the sanctuary truly is home for me."

“Home?” Nim scanned the room from wall to ceiling to wall again. The sour scent of dust and indeterminate dampness clung to her nostrils. She sniffed. "You like it here, in this basement?"

"Oh, yes. What's not to like? I've never felt more welcome anywhere. Why, I’d stay forever if I had it my way. Likely, I will! Don’t tell anyone else, but one day, I’m going to have Ocheeva’s position.” She clocked Nim with a conspiratorial smirk. Pride there, bold and showy like a turkey’s dominance display. “You wait and see. Our Speaker knows real talent when he sees it.”

“Yes,” Nim said with a nod, “of course.” Because what reason would she have to think otherwise? Recruiting was one of the Speaker's skills, so she was told. “I suppose that’s why I’m here too.”

Antoinetta’s grin wavered at her reply, and Nim wondered if she’d said something to offend her, because her eyes were now a little too squinted and it turned her cheerful grin somewhat disquieting. “You know he’s my savior, Lucien,” she said, a pointed statement. Pointed where, Nim lacked the coordination to appreciate. “He pulled me from the gutter when I was inches away from death. He brought me here where I have the safety and love I’ve searched for all my life. I owe to our Speaker everything.”

“Ah, everything. That’s… quite a lot of things.” 

“And he deserves it all. More even. Why, Lucien is the kindest man, and we're all indebted to him for bringing us together. Did you know he raised Ocheeva and Teinaava from hatchlings?”

“I didn’t.” 

“He is a saint of a man, truly.”

Nim doubted the temple followed the same definition of sainthood, and despite Antoinetta’s insistence, she had a hard time imagining Lucien Lachance as a hero in any capacity. For all Nim cared, he was an ominous shadow in the corner of the room, a shape only present when you squint your eyes. Spidery, even, given his penchant for dark corners, but she supposed everyone contained multitudes. Still, Nim didn’t quite understand why Antoinetta was telling her all of this in the first place

“Family is so important,” Antoinetta added dotingly. “After all, if we don't have each other, then what do we have?”

“Yes. Yes, of course."

Antoinetta smiled at that, and Nim fidgeted with her amulet, realizing she didn’t actually have an answer. She had plenty of friends, friends she would risk her own skin for, but family was a foreign word gathering dust in her lexicon. Truthfully, she found these familial titles rather melodramatic, and despite everyone’s seemingly warm welcome, she was no closer to accepting the Dark Brotherhood as anything more than the eccentric band of murderers it was.

“And what do you think about him?" Antoinetta leaned closer, blinking up with those bright, blue eyes. "Isn't he a gift from the Void itself?" 

“Who?”

“Our esteemed Speaker, of course."

“Lucien?” In truth, Nim did not wish to think of Lucien nor their recent encounters, the way staring at him had been like staring at a sheet of ice atop a winter pond, a thin veil obscuring the murk beneath. She didn’t want to think of that dark smile perfectly formed to his lips or to admit that he was good-looking and likely knew it which made it ten times worse. Nim didn't trust men that attractive on principle, especially not when they broke into your house. Men like that used their looks like a shield, like currency, a lockpick always trying to creep into and out of places they ought not to be. “Ah, you know I’ve not thought much about him.”

“Oh, you’re so funny, Sister."

Nim pursed her lips, confused. She hadn’t said a joke and Antoinetta was not laughing. Instead she was staring intently. So eager and focused were her eyes that they seemed almost faraway, looking through Nim, and by the distance in that expression, Nim was unconvinced that the woman was actually speaking to her at all. “How is that funny?” 

Antoinetta ignored her. “What was it like when you met him?” Nim could only shrug. "Come on, tell me." And though her voice was still warm and bubbly, her smile had dimmed considerably. She stared with that look that bordered on hungered, almost menacing, and Nim looked away out of nothing short of self-preservation.

“Well, um.. fairly awkward, to be honest. I’m sure we received the same spiel. Some murder here, some glory there. What about you? Why do you ask—“

The door creaked open, and a dark figure loomed in Nim’s periphery. "Ah, Nimileth!" called an unfamiliar voice, and it cut her off, much to her relief. "I see you’ve made it here safely." Nim spun around. At the other end of the room stood a pale man in dark clothing. "Oh, excuse me. Have I interrupted you?“

“No, please join us,” Nim said, perhaps too eagerly, and she hoped no one else heard the desperation in her voice.

The man smiled. All smiles these assassins were. Nim found it terribly confusing. “Vicente Valtieri," he said and reached for her hand. She took it, squeezed. It was ice cold. "A pleasure to finally meet you.” Nim regarded him quickly, not wanting to stare much longer than was publicly appropriate. He wore his brown hair tied back, framing a very Breton-like bone structure, all angles and sharp features, and his voice carried a thin accent made thinner by years abroad. “Our Speaker has spoken quite highly of you. I’ve not seen him so impressed by a recruit in years."

"Er, not too highly, I hope," she said. "Cause heights are rather difficult for me to reach."

Vicente hummed curiously, and Antoinetta let out a small laugh. Out of pity, Nim thought, Why, I should just sew my big mouth shut. 

"Well, I for one am quite interested in learning why exactly that is.”

“Yes, Sister, we’re all dying to hear,” Antoinetta added, pulling Schemer into her lap and shifting to a cross-legged position. She clasped her hands together and beamed with an eagerness that Nim found unsettling at best, predatory at worst.

“But in due time, of course,” Vicente said before Antoinetta's enthusiasm grew sentience and walked away. "I’m sure we will all hear eventually. Now, I’m sure Ocheeva explained that as Executioners, we provide assignments for all family members. Please, join me in my quarters. We have much to discuss now that you’re here.”

With that, Nim bid farewell to Antoinetta and Schemer, promising to continue their conversation later, then she followed after Vicente like she imagined a good little minion of darkness would. 

Executioner, she thought to herself, how original.

Vicente led the sanctuary’s newest assassin down the hall to his private quarters. There they sat at the table in the center of the room. She stared silently, those two large eyes inspecting him. He took the moment to inspect her as well.

Nimileth was small, even for a Bosmer, and by her rounder facial features, he suspected Bosmeri wasn't the only blood she possessed. The fullness of her cheeks lended a childlike appearance to what was an otherwise very elfin and angular bone structure. This was good. Looking harmless and unsuspecting had its advantages in their line of work.

After a handful of seconds had stretched into two, she seemed acutely aware that he was scrutinizing her. Turning her head to the side, she raised a brow. “What, would you like to see my profile?"

"If you're offering.”

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Most every other strand wisped erratically about her head, unbrushed. She was what Vicente would call rough around the edges, but not without a quaintness, and though he’d hardly consider her a beauty for the folksongs, he thought her agreeable. Or perhaps she could be if she tried. Yet another useful trait in their occupation.

"Get your charcoal out then," she said. "Do a little sketch."

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Is that so?”

“If I did, I’d feel terribly guilty for it. Have you settled in alright?”

"Fine," Nimileth said. "Well, perhaps I’m a little nervous. Is it quite obvious?"

"Yes," he said. She blushed. “But you haven’t reason to be.”

“Are you dead?” she asked suddenly. “Er, I mean are you undead? No, I mean, are you... a vampire?“

It tumbled out without warning, and her cheeks scorched an even darker crimson. Vicente was taken aback, not offended of course, for it was the truth, and he’d planned to tell her shortly. In the past, when his appearance had been more conspicuously corpse-like, this had been among the first things he would disclose to new recruits. Now, while feeding regularly he appeared much the age he had been when infected— a ripe fifty-four.

"Gods, how incredibly rude of me," Nimileth said, still blushing and trying very hard not to look embarrassed. Vicente found such contriteness endearing if not entirely unnecessary. He felt no shame in his nature. Why should she? "Sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way."

"Then how did you mean for it to come out?"

“I don't quite know. I only noticed that you haven’t blinked or inhaled since we were introduced, and your hand was all cold. I thought maybe..." she paused, stumbling for words. "Well, I don't know. I was simply curious.”

Observant, Vicente noted, just as the Speaker had insisted. “Yes. I forget to do that sometimes." He waited for her response. Surprise, fear, disgust. Anything really, but she only sat there still and unflinching. “Have you ever met a vampire before?”

“Yes.”

He arched a brow. “But I don’t fit your preconception? Otherwise you wouldn’t look nearly as uncertain as you do now.”

"Well, now that you mention it, I've never seen one in the light."

"You may look. I'm not shy."

She stared at him, eyes narrowed in scrutiny, holding herself impossibly still. Vicente imitated her posture as easily as a mirror would. Neither spoke as the seconds grew longer, and if there was anything Vicente could do indefinitely, it was sit there like a corpse because it just so happened that he was one. "I suppose you’re waiting for me to say something else," she said.

"I’m quite content to sit silently. Often it’s the best use of my time.”

But after a while, Nimileth began to stir. “You know,” she said. “I was under the impression that even while immortal, the fact that a vampire was undead would somehow betray their age.”

“How do you mean?”

“I thought they were all weathered creatures with their skin pulled tight over their bones.” She mimed the gesture, pulling on her face. “Uncanny, you know?"

"You've met more than one then?"

"Mhm, and there must be some sort of illusion magic involved to make them all pretty and what-not, right? Because the story books would convince you that they're all grotesque, malformed beasts, but in my experience it's more so a pretty face with the allure that comes from, say, a charm spell. Fine to look at in that boring way. Symmetrical, strong features. That sort of thing. But something about their appearance was always off. Why is that?” She took a hard look at Vicente, lips pursed and brows furrowed. "You don't really look like that," she concluded after some deliberation. "Just the eyes."

“I don't look like what?"

"Off," she said. "They looked like a piece of old parchment in a freshly printed book. You could tell something wasn't right. Did you look…" She pointed at him, waving her finger erratically, "...like this when you were still alive?“

"Like what?" 

Nimileth rolled her lips inward. "Pleasant."

“You flatter me, Sister."

"You wanted me too," she said bluntly, and he dared say slightly annoyed. "And you already know it's true. Attractive men always know they’re attractive. You set that one up yourself."

"You must understand that I don’t always look this human. The longer one goes without feeding, the stronger they become but the more their true age shows. I am more than three-hundred years old, believe it or not." 

"What! You’re shitting me, I don't believe it!"

"Indeed, I am. My duties as Executioner keep me in the sanctuary most days where the strength granted by my nature are of little use. I have the luxury of feeding my vanity, and so I do.”

Nimileth eventually closed her mouth. "Vicente Valtieri, a vampire," she said, “That's quite a lot of V's. Vicente Valtieri, a vampire. It feels like a character in a folk song. With alliteration like that, I imagine a bard could spin some compelling tales about you."

"I imagine so."

"Three entire centuries you've seen, and an assassin no less. I doubt you’ve spent all that time in this basement. You must have been alive during the defeat of Jagar Tharn, the Invasion of Akavir. What a tale it could be."

Vicente indulged her with a wider grin, for he too was a fan of history and alliteration. "Yes, I suppose it could be."

"Well then perhaps you could write it all down. Make a ballad."

“Unfortunately, I can’t carry a tune to save my life. A famous bard, I’ll never be.”

“So... how did it happen?" she asked and leaned forward, elbows splayed across the table, and she smiled genuinely for the first time. "Is it true that you can trace every incident of vampirism back to Molag Bal? I feel like that's just tall tales, like some rumor he spread, as if he has something to prove, you know? I’ve read that not all cases of vampirism have the same cause. It’s an infection, right? In different parts of Tamriel, they're considered different diseases entirely, right? Why is that? Is it a physiological thing? A cultural thing, different rituals and stuff? Do different vampire clans carry different strains of vampirism, or do vampire clans have different cultures? I've heard some cases involved necromancy, but maybe it was just a very sentient zombie now that I’m thinking about it." She paused suddenly, growing rigid. "I didn't mean to call you a zombie! Goodness, not that! But... but is it similar? Is that rude of me to ask?”

“It’s not rude,” he said, and she was like a spasming muscle, tensing and relaxing and tensing and relaxing with no rhyme or reason whatsoever.

“I’m sorry. I- I blabber when I'm nervous. It must be obvious. Did I say that already? Anyway, I’m sure everyone asks you the same questions about your affliction— er, condition.”

“I don't think anyone has ever asked me that many questions at once. Please, I am an open book.”  

True to his word, he answered her questions, all thirteen of them, each asked as enthusiastically as the one before. Half an hour into their meeting, and she was bubbling over with excitement as they discussed the alchemical properties of vampire dust and the enchantments Vicente used to prevent sun damage. She’d even suggested a salve of bone meal, frost salts, and dragon’s tongue to increase his resistance to the damaging effects of the sun’s flare, and Vicente didn’t have the heart to tell her that he was already familiar with such a remedy. He was just happy that he didn’t have to turn to stone again to get her to speak.

“Some fascination you have with the undead,” he said with a curious grin.

"Oh, er, no. It’s nothing like that."

Vicente remained dubious. By question five, he had already been considering whether or not the girl was a necromancer, as she’d casually mentioned black soul gems, if they could be used to harness the life force of something no longer mortal. He’d heard rumors before, never desired to test them out. He did, however, remember that Lucien mentioned she was a mage.

In fact, Lucien had said she’d killed Rufio with just a wave of her hand, and though Vicente assumed this was hyperbole given his flair for the dramatic, he’d felt the magicka humming in her blood the moment they shook hands. It was strong, that presence, like an evening before a storm, but from their conversation, he could not yet determine her preferred school. He did, however, discern that she was an alchemist.

“I just like to ask when the opportunity arises,” she said offhandedly. “Thanks for answering. It’s been quite a tangent, I fear.”  

“Nonsense, we’re getting to know each other. This is good considering we’ll be working very closely in your first months here.”

“If that is true, I should let you know that I prefer to go by Nim. I suppose you’ll be wanting to ask me a few questions too then.”

“If you don’t mind. Everyone in the sanctuary is curious about you.”

"Well, I certainly hope you aren’t expecting much. I'm painfully simple. But, er, please, ask away. It’s only fair.”

“Fair,” Vicente echoed. “An interesting concept for one who lives as unorthodox a life as we do. Some call us heartless monsters who kill without remorse. What does that word mean to you?”

“Justice where justice is due, I suppose.”

“Our Speaker told me you would say something like that. He claimed you clung rather tightly to your definition.”

"He did?" 

"Lucien spoke very highly of you at our last meeting,” he said, hoping to reassure her, but she shifted in her seat, scrunched her face in displeasure, and it did not appear to be working. "I heard it was an unconventional recruitment. You led him on quite a chase, didn't you?"

"I did."

"If you're worried that he’s holding a grudge, he isn't. If anything, your ability to evade him made quite a strong impression."

"Well,” she sniffed, “that's great."

No, that did not ease her in the slightest, and it was certainly not the response he had anticipated. Lucien was always a curiosity to new recruits. He kept his professional distance and his standards very high, and given that he was also the head of their sanctuary, the most competitive of recruits leapt at any chance to impress him. Perhaps there was a sore spot between Nimileth and their Speaker given the unusual length of her recruitment. He couldn't quite blame her if she felt cross. Were he in her position, he might harbor some resentment about being followed halfway across the countryside too. 

“Is it true you are responsible for the assassination of Countess Alessia Caro?” he asked, thinking it better to change the subject.

“It is," she said, the same curtness as before. "And does the whole of the sanctuary know that?”

“I can’t guarantee our Speaker hasn’t mentioned it to others.” In fact, Vicente thought it more likely that he had.

“I see."

“Now, as your primary trainer, there are a few things I would like to know.” He clasped his hands together, waiting for a sign of approval. Nim gave a small nod. “May I ask your age?"

“Twenty.”

“Not the youngest we’ve recruited."

“I can't say I'm surprised.”

“Do you have any family?”

“No." A swift reply, but not brusque. “I don't think so, at least. Never knew them anyway.” 

“As is typical of many who find themselves in our ranks. It may seem morbid, but most assassins find this to be a great advantage. A comfort, even. Familial ties are complicated, distracting, can be leveraged against us. This is one less weapon in your enemies' arsenal."

"I thought we were family?"

Vicente hummed, grinned. "Yes, of a different ilk, a truer nature.”

“But what about— never mind.” 

“And what school of magic are you most skilled in?”

“How do you know I’m a mage?”

“You weren’t incredibly subtle, dear.”

“Hmm, how do you know so much about me?"

"I don't," he said. "I know people. It is my job to inspect and to analyze and to do so quickly. A few centuries of practice and you get to know people better than they know themselves.”

Nim chewed on her cheek, looking a bit distressed. "Illusion," she replied, returning to his question, "followed by destruction.”

“And where would a young woman with no family have learned such skills?”

"I, um.” She paused, caught off guard. “I taught myself, mostly."

"And who taught you the rest?"

"Well, some have said it’s a gift from Julianos himself.” She quirked a grin, and Vicente swore there was a hint of smugness to it, as if she'd just told a well received joke.  

She wasn’t a great liar, but she told them in half-truths the way most experienced liars would. A practitioner himself, Vicente found it unlikely that if she was as skilled a mage as Lucien claimed she’d received no formal training. Then again, Lucien was not a mage himself, least of all an illusionist, and despite Vicente’s best efforts at teaching him, he still didn't know an invisibility spell from a chameleon from a gecko.

And who knew, maybe she truly was gifted. The Gods worked in strange ways like that. 

“And your weapon of choice?” Vicente once more inspected the unsuspecting recruit before him. The parts visible were lean, sinewy, all muscle. If he had to guess, he’d say she was a marksman.

“Short-bow," she said, and this much, he had anticipated. If she was an archer, at least it meant she had a strong back and decent upper body strength. He'd trained recruits who’d entered with less. This much was promising. “I learned to hunt fairly young. Small game mostly. Deer on occasion. I may look small, but I'm not weak by any means."

"We all have weaknesses. It's my goal to root them out."

"Well, hey, I didn't say I was invincible. I keep a short-sword on me, but well, I’d avoid it if I could.”

“Anything can be improved upon. Being nimble and quiet is often more useful in our line of work anyway. How are you at moving undetected?” 

“It’s what I do best,” she said, and the smile that crept along her face then was undeniably a prideful thing.

Satisfied, Vicente nodded. “Very good. That’s all I need to begin a training regime for you."

"Training?"

"Yes, we will practice. I will instruct you."

"Physically?"

"Were you thinking we’d sit around and play chess? We’ll begin with blades. You say it’s the point where you’re weakest, so we will strive to strengthen it. Tomorrow, I’ll come find you, and after training, we’ll discuss your first contract. Any questions before then?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Do you have other places to be?”

Nim pursed her lips. “Um, no, but I didn't know I had to be here. I have, um... obligations elsewhere.

"A day job?"

"Yes."

"Understandable. It's important to blend in with the common folk, avoid suspicion. So long as you never forget where your loyalties lie, we will work around it."

"And could we work around one more thing?”

“I’ll try my best," Vicente said, his shrug noncommittal. "Let's hear it.”

“Is there a way that I could, um, not be given contracts for certain kinds of people?”

“Such as?”

Nim shifted, looking distinctly uncomfortable, appeared to be chewing the inside of her cheek. “Maybe not… like, not an innocent person?"

Vicente managed to blink. “Are you serious?” And at that he burst into incredulous laughter. "Dear Sister, you must be joking!"

"No, actually," Nim bristled. "I'm not."

"And the alternative would be?" 

"I dunno,” she said and shriveled into her seat. “Some sort of criminal?"

Vicente stamped down the urge to laugh again, and if he were still alive he might be struggling to breathe. "We're not vigilantes, Nim. The Dark Brotherhood cares only for the name on the writ."

"Gods, this must sound so stupid."

"It is quite odd." Foolish. Naive. "I don’t see why it matters who you kill. The gold has been paid and the bloodprice set."

"Well, I've only ever killed criminals before, see? Call me soft. Say it's one of my many weaknesses."

"I find that rather difficult to believe. Either way, softness is a wrinkle in our work. It is my duty to iron it out."

"You must have seen it before, right?” she asked, now wringing her hands, looking anxious, desperate. “Don't some new recruits take a while to adjust? I'm an alchemist by trade. All this about bloodprice and Sithis and the Dread Father's glory, it's all new to me.”

Vicente nodded, entertaining her as he leaned back in his chair to think. “And who is to determine what makes a person innocent, hmm? Are we not all guilty of something?”

“Well, me,” she said as though the answer were obvious. “I will determine that. It’s just, well, I'm not exactly cold-blooded."

"You butchered a countess, dear girl.”

“Alessia Caro? No, no. She was barely human."

Vicente met her gaze, brows raised. She froze. Denial, denial, denial— what use for such wasted energy? Did she think the Night Mother was not all seeing? Wait until he told Lucien of this. Maybe it would pull a genuine laugh out of him for once. Or maybe it would disgust him. 

Give her a few contracts and a hefty bag of gold, Vicente thought, that should be enough to wring it out of her.

"Do you realize where you are, Nimileth? Do you realize what knowledge you possess, that from the moment you whispered the key to the Black Door, you crossed a threshold that can never be uncrossed?" By her prolonged silence and the furious flush of her cheeks, Vicente assumed no. Hah! Predictable. "This is your life now. You are a Dark Sister, a child of Sithis, and these are the tenets you've bound yourself too. We know where you sleep. Think carefully of what that means."

"Oh." She reached for her amulet, tugging it back and forth, back and forth, until the skin there flared red and raw. "How silly of me."

Choosing not to kill indiscriminately was fine if that's what she preferred in her personal life, but Vicente would not condone such debility of mind or temper under his roof. To do so would be an affront to Sithis. Nevertheless, he wasn't a heartless man, even if undead. He would entertain her request, this time and this time alone, ease her into the lifestyle. Ocheeva, however, would not. Ah, but that was a bridge to cross at a later date if Nim ever made it that far, and if this conversation spoke anything of her constitution, Vicente wasn't entirely certain she would.

"I'll tell you what," he said, and her ears perked immediately. "For your first contract, I can arrange something more suitable to your palate, but I won't make any promises for what work will come your way afterwards. Perhaps you should do some soul-searching, consider why you've found yourself here in the first place. Softness, as you call it, is not only a weakness but a danger to this family as a whole, and it will not be tolerated for long.”

Nim's eyes flared wide, the brown of her irises even darker now rimmed in paler sclera. She grimaced, ashamed. “Thanks," she said, and he believed it to be genuine despite her inability to meet his eyes. "I, um, appreciate it.” 

And with a small, awkward bow, she stood and fled the room.

Alone once more, Vicente drummed his fingers on the table, admittedly found himself quite puzzled. Most joined the Dark Brotherhood when they had nowhere else to go. Some stayed for the bloodshed, others for the community. For many, money in exchange for another’s life was a good enough reason to return. Whatever drove assassins to their family, the Dark Brotherhood accepted them with open arms. But Nimileth, this antsy little creature, seemed far more interested in alchemy and the arcane arts than she was in murder for hire.  Why then accept the invitation unless there was something to benefit her? 

He would train her starting tomorrow, see what he was working with. She was an impressive recruit on paper, he’d give her that, but first impressions were often deceiving. Second impressions less so. 

“No innocent people,” Vicente snickered to himself, then burst into another round of bewildered laughter.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Bloodletting at Dusk

Vicente circled the edge of the training room, his footwork poised, each step deliberate. Trailing his movements, Nim waited in defense, and then, in an eye-blink, he was upon her. Lunging forward, he struck out with a fist that narrowly missed her as she ducked away. She raised her hands, attempting to shield another blow, but the defense was in vain as Vicente thwacked her in the shoulder with a kick powerful enough to send her flying.

Nim slammed into the nearby pillar and fell to her side. Eyes draped in strands of sweaty hair, she could hear Vicente sucking on his teeth as he regarded her. "Up," he said, and with an 'oomph’ and a little grunt, she sprung back to her feet. Too quickly. The floor teetered in her vision. She felt wobbly, disoriented. In a blur of light, the room began to spin.

Nim shuffled away, putting space between them as she tried to regain her bearings. She knew that vampires were incredibly strong and had expected his attacks to be powerful. Nothing, however, could have prepared her for how swiftly a dead man could move.

Vicente lunged out again. This time, Nim caught him at the wrist, and the shock spell flashed before her eyes, blinding one second, gone the next.

Vicente ripped his arm away and hissed. “I said no magic allowed!”

“I’m sorry!" Nim squeaked. "It’s just second nature!”

Wincing, Vicente rolled up his sleeves, revealing a fresh wound of branching tendrils, bright red where the electricity had discharged.

“I'm sorry!" Nim said again. "Is it so bad?"

“No, let’s continue.”

"Let me see.”

“We go again.”

Wringing her hands, she stepped closer to inspect. “I can heal it real quick! Maybe—"

And suddenly, the air was pushed from her lungs as Vicente rushed her, swept her feet out from beneath her, and knocked her to the training mat below.

Nim lay on the ground gasping. From the corner of her once more blurred vision, she watched Vicente creep into view. “Dead again,” he said, looking down in disapproval. “You can’t drop your guard. How many times must I remind you?”

Only a dry wheeze came out in response.

“You need more muscle.” Vicente squatted down to prod at her lanky arms. They’d started their training early and had sparred into the afternoon, starting with short-blades and now working on hand-to-hand combat. Nim was not particularly skilled in either, and it showed. "Your form is decent, but you’re simply too weak. There is no other way to say it. We must work on building your base, your strength, your footing, otherwise you’ll be easily overpowered in any close quarter confrontation.”

"I try to avoid such things," Nim managed to rasp out. The impact of the last blow still rang inside her skull. She attempted to sit up, groaned, then promptly laid herself back down as the pain flared, dull and hot. "I was doing remarkably well before I joined, you know."

"In our line of business, you must be prepared for the worst."

"That's why I have magic."

"And if you're silenced?"

Nim fell quiet. "I’d never let that happen to me."

“So sure of yourself, hmm?” Vicente chuckled and looked her over, appeared to be studying her yet again. Apparently the questions from their first few meetings were not enough to sate his prying appetite.

"Yes? What is it now?"

Nim was quite done with all the scrutinizing glares, the questions that came so many and so fast that they felt more like interrogations. It was nothing against Vicente. In fact, she thought him remarkably normal, the most normal assassin she'd had the pleasure of meeting, and given the fact that he was an ancient vampire was really saying quite a lot.

Throughout their training sessions, Nim kept having to remind herself that he was dead. Or undead. She hadn't quite understood the distinction. Nim concluded that she liked him, though he was nosy (who within the sanctuary wasn’t), and if he suspected she was keeping her answers vague, he never pressed her to the point of discomfort. And really, he seemed as trustworthy as a 300-year old vampire could be. 

When Vicente finally flicked his pale, red eyes back to hers, the question he asked surprised her. “What did you have for breakfast?”

“Uh, I don’t remember. An egg, maybe two? Whatever dried fruit I saw in the pantry.”

Vicente shook his head. “Two eggs at least and a good-sized wedge of cheese. Fresh fruit, and if you can add some meats, it would serve you well.”

Nim sat up slowly, grimacing. From the way their training had started, she knew it would end with more than a few bruised ribs. “And what would you know about balanced breakfasts? When’s the last time you needed to put on weight, hmm? When was the last time you ate a real meal?”

“I’ve been training recruits for decades, my dear, long enough to learn a thing or two about proper nutrition. Come. Let me make you lunch. I believe you’re ready for your first assignment. You’ll be pleased with what I found for you. He's certainly no choir boy."

A derisive laugh slithered out of him. Nim blushed and pretended she didn't hear it, focusing instead on weaving an illusion spell that dulled the ache in her ribs. She'd heal them later, or maybe she'd let them bruise, a reminder of weakness to be remedied. Vicente offered her his hand to hoist her up which she accepted, and looking down at her twiggy little legs, she sighed. If she couldn't be taller, at least she could be stronger, and maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to fill out that enchanted suit of leather armor. She wouldn’t mind a bit more muscle, some fat deposited where it counts.

Days later and by the time Nim arrived on the Waterfront, the sunlight was fast fading. A pirate, Vicente had explained, was to be the target of her first contract. Fortunately, Nim knew a thing or two about pirates and even more about the crew who inhabited the Marie Elena docked on the Waterfront. Having spent the better part of the past two years there, she had frequent run-ins with the crew. An annoying lot, always going on about, “ don’t step on the ship, fancy pants ” and “ don’t look at the ship, fancy pants” even though Nim had always been dressed in the same manner of tattered pants as those who had accosted her.

Her contract, however, was for the captain himself, Gaston Tussaud. Vicente had explained it with business-like formality— go here, get it done — which would have been all well and fine if she were picking up cargo and not delivering a soul to the maws of whatever a Sithis was. It seemed a little odd to Nim that she had been asked to kill a dying old man in order to be initiated into the Dark Brotherhood, yet now she was sent after an infamous pirate captain aboard his own ship. The two tasks called for very different sets of requisite skills, and she wondered if this was perhaps the true trial, killing Rufio merely a test of willingness.

Scouting her options, Nim stationed herself at the edge of the lake, and there she watched the pirate crew load their ship at the end of the harbor. From her vantage point, she spied a small deck below the stern, a little balcony attached to the captain’s quarters. With a little grappling, she could leap from the harbor walkway and grab hold of the balcony railing, sneak her way into the captain's quarters and find Tussaud inside, but what then? Slit his throat and leave?

Nim envisioned the spray of blood, slick on her hands, glistening red and hot as fever. This wasn't her. This couldn't be her. She wasn't an executioner, and she would not be returned to the very bloodsoaked life she'd escaped. What in Oblivion was she doing? Why was she even considering this? What if she turned around, paid a visit to Methredhel, and never so much as glanced in Cheydinhal's direction again?

But Lucien's words returned to her. 'We offer you this and so much more.'

More, she repeated, more what? And what followed was a cold and slithering curiosity, then from under her breath, a rather disgruntled, "ah, fuck it."

With a deep breath, Nim returned to her surveying. It wasn't her choice, not really. Gaston was going to die whether she killed him or not. It was what Vicente had said: Once the Black Sacrament had been performed, the soul had been promised to Sithis. So really, Gaston's life was already in the Dread Father's hands. Really, Nim had nothing to do with this at all.

It was the prayer what killed him, she thought, imagining the grimy creature who had performed the sacrament, hunched over in prayer, pleading to the Night Mother for murder. What had Gaston done to wrong them so? What about Rufio? What about all the other names inked boldly in the contracts? Who had requested their death? Neighbors, family, employers, strangers? After so much wondering, Nim vowed to make a stronger effort not to piss so many people off.

She discarded the idea of stabbing Gaston, didn't like the idea of leaving such carnage in her wake, not after the mess she’d made of Alessia Caro. No, given the ruckus it had stirred, she'd prefer to leave her murder scenes looking much less like murder scenes, avoid the newspaper's prying eyes. Perhaps she could use a poison this time. If she picked the right narcotic in the proper dose, she could slip it into his nightcap, and the captain would be dead by morning. One small problem— Nim hadn’t packed any poisons. She hadn't packed anything, hadn't planned for anything, because who in their right mind would sit around ruminating on murder and assassination in their free time? Psychopaths, that's who.

It was late now, too late to run to her favorite apothecary, and waiting until morning would push the contract back another day. Besides, what were the chances Tussaud’s crew would believe that he died suddenly in his sleep? It would be suspicious, but did that matter? What were they going to do, call the guards? Like the Watch would care if a pirate captain wound up dead in the night. Most likely they’d celebrate the fact.

Glancing up at the deck of the ship, she spied the first-mate, a dunmeri woman by the name of Malvulis who was currently barking orders at the crew packing supply crates along the quay. Malvulis had served the Marie Elena for as long as Nim had lived with Methredhel, and she was a mean and lovely sight that Nim had watched frequently from afar. Fiery, intimidating, a glare keen enough to cut— everything Nim could only achieve by way of illusion charms. From her many hours of watching and occasional eaves-dropping, Nim knew that Malvulis was not particularly well liked among her crew. Having a woman aboard the ship was seen as bad luck, and though the captain denied any whisper of ill omen, her presence was not lauded by all.

Nim didn't know all that much about Gaston Tussaud, only that he had replaced the previous captain, and replaced was a rather generous description of events. These pirates were a mutinous bunch, new leadership every few months or so it seemed. Nim could work with this. A twist here. A turn there, and she could frame someone else for Tussaud's death. So long as there was no way to trace his death back to her, she figured it was worth a shot.

The lighthouse bell chimed across the lake. Seven peals. She was losing daylight, and if she had packed her poisons, she might be convinced to use them just to get this bloody thing over with. But now poisonless and uncertain Nim had no choice but to act. She set her eyes further down the quay, to where a grungy looking sailor was filling crates with bags of grain. “Hey!” she called to him with a wave and her most winsome smile.

The man looked up and wiped a string of sweat off of his forehead. Upon finding Nim waving, he raised a brow, said nothing, then turned back to his work with a snort.

"I said hey!" Nim called again, hoping her expression looked inviting and not as half-hearted as it was swiftly becoming.

"What?” he snapped. “I'm working here, can't you see?"

"I saw." Nim made a show of looking him over. "Actually, I was watching."

“Oh, were you now?"

"Thought I’d come say hi. Care to chat? I wanted to talk to you."

"And I want a belly full of mead and two women to hold in my sleep. Sometimes life ain't very fair."

"Two women? One not enough for you?

"Don't bother offering. I've seen more meat on the loins of a troll."

"Well,” Nim said, scrunching her face unpleasantly, “you certainly know how to make a girl feel special."

The pirate laughed to himself, turned away, and with his gaze averted, Nim weaved her magicka into a potent charm. It brewed thick and heavy and warm in her blood, felt like sunlight poured right into a mug. She directed it at the back of the pirate's head, where it struck as intended. “I said I wanted to talk , " she tried again. "You can't even give me the time of day?"

The pirate glanced back at her, looked her up and down with interest that had not been present before. "Insistent, are you? Well, you're lucky I like that in a woman. Tell ya what, I'm due for my break any time now. Suppose I could spare a minute."

"Ah, just my luck," Nim cooed or tried too. Whatever it was, it seemed to be working, for the pirate was leering now, drawing closer, and she tried her best to ignore how dirty this use of her illusions was making her feel. “I hear it’s ten-drake-Tirdas over at the Bloated Float,” she said. “Be a good boy and get me a drink, huh? We could share it out here. Watch the sunset, and sit all close-like.”

“Say I do it.” He stepped closer. "What am I going to get in return?”

“What, my company isn't sufficient?”

The pirate leaned in, reaching for her wrist, and she became very aware of the fact that her charm spell had been too powerful and that the man had not bathed in at least a week. Nim, not having the patience to maintain this sultry sway nor the remotest desire to be drawn any nearer, sent out a new burst of magicka instead.

This one was stronger, direct, a thick cord pulled taut, and it left her in a near dizzying rush. When her command spell flooded over him, his will bent in her hands, pliant and so very slender, warping to her will like the stem of a fresh green shoot. She gripped it in her fist, and he snapped to attention, eyes distant in the haze of her spell.

“Go to the Bloated Float and buy a beer," she said and shoved a stack of coins into his palm. "Stay there. Have a drink. Don't leave under any circumstances. Understood?”

The man said nothing, just blinked which she chose to interpret as a yes, ma’am, and when he walked away, Nim wondered if this was what necromancers felt like when ordering around their thralls. She shuddered, told herself that of course it wasn’t the same. How silly a comparison. One was permanent and one was not. One required death and one did not. Really, a little illusion hex was harmless in the grand scheme of things, and as she watched him scamper down the dock, she figured she was doing him an honest favor.

Look at me, caring for the lives of an innocent pirate. The picture of honor and virtue. Turning back to the ship, Nim felt like the biggest hypocrite in all of Nirn and wished to promptly crawl out of her skin. 

Now there were only two pirates on deck, Malvulis and the other sailor who had disappeared below to load the ship. Nim climbed onto the stone wall of the harbor walkway, looked to the balcony, and made as precise a measurement as one with her spatial awareness could. She jumped. Had she been well-fed in her youth and sprouted longer limbs, the chance of making this leap might not have been so slim, but finding purchase at last, she hoisted herself up, dusted herself off, and prayed no one was watching from the harbor. Relieved (and more than a bit embarrassed), she let herself inside.

From the far side of the captain's quarters came the sound of soft snoring. A quick peek revealed that Gaston lay asleep in bed. Thank the Nine, Nim thought before catching herself and rescinding her prayer. Thank… Sithis? But that was somehow worse. Thank lady luck? Thank random chance? Thank disorder and entropy, and by the time she had found herself praising mathematical equations, Nim realized she was far, far from fortune's favored.

The quarters were lavishly furnished— silk drapes and silver dishes, plush cushions on rich oak chairs. Good money in pirating, so it seemed. Maybe she'd picked the wrong career.

Nim moved silently through the cabin until she reached the door to the main deck. She turned the knob, pushed it open just a sliver. Malvulis was still strolling outside. This was good. Nim left the door ajar and crawled under the Captain's bed, concealing herself behind the drooping duvet. With a wave of her hand, she tethered her magical grasp to a flower pot on the dining table and sent it hurling into the wall. It shattered with a crash, dirt and shards of baked, red clay sprinkling down beside her. Nim blinked her eyes free of debris as the mattress creaked above.

Gaston had sprung awake. Risking a peek, Nim found him turning in circles, eyes wide and panicked as he reached for the scabbard hanging around the bedpost. "Who's there? Show yourself!" Nim reached for a wine bottle next, threw it with a flick of her finger. At the sound of breaking glass, Gaston yelped in fright. "I said show yourself, you coward!"

Gaston stomped across the room, searching desperately for an intruder, spitting curses in a language Nim couldn’t speak. At the door came a knock then a voice calling, “Captain?” and Gaston darted across the room.

"Everything alright, Captain?" asked the man at the door. "Malvulis sent me. We heard the shouting."

A man peeked in, human and pale, the other pirate who had been loading the ship. Nim was hoping Malvulis would be the one on the other side, but she could work with this. She had to work with this, and before Gaston could answer, she focused her magicka, anchoring it in choler to weave a stronger, uglier spell.

Sourced from spite, the frenzying hex roiled within her, hissing and spitting, a venomous serpent of baneful magic. Heat surged in her blood, rose to her skin, coated her in a thin sheen of sweat. When she could bear it no longer, she unleashed the spell, and it struck Gaston so forcefully that he lurched forward with a gasp. Nim swallowed dryly, a strange mix of panic and pity, because if she felt the fever of her own illusion this strongly, within Gaston it must have raged with ten times the heat.

Gaston’s face twisted, lips pulled back into a scowl. He whipped his eyes toward the man at the door and locked him in that rabid gaze. With no warning, he rushed him, cutlass swinging high, and the startled pirate raced away before the blade collided with his neck.

Gaston gave chase. The cabin empty, Nim dragged herself out from beneath the bed only to collapse back to the floor with an oomph. She’d grown heavier, slower, and as she attempted to cloak herself with an invisibility spell, a leaden slurry pushed itself through her veins. The spell flickered then extinguished, a tell-tale sign that her magical reserves were beginning to drain. Fuck.

With a grunt, Nim shimmied out from her hiding spot and lumbered off to the doorway to watch the mayhem from the shadows. Gaston and the pirate were dueling now, clashing their blades, curses hot on their breath. A grunt. A growl. Gaston struck the pirate across the shoulder. No armor for protection, it sliced clean through. Blood splashed across the deck like sea spray.

Nim winced but could not look away. Gaston advanced again, and the man groaned, blocked, stumbled to his knees, his blade raised weakly in defense. Gaston swung down again, and the metallic clang of steel rang sharply. From the forecastle deck, Malvulis screamed.

Nim’s vision was beginning to blur from exhaustion, but she could see Malvulis race to Gaston and shove him aside. To Nim, all the shouting, the shrieking, the steel striking steel struck an unintelligible, frantic chord. Her mind felt like liquid, turned half to mush, and her frenzying spell would not hold Gaston much longer. Meanwhile he was still very much alive, and the only thought Nim could manage to form was Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Nim reached deep to harness the last of her willpower. A clumsy, tangled frenzying spell surged from her palm and hurdled Malvulis’ way. It landed as intended, dissipating in an angry red mist. Nim doubled over, barely catching herself against the door. Too much, too much . She didn't have the well to support such rapid spellcasting, and she grew colder, weaker, the magicka fatigue falling so suddenly and so sharply, she felt sick enough to keel off into the water and drown.

This was such a stupid idea , she cursed herself. Now you want to be creative? Why in all the hells did you not bring a damn poison?

Through bleary vision, Nim watched Malvulis draw her blade. She landed a blow to Gaston’s side, one and then another. Blood splattered the wooden planks, more red on the salt-crusted canvas. Gaston staggered, gasping. Sailors crawled up from below the deck, drawn by the shouting and the screaming, and with her shroud down and her magicka drained, Nim realized it was time to leave five minutes ago.

Legs quaking beneath her, she hobbled backward to the balcony, climbed up, leapt for the harbor—

And missed.

Nim bobbed in the sobering murk of Lake Rumare. Above her, Magnus shed warm dying light, warm enough that when combined with the stench of the harbor, she felt she might as well be floating in sewage. And still, for the moment it was better than standing. Cradled by the water, she floated there, screams and steel still ringing from the ship deck, questions of What did you do? What did you do? echoing in her mind, and it wasn’t until a pair of pincers nipped her on the rump that she’d had enough of her basking and swam away.

Nim hoisted herself onto the soft, silty lakeshore, a curtain of sopping wet hair nearly blinding her. She ambled toward the lighthouse, wringing herself dry, because she couldn’t yet leave, not until she knew Gaston was dead.

Only a few paces down the walkway, she ran headfirst into a plate of armor. “Oof!”

"Ma'am?" said an Imperial Watchman, staring down at the wet mess that she was.

“Agh," she mumbled. “Er…”

“Are you alright, Ma’am?”

Nim clutched at her head which was now reeking of algae and in terrible pain. She looked to the guard, then behind him. A muffled shout echoed from the direction of the Marie Elena. "There," she said, pointing a shaky finger toward the ship. "O-over there."

The guard raised a brow but followed her trembling finger. "The Maria Elena ?" he said. "Don't tell me something's happened again?"

Again? Such a sweet word. Nim could have fainted in relief. “I saw men fighting on the ship. It was so loud, so terrible! So much screaming! Swords flashing! Blood and arms flying everywhere! Oh, by the Nine, I think they were speaking of a mutiny! I couldn’t bear the sight!”

Nim shielded her eyes behind her palm dramatically. The Watchman gave an exasperated groan, turned from Nim, whistled to another guard patrolling down the harbor, and signaled toward the ship. "Of course they're starting more trouble. Damned pirates infesting these waters like roaches. As if I don't have enough roaches in the barracks."

The guard began his disgruntled dash toward the Maria Elena, and Nim ambled behind at scrib jelly’s pace. A crowd was gathering at the quay to spectate, busy bodies that the watchmen were forcing back in order to clear a path to the ship. Horrified gasps floated down the harbor. In the distance she could hear a low, pained moan.

Nim was at the edge of the crowd when a hand clamped down on her shoulder. “ You!” said a hoarse voice, then she was jerked roughly around. “You crazy bitch! What'd you do to me?”

Nim squinted her eyes. Standing before her was a vaguely familiar face, the pirate she had charmed earlier. Damn, she had already forgotten about him. "Oh, it's you," she said and stifled a yawn. “Hi.” She needed a nap or a hibernation. Suddenly, crawling back into the lake didn't sound like so terrible an idea. "Where's my drink?"

The pirate glowered. "Did you cast a fucking spell on me?”

“Huh?”

“Stupid bitch, I’d throw you off these here docks if it didn’t look like someone already did!"

"Yeah, I jumped in because I was so damn thirsty waiting for my beer. Now get on. I’ve places to be."

“ Bitch!” he spat again. “If you think—”

Nim shoved him into the water with all the strength she had in her, then disappeared, by Kynareth's good grace, into the crowd. "This was such a bloody disaster," she muttered, shaking her head. How on Nirn did I think this was a better idea than poison?

Weaving through the spectators, she reached the edge of the quay before a watchman nudged her back. “Go home, Citizen.”

“What’s happened?” But the guard didn’t respond.

“A mutiny, by the looks of it,” said an old woman standing beside Nim. She pointed into the murky water where a man floated, face-down.

The guards fished him out, rolled him over. Wide sightless eyes gazed skyward at the darkening sky. Gaston Tussaud. He was dead, without a doubt. From the ship deck, Malvulis stared blankly at his corpse.

Did I do this? Was this me?

Nim blinked numbly, and if the magicka drain was not eating away at her last spark of cogent thought, she might have felt something more than this vague and formless unease. But alas, her head was rather empty, and Gaston Tussaud was dead. She walked away, concluding with the last bit of mindfulness she possessed that she hadn’t really killed him. Not really.

Nim trailed puddles all the way to Methredhel's shack. She spent the night there. The two shared a silent agreement since their earliest days with the Thieves Guild that if the question was ever ‘ should I ask?’ the answer was usually ‘no.’

The following morning, Nim caught the carriage to Cheydinhal and arrived at the gates in the dark hours before dawn. She made every effort to skirt the edges of the city walls, hoping to avoid recognition from her acquaintances at the local Mages Guild hall. There weren't many, but she didn't know how she'd explain spending so much time in Cheydinhal should they ask, so she slunk across the city-streets in the shadows of the houses like lowly vermin amidst the rubbish heaps, under the concealment of her spell. The best way to avoid answering unwanted questions, she had learned, was to make sure nobody knew to ask them in the first place.

Nim entered the abandoned house and padded down to the basement. Alone amidst the cobwebs and the creaking, splintering floorboards, she reflected on her first contract, wondered what the other assassins would say. Nobody could trace Tussaud’s death back to her, not with all the witnesses who’d seen the fight break out on deck. Would the ship’s crew believe that Tussaud had gone mad, that Malvulis’ had killed him in defense? Would they craft their own story to make sense of it? Nim shook her head. It didn't really matter what they believed. At the end of the day the captain was dead, and far be it for the Watch to meddle in the affairs of pirates. But had they deserved it? Should she feel guilty for what she'd done?

Gaston’s death did not bring Nim joy. Fulfillment of the contract, the promise of pay on its completion, delivered as much satisfaction as one of her assignments from the Gray Fox had, which was at best a glimmer of pride, at worst the wan and mealy admissions of being returned to life as an outlaw. The planning, the scheming, however… Yes, there had been something to it. To know that with a few pointed spells she could cause irrevocable change, that she could transform the world around her, that she could get away with it. Yes, there was a thrill to that.

And now, as Nim reflected on her performance with the distance supplied in hindsight, it was abundantly clear that she had done a sloppy job. She'd involved too many people, used too much magic. She'd plan it better next time, be more subtle. Next time, things will go smoother . Next time, you won’t make a mess. Next time...

Nim's stomach knotted. How many more next times would there be? This was her job now, the organization she’d been sworn into, and it reminded her of darker days, a life she thought she’d left behind. It was a teaching of Mephala, to spin with extra silk on hand, and whatever sinister sense of accomplishment she’d felt dissolved like ink into wine.

This is not who you are, said a small and fleeting voice inside her. But wasn’t it? Hadn't she been this woman all along?

Carved into the basement wall was a tunnel of jagged stone, and at the end loomed the Black Door, the sanctuary just beyond. A chill rose along the back of her neck, the source uncertain. If the Webspinner was watching her, if the Webspinner knew, would Mephala be praising her. Would She urge Nim to improve?

Inside the sanctuary, Nim passed a scowling M'raaj-Dar and walked to the darkened living quarters, keeping her head down. With the aid of her night-eye, she slipped off her pack and undressed, preparing for bed. Under the covers, she stared at the ceiling until her spell winked out and darkness consumed her vision. She didn’t refresh it, simply lay there staring forward, unable or unwilling to find sleep.

“Hey,” a quiet voice called out from the bed beside hers. Was it speaking to her? Nim turned, renewing her night-eye, and found Antoinetta staring at her through the dark. “First contract. How did it go?”

“Um, honestly, I'm not sure,” Nim whispered back, “but it's done. Wasn’t much to it.”

“Good. And how does it feel to be one of us now?”

One of us.

Nim didn’t know what to say. She didn’t really feel any different at all. The rush of the chaos had waned long ago. All she felt was the beat of blood in her ears. She looked back to the ceiling, focusing on the grooves in the stone blocks above. It looked like a maze, empty trenches to crawl through, to be lost in, and perhaps if she stared hard enough, she could trace the path that had led her to this moment here, tucked away in the sanctuary, blood on her soul, coin in her pocket. She had murdered— was a murderer— and this was how murderers spent their nights, wasn't it?

“I feel nothing," Nim said. "Like there’s this hollow pit inside me and it’s growing, like it is trying to consume me.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“The emptiness. The Void. That’s the call of our Dread Father. He’s welcoming you home.”

“Is that what you’re supposed to feel?”

“I don’t know,” Antoinetta admitted. “It must be different for everyone.”

Nim fell into thoughtful quiet. She’d only felt relief when she killed necromancers, never pleasure. Death was necessary for survival, for safety, but the fact that she’d sent a man’s soul to whatever a Sithis was brought no gratification in the slightest. Only Alessia Caro’s death had made her feel, had stirred awake an old and primal calling. Ravenous and predatory, something dark and shrouded in shadow that had been sleeping in the crevices of her soul for however long. Perhaps since she'd been born.

“Is that what you feel?” Nim asked.

“No. Sometimes, right before a kill, Sithis speaks to me. He whispers in my ear and fills my heart with the joy of suffering and death.”

"The joy and suffering? Aren't those, like, opposite?"

"Well, it's joy for me, suffering for the other. I guess one can't exist without the other."

"Hmm." There was a saying in her coven, one of Mephala's core whispers, death is life. Nim thought she had made peace with her understanding or lack of it, but now… now Nim couldn’t say. “What is Sithis, Antoinetta? I still don’t understand even after Lucien explained it to me.”

“Oh, Lucien would know better than anyone, I’d imagine.”

“Well, he can’t explain it for guar dung.”

“Sithis is…” Antoinetta paused, her face scrunched up, deep in thought. “Have you ever lived on the streets, Nim, really struggled to survive?”

“Yes, I grew up with nothing."

"Nothing?"

"No parents. No home.”

Antoinetta’s eyes widened, as if she’d expected a different answer. “Well, then you know what it’s like to be on the brink of death.” Antoinetta reached out toward her, held her hand palm up in the air. Nim looked at it curiously before realizing Antoinetta meant for her to take hold. “Sithis is the rain that soaks down to your bones and turns your fingers blue," she said, letting Nim's hand rest upon hers, "and he is the warm, choking smoke that fills your lungs when you find refuge beneath the eaves of the blacksmith's roof. Sithis is falling asleep wondering if you are ever going to wake up. He is the dreamless slumber after days and days of nothing to eat, and he is the cold breath you take when you find yourself alive in the morning.”

Antoinetta squeezed her hand. It was not the answer Nim had been hoping, but for once, it was one she understood.

In the morning, Nim made her way down to Vicente’s quarters. The door was cracked open, and from inside she heard the opening and shutting of dresser drawers. Cautiously, she peered through the open sliver to find a woman clad in her undergarments slipping a dark shirt over her head. Flushing hot at the sight, Nim gasped and stumbled over her ankles immediately.

Flustered, Nim turned and stalked off only to hear the door behind her creak open. She walked faster, just another few feet and she'd be around the corner, out of sight—

“Hello,” a woman said. Nim froze. As if it could hide her. "Hello?" the woman said again.

Nim peered over her shoulder, nervous, slightly panicked. A woman stood in Vicente's doorway offering her a warm smile while she smoothed her shirt down over her chest.

“I- I’m sorry," Nim fumbled out. "I should have knocked.”

The woman waved dismissively. “You must be Nimileth. I've been hearing all about you. Come in.” Nim did as she was told without thinking, her legs carrying her forward on their own. “Para tahn bosmer fae te halle. Pra mahdren fae te mar? ”

Nim blinked, not so much recognizing the Bosmeris tongue as she did the flush of shame at not being able to speak it. “I don’t… I never learned—”

“Sorry, I just assumed.” The woman extended her hand, and Nim took it at once, very aware yet powerless to the fact that she was still gawking. “Lorise Audenius.”

Lorise was elven (presumably Bosmer, given her command of the language) but human in name and most assuredly something else in appearance. Standing at nearly six feet in height, she was taller than any Bosmer Nim knew and on top of that, was perhaps the most muscularly built woman she’d ever seen before. Long black hair hung loose and curly down her back. She wore one of Vicente's black shirts and nothing else, her legs bare. They were thick legs, flexing taut as she walked. Tree trunks, really, powerful and scarred with elaborate, raised beaded patterns. It was intentional artwork, Nim realized, a tradition of the Bosmeri people, scarification of the skin, of which hers was amber brown, not quite as deep in complexion as Nim’s but equally tanned.

Lorise had a soft face and full lips that curled into a deceivingly delicate grin. It left Nim in a restless state of ambivalence. Should she feel eased by it or alarmed? “How was your first contract?” Lorise took a seat at the table and waved Nim further into the room. She peeled an orange, set the rind aside, and offered Nim a wedge. Nim, who was still standing in the doorway, stared like the highly skilled gawper she was. "Hello?"

“Oh!" Nim squeaked. "What?"

"Your first contract. How'd it go?"

"Fine. It was fine. How did you know I completed it?”

“Word travels fast when you know who to ask. Now are you going to sit down?”

Unthinking, Nim sat down and picked at the orange slice Lorise had slid her way. She peeled off the skin, picked apart the vesicles of pulp, laid them in a neat row on the table. Finding herself at a complete loss of words, she fidgeted. Even other sounds failed her, not even a stupid hmmm, and so the two women stared silently at one another, Lorise’s smile never faltering.

Nim felt so stupid staring at Lorise, those calm teal eyes, a color that reminded her of the Abecean lapping gently in the clear breeze of Anvil's morning. Nim, a masterful admirer of beautiful things, concluded that she had never seen a woman more beautiful in her entire twenty years of life.

“I imagine you were looking for Vicente,” Lorise finally said.

"Yes," Nim blurted out. "Is he around?"

“Somewhere. Why? Am I making you nervous?”

“Yes,” she blurted out again, without hesitation. “I mean no. A little. Intimidated is more accurate a word."

"And why would you be intimidated by little-old-me?”

“I hear you’re the Grand Champion. The Butcher, they call you.”

"So I am."

“So you are. It's an ominous name. I bet you could snap my neck and have me dead in five seconds.”

Lorise leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. “I bet I could do it in two.” Nim drew in a sharp breath, and smiled in fright. "That was a joke," Lorise added, her own smile a bit more playful now. A smirk. Nim tried very hard to peel her eyes away.

She hadn’t expected The Butcher would look anything like the woman in front of her. In paintings, she’d been depicted wearing an elven helm and carrying a severed head under her arm. The scene had always been a bloody one, grotesque even. Vulgar. Sitting across from one of the most skilled fighters in Cyrodiil, Nim felt a surge of both wonder and fear and was eager to focus on anything beyond picking apart her fruit."You know, I’ve never watched an arena match in my life,” she said.

“Well it’s your lucky day then. First row seats, on the house.”

“Ah well, that's kind of you. I have no doubt you're as entertaining as they say, but truthfully, I've never much desired to see a match be.” Lorise recoiled, made a show of withering against her seat, and though Nim knew it was feigned, she still felt terribly rude. "Sorry. That uh, didn't come out right."

“Don’t tell me you’re not a fan of needless bloodshed."

“Can't say I am. Sorry to disappoint.”

Lorise laughed, and the laugh only made her feel worse. “Huh, I wonder what you’re doing here then, Queen-Killer.”

" Queen ?" Nim snorted. “If Alessia Caro was a queen, then I’m next in line for the throne.”

“Queen, countess, duke, duchess.” Lorise raised her orange slice, ate it triumphantly. "What's another noble in the ground? Fertilizer, I guess."

“You know, I’ve never been in the presence of such a deadly woman."

"Doubtful," Lorise said, her mouth full. "You awake in your skin every day."

"Ah." Was that a compliment? What happened now? Was Nim supposed to give another in response? Was she flirting? Leaning forward, Nim splayed her elbows on the table. "And you look like Dibella’s gift to creation. Good Gods, It’s quite humbling.”

Lorise laughed with a snort and shook her head. Dark hair whipped against her shoulders, so dazzling in it's shine that Nim was beginning to feel dizzy. “I bet you say that to everyone you meet.”

“Only if it's true.”

“You’re not so bad looking yourself.” Lorise leaned forward as well and her smile grew broader as Nim's face grew terribly red. “Vicente failed to mention such charm and grace.”

“Oh, did he? A shame. Speaking of Vicente, do you know where I could find him?“

"It's a small sanctuary. I'm sure he's not far."

Infernally warm now, Nim pulled at her amulet neurotically, and as though on command, the sound of footsteps carried down the hall. Soon, Vicente poked his head around the door. He gave a small knock before entering. "The woman of the hour," he said when he saw Nim. His smile gleamed, those two white fangs flashing shamelessly.

"Uh oh. What did I do?"

Vicente entered, bent down, and placed a kiss on Lorise's cheek before taking the seat beside her. Lorise grinned fondly and slid her hand across his thigh. Nim blinked, didn't know what to say. A 300-year old vampire and a Grand Champion with the face of Dibella. Stranger pairings had existed, stranger pairing within this very sanctuary. When she’d learned that Telaendril and Gogron were sleeping together Nim had to assemble a mental jigsaw within her head. A slender Bosmeri woman and and Orsimer thrice her size... Well, who was Nim to judge, single as she was?

“So what did I miss?” Vicente asked. “I heard the two of you laughing down here.”

“Nimileth was in the process of wooing me.”

“Oh, yes,” Nim added, deciding to play along. “But I’m only one of many hopeless courters by the looks of it.”

Vicente frowned, feigning remorse. “My apologies. I should have mentioned our relationship before you became too invested.”

“My heart will mend itself in time." Nim swept the scraps of fruit into her lap and pretended they did not exist. "I take it you too have heard that I completed my contract?”

“A mutiny, how curious. And the Imperial Watch was none the wiser.”

"Word really does get around quickly, huh?"

"We have Eyes in all the cities,” Vicente said. “Our networks run smooth and fast.”

“Like blood through the vein," Lorise added.

“Like blood through the vein.”

Nim hummed, “mhm,” suspicious. And were they watching her now? Did they know who were friends were, where she worked, where she went on business with the Mages Guild? That seemed like dangerous information to possess, like information that would leak blood if squeezed…

But before she could lose herself too deeply in her worries, Lorise cut in, turning to Vicente with a loud, dramatic sigh. “Vicente, did you know that Nimileth is not a fan of needless bloodshed? How peculiar, isn’t it?”

"So I’ve heard." He flashed an all-knowing smile. “Unfortunate then that I come to you with another contract. Or who knows, perhaps you’ll enjoy it.”

“Oh, enjoy is a strong word,” Nim said but scooted closer. The last contract had gone so poorly that she still found herself embarrassed. The only remedy was to improve.

And this time she would pack her poisons.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Useless

It was a lazy Sundas in Anvil, as Sundas' were meant to be— warm and salted, all the comfort of a sun-baked rock beneath the breeze. After the morning service at the Chapel of Dibella, Nim's schedule was clear, so she spent the day lounging in her foyer with a basket of fresh peaches and a copy of Fire and Darkness. 

It seemed apt reading, this historical tome of the Morag Tong, given they occupied a similar niche as the Dark Brotherhood. Information on the former was much easier to track down than the latter (she supposed government sanction would make it so), and unsurprisingly, the local bookstore in town carried no texts on the Dark Brotherhood's history. Perhaps there were some in the private collections at the First Edition in the Imperial City? If not, she’d check the University archives, but for that, she’d need to ask Tar-Meena, the Master Archivist and fourth member of the Council, then thinking better of it, swept the idea aside.

Still, Nim was determined to learn more about the secretive organization, unable to shake that very small, niggling feeling that she’d made a dreadful, irrevocable mistake. The familial titles, the reverence for bloodshed, the deities of which she'd never heard— the Dark Brotherhood was not so much a guild of assassins as it was a cult of assassins, and if she found herself trapped in another one of those, she damned well better know who they were praying to. She flipped the page, bit her peach, made a mental note to ask Vicente about ‘ Sithis’ the next time she was in Cheydinhal. Of all the assassins she'd come to know, he seemed her best shot at a comprehensible answer.

Sundas morning unfurled into Sundas afternoon. Nim remained glued to her sofa until she’d nearly finished her book. With all the description of Morrowind's warranted murders, her mind strayed to her last contract: a mer named Baenlin who had lived up in Bruma and whose untimely death, by contrast, had been very much an unlawful act. Sad way to go, crushed beneath a stuffed minotaur's head, but maybe people shouldn't sit beneath such massive, menacing objects if they didn't wish to find themselves squashed beneath them. All she had done was sneak through the crawlspace and loosen the fastenings in the wall. Time could have eroded them. Time would have eroded them eventually, so really, when she thought about it, killing him was nothing more than hastening the inevitable. Innocent, even.

The contract had been alarmingly simple. She’d been in and out without even catching a glimpse of Baenlin’s face, could have done it with her eyes closed had she wanted a challenge. Of course, Nim didn’t necessarily want a challenge. Mostly, she wanted the financial stability of the gold Vicente had paid her and to forget his instruction to return for more work at the end of the week. 

What had Baenlin done for someone to want him dead, she wondered, eyes glazing as she flipped the page, for someone to pay that much money to have him gone? Vicente hadn’t mentioned Baenlin’s criminal history, and she hadn’t thought to ask if it even existed. Perhaps she should have.

Nim bit into her peach, the flesh just a touch more astringent now than a moment prior. It sat soft and wet upon her tongue, unpleasantly acrid. 

There was a meow at the window. Nim was thankful for the distraction and rose to greet a small black cat, one of the strays she’d taken to feeding when she moved in. Nim let her in with a scritch under the chin, dog-eared her book and set it aside. It wasn’t answering her questions anyway. From what she knew, the Morag Tong worshiped Mephala. The Dark Brotherhood, Sithis. One she knew too well, and the other remained an enigma. But who was Sithis? What was it ? And what of his matron, the Unholy Night Mother who saw all? 

Who cares, Nim snorted. What do gods do for me anyway?

Nim pushed herself to her feet and climbed the stairs to her study to check the progress of the potions she’d set abrew that morning. Thick, clear liquid simmered in the flasks on her hot plate, an order for her most popular restorative. It was a simple potion to calm the mind and soothe the muscles, to provide a burst of energy and allay fatigue. Time willing, she made a batch every week to sell at the local guild hall, and it had paid the bills since she’d stopped thieving, was routine now, oddly reminiscent of her skooma-brewing days. 

At least these potions were helping people, commoners and workers of all occupations. She chose ingredients with milder flavors to suit a broad array of palates— green stain, pear, a dash of peony seed— and it remained consistently her highest draught in demand. Wafting the rising fumes, she concluded that all was brewing well and returned downstairs to settle back on the sofa, closed her eyes for only a moment before she heard a knock on the front door. 

She’d not been expecting anyone and peeped through the window to see Thaurron, a guildmate, standing on her porch. He waved. 

Nim waved back eagerly and swung the door wide to greet him with an even wider grin. “Hey, what are you doing here? You wanna come in? Lunch maybe? I picked up some cider last night. Blackberry, it’s real good.” And she hoped he would say yes. Some company that could speak Cyrodiilic would do her wonders.

But Thaurron shook his head and reached down to pet the nameless cat who had since walked over to brush against his leg. “Can't today. Maybe tomorrow? I’ve got to get back to the guild hall and feed Sparky. Carahil said this letter came for you from the Arcane University. I know you’ve been waiting for it. Thought I’d walk it over."

“A letter?” Nim looked to the envelope in his hand. Her name was penned across the front. Magician Nimileth , it read, and in the corner, From the desk of Arch-mage Hannibal Traven.

Her stomach leapt. Thanking Thaurron, she rushed back to her study to retrieve the Blade of Woe she’d been using as a letter-opener.

Magician Nimileth, congratulations on your many achievements within the guild. I must apologize for not personally reaching out to you sooner. I’ve heard nothing but praise from our colleagues at the University. Unfortunately, I write to you in the middle of a very difficult situation. The Council has received grave news, and I believe you are the only one who can assist us.

Please come at your earliest convenience. I would speak to you personally. As you are well aware, time is of the utmost importance when dealing with these delicate matters, and it’s high time we meet face to face. I look forward to your arrival.

Hannibal Traven, Arch-mage

Nim packed her bag at once, forgetting all about her potions until she was one foot out the door. The once-sweet peaches soured in her belly, splashing and churning with their sharp acidic pang. Time is of the utmost importance, Arch-mage Traven had said, yet she could not for the life of her imagine why the Council had waited so long to call upon her. She and Raminus had discovered the black soul gem ritual at the Dark Fissure months ago. What had the Council been doing since then?

Necromancer activity had only increased over Cyrodiil. She’d read news of it in the papers, feared the worst. If she knew the Council, she knew that by now there had likely been another attack, and she’d bet money that was why Traven wanted to talk, that he’d send her in to clean up the mess. 

But someone had to do it, and her hands were already so full, so deep into that dark loam. What did it matter if she dug herself in another inch?

Nim arrived at the University days later, early enough in the morning that Bothiel was manning the lobby alone. After a brief but cheerful reunion, Bothiel pointed to the teleporter. “Go on up,” she said. “Hannibal’s waiting for you.”

But the council room was empty, and Nim could only occupy so much time admiring the tapestries before her patience began to fray. And when half an hour had passed with no show from the Arch-mage, her patience was damn near threadbare. She needed this. Issues of payment aside, the Mages Guild was the only thing keeping her afloat. It was all she had to cling to, the rest of her life gone to mayhem the moment she sunk her arrow into the Countess’ neck. But none of that mattered when she was Magician Nimileth. At the University, she was no one, normal, and so long as she had work from the Council, she could pretend the Dark Brotherhood didn’t exist. She needed this. She needed this just as much as the Council needed her, so where in Oblivion was the Arch-mage? She’d be damned if he called her in for nothing…

That was how Nim found herself standing in the Arch-mage’s quarters, standing at the foot of Hannibal Traven’s bed. She’d been certain that the Arch-mage of all people was as eager to quell the rise of necromantic cultists as she (a nobody) was. He had banned them after all, and Nim had half a mind to rip open the curtains, let the sunlight wake him then and there. Didn't he know they had a meeting to get on with? Didn’t he know there were lives at stake? 

“Arch-mage,” she whispered. “Arch-mage, are you awake?”

Two whole months of preparation, yet now it was a quarter to seven and Traven was sleeping soundly upon his silks, slumbering through the golden hours of morning. Nim poked him in the foot. Did she dare try to wake him? It seemed impolite at best, insubordinate at worst. Then again she found that little about the Mages Guild was truly professional, and after a brief deliberation, she reasoned that she didn't trespass into his quarters only to leave without his attention.

Once more then twice she poked him. On the third poke, he began to stir. On the fourth poke, Traven’s eyes flew open, and a strange squeaky sound escaped him, shrill and distinctly rodentine. Suddenly very aware of her uninvited presence in his room, he sprung out of bed, and Nim thanked the Nine that he didn't blast her to soot immediately.

The Arch-mage smoothed down his shift, attempting to reclaim some manner of decorum. "Magician Nimileth, I take it? Ah... who let you in?"

“Erm, I did."

Arch-mage Traven blinked. Nim blinked too, then he waved his hand, shaking his head as if to clear it. "I see you are ready to begin the day. That’s good. Forgive me for, uh, my lack of preparedness. I was up late last night working out the details of this assignment. Let’s reconvene in the council room. Please, follow me.”

He stepped through the teleporter, still in his sleeping garments, and disappeared in a haze of purple light. Nim followed, and emerging in the council room, she took her seat across from him, hands folded demurely in her lap as if she hadn’t barged in on him at all.

“So we finally meet.” Hannibal Traven had a kindly face, deeply etched with the wear of time. Thin wisps of white hair framed his warm brown eyes. It was, by all means, a friendly, unassuming face that Nim wanted to trust, but given the way he’d handled her assignment in Skingrad, she was not yet convinced he was anything more than a kwama pile. “Raminus has been telling me nothing but good things about you.”

Nim’s heart skittered sideways. Just that name brought with it an uncomfortable fluttering in her belly, and she swallowed, attempting to quell it. She failed. "That's very kind of him." 

And how is Raminus these days , she wondered and felt foolish for wondering. Does he think of me as I think of him? Ever since their return from the Dark Fissure, she’d thought of him differently , the idea of the two of them together somehow more tangible, frozen in the moment they had shared that night. And it was a moment, wasn't it? She hadn’t made it up, had she?

Traven continued on, and now was not the time for listless pining. "You’ve advanced quickly, Magician Nimileth. From all the reports I’ve read, you show great promise too. I intend to put your talents to a more direct test."

“A test?” Nim scrunched her nose and didn't care if Traven saw. What did they want her to do now, kill more necromancers? She’d yet to meet another first-year who had so much as seen one! 

"I have a difficult task that you can, perhaps, assist with. Raminus said you were more than well equipped."

"Oh, he did?” And try as she might to ignore it, her knees turned somewhat rubbery.

“Allow me to explain what is at stake. The Council of Mages has been aware of the increased necromancer activity in Cyrodiil for some time. We have been gathering information discreetly, so as not to draw the attention of hidden spies. It had been our position to sit back and watch what unfolded—“

“I am aware.” Traven paused and looked at her expectantly, as if waiting for her to continue on. Nim shifted, suddenly a bit embarrassed at how crass she must seem. "Ah, pardon me." 

The Arch-mage nodded sympathetically, so genuine his expression that Nim felt confused by her gut-instinct to disbelieve it. “But that time has clearly passed," he continued. "We can tolerate these attacks on the guild no longer. We’ve been gathering information on what we believe is a necromantic cult operating in southern Cyrodiil. Most of our intelligence on their recent activity has come from an informant inside the cult itself, a guild member who offered to infiltrate their ranks.”

Nim’s eyes widened. She had no idea the Council had any proactive plans, let alone operations under way. In truth, she’d written them off as contemptible fools, and relief coursed through her to think that maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe the Council wasn’t plagued by as much incompetence as she’d been led to believe.

“Though the information our agent has provided is limited, it has given us a sense of this cult's scope and power. We believe there are many small pockets of active members spread throughout the province, and we now have records of correspondences between individuals at different sites, names of suppliers, an estimate of their numbers and reach. From these reports, we have begun to construct a map of their network. It appears they are all working toward the same goal, operating in parallel."

"Okay, and what's next? I take it you've confirmed his reports, sent out scouts to survey the locations?"

"Ah, no," Traven admitted, slightly chagrined. "The Council was initially reluctant to believe this information was reliable, but with recent events, we have little choice but to trust it."

"You didn't trust him before? What’s the point in having a spy among their ranks if you didn't trust him?"

"It is important that we remain skeptical in light of new information," he explained calmly. "You understand this as any scholar would."

"Then you could have confirmed it with a scout. It’s a wasted resource if you refuse to act upon any of his reports." Traven nodded again. With sympathy again. Nim found it more offensive a display than if he’d scowled. “So what am I doing here, Arch-mage? Do you want me to confirm his findings?"

"In a way.”

This did not surprise her. She was used to gathering information for the Council, had been previously sent out (unwittingly, mind you) to scout Skingrad as their emissary, and just a few months ago, she’d taken the lead on the investigation of the Dark Fissure. Both had been covert and fruitful expeditions. Still, she wasn't a spy. Not in any official capacity.

But at the thought of such a title, Nim’s heart leapt with excitement. To be a Mages Guild spy— did it come with extra pay, extra perks? She would bet the Council kept dirt on many a high-ranking mage. Files upon files. Piles of dossiers. Surely, they needed someone to collect all the juicy bits of intelligence, to analyze it, squirrel it away for relevant operations . Very sensible work for an illusionist, really. The Empire itself employed dozens.

Nim's stomach clenched with anticipation. Yes, she could be their spy. Their legitimate and gainfully employed spy. She looked to Traven expectantly. This was a new leaf surely, because with a recognized title came recognized authority, and finally Nim would have the reputation and permission to make meaningful headway in the Guild’s investigations.

"I fear that our informant is in danger," Traven said, and at once all Nim’s excitement winked out of existence. "That is why I have called you here. Our informant's name is Mucianus Allias. He has long served the Arcane University, and with my blessing, he has infiltrated a group of necromancers in the ruins of Nenyond Twyll. He’s been feeding us information for quite some time. Until recently. I haven’t heard from him in weeks, and I fear terribly for his safety. The lack of reports from Mucianus has disturbed the Council, and they are now concerned about the legitimacy of his information.”

Something splintered within Nim's chest, so loud she was sure Traven could hear it. “That’s what you’re concerned about,” she snapped, “the legitimacy of his reports? That man is risking his life to bring you information from the necromancer’s very nest, and you’re speculating about his ability to make accurate observations?”

“More so that his identity as an informant has been jeopardized. I assure you it is a highly nuanced situation, Magician Nimileth."

Nuance! There was a man out there risking his life for the Mages Guild while his reports gathered dust on the Council's desk, and the Arch-mage wanted to talk about nuance !

Traven's expression softened. He looked at Nim like he might a snarling puppy who was still all gum, no bite. "I know how this might sound, but you must trust that the Council is acting with the best intentions of the Guild. We must be certain he’s not been compromised."

"Nuance," Nim said crisply, and she was quite certain by now that she had more nuance in her little finger.

“The Council has decided to dispatch a group of Battlemages to Mucianus' last known location with the intention of bringing him in for questioning. I entertained the arguments against it but eventually agreed in order to maintain order among the Council. I regret this decision. That is why I wish to send you there. I do not believe Mucianus has betrayed us, but I fear the Battlemages may mistreat him if they don’t otherwise mistake him for one of the necromancers no doubt dwelling there.“

Nim thought she was going to be ill. Did the Council truly think everyone beneath them expendable? It was just like Skingrad— no, it was worse! The Council had thrown Mucianus directly to the necromancers with no aid, no plan for rescue, half-convinced he’d turned on them! All his work, his sacrifice gone to waste. Nim could only hope the necromancers didn’t suspect the Battlemages were coming to collect him. If so, they would be lucky to find Mucianus alive at all.

The Arch-mage’s face contorted into a worried frown. Nim didn’t buy it, this apologetic display, not after such an obscene display of negligence. “I should go,” she said. Months she’d waited for this assignment, and what a fool she’d been to doubt that the situation could get any worse.

“Know that I wouldn’t ask such a thing of you if I didn’t feel it was urgent, or if I felt it was beyond your capabilities. Return with Mucianus as quickly as possible, so I may settle the Council's fears.”

Anger roiled inside Nim like a storm at sea, churning so strong, so fast, she felt the vague sickness within crest to nausea. “The Council’s fears? Worry about Mucianus' life. If he dies out there, he dies for you.” 

And with that, she left because she had to. She needed this. She needed this just as much as Mucianus needed her.

Burrs clung to Nim clothes as she wrestled herself out of the forest’s grip. She hadn’t time to pick them off, already running so short on it as she was. Unprepared for the long trip south, she’d stopped at the Faregyl Inn to resupply, the same inn where she’d stayed the night of Rufio’s death. 

Strange how she thought of it that way. Rufio's death. As though it was something done to him instead of something she’d done, as if it were the actions of another woman entirely.

Stop thinking about that . You're on business now. Real business. 

And was murder for hire not real business? No? Then what was it, a hobby?

I said, not now! Nim knocked on her head. Useless lump of meat. You'll drive me crazy!

Nenyond Twyll lay due south of the White Rose River, nearly halfway to the border of Elsweyr. Even with the carriage rides and her shortcuts through the forest tangles, it took Nim three days and then some to reach it. Ahead, sunlight crested the marble arches of the Ayleid ruin— a distant, edgeless orb braced between two white, slender spires. The outside grounds were completely unguarded. A good sign or one that she was too late? 

Nim slipped into the ruins quietly. Hunkered down at the entrance was a small mer clad in steel armor, wearing a tattered cloak bearing the Guild’s sigil and a longsword at his hip. Could this be one of the battlemages Traven had spoken of? If so, why was he alone? Traven had sent in a whole company.

Nim approached cautiously. “Hey,” she whispered. “What are you doing here?'

The mer whipped around, his fingers sparking with electricity, but when he saw Nim, he extinguished the spell. "You?" His once-wide eyes narrowed in scrutiny. "What are you doing here?"

"Me?" Did he recognize her? She certainly didn’t recognize him. And why was he yelling so loudly at the mouth of a necromancer's lair? Sound traveled far in such places.

“Did Traven think to send you as back up?" 

"What about me?"

"No one else? Only you? "

He was still adding emphasis to the word, and Nim didn't know if it was meant to be demeaning or if he really thought that was her name: You.

"Akatosh's eyes, man. Yes, me. Traven sent me to bring Mucianus back safely. That's my job, now where's the rest of your battalion? Where's Mucianus?”

“That traitor?" the mer snarled. "He must've told them we were coming. We were attacked as soon as we arrived. Has the Council gone mad, sending you here alone? We were outnumbered three to one.”

"What!" Nim gasped, then quickly lowered her voice. "By Talos, you're telling me you're the only one left?  Where is Mucianus?"

The mer shook his head. "Secured within the ruins. We've got to get our hands on him, bring him to justice, stop him before he tells them anything else!”

“But we don’t know if he’s a traitor,” she whispered, hoping the mage would follow suit.

 "Don't be a fool, girl. If he hasn’t turned, then how else would the necromancers know to expect us?"

It was a good point. Nim chewed her lip as she considered it. "If that’s true then we should focus on getting him out of here alive, because he still has information that the Council will want squeezed out of him. Who are you anyway?”

“Name’s Fithragaer.”

“I’m Nimil—”

“Oh, I know all about you. No need for introductions. Master Wizard Polus won't damn well shut up about you. I've heard plenty.”

“Ah.” Nim made a strange gurgling noise and tried to keep herself from swallowing her tongue.

"Shh," Fithragaer hushed her sharply, and now that he wanted to be quiet, Nim felt the sudden urge to scream. "There's no time to sit here and chat. The others, they're gone. It's only the two of us. The necromancers retreated further into the ruin, but we put a dent in their numbers. We've got to follow the ones that escaped."

"Okay, and how many—"

"I said let’s move! There's no time to waste!"

“Can we at least make a plan? What's the layout of the ruin? What about—"

But Fithragaer was already moving, beckoning her to follow on his trail. "After me!"

Nim tried to call him back. There was so much she needed to ask. How many necromancers? Did they have thralls? What did he know about Mucianus? Already Fithragaer had started down the stairway and into the winding catacombs below. Nim followed. The air here reeked of gore, charred meat and burnt hair, the acrid tang clinging so thickly she could nearly taste it at the back of her throat. All around her lay the carnage of battle; dead mages, dead necromancers, bodies strewn across the floor. Blood painted the walls, drying to rust where the white stone hadn’t otherwise been scorched black by wild, desperately flung spells. 

Nim pushed through it all and noted the number of corpses tapered as they traversed deeper down the corridor. A trail of bloodied footsteps paved the way to a large vaulted chamber, smeared handprints streaking the wall, marking a stragglers recent descent.

Fithraegar stood in the mouth of the chamber, his sword brandished and hands ablaze. "They went through here," he said and pointed to the door on the opposite end. "See the blood trail?"

And Nim did see the blood trail. She’d seen the blood the whole way down, and she saw now that all the tracks distinctly avoided the open center of the chamber and instead trailed a sinuous path around the columns at the perimeter of the room. 

Fithragaer took a step forward. "Wait," she said, pointing at the blood trail. "Let's skirt the edges. Ayleid ruins are usually trapped."

"I know my way around an Ayleid ruin," Fithragaer snapped. "I've seen more of them than years you've been alive."

"But—"

"Now, stop slowing me down! Mucianus will pay for what he did to my squadron, and you can help me or you can get in my way!"

Fithragaer charged forward. What in the name of Julianos was he doing? Spend a minute in an Ayleid ruin, and if you learned one thing, it was that these places were death traps, nothing sacred! Nim shot a hand out to stop him only to be shoved aside. There was a snap, a click , the grinding of stone. The floor rumbled beneath them, and Nim had half a second to pull herself flat against the wall because the moment Fithragaer stepped into the center of the room, the floor rose as a great square pillar. It lifted Fithragaer into the air, up against the ceiling, where he met his fate with a sickening crunch.

"Oh," was all Nim could eke out when the pillar descended to reveal his crushed body. She fought back the urge to retch. Such a waste of life, this squashed and mangled corpse twisted into an awful, unrecognizable shape. 

Tip-toeing around his remains, Nim pressed forward in search of Mucianus, taking morbid comfort in knowing that Fithraegar’s skeleton was so crushed that it would never be used as a necromancer’s thrall. A small comfort. An unusual comfort, but sometimes that was all one could ask for. Right now, she had to get to Mucianus who was hopefully still alive. Right now, she had to save what life she could.

The doorway led Nim into a narrow passageway that opened into another chamber where loose bones and dismembered corpses lay neatly on stone slabs. Their arrangement looked purposeful, organized for ritual use. All around were black soul gems, enchanters sigils, reams of careful notes. This was a work room where reanimation took place, and the banners on the wall bore arcane runes unfamiliar to her. There was a motif among them, some kind of identifying mark— a skull painted black, two skeletal arms crossed beneath it.

The bodies on the table twitched. Nim treaded lightly, chest tightening in fear. What if one of these thralls is Mucianus ? How would I ever know?

Nim moved on. Watery light trickled down from the welkynd stones embedded in the walls, casting the halls in an eerie blue that made every shadow look ghoulish, alive. 

“Ah,” said a voice at the end of the hall, “you must be Traven's new pet." 

“Who said that?”

The voice called to Nim from the darkest of darks. Panicked, she cast her detection spell. Soft footsteps padded across stone. The narrow hall carried the sound closer, ringing against the walls and against Nim’s ears as the purple glow of the aura grew larger, drew nearer. Nim prepared a paralyzing hex, weaving its energy into her left hand, gripping her short-sword with her right. She waited.

“You poor dear,” the plummy voice said. "I'm afraid you're late to the party.” The aura creeped closer until Nim could see a woman pressed into the shadows. She was smiling, her pale face draped in the creeping blue haze of the welkynd’s light. 

"Where is he? Where’s Mucianus."

"I do hate to disappoint you, but Mucianus is in no condition to be leaving. He is a Worm Thrall now, but he will be quite content here. As will you." 

“How did you know we were coming? Who told you?”

The woman laughed a cold, cruel laugh. Fear leapt into Nim’s throat forming a hard, gritty lump that felt like swallowing sand. "It makes no difference." The necromancer stepped closer. Nim gripped her sword tighter, fought the burning urge to dash away.  "A grim fate indeed, but one does not cross the Order of the Black Worm without suffering greatly for it."

"What do you want?"

"Wouldn’t you like to know, pet? Don’t worry. You will soon enough, though you won’t be conscious for it. Perhaps you’ll serve me or perhaps the Master will want you. We’ll send word to your Arch-mage. Now if he cares is a different matter—"

Nim rushed forward and cast her paralyzing spell, hitting the woman straight in the chest. It didn’t sink as intended, and the necromancer shook it off with minimal resistance, aided by a dispelling ward. Then the necromancer’s hands sparked with fire. It burst from her palms, a tongue of flame that lashed at Nim’s wrists, and it burned, burned, burned, a blaze of orange amidst the swallowing dark. 

Nim shrieked in pain but fought through it with gritted teeth. She grabbed the necromancer by the shoulder, swung her hard into the wall, and sunk her sword into her stomach. The necromancer thrashed. Nim twisted her blade, drove the sword deeper until the tip split through flesh and struck the stone behind them. Fire sparked at the necromancer’s fingertips, one final attempt to throw Nim off her, so Nim reached for her neck and sent a shock of electricity through her palm. The woman spasmed in her grasp.  

The necromancer gurgled. Her throat clenched around a scream, a dying growl that was just as soon strangled to a moribund gasp as she fell limp and lifeless on Nim’s sword. Hunched forward, the weight of her body dragged Nim down with her. Droplets of blood fell from her gaping mouth, dripped onto Nim's hands— splat, splat— like a warm and viscous rain. Nim sunk along the wall, and when she withdrew her sword, they both slumped completely to the floor. 

The shadows of the hallway grew darker, longer, dancing in the ghostly blue light. Mucianus was gone. The guild had failed him. She had failed him. The greatest kindness she could offer now was to find what was left of his corpse, release his soul, lay him to rest as Arkay intended.

Useless.

“And there was nothing you could do for him?” Nim swallowed her words, shook her head. Empty words passed into one ear and out the next. “What a horrible fate. I cannot imagine how they could do such a thing to him.”

“I can,” she said, deflated, empty. “And they will do it again if we make no effort to stop them.”

“So many lives lost…” Traven’s voice trailed off.

Had he heard her? What was he going to do to prevent it from happening again? What had he and the Council ever done to keep their mages safe?

Useless. Useless. Useless.

What if she’d gotten there sooner? Could she have stopped it, saved him? And Fithragaer, poor Fithragaer. Couldn't she have done something to stop him too?

“I thank you for trying to save him," Traven said, nodding solemnly. "Please excuse me. I must meet with the Council at once. ”

“Arch-mage," Nim called out as he turned to leave. "I hope you’ve learned something from this. In life or in death, I hope Mucianus' sacrifices will be honored.”

Traven said nothing, and when he met her eyes, he looked away. There was something there she recognized. Guilt. Guilt and shame.

Nim disappeared through the teleporter and walked straight into the orrery. Bothiel was gone for the night, and the machinery lay at rest, leaving the room dark and silent, illuminated by only her starlight as she ascended to the mezzanine above. With a turn of the dial, she set the great Dwemer gears into motion. The cogs sprang to life with a deafening whirr.

Useless, useless, useless! Why are you so fucking useless?

Nim stared into the heavens above as the grinding of the gears flooded her head, turning the thoughts to jumbles, tangles, blurs. Where was Mucianus now? Had Arkay reclaimed him? Was his soul returned? Was he at peace?

She wondered if the Arch-mage had heard her, not just listened but understood, or would she be swept aside by the Council now that Nenyond Twyll had been neutralized, now that her use had been expended once again?

Nim shut her eyes and tried to focus on the sound of the machinery, tried to focus on anything but the disorder of her life. Behind her eyes, she saw Mucianus the way she’d found him in the ruin. Staggering. Dying twice. Even in necrosis, the pain was plain across his face. How many more would be turned into thralls without reason? How many more would she be too late to save? If she continued working for the Council, would that be her fate too, a short life destined for decay? 

Poor Mucianus. No one deserves such a fate.

But what of Rufio? What of Gaston Tussaud and Baenlin? Hadn't they the same right to life? Shouldn't she feel the same grief for them?

The lament rang hollow. What she felt more than anything was a dreadful emptiness, a blank space cocooned in the sticky silk of her own chaos. Is this Sithis, she wondered? To be so without a care? To know the guilt would not absolve her of her crimes, to admit the shame wouldn’t keep her from committing them again?

Why? Why am I doing this? Nim held herself in her arms and screamed. 

Beneath the metal planets and their many moons, the drone of the machinery spun her mind to numbness, and the nothing that she felt inside her was so terribly appreciable a thing that the sheer weight of its presence split her down the middle, in two. How had she found herself here? What was she doing, trying and failing to fill this growing hole within? 

The orrery thrummed, drowned out her sobs. The planets circled callously, without sympathy above.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: To Glow

Nim awoke on the cold orrery floor, back aching and her mouth sticky with sleep. Her eyes had puffed to an unwieldy size overnight, and when she tested her voice, she found it hoarse, scratchy. 

"Urgh."

The metal planets were still swirling above. Bothiel would have a fit if she learned Nim had left the machinery on all night, and the thought sent a faint flicker of panic through her otherwise staticy sump of a skull. Shutting off the console, she rubbed at her neck. The muscles there were stiff, burned like fire when she bent the wrong way, and dragging herself downstairs was laborious enough a task that she debated never moving again. What she needed was a long soak. A long scalding soak and a good scrub to cleanse the dirt of yesterday clinging to every pore, the salt of old sweat dry on her skin and the tears crusted in the corner of her eyes.

It was early enough that the bathhouse across campus was empty. Nim lit the wall sconces with a snap of her fingers before setting off to rummage for a bar of soap. Never once in her days as an Apprentice had she thought to bring her own when there were always good scraps laying about. The one she found this time looked clean enough, only a few suspiciously thick hairs stuck to the back surface, but she scraped those off and didn't bother questioning their source, then settled into a secluded corner and drew the privacy curtains shut. 

The tap flowed. Nim stepped in, watching the water pool around her feet, and when the temperature was warm enough, she lowered herself down, letting the water fill her ears until all she could hear was the surge of it pulsing against her eardrums. For as much as she criticized the University’s cramped dorms, the magically enchanted tubs almost made up for it, so she lay there until she lost track of time and the heat of the water had scalded her skin a bright red. Sluggishly drying off, she scoured the cabinets for lost clothes. She could usually find a shirt, a pair of old robes if she was lucky. Today’s outfit was a cotton dress smudged in oil, wrinkled and shoved so far back into the linen closet she needed to climb into the shelf just to pull it loose. Slipping it on, Nim felt like half of a whole new woman.

Sunlight flooded her eyes as she left the bathhouse. Her stomach growled, angry and empty having had no appetite for dinner the night before. Nim debated visiting the dining hall. Maybe she’d find Bothiel there. They could catch up, bitch a bit, moan and snark about some entitled first-year or which Master Wizard was shagging who. Nine, Nim could use the distraction

But inside the living quarters, she was met with only disappointment, having found it utterly void of Bothiel. Where else could that busy Bosmer be? Perhaps in the archives? Nim frowned. It probably wasn't worth the effort of hounding her down when she was due to return to Cheydinhal so soon. Bothiel was probably busy anyway, and Nim should probably make herself busy too.

“Nimileth?” 

A voice from behind her. Nim’s heart skipped a beat. Pivoting on her heels, she found a surprised Raminus Polus staring down from the mezzanine above. Slowly, he descended the staircase. Even slower, he approached her.

“I wondered when I’d see you again." And he smiled.

At such a gentle gesture, Nim's heart flipped inside her. She hadn’t spoken with Raminus since their investigation of the Dark Fissure, and she had said some rather harebrained things to him that night. Had they not been interrupted, she might have kept on speaking, might have told Raminus how she truly felt about him.

The memory was mortifying even now, and she guessed that Raminus had thought so too because following their return, he’d avoided being alone with her. Nim wondered if he felt any strong way about her absence from the University, if he noticed, if he cared. Mara knew she certainly did.

“Raminus," she said after staring at him long enough that it was beginning to feel impolite. "Hi!”

She offered him with a keen little grin in greeting and instinctively stepped toward him. Raminus tensed at her advancement, and her stomach dropped a foot within her. He had suddenly grown rigid, his smile tight, and nothing had changed between them at all, it seemed. Nim shifted her pack to the other shoulder, wished so badly that she had left the University grounds as soon as she’d woken up, because if she could wipe this image of Raminus retreating from her memory, she would do so in a heartbeat. 

“I hope you’ve been well," she mumbled out.

"Yes, I have. Thank you." He looked away from her so Nim looked away too. In his hands, Raminus was carrying the third volume of The Real Barenziah, and upon seeing her eyes wander down to the title, he quickly tucked it beneath his arm and cleared his throat. "And I hope the same is true for you?"

"Yes, just fine."

"Good. I would certainly hope so."

In the silence, he smiled again, this time even warmer, welcoming, the skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes. Gods, but she had missed that smile. It filled her head with air, made her lighter, merrier. And  gods, she was utterly hopeless.

"I heard you’ve met with the Arch-mage recently,” Raminus said.

Just as soon as he’d said, Nim felt the air be let out of her. Whatever lightness glowed within grew leaden. Raminus was on the Council too. What role had he taken in dictating Mucianus’ fate? She wanted to believe he would have done everything in his power to keep him safe. She wanted to believe that Raminus would do the same for her, for anyone. 

"I did."

“I’m sorry to hear about—”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Raminus.”

"Oh, of course. My apologies. I… well, I’m glad to see you again. You look..." Raminus paused, and for a moment seemed to be either struggling to speak or physically choking on his tongue. Nim wondered if she should be concerned “—your skin looks very tan," he said after clearing his throat again, then his face contorted into an awkward grimace.

Nim looked down at her arms. “Uh, I suppose it is.” 

“I mean, there is not much cloud coverage there in Anvil. I hope you’re taking care not to let yourself burn. I’ve read some studies released by the temple healers; apparently too much direct sunlight can cause massive blisters and overtime, with prolonged exposure, these—”

“I’m doing well to care for myself," she cut him off with a soft chuckle, "I'm an alchemist remember? I've got salves, though I do appreciate the concern.”

"And how goes the alchemy business, by the way?" he asked, very eager to change the subject.

"No complaints. It paid for my house after all."

“Right, of course. And how was the move? I should have brought you a housewarming gift.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I have more than enough. Not sure if you’ve heard from Carahil, but the house actually belonged to Lorgren Benirus many years ago, and there was still a curse on it after all those years. Necromancers, you know. Unable to let anything rest. We had to lift it before I could comfortably live there. It was some housewarming party, I'll say.”

“Well, I think there are few people as qualified as you are to remove a necromancer from your home.”

Nim frowned. She was sure he’d meant it as a compliment, but it didn't feel so much like praise as it did a reminder of this mess she was in. “Seems I’m only getting better at it then," she sighed. "Can I ask you a question?”

"Yes, anything."

But Nim couldn’t bring herself to ask it. What was arguing over the Council’s decisions going to do now? Not bring Mucianus back, that’s for sure. She had told Raminus before and she had told Traven just yesterday that nothing was going to stop until they struck at this cult directly. Why was that suggestion so hard to consider? Was it because it came from her, a lowly Magician? Or did they know something she didn't? If only they would tell her. If only she had more information. Maybe then she could find a better way to help, a better way to not feel like such a useless waste of space.

“Sorry, I... I lost it,” she said instead. “Actually, I should probably head out if I want to make it to an inn on the Gold Road before dark.”

“Oh.” Raminus sounded regretful. "Back to Anvil so soon? Be careful on the roads then. After what happened with Countess Caro, well, it seems no one is quite safe these days."

Nim scratched at the back of her head. Her stomach churned again with hunger, sharper now than the pain had any right to be. "That. Such a shame."

Nim glanced out the window at the morning sun, eager to break eye contact. Somehow, the golden light looked duller now than it had a minute ago, some of its brightness leached away. Turning to take her leave, she cast one last longing look at Raminus. He wore a strained grin, but his eyes drooped as they met hers, and in the lambent light of the ceiling brazier, she thought she spied something familiar in his stare. Something reminiscent of desire. Of disappointment.

“Raminus.” Her voice was thin in her throat as she called to him, and he looked up eagerly. She blinked back, debated whether or not to finish her sentence. “We should have a drink sometime.”

“What?” 

“At a tavern," she clarified. Raminus' eyes went wide, and her heart raced wildly inside her. "Like a beverage, you know? Possibly one with alcohol. If that's your thing. Is that your thing?”

"Oh. A drink, as in... for drinking?”

“Yes." She rubbed at her shoulder despite it not itching. "Only if you want, of course. And if you don't want to drink it, that's fine too. No pressure or anything. I mean, you must have some free time now that I’m not around to pester you with all my questions, right?”

“You’ve never been a pest,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Thank you, Raminus. It’s nice to know I’m held in such high regards.”

“I mean, you’ve—” He paused, as though considering, and for such a simple request, he stood in deliberation for quite some time. “A drink," he repeated. "Yes, that would be lovely.”

Nim had all but anticipated rejection, and at his reply her eyes nearly popped out of her head. She hadn't thought this far ahead. Now what? The silence gave no answer. Nim cleared her throat and shifted her pack again. “Maybe next time I’m around the University, yeah?

“Er, yes. And when would that be? I would ask to go now, but... but it's barely mid-morning, and that would say something quite profound of my character, wouldn't it?" He chuckled nervously. So did Nim.

"No more than if I were to agree."

Raminus blushed furiously, mouth hanging agape, but if he was saying something, no sound was escaping. "We could go this evening if you’re not terribly pressed to return to Anvil. I know Bothiel would be devastated if she missed you. I’m not sure when I’d— I mean, when Bothiel would see you again otherwise. She speaks of you so fondly. It would be such a shame.”

Nim looked on in sustained disbelief. She didn’t think Raminus would accept the offer at all, and if he did, it surely would have been out of politeness, forgotten the moment she left. But she had to ask anyway. After so many months of yearning, what was there to lose but her slowly dwindling self-respect?

“Yeah, I can do that. Can I meet you outside the gate, let's say seven?”

Raminus nodded. He looked surprised too but for once not uncomfortably so. 

Raminus sat with Nim at the King and Queen Tavern, nursing their third round of beer. He was beginning to feel the warm headiness of his drink, and he could tell by the slight slur of Nim's speech that she too was at least slightly buzzed. From beside him, she prattled on about the latest set of studies that she was undertaking for her Apprenticeship in Anvil. It made him happy to know that she was settling into that new house, that new city so far away, but...

Well, it was so terribly far away.

Raminus missed these late night conversations, just two of them talking about magic, about the mundane. He missed being around her, and he wished he knew how to say that in a way that didn't sound terribly inappropriate, because he knew it would come out wrong the moment he tried to form it into words. Why just earlier that day he had made a fool of himself. ' Your skin looks very tan', he had told her, one of the first mindless thoughts he’d voiced. ' Your skin looks very tan.'

Raminus had wanted to say that she was glowing, that the sun had never looked so radiant on someone before. He wanted to say that if a hole was ripped in the veil of Mundus and a sliver of Aetherius shone through, its brightness would dull in comparison. Instead, Raminus had bit his tongue and said that she looked tan. Guars-damned idiot. As if she didn't have a mirror! 

In that moment, he had wanted nothing more than for the ground to swallow him whole, but then what did he do? He talked about blisters and temple healer accounts like a moron, and he remained mortified even now, two beers in. He hadn’t spoken to her in months, and the first thing he thought to mention was sunburns? At least she’d stopped him before he mentioned pus-filled lesions and melanoma. 

Nim waved her hands animatedly and with a berth wide enough to nearly swat him in the face. “And so I was telling Carahil that the spell could in fact be used to remove the input of sensual information to the olfactory bulb, but I couldn’t tell her at what stage of olfaction it really acts. Is it the epithelium, the glands, the brain? And she said, ‘ well if it removes scent, then it is not really illusion is it? It would be alteration .’ Which was a good point, right?

"But you see it was a trick question. Nothing about the physical properties of the odor was being altered. Every particle passes through the nose as normal. It's only the perception in the target’s mind that's changed. So I said, ‘well it must be at the level of the nervous system then. There must be a misfiring of the synapses that link olfactory information to the region of the brain that processes smell.’ But then I just became more confused because if the spell causes a change in the composition of one’s mind, isn’t that also alteration?”

Nim’s face scrunched up as she pulled on her bottle. Raminus smiled thoughtfully as he watched her. “But the mind runs awry all the time,” he said, “that’s how illusion comes to be. Nothing about the physical world is altered when you are dreaming or when an anxious mind convinces you that the shadow of a tree at your window is a stranger breaking in. Yet your perception is reshaped, so much so that you believe reality is not the same as what truly is.”

“Huh. I mean, it makes a little more sense when you explain it like that, but I get so disoriented whenever I start thinking about what’s happening in the brain. I never really thought so deeply about how magic affects physiology outside of its use in restoration. Not until I started working with Carahil. I admit, it’s fascinating but it does make my head hurt a little bit. I'm spinning just thinking about it now." She sighed dramatically, took another long drink of her beer. "Godsblood, I have so much to learn, don't I?”

“If I'm to be frank with you, the feeling never entirely goes away."

Nim frowned. "It doesn't?"

"No, but you grow more or less habituated to it the longer you study. Really, it's a humbling thing."

Raminus offered her an encouraging nod, and Nim's frown dissolved. She looked reassured, her cheeks rosy from the drink, and her eyes sparked as a smile reached them. A fist squeeze inside Raminus’ chest.

"When I return to Anvil," she said. "I'll be working on illusion that alters the sense of touch."

"From what I’ve heard, somatosensory perception is even more challenging than olfaction."

"I know right?" she beamed. "Mechanoreception for pressure. Thermoreception for temperature flux. Equilibro— Equilliocepetion? Sorry, my tongue doesn’t seem to be working."

"Equilibrioception," Raminus offered. "For one’s sense of balance and location within space."

And the way Nim stared at him when he said that made him feel like he had stumbled upon some great truth of the world, for he had never seen an expression so sincere, so full of awe.  

"Right," she said. "That one." And she was blushing and he was blushing, and in the reflection of her big, dark eyes he could see the reddened blur that was his face. He had perhaps drank one beer too many for he felt light-headed now, giddy in ways unfamiliar to him.

Nim waved her hands about her head and prattled on. "It's a daunting task, but I'm determined to get it right this time around! Even if it takes a few trials and missteps. Do you want to hear what I'm thinking for my next experiment?"

"Always," Raminus said. Always.

Nim rambled on, shaking with an excitement so pure and so rare he might as well have been dreaming it up, and it was such a refreshing conversation from the ones he usually had with his fellow mages in the Guild. The higher in rank one rose, the more responsibility they took on. The gloomier they seemed to be, at least in these trying times. Funding for research was few and far between, support for new courses nearly nonexistent. Contention was ripe in the Guild's governing body, and the threat of necromancy had only grown. Not to mention that two years after the Emperor’s death, the outcome of Cyrodiil's political strife was still largely unknown...

Raminus could go on. Times were grim, and the turbulence of recent events had sapped the passion from the hearts of many good mages. Watching Nim sidelong, he swallowed down his beer and felt relief to know she had been spared from it. For now, at least. 

But forever? When the Council called upon her again, would she give up her beloved studies to aid them?  Raminus' stomach twisted. This was wrong, all wrong. The Council should never have asked so much from her. 

“Hannibal shared your reports from Nenyond Twyll," he said when the silence between them felt ripe to fill. Nim's smile cracked down the center like a split log. "I’m sorry that we hadn’t protected Mucianus better. I can't imagine what you saw in those ruins, but I do know how very disappointed you must be with how we handled it."

“You really don’t want to hear what I think about it.” 

“Yes, I do.”

Nim stared into the mouth of her bottle. Removed from first-hand conflict, the Council hadn’t seen how disastrous the necromancer activity truly was, but Raminus had. Nim had shown him at the Dark fissure, and now here she was again at the front line of such gruesome violence. Given the sensitive nature of the Council's operations, it was likely that they would continue to ask as much from her, if not more. 

“Your opinion matters to me,” he said. “It’s never led us astray before, and I will do my best to relay any message you have to the Council. I’m here to listen. Your perspective is important to me, Nim. To us all. I want to know.”

“No, you don’t,” she said, and there was a steely edge to her voice that had not been there moments ago. “I am beyond disappointed. Honestly, Raminus, I'm disgusted. I’m furious, and I’m furious that you aren’t disgusted too. How do you think it looks from the outside, to see the Council leaving its mages to die?” Raminus swallowed. Nim scoffed. “Did you vote to have the Battlemages sent after Mucianus?”

“Of course not," he assured her, and she let out a sigh of relief, but still her expression remained solemn. "I wanted him returned as soon as his reports stopped arriving. Tar-meena and I were outvoted, but we knew he was loyal to the guild. I trusted that he was vetting his information. It was a dangerous task, and he volunteered knowing the risks. I respected him greatly for it. I always will.”

“You alone can do nothing, Raminus. The problem runs so much deeper than you. The Council has remained inactive at every chance they’ve had for how many years now? Every time they act, it’s too late. Why? Are they simply lazy? Are they indifferent? For all I can see, they’re feckless cowards and… and I’m sorry if that offends you."

"I’m not offended.”

“Well maybe you should be.” Raminus had no words to offer her. Nim sighed again, leaned against the bar, and turned to him with a defeated smile. "I know that your position isn't easy, and maybe I’m speaking out my ass, but… but you're going about this all wrong. Something doesn’t add up. What If I take a look at the last of Mucianus' reports? Maybe I could find something within them that will help."

"Nim, I can't just give those to you.”

"But I brought them back.”

“Yet they're classified documents for the Council's eyes only. It’s a matter of regulations—”

“Then look at them with me."

"I... I really don't know if it will be possible."

"Okay." Nim shifted in her seat, disappointed again. Disgusted even. "Then look at them yourself. I trust you can see the patterns if they're there. We need to learn who these people are, how they operate, who they're talking to and working for so that we can move before they attack again. Anything less than that is futile. They're always one step ahead. They knew I was coming for Mucianus, that Traven had sent me. How did they know? Who’s telling them? Please, Raminus. Please can you try?"

Raminus nodded, and set down his beer because now he was feeling queasy, a little dizzy, and the alcohol sat too heavily in his belly, soaking up all that guilt. 

Nim finished her drink and said nothing more on the matter, but the brittle silence between them spoke loudly enough. Raminus debated asking her if she wanted another, if she wanted to stay a while longer, have a late dinner, anything so that they didn’t leave each other’s company with this uneasy air of grief curdling between them. He wasn’t ready for their conversations to end, not like this, and when he saw her open her coin purse and place a ten-piece septim on the counter, his heart sank down, down, down into his belly.

“Shall we?” she asked. Raminus nodded again, swallowing the protest that had long since coagulated on his tongue.

Night bloomed darkly, flooding the streets, and outside at least the air was not so wafer-thin between them. The streets smelled of torch-smoke and summer’s humidity. Every warm breath Raminus drew sat thick in his lungs.

He and Nim walked together, headed toward the University, and by the time they reached the Arboretum, the streets had grown quiet. All was empty save the flicker of the oil lamps lighting every other step in front of them, and Nim was leaning against him as she gazed out into the rustling trees beyond the walkway. Maybe it was his lowered inhibitions that prevented him from gently nudging her away, but Raminus let her lean, didn’t even protest when she wound her arm around his.

“Do you think there’s a place for us up there?” she asked him quietly.

“Up where?” She directed his eyes to the black sheet of night above them. The stars glittered, little crystals of sugar spilled across dark velvet. “In the sky? Or do you mean Aetherius?”

"Er, yeah," she mumbled. "Kind of. I mean, what happens to us when we die? When our body dies what’s left of us?”

“When we die, our flesh is returned to the soil and fed into the cycle of nutrients that gave life to us and everything else we see. The fungi and the insects and those invisible creatures in the dirt will break us down to our bare essence— the nitrogen, the phosphorous, the carbon. It will all be recycled in one form or another. Back into the worms, the plants, the things that eat them. Our energy is never lost, merely conserved within the universe.”

“And what of the pieces of ourselves we cannot see?”

Raminus looked up to the sky thoughtfully. “Our memory will live on if we’re lucky. Some will have their names written down in history, but more often than not, we live on indirectly. In our children, in their children. In the traditions we pass on.”

“And our soul? How do we know it will be returned to Aetherius?”

Raminus shrugged. “That’s for the Gods to know.”

“Don’t you question it?”

He shook his head. "Why would I? There are so many things in the world that we can discover instead of fretting over that which we as mortals cannot hope to comprehend.”

"You don't think we can understand it?"

"The soul is energy," Raminus said, "Energy is physics, and physics is math. I'm sure someone's written up a whole proof and thirty equations to explain it, but truthfully, I haven't the faintest desire to seek it out."

“Huh," Nim said, then sighed. "I suppose that's the benefit of keeping faith, to avoid having to question such things for oneself.”

“I'm not sure that's the reason why. At least not for me."

"Then what is?"

"I don't really care for proofs," he said with a grin.

Nim chuckled into his sleeve. "You’re so clever, Raminus.”

They walked on, Nim humming at his side, and every now and then she pointed into the gardens to let him know she had seen a rabbit. She had a good eye for them. By now, she'd stopped him thrice to let him know.

"I thought you were a follower of the Nine,” Raminus said after he’d repeated their conversation in his head at least twice. “I seem to recall spending many early Sundas mornings searching for you only to find you returning from temple services."

"When were you searching for me?" 

"Er, it was for Council matters," he said quickly. "What I meant is that I always believed you were a pious devotee."

“Well I don’t know about pious," she snorted, "but... well, I don't know. I want to have faith, but the scriptures don't answer all the questions, and sometimes I don't like the answers I find."

"Hmm?"

“I don't know how to reconcile it," she confessed, keeping her eyes focused on the ground, "keeping faith when it doesn’t fulfill me. Is it enough to be good? What does that even mean? How much bad can the soul hold before it becomes corrupted, before it becomes unequivocally not good? I don’t know, and I don't really do anything about it. Is faith alone enough for salvation? How many people do you think are clinging to their faith because they’re afraid of the alternative, because they want someone to tell them how to be so they don't have to?" Abashed, she kicked a pebble along the road. "That sounds awfully lazy, doesn't it?"

“You're hardly the only one," Raminus said. "But you’re a scholar. You’re trained to nurture skepticism. Blindly adhering to any supposed truth is how we wind up with people screaming in the streets about the end days. Or worse, it’s how fringe cults are formed, and you don’t strike me as someone who could be convinced to join a cult.”

“Meh.” Raminus cocked his head, uncertain he’d heard correctly, but before he could ask for clarification, she darted off the road. “Come," she said, "I want to introduce you to this tree.”

Raminus followed after her without thinking. She led him off the street towards an old cottonwood cracked at the trunk, leaning the bulk of its mass against the bows of a neighboring oak.

“I call this beast the Widow-Maker,” she said, and together they marveled at the terrible thing.

“I’m surprised the groundskeeper hasn't removed it yet. It looks like it will fall at any minute.”

“Sometimes I sit beneath him to meditate and pray.”

Nim was staring intensely at the cottonwood, almost lovingly. Alchemists are strange people, he reminded himself as he scanned the vegetation around him. He could barely see the street from where they stood among the huckleberry and privet hedges, embraced by the warm darkness and the glow of a nearby troupe of torchbugs.

“I’ve missed talking to you,” Nim whispered, still staring at the tree.

Raminus shifted his weight onto his other foot. Nim and the cottonwood appeared to be sharing a tender moment, and he suddenly felt like an interloper.

“Raminus, did you hear me?” Nim asked, looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

“Oh, I assumed you were talking to the tree.”

She blushed, or so he thought. It was hard to tell in this dim lighting and her dark complexion. Maybe it was just the glow of the drink. “I mean, I do miss this tree. I miss a lot of things about the Imperial City.”

“Yes, the Imperial City does have its allure," he added, shoving his hands into his pocket as he glanced around. "The climate here is much different than the gold coast, I’d imagine. Not sure I would say it’s preferable. Maybe a bit more mild in the summers, but it’s more humid, and I’m sure winters in the Gold Coast are the place to be. We do have more public gardens, and there’s the University of course—”

Nim reached out and tugged his sleeve. “I mean I’ve missed you, Raminus.” She stepped closer. To his surprise, he did not pull away. “Anvil is a beautiful place to live, and my Apprenticeship with Carahil has been reinvigorating. But it’s not the same as being around the friends I’ve made at the University, being around people who I care about, people who I—”

She sucked in a breath, sighed, as if to stop herself from speaking. Raminus didn’t know why. He wanted— needed— to hear her continue and so he took another step forward despite the fact that such close proximity was already making him uneasy. But in that moment she was leaning forward too, then suddenly, she was in front of him, inches away. Or was that just the imbalance, a dizzy spell from all the beer they'd imbibed?

As she stood there with her hand on his sleeve, he watched the reflection of the moonlight dance across her eyes. They glowed in Masser’s beams, a celestial radiance that smoldered as they searched him. Raminus parted his lips to speak again, but he felt the beat of his heart in his throat, and it clogged his windpipe, keeping his voice from flowing freely. He laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezed tenderly. "You'll always have a place here. You're always welcome to return."

He should have said something else, told her to stay. Stay longer. I miss you. Come back. But when Nim cleared her throat and broke her gaze, the words fell to pieces on his tongue.

“Let’s, um, head back then,” she stammered out, releasing her grip on his sleeve. “I need to go, uh... brew some potions.” 

Quick as a hare, she zipped away and returned to the main street where she swayed softly, looking for him among the shrubbery, waiting for him to follow. But Raminus did not, not immediately. He stood still beneath the cottonwood, watching her, all but her face obscured by the brush.

And he watched for some time even when they continued walking. The torchbugs danced at her shoulders, illuminating the deep bronze of her skin in concert with the light of the oil lamps above. And she glowed. In sunlight, in this velvet darkness, she glowed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Word Travels Fast Here

Nim lay on the floor of the sanctuary training room, eyes directed forward, tracing the grout between the ceiling bricks as her vision cleared from a vast humming whiteness. I could lay like this forever, she thought, head empty, body full of aches. Then Vicente stepped into her periphery with his face pinched in concern and snapped her back into reality.

“Hey,” he said, still snapping. “Come back to us. I told you, don't aim for the head if you're disarmed. It won't hinder them nearly as much as they'll hinder you.” 

Vicente, always eager to correct. He hoisted her up, took her head in his hands, and inspected for wounds before she could even form a reply. A wave of healing light seized her completely, and by the strength of its tingling warmth, she knew it was far too powerful for the minor wounds he had inflicted. “Thank you, Father.”

"The skull is thick," Vicente added, ignoring her, "and you are weak, so aim lower. Try for the gut or the kidney."

“Yeah, well, you don't want to know where I'll aim next."

Nim bent to her right and released a small but audible crack along her spine then reached down for the blunt dummy sword of which she'd been disarmed. The metallic taste of blood danced along the inside of her cheek, and she ran her tongue across the split flesh there now slowly being mended. The cut stung just sharply enough to be annoying, a reminder of her many weaknesses, this one by the name of Vicente's elbow to her soft, unguarded face. Swallowing a sour mouthful, she turned to him, ready for another critique. What would it be this time? Probably her footwork. It was usually her footwork, or maybe her sloppy parries. Upon swinging her gaze forward, however, she startled to find a dark liquid streaked across Vicente’s upper arm and a thin gash beneath the split fabric of his shirt.

“What are you staring at?” Vicente asked when she remained wide-eyed and mute. “By the look in your eyes, it would seem I’ve grown another head.”

She pointed to his arm. “You uh... are you bleeding?”

Vicente looked down and touched the cut that spanned his bicep. A thick, dark fluid glistened on his fingertips, almost as dark as the torn fabric it stained. "It appears so. Now, if you tell me you've never seen blood before I simply won't believe you."

"But... but how?"

“You’re decent enough with a blade. You might not be very powerful, but you’re quick. Seems you managed to get a good cut in. Why so surprised? I didn’t know you thought so poorly of your skill.”

Nim rolled her eyes at his playful jeering. “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t know that vampires bled. Really, I thought they were all full of kindling by how quickly they went up in flames."

“Ah.” Vicente cocked a brow, looked mildly perturbed by that remark. “Yes, well the blood we feed on must go somewhere.”

“So it’s not really your blood at all in that case, just what remains from your last meal? But your heart doesn't beat. How does the blood circulate?” Vicente scratched at the back of his head, then shrugged. “How can you not know?”

“Do you know everything about your bodily functions? When I poke you in the eye, what causes you to blink? When you're nervous, what makes your heart race, your breath quicken?"

"Actually, that's all quite simple. Both of those responses are controlled by cranial nerves. I’ve been reading all about them for my apprenticeshi— er, my personal studies. When you touch the eye, you trigger mechanoreceptors that deliver sensory information from the cornea to the brain via the trigeminal nerve. Motor response, on the other hand, is carried out by the seventh nerve, the facial nerve, which controls contraction of the eyelid muscles, hence the blinking." 

She took a moment to stretch, crossing an arm over her chest, swinging it behind her back and pushing it down. "You know, they've shown all of this with a series of studies performed on rats," she added, babbling away, "by severing the different nerves and then reanimating the corpse. Fascinating stuff, really. That was when necromancy was still a legal practice in the Mages Guild and frequently used alongside restoration magic. And honestly, it's stuff like that which makes me question; Did you know there are, like, four different cranial nerves that control the functions of the eye? Would we have known any of that without necromancy? How much more could we still learn? Kind of a shame to ban the whole thing instead of… I don’t know, propose some stricter regulations to keep practitioners safe. Makes you rethink everything the Council decrees if they’re that eager to throw out such a useful school."

Vicente blinked, and Nim knew he didn't need to, which meant he was trying to communicate bewilderment politely and most likely in a way that said, "please, shut up.”

"Ah... sorry," she said. "What was the second question?"

"I didn't realize I was starting an argument with a temple healer."

Nim rocked back on her heels. "S'basic anatomy, really. It's all been written up before, though I suppose I shouldn't have expected much from a man who can't even see his own reflection."

"Actually, that is a myth, and I quite enjoy looking at myself, thank you. If you must know, I was infected in the Ashlands of Vvardenfell, and my immediate reaction was not in fact to seek a deeper understanding of the condition. In truth, I was mortified. I denied it, receded into hiding. I was a bit agoraphobic in those early years, and never once did I think to return and ask my bloodkin to explain the physiological changes.”

"Ah." Nim kicked around the loose straw on the floor. She supposed vampirism was not something one could go around asking their local town healer about.

“Here, come see for yourself if you’re so curious.” Vicente rolled up his sleeve and beckoned her closer with a wave. Nim did not need to be told twice.

“There's no red in it at all.” The blood was dark, so dark it was nearly black, and it oozed from the thin cut like tar. “And so… viscous.”

“Well I don’t breathe or drink either," Vicente told her. "There is no way to aerate the blood nor much, er, plasma, is it?"

"See, you do know a thing or two about physiology."

"Don't be condescending toward me, Nimileth. I am still your superior."

Nim blanched and snapped her mouth shut at once, which only made Vicente reel back in laughter. "It was a joke, by Sithis! What's next, you think I'll drain you for insubordination?"

"No," Nim slipped out quickly and went back to kicking at straw.

"Look, I might not have the kind of detailed answers you'd prefer, but I’ve observed a few things about my condition over the course of a few centuries. Consuming blood restores my youth. It brings color and fullness back to the flesh. Over time, the blood is used up, shall we say, absorbed by the body, and the longer I go without feeding, the more aged I become. I've found peace with my existence, however unnatural it may be, and that is sufficient for me.” Nim lowered Vicente’s arm. "It was a good hit, by the way. You're learning."

It was true. Nim had landed a strike, her first strike against him, and she felt a twinge of embarrassment at the surge of pride that came from such small praise. "Gotcha," she said and chose not to acknowledge it further, avoiding his eyes to stare instead at the oozing wound.

There was a brief moment of awkwardness, mostly on her behalf for she didn't think Vicente could be awkward, so calm and unbothered by everything as he was. She hoped it didn't take that many centuries to hone such confidence. Elven though she appeared, if she had to wait until she was three-hundred-and-whatever to stop kicking at straw whenever she was flustered, she might as well go into torpor now.

The silence strayed into the realm of the too-long. Eventually, Vicente pulled away. “Now that we’re done with your training for the day, let’s discuss your next contract.” He cast a quick stream of healing magic that swirled up and down his arm, stitching the skin together and stoppering the blood from oozing further. With her stare successfully warded off, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Lucien left me with several contracts he wanted assigned to you.”

“I wasn’t expecting more than one."

“Our Night Mother has received many prayers," he said as though it offered any clarity. "I’ve divided them up as I see fit. You are to take the ones in the Imperial City and remember— they require the utmost discretion. This is the home of Commander Adamus Philida after all, and we don’t want to give him any more reason to go poking around in our affairs, hmm?"

"Oh, him. Yeah. Sure."

"Your first mark is a prisoner in the Imperial City prison. You are to ensure he is never freed. Lucien was oddly insistent that it be given to you. Tell me Nimileth, have you ever broken out of jail?"

Panic splintered her body in tendrils of ice. "Why would you assume that?" Her voice was tighter, shriller, more anxious than she ought to have let on. Not the Imperial Prison. Gods, how she dreaded even the thought of returning to that place! 

"I only wanted to gauge how you'd feel about breaking in." 

Memories of that night came to her in a whirlwind rush, clouding her head with visions of pale blue eyes, the Amulet of Kings hidden away in her trunk, the Emperor's blood on her hands, stained red ever since. Struggling for breath, Nim tried to sweep the thoughts away and focused on Vicente, the grounding resonance of his voice, but all that came to her was the echo of prison, prison, prison, and have you ever broken out of jail?

Vicente eyed her curiously. "Are you okay?"

"Fine, yes, fine," she said. Very convincingly too.

Vicente narrowed his stare into two skeptical little slits. He reached into his pocket again. "This is a key to a sewer grate on the northeastern shores of the city isle. Several years ago, a prisoner escaped from their cell using a secret tunnel that connects with the Imperial City’s sewer system. It should serve as an easy way in. Really, I thought you’d be happy about this assignment, Nim. You’re the perfect person for it, right up your alley."

"And why exactly is that?” she blurted out mindlessly. "Why would I know anything about the Imperial Prison?"

Nim immediately regretted saying anything, but the words had left her mouth too fast, too panicked, and she hoped Vicente couldn’t sense her rapidly rising heartbeat. There had been no record of her stay in prison, so how in Oblivion did the Dark Brotherhood know about it? What other details of her life had they managed to learn about and why bother in the first place, for leverage?

Vicente looked thoroughly bemused as she maintained her unblinking stare. “So jumpy, Nimileth. What I was trying to explain to you was that this contract requires an expert in infiltration. Given your penchant for remaining undetected, Lucien and I thought it would complement your skills well. Like I said, he asked for it be given to you."

Does Lucien know I was in prison? What was this, some sick power play to let her know he was watching, that he could dig up all her secrets? Vicente offered her the sewer key, and she wished to snap it in half but instead took it gingerly, lifting it by the ring as though it were dripping in muck and diseased. 

"You will receive a bonus if you manage to kill your mark without alerting any prison guards."

"Mhm.”

"Does something about this contract bother you? I didn't think a job for a prisoner would have unsettled you so."

"No, I'm not unsettled. I just... don't much care for guards. Or sewers. They're creepy and rank, and it takes eight baths to wash the stench off."

"The guards or the sewers?"

"Ew," she replied flatly.

"As for your remaining contract," Vicente continued. "Lucien suggested I assign you the one for a man in Chorrol, but I've decided to give that one to Antoinetta. She’s been rather stir-crazy as of late, and I think this job might be a good practice in her self-control. She's not actually meant to kill the man, you see. Rather, she’s staging a death. It's a very peculiar contract."

"I didn't realize we did those kinds of things here."

"Not often, but the blood price has been paid, for Sithis still demands a soul. The one who placed the contract has offered up an alternative. His own mother. Can you believe it?"

"Oh.” Nim pocketed the ugly key and shriveled her nose. “And does Antoinetta have to kill her too?”

"No, no. That’s Arquen’s territory.”

“Who?”

“Unimportant. I’m not sure why Lucien wanted you to take the Chorrol job, if I’m being honest. Giving the new recruit a fake contract— unlike him, really, to go easy on the Murderers. I thought we'd agree it unwise to indulge such tender-heartedness."

“Uh, huh.”

"Now, back to your assignment. I figured if you're already heading to the Imperial City, you might as well take a second contract there."

"Well, thank you for considering my very valuable time." 

"And I think your skills as an illusionist will be put to much better use there.”

“Yes, mhm.”

"Don't you want to know more?"

"I'll read the contract later. I don’t really like thinking about this stuff until I need to.” Again, there was a pause of silence. Nim filled it by shoving her hands into her pockets.

"You know, Nim, sometimes I feel like you're only here because you're bored."

"What?" she squawked. "No, not at all."

"It's fine if it's true. It's just… well, it’s funny."

"Ho, ho," Nim huffed and rolled her eyes. "Alright, let's see this next contract then. Tell me what I’ll be doing instead.” And as long as it wasn’t another prison hit or a contract to take out some feeble old lady, she’d willingly accept anything.

Nim hid in the shadows of her spell, watching the man slouched in the prison cell across from her. Two years had gone by only to be returned here, the same cell she had once inhabited. Memories— wrinkled, crumpled memories— of the young girl she had once been returned with a dull ache, a pang of pity, then a lashing flare of anger. Such a broken, pathetic image it was to think of herself trapped here. The recollection supplied both shame and disgust.

Crouched down on the grimy, reed-strewn floor, she stared out through the cell bars, remembered meeting the Emperor here those many moons ago. Even now, his presence lingered upon her mind like a ghost, cold and barely there, but if she shut her eyes, she could still see that haunting gaze of nowhere blue. What did he want from her? Why hadn’t she given it to him? How different would her life be now if so?

A rustle from up the hall. Nim snapped herself to attention, renewed her spell, and fell back into shadow. Outside the cell, a patrolling prison guard made his rounds up and down the hallway, dragging his sword across the bars as he jeered. "I have to admit,” the guard said, “I'm going to miss you, Dreth. The late-night beatings, your pitiful little cries for help. But you know what? You'll be back for sure. Scum like you always come back."

"Filthy cur!” the mer in the cell snarled. “I told you I was going to get out of here! Eleven years in this rat-infested hole, but I'm getting out, and guess what? You'll still be stuck in here, and there is nothing you can do about it!"

"Psh, and where will you go, Dreth? You can't survive out there. You're an animal. You belong in that cage."

"Haha! I'll remember that when I'm lying on the beaches of Summerset with your wife, you Imperial pig!"

Valen Dreth's laugh was the sound of splitting wood, all splinter and slivered shards. It pelted against the walls like shrapnel as he threw himself against the bars, gripping them in long bony fingers, nose pressed through the space between. Nim could see his sallow features, so gaunt and gray and filled with shadow, he looked more ghoul than elf.  Hunkered down, Nim watched until the guard walked on, content with his taunting or merely bored.

"Come back here," Valen Dreth shouted, spitting wildly as he raced to the other side of his cell. "You Imperial dog, come back! You'll see! Oh, ho, ho, how you will see! When I get out of here, all of Tamriel will know my name! Valen Dreth! Valen Dreth!"

He went on until the guard had disappeared down the hall, up the stairs, out of sight. Nim counted the seconds until his footsteps were too far away to hear. There was a slam, a thick wooden door somewhere far and up above, and it set her mind at ease to know there was so much distance between them, that now she and Valen Dreth were alone.

Nim remained crouched up against the far wall, every now and then letting her detection cantrip reveal the glowing shape of Dreth's aura. In that moment, he was sitting at the small table, likely eating dinner, though it was hard to tell as her spell only ever revealed amorphous blobs shaped more like slugs than people. What she would give for a greater radius and some refinement, but if alteration spells left her head dizzy, mysticism left it swiveling off her spine. Then again, maybe it was best she couldn’t see much of Dreth, that she could barely tell he was Elven, a living and breathing thing filled with hope and fear like she was. Maybe it was best she not think of him as a person at all. 

Another hour passed until finally the shape of Dreth laid itself down on the floor. Nim crept closer. The aura pulsed. Slower and slower, the rhythmic rise of his chest. Slipping out of her cell, she peered through the bars to confirm that Valen Dreth was tucked up in his bedroll, blissfully unaware of her presence. Could one sleep blissfully in a prison cell? How else to occupy time in a cage if not by dreaming of freedom? She stared at him a moment longer, and his eyelid twitched, lip curled into a snarl, reminded her of a sleeping dog. That’s right, he’s just a dog. A rabid dog. Something to be put down for the benefit of everyone. 

Nim remembered little of him, though he had been there in this very cell on the night of her escape. Truthfully, she hadn't thought of him at all, couldn’t recall the vaguest arrangement of his features, only that he was Dunmeri, and he had leered at her from the moment the guards shut her away. And to think he was still here after two years, let alone eleven. Why now was he wanted dead? 

Nim recentered her thoughts and picked the lock. Dreth didn't so much as twitch when she passed through, and now, it was time for the real work to begin. Nim contemplated her options. A simple slice along his neck would do him in just fine, but that was hardly inconspicuous. If the papers got a hold of it, a break-in at the Imperial Prison was bound to cause a stir, and she didn’t want to give the Watch any inkling she’d been here at all. Asphyxiation could work. Not strangling. Too many bruises. 

Damn, should I be thinking of these things ahead of time? Was she supposed to have a repertoire of plays, a hat full of tricks? Perhaps she should have asked Vicente or Lorise if they kept one such bag of methods that they drew from on their contracts, folded papers that read strangle, stab, poison, the pieces of a gruesome little game.

Nim chewed her lip and cast a glance around the cell. Asphyxiation, asphyxiation. Show me the formulation. Finding nothing but dinner scraps, dirty plates, and a chamber pot, she poked her head back into the hallway, then she saw it— yes, such an inspired choice. On the bedroll in the cell behind her lay a shabby straw pillow. She grabbed it, squeezing it tight in her hands.

Returning to Dreth’s cell, Nim brought the pillow down to smother him, cloaked him in her paralyzing spell, and pressed down with all her weight. He grew stiff at once, muscles locked into position as she straddled his chest, pinned his arms down with her knees, and crushed. But after a minute had passed, her spell's strength tapered. The man beneath her began to move again. Dreth flailed, kicked. Each panicked scream came muffled as he struggled. Bam! A knee to her back, and Nim lurched forward but recovered, refreshed her spell, and with Dreth frozen again, she smothered with renewed fervor.

Twist and thrash he did, fighting for his life. A life that was hardly a life, so much of it cooped up here in prison. Yet he fought, and Nim’s stomach churned the longer she clamped the pillow over him, spit growing thin and sour. For a moment she feared she’d retch. Neither Tussaud nor Baenlin’s contracts had required her to be so close, but here she sat, seconds bleeding into minutes, as frozen as the man beneath her. By now, the paralysis had worn off, and Nim didn't need to refresh her detection spell to confirm that he was dead. Still, she did so, and all she found in the cell were two small orbs of purple speckling the spider web that clung to the corner of the ceiling.

Nim slid off of Valen Dreth's corpse. She stared at the rugged stone above and blinked. In one corner of her vision danced the flame of a lone wall torch. In the other, an errant wisp of white moon beam. Tipping her head backwards, she stared at the spiders spinning their webs until the detection spell extinguished and their auras faded to nothing, until they were but shadow and silk once more. Nim sniffed then rose to her feet. Pushing her bangs out of her eyes, she looked around, spied a table and a single chair, a chipped ceramic plate holding the leftover chicken bones from Dreth's final meal. There was something painfully mundane about the image, these bones, the flesh devoured, picked entirely clean. 

Fighting back nausea, Nim dragged Dreth’s limp body to the chair and hoisted him up into the seat. He struggled to remain upright, and as soon as she positioned him as she wanted, he slumped forward, head knocking the cup off the table. Nim grabbed the bone of a drumstick, snapped it half, and worked it down his throat until she’d lodged it at the opening of his windpipe. When she pulled her hand out, the heat of his body lingered, warm and wet on her fingers

Nim stepped back to scrutinize her work. Believable? What did it matter—a prison coroner wouldn't dig too deeply into the details. Choking, the report would read, if they even bothered to write one.

The barred window high up on the wall split the gleam of the star-filled sky. Nim stood there staring, picking at the hangnails on her fingers until they bled. Cold air hugged her, blown in from somewhere on a breeze she hadn't quite heard. The window. Of course, it was from the window. 

Then Dreth's body fell onto the table again. 

Nim returned to Cheydinhal after half a night of sleep, hiking through the Heartlands at a pace slower than scrib jelly on frost salt. She hadn't realized how tired she was until she’d left the city, and by now, each step up the incline felt like she was dragging a dead guar on her ankles.

Perhaps she had been too ambitious in taking on both contracts at once. Vicente had told her to take her time, to spread them out, to savor them over a few days. But Nim did not savor this work so much as she choked it down and chased it. Initially, she had believed it wiser to swallow whole, but now... now she could feel it burning in her belly, spitting and hissing like a hot rock in the rain.

Nim hoped that the fresh summer air and the cool shade of the verdant oaks would settle the strange churning in her gut, but the longer she walked, the closer to the sanctuary her legs carried her, and by the time she reached the front gates of Cheydinhal, her strange humor had bored a hole inside her far larger than the volume of her stomach itself. Nim felt the empty ache gnawing away, pulling more and more at her stomach lining. Hungry work, this assassinating was, yet the thought of eating anything made her violently queasy.

Must be getting sick, she thought as she nodded to the guards at the gate. Most likely, she had caught some illness from the sewers.

One step, two step. Now she was halfway across town, and the ache inside her only churned stronger. It pressed hard against her ribs, her lungs, the base of her spine. Was it nerves? Anticipation? For what? The contracts had went well. Better than the first. At least Vicente would be pleased.

But standing before the abandoned house, Nim found herself growing cold, anxious, and decided not to enter until she could quell this unease. She walked to the graveyard behind the chapel and sat beneath the hanging curtains of a willow, where she drank her waterskin dry and waited. But the water didn’t help, and the fresh air didn’t help, so Nim resigned herself to illness and slumped into her discomfort with a weary, "ugh.” 

Beside her, a half-broken tombstone. Nim pet the moss that filled the carved epitaph. Focusing her breath, she ran her finger up and down the curves of every letter, every word. This close, each green tuft looked like a tiny tree. A small pine, perhaps, sturdy at its center with a skirt of needled branches layered from bottom to top. What an existence, to live sun-drenched, not moving, only growing, no thought but to drink deeply of the dew.

“Oh, little moss," she said to it. "Why couldn't I have been born such a little moss too?"

When Nim had finished her tracing, she closed her eyes, listened to the gentle winding river course its way through town. Above her, the willow leaves rustled, a whisper in a tongue she could not understand. But she wished to. Oh, how she wished to.

Blinking into the light, Nim stared at the mossy grout, stared and stared until its rich green carried her to familiar thoughts of familiar vistas. She thought of Raminus mostly, his eyes, how much she wanted to be back at the University, be with him. Their brief evening together seemed so long ago now. If only he could be here with her beneath this willow like he was under the cottonwood, just the two of them enrobed in the moons’ silver light. And Raminus made her feel calmer, safer. He always did. And Gods, she had wanted to kiss him then. She had wanted to kiss him so badly. Even now miles away, she imagined herself in his arms, at his lips, one stretched longing that held his name at her teeth.

Nim found herself grinning, finger tracing along the moss again, then she caught a stench of sewer, the lingering musk of prison rot. Nim felt suddenly dirty, ashamed. She sniffed at her clothes, wondered if they still reeked of recent crimes, and what if Raminus knew she had been in the city a day ago, stalking through the streets like the predator she'd become?

Nim swallowed back fear and something sharper. But he didn't know. He'd never know, and so long as it stayed that way, there was nothing wrong with wanting to be wanted, wanting to feel not so strange inside. Nim stared at the moss, and the reassurance fell flat no matter how many times she repeated it in her head. It brought her no comfort, only made her stomach cramp, and as the cramping grew angrier, so did she. She dug her nail into the epitaph and ripped out a thick layer of moss, crushed it in her fingers, then reached for another, another until her hands were damp and stained green and smelled strongly of wet earth.

Sick of herself and her stupid mawkish ways, Nim entered the abandoned house with heavy steps. She slipped through the Black Door and eyed the engravings of miserable Sithis and his miserable kin. Why does everyone bow to him, kill for him. What has he ever done? Feeling repulsed and sick and slick with moss-blood and sewage, Nim spat out the password, and the door groaned open. Wretched Black Door, what an ugly thing, and though she had passed through it numerous times now, she still expected it to hiss and burn her every time she touched it. But it never did, the stupid door. Stupid door! Good for nothing! Nim wished that just once, it might spit back at her, snarl.

Pushing her way past the skeletal guardian and into the main hall, Nim found Antoinetta twirling, singing quietly to herself. A wide smile was plastered across her face as she glided across the floor. Nim skirted the edges of the room, narrowly avoiding her. She wasn’t sure what Antoinetta was so pleased about, and given Nim’s sour mood and her knowledge of what things made Antoinetta happy, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. 

Arriving at the bottom of the hall, Nim knocked softly on Vicente’s door. "Come in," came the low, feminine voice from the other side. Lorise was there. Nim had stopped being surprised by this the second time it happened.

“Vicente’s not in?”

Lorise sat mending her armor at the table, and with her eyes still on her needlework, she pointed up toward the ceiling. “He’s with Ocheeva. They’re discussing your advancement.”

“What?" Nim blurted out. How on Nirn could they have known her contracts were already fulfilled? "I’ve done barely anything noteworthy in my time here. I don't understand the structure of this place at all.”

Lorise shook her head and set her armor on the table. “You’re not going to get very far with false modesty. Vicente tells me all about how you take care of your contracts. None of this is surprising to anyone.”

“Oh yeah? Well I hope Vicente's getting the details right if he’s going to be a blabber mouth.”

"He is," Lorise said and offered nothing else despite Nim's expectant stare. "We heard about Valen Dreth first. Choked on his last meal, and the day before he was scheduled for release at that! Cruel poetry, Nim. You are an artist."

"Oh. That is... is really rather awful to learn about, actually."

“Oh please.” Lorise waved her off, and Nim's eyes went wide. "I'm sure you've done worse. And the other one, Faelian was it? Did you poison him? I bet money that you'd poison him."

"You bet money?"

"It's a thing we do here."

"Oh."

Faelian, her second contract in the city, had been far simpler. After asking around among the local beggars, she’d learned that he lived in the Tiber Septim Hotel with his fiancee, two fat pockets of gold, and a not-so-secret skooma addiction. If Nim knew anything about skooma beyond how to brew it, it was how to indulge a sweet tooth. What followed was inevitable.

"Well, yeah, I did," Nim said. ”What do you win?"

"The chance to gloat mostly." Lorise stifled a smile, and Nim wondered why she was trying so hard to keep it covert when the mere curl at the corner of her mouth lit up her face like a shard of Magnus. “Have you eaten yet? Vicente has been telling everyone to feed you while you’re here.”

“Stendarr on a stick," Nim grumbled. "Does he think he’s my father? I can take care of myself.”

Lorise gave a mocking little cluck of her tongue as she eyed Nim up and down. "You can't blame me for being doubtful. Anyway, I’m going to head up and have lunch myself. You should join me.”

Nim agreed, seeing as she had nothing better to do with Vicente being occupied, and together they made their way to the living quarters. “I saw Antoinetta a bit earlier," Nim said. "She seems to be in a good mood. Did I miss something while I was out?”

“Netta's always in a good mood when he comes to visit." 

“When who comes to visit?”

“Our esteemed Speaker, of course. Who else? I think they had a day."

"A day of what?"

"Oh, Nimileth. One day, when you're older, you'll know what I mean."

Nim did not question it any further, but her mind did wander to Lucien. She hadn’t seen him since their meeting in the Fargeyl Inn, and after Ocheeva had mentioned that he didn’t live in the sanctuary, she assumed she would never see him again. Good riddance.

The two women passed through the thick wooden doors of the living quarters. On the far side of the room, Antoinetta was brewing herself a cup of tea and humming merrily to herself with a smile so wide it looked painful. Schemer sat at her feet waiting patiently for a snack. Upon rounding the corner, Nim spied M’raaj-Dar. When she waved at him, he gathered his belongings and rose quickly, sneering at her as he shoved past. 

“What did I do to him?” Nim frowned, watching as his tail disappeared behind the door.

Nim suspected that she’d made a poor first impression when she introduced herself to M’raaj-Dar, so poor that he keenly avoided her even now, more than two months later. On the day she’d arrived at the sanctuary, Vicente had explained he was the local fence who also sold potions. He too was an illusionist, a practiced destruction mage, and so Nim had happily wandered over to greet him. She hadn’t expected him to be such a handsome man, and she certainly didn’t expect he would be so rude after everyone else in the sanctuary had given her such a warm welcome. Thus, on their first meeting, Nim had found herself rendered speechless as he told her that though the tenets prevented him from killing her, he certainly didn’t need to like her. It seemed as though the sentiment remained.

“It’s not personal,” Lorise told her as she began gathering plates and a cutting board. ”M’raaj-Dar has a hard shell. Maybe he’ll warm up eventually. Just don’t try to chip away at him.”

“Hmph,” Nim replied, and if he didn’t like her, she wished he would at least tolerate her presence in the same room. He was awfully pleasant to look at.

“Back so soon?” Antoinetta asked. She blew at the steam rising from her tea and took a seat beside Nim. 

“It was a simple contract.”

Antoinetta’s eyes sparkled playfully. “Ah, that’s not what I heard. You can't fool me.”

Nim resisted the urge to pout. How fast could word travel in these parts? “Well, I don’t know what you heard, but I’m telling you it wasn’t much. A lot of sneaking. That’s the bulk of my assignments. Besides, the men I kill wouldn't have lasted very long before death claimed them anyway. An old prisoner. A skooma addict. Why would anyone bother with a contract in the first place?”

"I don't get you! Accept the glory, for Sithis' sake! What harm can come from a little pride in your work?"

"That's what I was telling her," Lorise added while chopping away at a log of dried meat. Nim noted that Schemer had relocated to Lorise's feet and was quite successful in acquiring scraps with a little begging. A slice here, then a scrap for Schemer. A chop there, then a scrap for Schemer. No wonder Antoinetta called him a fat, fat, fatty. Nim had never seen a rat so rotund in her life. 

“Our Speaker was here,” Antoinetta said. "You missed him."

"I'm not so sure that I did," Nim replied. "Is that what's put you in a mood?"

Antoinetta blushed and wrinkled her brows, doing her best to feign oblivious and failing miserably. "What do you mean?" 

"You're fond of him, aren't you?" 

From across the room, Lorise snorted loudly.

"Oh, Nim, what kind of question is that? We're all fond of him," Antoinetta replied as though stating something as obvious as the sky is blue or two moons rise at night . "Our Speaker takes wonderful care of us here, and he's remarkably busy doing so. He doesn't visit very often, and when he does it's a real honor. You should have been here. It's a way to show respect."

"I guess," Nim mumbled. "It's not like we have business together. I don't see how my being there makes any difference at all."

“Well, he leads our sanctuary and wants you to feel welcome, so the least you could do is give him your thanks. He'd appreciate it."

"You sure know a lot about what Lucien's thinking, don't you?"

Antoinetta scratched at the back of her head. "Well, he talks about you fairly often actually. With Ocheeva and Vicente. I overhear them sometimes."

"You mean you eavesdrop."

"It's innocent enough."

“Mhm.” Nim didn’t look up from pouring herself a glass of water. Blabbermouths, the lot of them. After all she did to make her contracts look accidental, to make them appear as if she had never been there at all, and here was the Speaker telling the whole of the sanctuary about it! What a busybody!

“He asked for you," Antoinetta said.

“What did I do? I didn’t botch the job, did I?”

“No, it wasn’t like that. He wasn’t angry. You would know if you were in trouble. The last time I saw Lucien deal with an insubordinate brother, it took me a full week to get the blood off of my boots.”

Nim wrinkled her nose at the image. Whoever cleaned the sanctuary did a wonderful job in that case. Not a spot of blood in the grout, and everything was difficult to get out of groutlines this deep. “Then what did he want?” she asked half-heartedly as she drank.

“He wanted to know how you were settling in, I guess. He said he had something to give you. I think he was disappointed to have missed you when he visited.”

Nim peeped out of the corner of her eye as she sipped from her cup. Antoinetta’s previously cheerful expression had dimmed somewhat. She looked chagrined, and Nim couldn’t help but feel at fault even though she had no idea what she did. “Well, maybe I’ll be around to collect it next time.”

“Yeah, maybe. You're not here all that often.”

Lorise returned to the table with a tray of sliced meats and cheese, and the three women fell into idle chatter as they ate. "Netta, you owe me fifty gold," Lorise said. "Nim poisoned the skooma-fiend."

"Awww," Antoinetta pouted. "I was certain you were going to stab him."

Nim shoveled grapes into her mouth when she noticed both women were staring at her. "Erm, maybe next time?" she offered, full of fruit. It seemed an acceptable response.

They ate. They talked. Schemer grew fat at their feet.

“So, um, Sisters,” Nim said in between bites. The word still felt uncomfortable, foreign on her tongue. “Can I ask you something that’s been on my mind?"

"Anything," Antoinetta bubbled. "Go on. Shoot."

"Everyone is so… happy here. Do you actually take pleasure in your work? In murder?”

Lorise flashed a brilliant grin. “Of course. I wouldn’t be Grand Champion of the arena if I didn’t enjoy the rush of battle. Why? You’re telling me that you don’t enjoy it?”

Nim leaned her head back and popped another grape into her mouth. She furrowed her brows, deep in thought as she chewed.

Antoinetta gasped at her hesitance. "What, not at all? It's unheard of!"

“No, that’s not quite it. I do. I mean, I did?" Nim hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question and swallowed her grapes, tried again. "I mean, I have but it's rare. Really, I've killed out of necessity more than anything.”

“Necessity?” Lorise chuckled as though it were a witty joke, then she shook her head. “Any of us could have chosen another path in life, yet we decided to serve Sithis. What we gain from being here may differ, but we stay because we choose too.”

Antoinetta nodded enthusiastically. “There is no rush stronger than that of a well-executed kill. I love it, live for it! Surely you’ve felt that too?”

Nim withered in her seat. She couldn’t deny that a rush had coursed through her when she’d watched her arrow pierce Alessia Caro's neck, but every thrill she’d sought afterward had dulled in comparison. She’d been promised more, so where was it?

Antoinetta continued on in Nim's silence. “When I’m preparing for a contract, my heart beats so fast I think it's trying to beat free of my chest, like it's going to crack a rib. Everything is heightened, and the entire world is screaming at me. Every noise is louder. Every color is brighter. I swear it must be like magic."

“Yeah? I don't know," Nim said. "I guess there is something to the anticipation, but when I kill for a contract, I feel... well, I don't know. I don't feel that."

"It's different for everyone," Antoinetta added, then reached out and patted Nim's hand tenderly, in sympathy. "One day, you'll get there."

"I don't know," Nim said again. "Stealing, on the other hand. That’s a rush I live for. Well, I used to live for it at least.”

“But isn’t murder just another form of stealing?” Lorise asked, “You’re taking another’s life, one that you have no right too.”

“I steal objects. The soul is a living thing. It doesn’t really belong to anyone. Even the ones we possess are only borrowed, pieces of the Divines granted to us for our brief time on Nirn. I wouldn't say I steal the souls of other beings when I kill them."

Antoinetta's face grew crooked. "Mmm," she said, doubtful, and munched through another cracker. "Well, I read in the papers the other day that there are some mages capable of sucking out your soul and putting it into a little rock. That sounds awfully like stealing to me."

"That's a good point actually," Nim said and wished she didn't, for admitting it made her thoughts wander to dark reaches. She ate another grape, chewed thoughtfully. Its flesh was a little too ripe, too pliant, ready for rot in another day's time. "But I'm not keeping the soul for myself, so I think my point still stands."

"I still think you're stealing," Lorise said with a smirk that made the sugar in Nim's mouth stick to her throat. "You don't need a soul to live. I've met many people without them, and when they die something is still taken away. It's like when you blow out a candle and the flame disappears. It's like that but behind their eyes." She threw another piece of meat in Schemer's direction. 

"You can’t live without a soul.”

"Oh, you most certainly can. I've seen it many times."

Antoinetta's eyes flashed with something like recognition. "It's like a ghost," she beamed, waving her cracker through the air. "An inside-out, upside-down ghost."

"An inverted ghost," Lorise said then turned to Nim for comment. She stared expectantly, as if Nim were somehow the resident expert on the undead, and Nim could do nothing but shrug helplessly.

"I just... well I don't know if that's how it all works."

"Do yourself a favor," Lorise said. "Take my word. People like that exist, and don't seek them out however curious you might be." She gave Nim a pointed look, pointed in a direction Nim lacked the requisite spatial awareness to appreciate. Nim threw a cautious glance over her shoulder, just in case.

"Do you think plants have souls?" Antoinetta reached for a grape and sandwiched it between two squares of cheese. She shoved the whole stack into her mouth, chewed gleefully. "Plants are alive, right? They grow and stuff. What's that mean for them? Can you trap them in a rock too?"

"I don't actually know," Nim confessed, but surely someone had studied that before. She looked at the bunch of grapes on her plate with renewed interest, and eating them felt suddenly strange. She thought of the crushed moss beneath her fingernails, and the strangeness creeped toward sorrow, then shame.

"See, I think they're two separate things in my book," Lorise said, wagging a finger. "The spark of life. The mortal soul. One is extinguished, one is delivered to the divines or Oblivion or the Void, some empty pit in the ground, wherever."

"And so are we stealing them or not?" Antoinetta huffed. She looked painfully confused by now and laid her head in her palm as she nibbled another cheese-grape sandwich. "I don't know anything about souls or religion, but I do know that when I stab someone and their blood spills out, it makes me feel strong."

"But everyone dies eventually whether we strike them down or not," Nim said. "Is it really such a powerful display of strength?"

Lorise chuckled but said nothing, and Nim felt a little rude for having shared such candid thoughts with a woman as objectively deadly as the Grand Champion.

Meanwhile, Antoinetta scrunched her brows a bit tighter. "Well, it makes me feel powerful," she said, throwing Nim a side-eye.

You damned idiot, Nim cursed herself. Not a tactful bone in your body, huh?

Nim scooted her glass toward Antoinetta's, meeting it with a soft clink. "And nothing can take that from you then. All the more power to you."

"And what about you, Nim?" Lorise asked.

"What about me?"

"What makes you feel powerful?"

"I like a challenge," Nim replied.

"And you don't get that here, huh?"

Nim took an awkward sip, again awash in embarrassment. She feared she must have insulted them all greatly with her unbridled disinterest in their shared occupation, but neither looked particularly offended. In fact, Lorise looked quite amused.

Nim cleared her throat. "Just looking for something more cerebral," she said and immediately winced because that still sounded pompous and lofty and incredibly condescending, and she really was such a git, wasn't she?  "Take illusion magic," she added for clarification. "To steal into one's mind, to make yourself unseen. To take the voice out of someone else’s mouth. It takes great practice to reshape the mind by will alone. That's power to me.”

Muted laughter crawled across the walls. “Lofty words for a lowly Murderer.” Nim jumped in her seat before turning around to find Vicente. He was smiling down at her, and she could feel her cheeks flush, hid her growing embarrassment behind another long drink of water. “Or should I say Eliminator now?” 

Antoinetta gasped. "Eliminator! Oh, congratulations, Nim. That's amazing!" 

Eliminator meant Nim was now a rank higher than Antoinetta, and Nim wasn't sure how to feel about it, if she’d rightfully earned it. When she met Antoietta's eyes, the woman was still smiling, but it felt somehow jagged, serrated. 

“Lucien was in earlier," Vicente said. "He came with more contracts for you."

"How thoughtful of him," Nim replied dryly. She risked another glance Antoinetta’s way. Antoinetta was staring at the bunch of grapes on the table and tugged another off its stem, but she didn’t eat it, simply stared as she rolled it between her fingers and squeezed until the flesh burst through the thin sheet of skin.

"He was very sorry to have missed you,” Vicente continued. “You know, he’s rather impressed with how well you’ve taken to your duties here. It's so curious. I haven't heard Lucien talk about a recruit this much in many, many years.”

Nim stared blankly into her cup of water. “So I hear.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: A Timid Heart in a Cruel Chest

Nim sat on her knees and dangled her head over the edge of the tub, working her shampoo into a thick lather. Stone above and stone below. Stone everywhere she looked. She’d yet to find the humor in calling this underground fortress a sanctuary , for it was a bleak landscape, full of mold, and teeming with murderous zealots. At least the communal washroom had a few decorations. Scented candles, jars of potpourri, a plush rug laid out before the tub— Antoinetta had added them. She had a good eye for homey embellishments, and her touch, however slight, lended the sanctuary its much needed warmth.

There was a creak at the door. Nim looked up, face full of suds, but saw no one enter. Ocheeva had assured her that everyone in the sanctuary respected each other’s privacy, and Nim certainly wanted no reason to doubt it. Still, the idea of stripping bare in a den of assassins unsettled her more than sleeping in a room full of them. What if M’raaj-Dar walked in? Nim couldn’t bear even the thought of such embarrassment. Stripped down to her undergarments, she resigned herself to a sponge bath, would simply wait until she returned home for a proper soak.

Drip, drip, drip. The air smelled of mellow beeswax and her blackberry shampoo, and the muted sound of the water running in rivulets off her chin remained her only companion as she bathed. For the quiet, Nim was thankful. She hadn't quite grown used to her brief stays in the sanctuary, and she certainly didn't understand how people could live here permanently. No sun, stale air, bare walls. All this talk of blood and murder around every corner she turned. Surely her fellow assassins had other hobbies with which to occupy their time? Nim wished they would indulge her with some of them, just a lighthearted story or an account of the last good book they read instead of more talk of severing heads over every single meal.

And despite Lucien's promises, this work she did for the Dark Brotherhood had failed to become anything but another job. A demanding job but only sometimes and not challenging enough to warrant the enthusiasm her fellow assassins seemed to expect from her. Already she was an Eliminator (ever clever these titles), and so far she had failed to learn any of the secret truths Lucien had promised her. Maybe they came later on, with enough severed heads paid in dues, then she'd finally learn what a Sithis was and what the Night Mother said when she spoke to her Listener and if any of it even meant a damn thing. Nim shuddered. Few rewards were worth all the tedious labor.

There was a scuttle across the room then, and Nim peered up through her wet strands of hair to find Schemer making off with a stick of dried venison he’d stolen out of her pack. Nim smiled to herself as she watched him gallop away. Antoinetta was right; he was a good rat despite the mischief he got up to, and he’d taken to Nim quite easily. Probably because she indulged him at the very slightest begging. Kynareth, but he was a precious animal, and who was she to deny him?

Returning to assassin thoughts, Nim rinsed the soap from her hair and mulled over her latest contract— a sick warlord residing in the western reaches of Cyrodiil. She didn't even need to come up with a plan of her own for this one, as her orders had been explicit: replace the man's medicine with a vial of poison and let him die slowly, painfully. Nim wondered if Lucien thought she couldn't handle anything more than feeble old men. Had she botched her first contract so badly? At least the warlord’s fort was close to Anvil. She’d spend some time at home and away from this place once finished, and that thought alone brought her comfort.

After her latest promotion, Vicente had explained that she was to receive all further orders from Ocheeva, but he’d made her promise that they would maintain her training regime. She had agreed. She agreed to most everything Vicente said, found it hard not to. It wasn't his air of authority, for in truth, Nim never much listened to authority. Rather, she believed he had her best interest in mind, that he cared for her well-being or at the very least, her success. Strange that feeling. She hadn't grown used to it either.

And besides, it did seem as though their training was bearing fruit. Ever since they started sparring, Nim found her leathers fitting tighter, and she swore that she could see a little more bulk to her rather spindly legs. She felt stronger, larger, in all the best of ways. Much to her disappointment, Vicente had disagreed. That's just a trick of the shadows , he’d told her , the lighting in here is very dim.

Whatever.

Hair clean, Nim stepped into the tub, sat down and wiped the streaks of dirt from her arms with a rag. With a grimace, she passed the cloth over the bruises that dappled her arms and thighs. Most of them were from Vicente, a few were from Lorise. Between the two of them, Nim was receiving excellent instruction on close quarter combat, and though she acknowledged the aches were a sign of growing strength, her knuckles were now so raw that she could hardly bear to clench her fist. Nim longed to heal them, but Lorise had explained that if she let them scar, the flesh there would callous naturally. Then they wouldn’t hurt so badly when she practiced the next time. Nim tested the fresh wounds on her knuckles with a wiggle of her fingers and winced. Calluses would be good, she concluded.

“Eliminator.” A voice like smoke seeped in through the silence. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Nim dropped her washcloth “What the fuck?” she gasped, and she found herself staring at Lucien. Creepy fucker, she hadn’t even heard him enter!

The Speaker stood in his dark robes, his hood pulled back, and Nim realized she had never seen his face unshrouded until now. His skin was a cool beige, his face weathered and sharply angled, redolent of a mountain cliffside and perhaps his Breton heritage. Black hair framed his face. He wore it oiled and pulled back at the base of his skull, and it shimmered beneath the dim light. Nim stared at him unblinking.

“Lucien, er... Speaker.” He maintained a placid expression, not quite smiling as he held her gaze. Nim fiddled with the chain of her amulet in a weak attempt to cover herself although she wasn't egregiously bare, just dirty and wet and dreadfully unpresentable. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

"This is my Sanctuary," he said, unmoved by her discomfort. "Ocheeva mentioned you were in. What a rare moment indeed."

"That's not quite what I meant by here ."

Lucien glanced around the room, eyes roaming from wall to ceiling, back down to Nim. "Then what did you mean?"

A small smirk grew at the corners of his mouth. Nim narrowed her eyes. Fetching creep. Did he have no concept of what situations called for privacy? Heat rose to her cheeks, but she ignored it and pulled her wet hair forward, draping it over her shoulder to shield herself from his leering eye. She wasn't sure how she was expected to act around a Speaker, and part of her wondered how a Speaker was supposed to act around her. Like this, coming and going as he pleased? It seemed unreasonable. At best.

“How— how are you?” she asked, attempting to ease some of her nerves. She steeled herself, sitting a bit straighter.

“Fine. Thank you for asking. And you? It’s been some time since we last spoke.”

Nim didn’t know much about Lucien, didn’t much care to. Teinaava and Ocheeva spoke so highly of him, with such love and adoration it sounded like sugar spilling past their teeth. She’d been told Lucien had raised them from hatchlings, so she supposed such fondness made sense. Nim didn't know what it was like to have a father, but whatever relationship the twins had with him must have been wholesome , however strange the circumstance.

Everyone else in the sanctuary spoke of Lucien warmly but with the formal respect assigned to authority, everyone except Antoinetta who took her admiration to strange heights. The woman seemed to worship him, and despite her anecdotes, Nim didn't understand what it was about the Speaker that made him so worthy of such praise. For all she knew of their Speaker, Lucien talked a lot and liked to be in places where he ought not to be.

“Yes, um, is it really necessary that we meet whenever I’m in a state of undress? I'm no prude now, but I’d really prefer that this not be made a habit.”

“You needn’t be ashamed. You wear your bruises well.”

Nim looked down at the splotches of discolored skin before casting a puzzled frown his way. “Thank you? What else would I do with them?”

“You certainly shouldn’t hide them. I hope Vicente hasn’t been treating you too roughly.”

Nim forced herself to hold his eye. In the orange light of the wall sconces, in the eerie silence of the room, Lucien was looking at her strangely, as though seeing her for the first time. “S'not really so bad,” she assured him. “I need to be thrown around every now and then. To humble myself.”

“Then your humility is commendable. You’ve been rising through our ranks swiftly in your short time with us. I hear you've taken to your duties quite well.”

“Keeping tabs on me?"

"As is my responsibility."

"I hope your information is coming from a credible source then."

"Vicente's been keeping me well informed."

"Great."

"Though I was hoping I might hear directly from you."

Seeing as he had no intention to make himself scarce, Nim reached for her washcloth and continued bathing. "Well, I'm just fine," she said and sniffed. "Not much to it. And to be honest, this is a question you could have asked me outside."

“No, I'm afraid I've other places to be soon," he said coolly, indifferently, as if this explanation justified the intrusion and she was the fool for not grasping the importance of his time in the first place. "I won't tarry, but it would have been such a shame to go another visit without checking in on you myself. You don't seem to linger about our sanctuary for very long. Your social life must keep you very busy.”

Social life. Nim’s skin prickled. There was something there in his voice when he’d said it, too knowing, an edge that made her stomach knot. She glanced up to see the Speaker still grinning, gloved hands clasped behind his back, and promptly returned to scrubbing at the layers of dirt on her legs.

“I’ve been tracking your progress,” he continued. “You showed much promise when we met, and I’ve yet to be disappointed.”

“Well, I live to serve, I guess."

"We both know you're capable of much more than that."

"Do we? Aren’t you the one who provides Vicente with my contracts?" Lucien nodded. "I’ve been assigned so many in my time here."

"Because you complete them quickly. We value competence among our ranks."

"So surely you’ve played as much a part in my advancement as I have.”

“Are you attempting to express gratitude?”

“No," she said, feeling a touch rude though not as rude as Lucien should have felt for barging in on her like an uncivilized troll. "I was just saying you’re largely responsible for how swiftly I’ve advanced, so it shouldn’t be a surprise to you that I am where I am."

"I am not surprised," he corrected her.

"Well, it's really not so impressive a feat when you think about it.”

“Oh, I think about it. I think about it often.” Lucien chuckled. The sound echoed around them. “Nimileth,” he said when she refused to look at him, and the name rolled off his tongue with such ease she wondered if he had rehearsed it. “I heard about what you did to Valen Dreth and Faelian. They were perfect cover-ups. Not so much as a whisper of suspicion from the Imperial Watch.”

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him move a few paces closer, but he didn't advance completely. He was just… there, inching closer in increments like a shadow stretching long with the fall of the sun. What the actual fuck, you creep.

“But not to your liking, I guess,” she said dryly, keeping her voice distant because really she couldn’t care less, and what was Lucien’s problem? Couldn’t he tell she wanted him out?

“You are aware that you don’t need to make every one of your contracts look accidental? There’s nothing wrong with spilling blood, letting your craft be known to the world.”

Nim squinted at him and caught the self-satisfied glint in his eyes. He was enjoying himself, enjoying how uncomfortable he made her, and she released a deep huff through her nose, attempting to relieve the uneasy weight accruing in her stomach. “I don’t understand," she said and shook her head. "You assigned me to take care of Baenlin and that guy in Chorrol who wasn't even a contract. Now this warlord, another old man. Seems like you don't actually intend for me to do any hard work. I’m not complaining, it's just... curious."

"It certainly sounds like a complaint."

"I'm only doing what I’m asked to.”

“Skulking in the shadows— is that truly what you believe Sithis called you home for? I’m giving you what you asked for, Nimileth. Work that a warm-blooded murderer could swallow down without wincing. Yes, I spoke with Vicente. These contracts were meant to be an easy way to fulfill your duties to Sithis, yet here you are, asking for more."

More. The hair on Nim's nape prickled. "That's not what I meant."

"Isn’t it? There’s no need to deny yourself, not here. I know what it is you truly want."

“And what is that exactly? What would you know of my desires, huh?”

“I know that you’re afraid to sate them.”

“Pfft, you don’t know anything is what it sounds like.”

Lucien waved a gloved finger in the air and tutted. “You’re afraid of how easy it would be for you. Timid, little Nimileth. You’re afraid of how much it excites you."

"How much what excites me?"

"The decadence," he said. "The dissolution. Don't pretend you haven’t felt it before."

Nim hummed, unconvinced.

Lucien's smile deepened, and his eyes were somehow darker than they were minutes before. "When you killed Alessia Caro, you felt it, didn’t you? You lost yourself in the hunt, and what emerged was a changed woman, blessed by Sithis. Something new. Something greater.”

“What emerged was a man stalking me across Cyrodiil.”

“So glib. Does it help you sleep better at night? I don’t blame you. It can be frightening to wield such power. Some go mad with it.”

“But not you.”

“No, I like to think of the contracts we fulfill as a craft akin to art, and don’t you think our compositions deserve to be applauded? Our work deserves to be feared.”

Nim dunked her washcloth in clean water and wiped her face, shielding the eye roll from her Speaker's persistent stare. Not the metaphors again. She couldn’t handle another of his verbose diatribes. “Well, if we’re artists, ” she said, adding emphasis with her fingers to underscore how absurd the comparison, "then let me do with the materials as I see fit. You don’t want to restrict my creative expression, now do you? That defies the very principle.”

“You could be so much more if you only let yourself flourish.”

“Your confidence in me is...” Misguided? A little ghoulish? “...appreciated,” was the word she settled on.

Eager to leave, Nim stepped out of the tub and grabbed her towel, draping it around herself like a cloak. Only the soft drip, drip of water off the ends of her hair occupied the silence between them. Well this was a lovely and not at all pointless conversation. Nim gave a curt nod and glanced at the door behind him. “Now, if that’s all…”

“One day you’ll know the cold embrace of Sithis as I do,” Lucien said. “It will be like seeing color for the first time. I'm almost envious.”

"That's nice. Any more recommendations, or do you intend to stand there like a freelance gawper until I take my leave?”

Lucien bristled, an eyebrow raised, and Nim wondered if he’d found himself genuinely confused by her reproach or if he truly lacked an ounce of social awareness. “Would you like to hear another?”

Nim stood there askance, awed by his persistence and feeling incredibly ridiculous with a towel draped over her head. What on Nirn does he want now? She clicked her tongue in annoyance. “I suppose I’ll entertain you if you’re intent on it."

“How gracious."

"Yes, I’m all politeness."

"And yet you were much more amiable when we first met. Here I was hoping it would be longer lived."

"And here I was hoping for a modicum of privacy. Seems we're both disappointed.” Without anything more to add, Nim began patting herself dry. "Is there a reason for this? Am I being hazed? In truth, I thought Vicente's beatings would have sufficed.”

"I have something for you, actually." Lucien reached into his pocket as Nim picked up her chemise, and by the time she’d slipped it over her head, he had drawn closer until only inches stood between them. His eyes trailed a path down to the amulet hanging around her neck, then he reached for it, and Nim gasped, frozen with shock.

Lucien lifted the amulet out of her chemise and smiled, thin and insincere. “Pretty," he said. "You wore this when we met.”

“What are you doing?”

"Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all."

Nim pulled the amulet out of his grasp. "I—"

"What's the matter? Am I making you nervous, Nimileth?"

Nim said nothing. She swallowed, nearly choked, and fumbled backward to put space between them. From the pocket of his robes, Lucien withdrew a clenched fist. A copper chain dangled between his fingers, and Nim didn't dare meet his eyes though she felt them passing over her, insistent and hungry.

Nim held herself still, so still that maybe he’d take her for dead, leave her be in search for fresher prey. But Lucien continued forward, and panic swelled within her. He was so close now, so close that she could feel his breath ebb and break upon her forehead, and the heat rolling off his body was smothering against her still damp skin. Lucien stepped behind her, grazed his hand across the back of her neck, and her whole body tensed like a clenched fist, reeled back and prepared to swing. He swept the wet hair over her shoulder. Water dripped down the front of her chemise, gooseflesh rising in patches where the water descended, where his hands lingered, where his breath raised the fine hairs along the nape of her neck.

“There, there. Nothing to fear.” Lucien released the clasp holding her amulet together, and it slid down her breastbone before she caught it, then he slipped a new amulet around her neck.. “Its name is Cruelty Heart,” he said as he fastened it, voice barely audible above the rushing blood in her ears. “How fitting for such a timid, little thing.”

His hands remained on her shoulders, squeezing tenderly. Nim stared at the necklace, not knowing what else to do. A glistening red gem winked back from the pendant, magicka emanating from it and tingling across her chest where it lay flush against the skin. She grappled to identify the charm, unskilled in mysticism as she was, but the magnitude of its power was palpable, even stronger than the enchantment on the amulet she’d been wearing moments prior. Oh no, she thought. And it's lovely.

Lucien let his hand glide down her arms. He leaned in, and for a second, Nim thought she could hear him breathing deeply, as if smelling her, and at once, her nerve came back. She ripped herself away, wanting to shriek, bat him off of her, but Lucien only looked down with an eager, expectant grin, awaiting a reaction that Nim was too baffled to give.

They stood like that, brittle silence passing between them, Lucien looking so innocent and unbothered by the entire exchange that Nim wondered if she’d made it all up in her head.

“Well?” he said at last. “Do you like it?”

“You… you had it enchanted?”

“A fortification charm. To augment the wearer's willpower and strength.” Nim said nothing more, and Lucien looked disappointed with whatever fear or disgust he’d found slithering along her face. His voice was a touch paler now, some of the spark sapped from it. “Consider this a gift, a reminder of our conversation. I imagine you will benefit from it greatly.”

Nim fingered the shallow engravings along the pendant's edges. Some hell of a gift, she thought as she turned it over in her hand. She didn't own much jewelry, never had the extra money to spend on it, and it had a disconcerting weight, like a loan you knew you could never repay. Nim hummed with ambivalence, and it was really such a shame that this was a lovely little trinket because she had every intention to give it right back and searched for the politetest words with which to say, ‘no fucking thanks.’

“Do you like it?” Lucien asked again.

Nim opened her mouth, said nothing. How could she say no with him staring her like that? Besides, it was just a bonus for a job well done. Vicente had explained that this was usual practice in their sanctuary, so why then did she feel so conflicted in accepting it? It's only a bonus to reward how effectively I spill blood, she told herself, and that certainly took some of the charm out of the gesture. But why was her Speaker giving this to her, why personally, and did he expect something in return, something more than a Speaker should?

"It's very, er, thoughtful of you." Nim forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. "But, um, don’t you think this is all a bit much?”

“Not at all.”

Nim didn’t know what else to say, so she said nothing, and as quickly as she could, she gathered up her crumpled clothes. The amulet bobbed as she moved, glittered red like blood before the moonlight, and she couldn't shake the feeling that accepting this amulet from him was also accepting far more than she could see. "If you don't mind, I need to… to brew some potions.”

Head down, she scurried past Lucien. Just before she slipped away, she risked a glance at him over her shoulder, caught something cold growing over his eyes. Thin and icy, a sheet of verglas, and even when she whipped around, she felt it there, gelid and biting as winter wind.

Nim sprinted out the door and around the corner, pressing her back against the wall. She waited, holding her breath, until she heard the soft click of the washroom door closing shut and the sound of muted footsteps travelling away. Poking the very tip of her head around the corner, she spied the Speaker’s black robes disappearing out of the living quarters.

“Ugh.” Nim shuddered and shuffled off towards her bed. Disgusting creep! He could have given that amulet to her at any time other than this, could have left it with Vicente, could have left it on her trunk. Or he could have not given it to her at all.

Did he enjoy that? Nim wondered and shivered again, feeling the ghost of his touch whisper over her.

Nim sat on her bed in the living quarters, towel drying her hair as she waited for Lorise and Antoinetta to return with dinner. She looked down at the amulet still resting on her chest. It was copper, not the finest of metals, but masterfully enchanted and elegantly engraved. Pretty. Why did it have to be so pretty? It held a candle to the spell-drinker amulet that Raminus had given her, but the enchantment on it was even stronger. She picked it up again, letting the light catch the ruby. It twinkled back at her wickedly.

Well, it was nice to have jewelry, not that she had many places to wear it, but she should be grateful for the thought, shouldn’t she? How rare it was to be gifted such beautiful crafts, and yet…

Nim let the amulet fall and thought of Raminus. The spell-drinker amulet he’d given her in the spring lay splayed out on the bed. She’d never receive a gift as exquisite as that one again and regarded it with a wistful sigh. Raminus, if only you knew…

The door slammed open heavily, drawing Nim’s attention to the entryway where Lorise stood holding the door open to let Antoinetta pass through. In their arms, paper sacks overflowed with fresh produce and loaves of bread. Nim tucked her amulet beneath her shift, feeling suddenly compelled to hide it, and if it was such a nice, innocent gift, why did it feel like something she shouldn’t possess?

“Finally you took a bath,” Lorise teased. Setting the groceries on the dining table, she threw Nim a fresh pear. “I thought you were beginning to grow algae."

Nim crunched into the pear and replied by blowing a raspberry.

“Do you want to borrow my comb?" Antoinetta offered when she saw Nim untangling her hair with her free hand. "It’s in my chest. Give me a second.” Antoinetta scampered over and dug through her belongings, retrieving an ornate ivory comb. “Ooh, is that new?” she asked, pointing at the copper chain peeping out from the collar of Nim’s chemise. “Did you nick that off your last mark?”

From idle conversation, Nim had learned it wasn’t uncommon for assassins to steal small souvenirs from their contracts. Both Vicente and Ocheeva had strongly advised against it, but what they didn’t know wouldn't hurt them. In fact, Anoinetta had happened upon her comb this very way, and even as a thief Nim had found the idea of robbing the murdered distasteful. As if killing them wasn’t bad enough, you wanted something to remember them by? The greed.

Antoinetta handed the comb to Nim with a warm smile. Hesitantly, Nim accepted. “Yeah, it’s new,” she said.

“It’s nice.”

“Mhm.” Nim worked through her knots and cast a distrustful glance toward the living quarter door. “You didn’t see Lucien out there did you?”

“Lucien was here?” Antoinetta’s eyes went wide, and the eagerness in her voice did not go unnoticed.

“So you didn’t see him?"

"But he didn't tell me— er, anyone that he was coming."

“I didn’t see him,” Lorise said. “And Vicente didn’t tell me he was expecting our Speaker today either.”

"Probably just passing through." Nim cast a detection spell, found only the three of them in the room, but even then, the relief settled only when she forced it.

“What’s that for?” Antoinetta asked, looking around the room as Nim extinguished her spell.

“Double checking that he’s gone. Lucien… he likes to lurk.”

“Speaking from personal experience?” Lorise’s voice was playful, but her eyes betrayed the slightest bit of concern that left Nim confused and a little more than uneasy.

“He came by to speak with me.” With a sigh, Nim pulled the necklace from her night shirt, held it in her palm and stared into the red center. “Look. He said it was a bonus.”

Both women stopped unpacking at once and stared at Nim with raised brows, Antoinetta looking mildly shocked. Lorise, perturbed. “Lucien gave you that?” It was Lorise who spoke first, as Antoinetta was still staring blankly, her mouth agape.

“It’s just a bonus.” Lorise clenched her jaw. Her eyes were narrowed into such piercing little lines that Nim felt them on her skin like probing needles. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Why didn’t he give it to Ocheeva then? She’s your Executioner now. She handles all your rewards.”

“Dunno. I guess he thought to check in on me. That's all.”

"What did he say?"

"Just... wanted to see how I was doing."

“When did you run into him?” Question after question without pause in between. The gravity in Lorise’s voice was unexpected, alarming even.

"Half an hour after you left, maybe?"

"While you were bathing?”

Nim's mouth fell open dumbly. "No, he— it wasn't a long meeting.” She turned away and ran the comb through her damp hair, stroking harder, pulling faster. She hadn't realized what it would sound like to others, and suspecting Antoinetta's affection for their Speaker, she found herself feeling rather ashamed. Why did he do that? Barge in on her, intrude? What if someone had seen the two of them together, his hands on her shoulders, sliding lower? What would that have looked like in their eyes? Nim didn’t even know what it looked like in hers.

Lorise opened her mouth as if to pry further, but shut it when she noticed Nim’s face burning red. Nim flickered her gaze over to Antoinetta, who was toying with the fine hairs of her neck. On her face a sullen frown. In her eyes a seed of confusion.

"Show me," Lorise said. It was pointed, a demand. She stalked across the room and plopped herself down on Nim’s bed, held out her palm and motioned for the necklace. Nim gave it up easily. A surprising amount of weight was lifted from her shoulders just to tell someone else about the damned thing.

Antoinetta scurried closer to get a look at it too. “It’s awfully lovely,” she murmured.

"It’s just a necklace.”

“A pretty necklace.”

Nim shrugged again. “He said it was enchanted, so I'll get good use out of it at least."

“Then why don’t you look pleased? You sound like you're trying to convince yourself that you like it."

"I like it," Nim said, unsure who she was trying to convince. She scratched at an itch on her cheek and watched Lorise turn the necklace over before picking the spell-drinker amulet off the bed and holding the two necklaces side by side.

“It’s kind of dull in comparison,” Lorise said to Antoinetta, “don’t you think?”

“Well, I don’t know that I’d call it dull. Nim said it has a powerful enchantment.”

Lorise wrinkled her nose, unconvinced. "Hmph. What do you think, Nim?”

Antoinetta’s smile was fragile, but in her soft eyes was a hard glint of terrible longing. Nim couldn’t bear to look at it and pulled at a hard knot of her hair until she’d ripped it out completely. “I think maybe I ought to buy my own jewelry from now on.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Until the Ocean Swallows You Whole

Vicente lay wedged in the corner of Lorise’s bed, running his fingers down her bare spine. Splayed across his chest, she combed through his hair while the rain hammered on the windows above them. Rattle, rattle went the pane, and beyond the glass, the storm's steady thrum was broken only by the crash of distant thunder. Minutes passed. Lightning splintered the sky. The thunder boomed again, and though the storm had grown much closer, between them the room had fallen still.

More minutes passed. The quiet took on shape. The storm was within the city walls now, passing overhead, and by Lorise's silence, Vicente knew she was deep in thought.

“Will you at least talk to her?" she finally said, her voice a quiet plea. "Can you just let her know to be careful? I don’t trust his intentions.”

“It’s merely a necklace, darling," Vicente said, just as softly. "How do you know it means anything at all?”

“No, it’s not just the necklace. She looked so uncomfortable when she was talking about it. I think he... he may have made an advance or something.”

"Lucien will make an advance at anything with a heartbeat. He enjoys the reaction. That's all. You should know that, Lorise, more than most."

Lorise raised her head off his chest and met his eyes with knitted brows. She scrunched her mouth into a bud, glared sharply.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that," he purred and tilted her chin upward. Lorise let him hold it there, her expression austere.

"Even you tell me that he's always asking about her.”

“Nim is our newest sister. He has reason to be interested. He wants to know that she’s settling in well.”

“Then why is he promoting her so quickly?"

"I am the one promoting her."

"At his orders."

"At his suggestion. But why shouldn't I promote her? She does her job well enough."

"That Imperial prison contract should have gone to a higher ranking assassin, and you know it. No wonder M’raaj-Dar has been so pissed. Nim’s been with us for what— two, three months? Our Speaker is testing her, isn’t he?”

In truth, Vicente couldn’t think of a reasonable explanation for Lucien's investment, but he wouldn't admit that to Lorise, not with her looking as concerned as she was. Promotions came from Ocheeva if not from himself, and seldom did a Speaker have any say in who rose and when. Even more rare was it to promote a new assassin through the ranks so swiftly, even for one as skilled as Nim. Vicente had assumed, in truth, that these unprecedented times called for such measures. Cheydinhal hadn't had new blood since Lorise joined, and with the recent string of murdered siblings over the past year, it wouldn't surprise him if contracts were beginning to pile up.

Then again, Vicente wouldn't put it past Lucien to have his own agenda. He had, after all, been keeping his ambitions obscured ever since he rose to Speaker. Not to mention, those intentions were becoming increasingly enigmatic as of late. Still, Vicente trusted him. Mostly.

“And what if he is testing her?" Vicente gave a dismissive shake of his head. "Given the recent tragedies surrounding our fallen brethren, is it so terrible to make sure we are initiating competent people?”

“No, I understand being cautious, but why recruit her in the first place if we’re really that paranoid? She’s nearly a child.”

“She murdered a countess, my dear. Let’s not forget that we’re all children of Sithis." And by the petulance in her eyes, it seemed obvious she had not forgotten. "Besides," he continued on, petting Lorise gently, "she’s perfectly capable of completing the work she's assigned. Lucien is well within his means to be curious.”

Lorise's glare skewed left into crooked scowl, and how could such an irritated expression look so irresistible while directed at him? Vicente wrapped his arm around her broad, well-muscled shoulders, and Lorise let him linger there, though she continued to look annoyed.

“I know she’s capable," she said. "I’m not doubting her abilities, but that makes his interest no less suspicious. She’s already an Eliminator, and now he’s giving her special gifts? To me, it seems like he’s hunting for a new—”

Lorise cut herself off. Vicente raised a brow. “A new what?" he said. "A new Silencer?”

It had been a little over half a year since Lucien's previous Silencer had perished on duty, and he was certainly taking his time to find a new one. As he should. For the sake of everyone involved, Vicente hoped that Lucien was more diligent in selecting his new Silencer than he had been with Aventina.

Oh, Vicente had warned him about her, and many times at that, might he add. "That girl is as reckless as she is bloodthirsty," he had said. "You'd do well to let her alone."

But of course, Lucien did not, for when he was set on a task, there was no convincing him otherwise. When he was set on a task, he would see it through until the end. And poor Aventina, she had met her end indeed.

“I would have thought he'd try to make you his Silencer first," Vicente said, half-joking.

Lorise wrinkled her nose. "Like hells."

Vicente chuckled. Lorise did too, but a moment of silence rose from the echo of their laughter, and the joyous sound soon wilted between them. If their Speaker wanted it, truly wanted it, they both knew that Nim had no choice. Vicente doubted it would come to that. Despite their previous disagreements, he knew where Lucien's loyalty lay. As he should. Vicente had been the one who had raised him to be such a pious servant of Sithis, who had honed lessons into instinct, who had forged their bonds in blood.

"Say he is thinking of making her his Silencer," Vicente mused. "It would be a good change of pace for him, no?" Lorise gave a shrug. "Nim has rather discreet methods. I pray Lucien is tempted to relearn the value in them."

“It’s odd timing, don’t you think?"

"Not particularly. He's delayed securing a new Silencer far longer than he should."

Lorise curled into his chest. "But of all people, Nim?" Vicente could feel her frowning against him, her voice so strangely grim. "I worry."

"About?"

"I get the feeling she doesn't know what she's doing here. Lucien... he's not going to understand that."

"She doesn't need to and nor does he," Vicente said, "so long as she carries out Sithis' will."

"She's still adjusting. She just needs some more time. If Lucien rushes this—"

"She's been here for months, Lorise."

"So? Everyone needs space to breathe."

"Hah!" Vicente laughed at that, sharp enough that Lorise flinched against him. "She avoids the sanctuary like it's diseased! She's established plenty of boundaries, I'd say, and you hardly know anything about her. Why, to me it feels like you are searching for a reason to worry."

"I'm not searching for anything, simply stating my thoughts."

"And why are you so concerned anyway?"

"I like her," Lorise said, and he felt her frown deepen. "That's all. If Lucien is looking for something new to play with, I fear it will end poorly for both of them."

"Oh, so you're worried about the Speaker's safety, now are you? What a strange turn of events."

"No, Vicente," she said, rolling her eyes. "I don't think she understands what we ask of our assassins. She should know. That's all."

"And what do we ask of them?" He was amused now, genuinely intrigued. "What do we do that is so terrible, Lorise? Everything Nim does in this family, you and I have done first. Is it so tragic a fate to be bound in service of the Dread Father? I thought you liked it here."

"I'm not talking about Sithis, and I'm not talking about myself," Lorise said crisply. "What I mean is not everyone is cut out for this life. Spilling blood for coin— it can eat away at people. People think they know what they're getting into, but one bad job, one cut too close, and they're changed. I saw it all the time as a mercenary, that haunted look. This kind of work can break a man, and just because someone is qualified to be here, doesn't mean they should be."

Vicente stared down at her with a doting grin. For such a deadly woman, she could make herself so gentle in his arms. "My sweet Lorise," he whispered, sibilant, serene. It sent gooseflesh rising deliciously across her skin. “Don't tell me she's convinced you with that act."

"Is it a crime to be concerned?"

"Not one I take offense to, but one that I am surprised by nonetheless. Fresh-faced and inexperienced and too innocent for this work— please. Lucien must find it so unbearable. He'll endeavor to wring it out of her, and he's got his work cut out for him. She's a stubborn one. Like a mule. Like you, honestly.”

Lorise grimaced as if she'd tasted something foul. “And look at how well that turned out for Aventina. People are not clay blocks to be sculpted. Why do you let him do that?"

"What am I supposed to do?" Vicente laughed. "He's our Speaker. As long as he doesn't jeopardize the safety of the Brotherhood, he's free to do as he will."

"Aventina is dead,” she snapped.

"Yes, my dear. We are all well aware."

"She didn't have to die that way."

"It was a dangerous contract."

"You know it was more than that."

"Lorise, I was one of the Black Hand once. Of course, I know."

"Hmph."

Oh Lorise, his kindly, sweet-tempered butcher. Vicente bit back a smile. Would she come to understand their ways with time? She was new to them still, her oath not much older than Nim's. "Silencer's die all the time," he explained. "Aventina's passing was not terribly surprising to anyone."

"And that's supposed to bring me comfort?" Lorise let out a rough breath and rolled off Vicente, pulling the wool blankets along with her and leaving him bare in the damp, cold of the bedroom. Vicente rolled after her and enveloped her in his arms.

"Don't be upset with me," he whispered into her ear and pressed small kisses upon her shoulder blade. With a sigh, she softened like sunset beneath him.

"You care too, I know it."

"I care. Not in the way you do. You must trust that I care for all in our sanctuary."

"Well, if you're not worrying, I suppose I shouldn't either. Let’s stop talking about it then. I just... I've seen what Lucien can do. I don't want to see it again."

Lorise laid her head back down. Vicente followed, shutting his eyes. Above them, the windows shook against the pelting rain, and shrill storm wind whistled through the silence. Vicente allowed the quiet to breathe, take on a new shape. Lorise had yet again grown stiff. She was thinking again. He was not.

Empty his head, full his arms. Vicente could lay here for years. The blissful warmth of Lorise's body beside him was not so much a thought, a sensation, a feeling consciously registered as it was simply a part of him. He regarded it no differently than he did the presence of his limbs, and this— his love beside him— made all three centuries of his unlife worth not-living.

When the quiet had stretched to fill the length of the room, Vicente felt Lorise shift against him. Another question, he guessed, more worries to keep her restless, and when he opened his eyes he found she was already craning her neck to stare up at him.

“So, will you speak with her?”

Vicente sighed and brushed the stray strands of black hair over her pointed ear. "Lorise, my darling, I really don’t think it’s cause for concern.”

"You say that."

"I'm quite confident that I know it."

And he had known Lucien for decades now, since he was but a boy, so scrappy and bloodthirsty even then. Vicente recalled the memory of their introduction with fondness. Yes, he knew Lucien longer than anyone still left alive in this world did, more deeply than he imagined anyone ever would.

And although much of Lucien had changed since Vicente had recruited him, he knew well enough that Nimileth— the lithe, disheveled thing she was— was far from the Speaker's preference. No, Lucien had always favored a more conventional beauty, someone fiery and expressive, someone who complimented his thirst for violence with equal zeal. The poor unsuspecting creatures. Lucien could never love them as much as he loved the fantasies in his head. Though he was still human at heart (however deep down that was), still a mortal who lusted and craved, at the end of the day, he was still Lucien, and Lucien never loved, not truly. Not like he loved the call of Sithis and the sordid pleasures it wrought.

Ah, but Nim was safe from all that. Vicente was sure of it. He had seen the men and women who flushed and faded from Lucien's life, and Nim was far too apathetic, far too reticent and restrained to pique Lucien's carnal interests in the ways his sweet Lorise feared.

“If you are so bothered, Lorise, I do think it would mean more coming from you. If you’re so insistent, why don’t you talk to her?"

“Yes, but she trusts you," Lorise said with a pleading pout. She rolled over again, wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself flush against him. "Please?" she said, and oh it was just enough heat to melt his cold, unbeating heart. "I think she's still scared of me.”

Vicente laughed openly at the thought before Lorise silenced him with a kiss. Never would he have believed that one could be more comfortable with an undead assassin than with a beautiful woman, though he supposed she had a point— the latter was scores more deadly.

The thunderheads had passed over Cheydinhal in the night, and by morning, a thin layer of clouds blanketed the sky in a blinding gray. A steady stream of rain still spilled over the land, overflowing the gutters and the small river that coursed through town. Trudging through the flooded streets, Vicente made his way from Lorise’s house to the sanctuary, and by the time he reached the abandoned house, the morning was still early and sunless, his cloak thoroughly drenched through. He crawled down the well, securing the hatch above, and prayed no errant streams of water followed in after him, for Sithis knew they didn’t need any more mold sprouting down there.

Vicente hung his cloak on an empty wall sconce, making a note to return for it when he was out of his soaked boots. Across the hall, he caught the shadow of the skeletal guardian disappearing behind the corner on another round of its inexorable patrol. Two auras glowed in his mind’s eye, one he immediately recognized as Schemer sitting in the lap of another. They were nestled in the reading nook, obscured behind a pillar, and there he found Nimileth sitting alone.

She was curled up in an armchair, reading from a large tome and scribbling notes upon a rumpled sheet of paper. Schemer was in her lap with a hunk of brown bread, the two deeply engrossed in their respective activities. Vicente approached, not without reluctance. For the first time since she had joined, he was not looking forward to their conversation.

Clearing his throat, he signaled his presence. Nim jerked up from her reading, and Schemer squeaked at the interruption. “I’m surprised to see you here," Vicente greeted her. "I thought you would have left for Fort Sutch by now.”

Nim smiled when she saw him, and Vicente's eyes fell to her necklace, the circular pendant peeking out just above the collar of her loose shirt. It wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as Lorise had made it out to be. By Sithis, she had acted as if it was made of rusted tin! In fact, Vicente found it rather tasteful, not nearly as gaudy as some of the gifts Lucien had given his favored assassins before.

Nim's once cheerful grin fell as soon as she caught his wandering eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked, tugging at her collar. "Did I do something?”

Vicente had not realized he’d been staring so intensely and quickly softened his gaze. “No, I just wanted to talk."

Nim remained stiff, skeptical. Despite how comfortable they’d grown in each other's presence, she was still slow to let down her guard. Vicente couldn’t blame her, not with the rumors he had heard from the other sanctuaries. If one wasn’t safe even around family, were they ever truly?

Scattered about the table were dozens of leaves of loose parchment, each inked with messily scrawled notes. Vicente gestured toward the stack of books on the table in front of her. “A bit of light reading before you head out?” And was she always carrying such dense reading material around with her? He'd need to speak with her about this habit. It couldn’t possibly be good for one’s back. Then he caught the title of the book that sat atop the pile: The Black Arts on Trial. How quaint. "Or a little side project, perhaps?"

Nim dogeared her page and shrugged. “Something like that," she said. "I guess I lost track of time." She laid her book down on the table, then set Schemer gently on the ground and stretched out her legs as she yawned. "Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about necromancy, would you?”

“Necromancy?” So innocent her expression, her hands folded demurely in her lap. Vicente wondered if he had heard her correctly, but given his rather acute sense of hearing, he was most certain that he had. “I didn’t realize you had such macabre interests."

"I'm only curious."

"About how to raise the dead?"

"Something like that," she said again.

"Necromancy." He took the empty seat across from her. "Well, Nimileth, I'm not one to douse the fires of curiosity, but is it not enough to kill and send the souls to Sithis? Are you so insistent on claiming them for yourself?"

"Well, not me personally, no."

She reached for the mug of dark coffee on the table, and her hands trembled as she raised it to her lips. By the dark circles under her eyes, Vicente suspected she hadn’t slept much the night before. Her shirt was sliding down her shoulders again, a shirt that was obviously made for a man twice her size. Three-quarters of her hair was weaved into a loose braid, but the remaining strands floated freely about her head like wisps of a long-forgotten dust ball. Vicente supposed he had met stranger looking mages before, but he’d never seen a necromancer look quite so bedraggled.

He glanced down at the notes on the table again, and when Nim caught his wandering eyes, she scooped them up immediately. “I’m not interested in practicing," she said as she collated her papers.

"And I imagine Necromancer's Moon is a cradle song."

"Just want to know how it works. That's all.”

“I’m sure that’s what they all say when they start out.”

"Probably. Yeah."

“Well, I can't say I have anything to share, unfortunately. Though I may find myself among their ranks, I am far from an expert on most things related to the undead. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Meh, I figured." She nodded at the skeletal guardian who was now creaking its way back up the main hall. "What about that creature? Where does he come from? Did somebody, you know, raise him up from a crypt?”

“That’s a better question for Lucien, actually."

"What?" It tumbled out of her as a half-shout, and Vicente thought her eyes would pop out of her head if she opened them any wider. "Lucien's a necromancer?"

"No, no. At least not that I'm aware." Nim only stared at him, utterly nonplussed. "I really don’t think he is," he added.

"So what about that... thing?" Nim asked and waved her hand in the direction of the skeleton.

"Our Speaker brings them over from Fort Farragut. I'm under the impression that he has a supplier nearby.”

"A supplier."

Vicente watched her tuck that piece of information away. It seemed important to her, for some reason.

The conversation lulled after that, eventually wandering to talk of the weather, then back to necromancy, then to alchemy as Nim tried to direct it away from said necromancy. Vicente felt an itch in the back of his mind, the vague shadow of a memory forming from the ether. He was forgetting to do something, wasn't he? Yes, yes, that was it. Something Lorise had asked of him. What was he supposed to say to Nim again? Something about Lucien. Something about a necklace. Something he really didn’t want to talk about at all.

The neckline of Nim’s shirt was slowly slipping down again, and the necklace sat boldly against her decollete, ruby center flashing like a newly awakened flame. He could no longer ignore it. “Is that a new amulet?”

Nim gave a half-hearted snort. “You wanted to talk to me about my jewelry?” Then she waited for a reply, a retort, and when he didn’t answer her immediately, she realized he had asked a genuine question. Nim’s expression shifted quickly to annoyance, eyes narrowed and lips screwed tight into a little bud. She looked awfully like Lorise when she scrunched her face that way. Vicente found it sweet, a bit curious. "S'posed to be enchanted," she said with a note of reluctance. "Or so I'm told."

Vicente gestured toward it. "May I?"

Nim looked down at her chest, then to him, then reached around to the nape of her neck, fiddled with the clasp, and slid it off. She dumped it into his open hand, and Vicente focused his mind's eye, drawing in the magicka that flowed through the sigils etched along the pendant.

Vicente didn't recognize the runework. These symbols were cast in a different language, a different style of enchanting than the one he’d learned in Daggerfall, but with enough concentration, he unweaved the bindings and read the spells that lay beneath. Nim looked away as he inspected it.

"A fortification charm," he said, and teased apart the magical signature a little more. Its magnitude was great, its focus split in two. When he stilled his body completely, he could feel the changes the charm invoked. There was greater depth to the well from which he drew his magicka now. So too did he feel a heightened sense of vigor, a robustness to his form that had not been present a moment prior. Magicka and strength— the augmentation was subtle yet strong with soothing weight to the spellwork. Lucien had spared no expense when he had this enchanted. It must have cost him a great deal of gold.

What a strange investment, Vicente thought and looked to Nim who was still averting her eyes. He handed the amulet back. "This is a powerful augmentation given your skillset."

“Sure," she said with a shrug of practiced indifference. "Charming, yeah?”

“Indeed. Lucien gave it to you?”

“If you asked that, you probably know the answer already.”

“I did. Word—"

"—travels fast around here. Yeah, I know."

"Our Speaker doesn’t give out personal bonuses very often. He must think very highly of you.”

“That's nice."

“And what do you think of him?”

“I don't think of him," she scoffed. "What a dull question."

Vicente stifled the urge to laugh. "Oh, dear. I seem to have touched a nerve."

"No," she shot back quickly. "You didn't."

"I didn't? You're awfully snappish for someone who's perfectly unbothered."

"Did Lorise put you up to this?" Nim shifted her posture to something more defensive, shriveling inward, arms crossed over her chest, making herself a tightly wound little ball. "I already told her it was nothing, but no one in this Sanctuary gives a rat's ass about privacy, I see. Blegh, can't take a piss in this place without someone praising me for how straight the stream."

She was scowling even fiercer now, lip jutted forward like a child mid-tantrum, and Vicente found it hard to take her seriously in even the smallest amount. Lorise made similar faces, had made the same one just last night, but where Vicente had found it distracting then, on Nim it looked comical. When she shriveled in a little more, it invoked within him a sense of pity, the slightest drive to protect her. He leaned closer. "Why don't you tell me what happened? I only want to know what's troubling her so."

"So ask her then," Nim snipped. "How am I supposed to know what's troubling her? She didn't exactly tell me, and I didn't press because if I’m the only one around here who minds my own business, so be it."

"I only want to hear it from your perspective."

Nim pulled her lips into a thin line and seemed to be debating something privately. Schemer had since flopped onto his belly under the chair and now lay surrounded by crumbs, having gorged himself to bloat. He slumbered merrily away. Vicente could hear his haggard breaths, his swollen stomach pressed too hard against his tiny rat lungs. How uncomfortable it must have been, yet it never stopped Schemer before, and such was the nature of his existence.

A short while later, Nim sighed, resigned. "I showed it to her a few nights ago," she said, "told her Lucien stopped by to deliver it. She seemed… well, I don't know, oddly concerned? Unnerved? When I mentioned the amulet had come from Lucien, she had this… look on her face, and I suspected there was some history there I didn’t know about.”

History. Oh, why was it that Vicente was relegated to sharing history? Three centuries old, hadn't he lived through enough of it? What had happened with Aventina, what had happened with Lorise... that was all in the past. Vicente preferred to let sleeping dogs lie for his own sanity if nothing else.

And why in Oblivion am I having this conversation rather than Lorise, he found himself wondering. How such a pertinent question evaded him last night, he found himself stumped. Then again, the night had been rife with distractions...

With a sigh of his own, Vicente scanned the perimeter of the room. It took all of a second-long glance to confirm he saw no one, heard no one, smelled no one. Only Schemer squeaked back at him from whatever dreamscape rats occupied, and with their privacy secured, he turned to Nim. “Lorise thought that you should—”

“Look,” Nim interrupted him, holding out a hand. “If it’s really that concerning, maybe she should tell me.”

“I said the same thing, actually. She seemed to think you'd prefer to hear it from me."

"I'd prefer not to hear it at all."

"I told her that whatever is going on—“

“Nothing is going on."

The edge of her voice was blunted, a defensive response more so than evasive. He was pushing too far. Perhaps Lorise truly was blowing this out of proportion. And yet she had seemed so troubled…

That woman. Every time he thought he had the proper read on Lorise, she revealed a new side he hadn't known before. Fierce yet so quiet. Cruel but not without a capacity to care. And since when had she ever been so maternal? Sometimes Vicente wondered if he knew her at all.

Oh, but even the mere thought of Lorise did something strange to him— those eyes like the Abecean against the sunset of her skin. Merely at the image, he felt his will bend. She had asked him to do this as a favor to her, and who was he to deny a request that came from such sweet lips?

“Okay," he said, trying a different approach. "I'll take your word then."

Nim blinked rapidly, slinking backward into her chair, surprised as if she’d expected a much longer battle. “Oh. I’m glad we’re on the same page then."

“I trust you’ll tell me if you ever feel cause for concern.”

“Why would I be concerned?"

"I don't really think you need to be, but Lorise has a point that I would be remiss to ignore. Our Speaker has a history of pushing new recruits too far. Be aware that he can be overzealous at times. He..." Vicente paused. How to explain such delicate matters? How distill such a colorful history? "Let's say that when our Speaker observes new talent that he deems worthy, he tends to it. He gives it special attention."

Nim recoiled, flattening herself against the backrest until she was nearly two dimensional. "Is that meant to be a euphemism for—"

"Ah, no. Not exactly. And my intention was not to startle you. I only wanted you to be aware."

"I'm not startled," she said, "and I still don't know what I'm to be aware of."

“Hmm.” This was not going the way Vicente had intended. How had he let Lorise trick him into this? It was that pout of hers, wasn't it? Those eyes. And those hands. Those rather convincing, rather distracting hands...

“You know what, never mind.” They were going in circles, and this really was such a pointless conversation, and he found himself chagrined having indulged it for so long. It was not his place to meddle in the affairs of his Speaker, and what had happened with Aventina was unlikely to be repeated. Trial and error. Lucien was smart enough to learn, and Vicente had since laid such grievances to rest.

Rapping his fingers on his arm rest, he let out a rough breath. Meanwhile, Nim continued to coil herself up on her chair like a serpent sinking into leaf litter. He felt a little bad for her and more than a little annoyed at himself for being dragged into matters so far beneath him. There were a dozen things he could have been doing instead. He had contracts to read through, payments to allocate. Teinaava would be up any minute now to begin their scheduled training. Hells, even drying off his feet and staring at the walls would have been a better use of his time.

Nim sipped her coffee, which by now must have gone cold. Still she sipped and rather loudly at that.

"My apologies," Vicente said. "For all of this."

"S'okay." She made her voice small when she spoke. "And for what it's worth, I was a little snappish."

They sat in silence. Nim drank her coffee and every now and then, twisted her amulet around her finger. Wind and unwind. Wind and unwind. Vicente looked back down at the books on the table. Notes and spilled ink, a ratty looking quill. Truly, she looked like she had been up for hours, and why necromancy was so important to her, he wasn't sure he cared to know.

"Vicente," she said, catching him off guard.

"Yes?"

"While you're here, I have a question. I've asked two people now, and I still don't have an answer."

"Have you considered that there may be no answer?"

"No," she said stubbornly. "And you haven't yet heard my question."

"Very well.” He grinned. “I'll do my best."

Wiping her mouth on her too-long sleeve, she asked, "Who is Sithis? Why do you pray to him? Why do you kill for him? What does he give you in return?"

"Must faith and prayer be transactional? Have the Nine ever given you anything in return?"

"Maybe," she said. "But not always. It very well may all have been a coincidence. Is it the same with Sithis, or are there results?"

"Hmm, results. Not the kind that would satisfy you. Sithis is nothing. The great absence. The sum of all missing things. He is the First Creator and the Final Destroyer, and we worship him because he is unavoidable, for is death not the greatest absence of all?"

Nim looked disappointed, and yet questions sparked behind her eyes. She shared none of them, only stared, her mouth curved downward into a frown.

"This troubles you," Vicente said. "Our reverence. I’ve been observing how you interact with our brothers and sisters. You're still quite tense. This place is not the home you’d been told it would be.”

"No, it’s not that. It just takes a while for me to let loose.”

“That might be true, and yet I feel it's not the real reason why you're so guarded nor why the idea of Sithis troubles you so. You do not see death as we do. You deny it."

“I don't deny it,” Nim countered with a swift shake of her head. “And I’m learning all sorts of things about death here. Why just the other day, Lorise showed me four ways to kill a man using only a length of string and a wooden dowel.”

“Don't think it evades my notice that you’re completely uninterested in most every conversation regarding your contracts.”

“So what?" Nim said, another flare of defense. "That’s just my face.”

“I think you can’t feign enthusiasm for something that disgusts you.”

“Oh, I most certainly can. You just haven’t seen me try. See, it's just my cheek muscles are weak, and they get sore after a while of smiling in artifice. More often than not, it’s wasted energy. Why bother?”

Vicente smiled with a fondness he reserved for children and small, fluffy things. She tried so hard to convince him otherwise, tried so hard to convince herself. Countless others had tried to do the same before her, and they did not last long among their ranks.

And yet Vicente remained hopeful.

“But it’s true," he said. "You don't fully accept your position as a daughter of the Night Mother. You don’t hunger to spill blood like the others, to return life to the Void. Why? Do you think it beneath you?"

"And here I thought the interrogations would stop after the first week."

"This is not an interrogation. You're free to tell me to leave if you so wish." But Nim did not. She remained quiet, clutching her cup, the tendons bulging across the back of her hand. "Tell me," he said, "why you are interested in serving Sithis when you continue to deny Him so."

"Nine, you and Lucien and everyone else. What is it about Sithis? If he's nothing, why does it matter what I think or don't think of him? I do my work, okay. Shouldn't that speak for itself?"

"It speaks quite loudly, which is why I'm so confused. You find the whole thing perverse, yet you return every week.”

“I mean, it is," she said quietly. "A rock could tell you that, and I don't need to pray to anyone to justify it. I don't need to feel Sithis in my soul. I don't need to hear him praise me after I kill. I just... I'm here to do my work and get paid. That's it.”

Everyone came into the sanctuary with their own battles. Vicente wondered what she was fighting. She deflated beneath his stare, wilting, shriveling, floating back against her chair like a sunbaked leaf. "If your life on the surface is so much better than this, why did you join? Why do you stay? You are resisting something greater, and you know it, but I'm here to help you. All of us, we care. So speak honestly and truly, and I don’t care what you say. I won’t be mad. Tell me what you want from your time here so that I can better aid you in achieving it.”

“Oh, I don't even know. I killed one bloody woman and suddenly everyone thinks I am a cold-hearted murderer! I don’t know, okay? Maybe I am.” But she frowned at that, as though she didn't believe it. Staring pensively into her mug, she rolled her lips inward, scratched behind her ear. “But that’s not all I am, you know? It’s not really what I see when I look in the mirror. There's no hungry creature inside me. There's no smirking beast. And yet... well, I killed one bloody woman, and suddenly I don’t seem to recognize myself at all anymore."

"I see."

Nim set her coffee down and tucked her knees under her chin. She offered Vicente a dispirited shrug. "I don't feel bad about it," she said. "I don't feel good either. I look around the sanctuary, and everyone seems to have found something that they wanted from being here. A home. A family. A sense of purpose. Maybe power. But me? I don't think I need anything. I think I was okay before. For a while, at least."

Her candor was unexpected. He didn’t speak for some time. Nim looked ashamed. Dare he respond? “Did I ever tell you how I joined the Dark Brotherhood?" She shook her head. "Would you like to hear?"

Nim gave a timid nod.

"I was alone for the better part of a century before the Dark Brotherhood came to me. I had my mortality stripped away in a foreign land with nothing in my possession but an insatiable need for blood that spoke louder than my own voice. It was horrifying, to feel so out of control. Words will never capture that fear. I don't believe they can. I had debated whether it was worth it to carry on that way, more animal than a man. I thought death would be preferable. But then I was found, Nimileth, and it was among this family that I flourished, that I came to find value in my own existence, that I found true unconditional love.

"It was not my design," he continued. "It was no ones. I could have died or given into my nature at any point along my path. Yet I believe that what I’ve found here is something far beyond me, a higher power that has given me the chance to live again. Where I was once a pariah damned to shadow, now I have reason to be, for Sithis does not care about who you were or who you will be, only who you are now and who you will never be again. So too do we bear this love for each other, Nim. In life and in death, we see you."

Nim blinked at him, folded in a little further. "What if I don't want to be seen?"

"There are things in this world that are untouchable, unknowable. So too are there sights which are unseeable. You are not one of them." He stood to his feet and stepped closer. With one hand on her shoulder, he offered a smile, stern but sincere. "This place can be an anchor, or you can keep floating until the ocean swallows you whole. The sea cares not for what it rocks.”

“And if I want to drown?”

"Then you will," he replied, "if that is what you wish. Sithis claims all in the end."

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: The Busy Life of Alchemists

Nim stood anxiously before her fellow assassins and checked over her materials for the upcoming lesson. She sifted through her baskets of dried leaves, seeds, fungi, double checked that all was there. Next, she inspected the glassware.

They were in good condition considering how old they were and how long they’d gone without use. When Vicente had pulled them out of storage, he explained they had belonged to Lucien when he still lived in the sanctuary. Lucien, an alchemist? Nim regarded the information with mild surprise. A personal hobby, she wondered, or a business venture? After all, someone was supplying M'raaj-Dar with poisons. She wondered if they were any decent.

Lastly, Nim looked over her notes.

This is hopeless , read the small message she had written to herself along the bottom of the page. Very helpful.

Vicente had approached Nim with an unusual request. As an effort to bring her closer to the family, he had arranged for her to deliver an alchemical lesson on the basics of poisons. Nim had agreed. Why ever in Oblivion she had done so was so far beyond her that she felt she must have been possessed. Alchemy was one thing she could talk comfortably about for days, yet it was one thing most people couldn't listen to for more than a minute at a time. 

Idiot, Nim, she cursed herself. Why had she agreed? At least poisons were common ground between her craft and that of the other assassins. Nim was hoping, praying she could make it intriguing enough if she just leaned in. She had never given a lesson to anyone before. Not to any mages and certainly not to any assassins. What if she was a terrible instructor? What if no one managed to learn? What if they all found her terribly boring, and good gods, what if they fell asleep?

Oh Nine, is this how they feel when they talk to me about their contracts, she wondered, Oh Nine, I ought to be more sensitive.

M’raaj-Dar sauntered in from the living quarters, and Nim's stomach lurched as she met his scathing glare. Vicente trailed behind him, and she wondered what small fortune he had promised the man to convince him to attend in the first place.

“Alright everyone,” Nim began with a clap as she turned to address the room. Around the table sat M’raaj-Dar, Lorise, Telaendril, and the twins— all of the assassins that were not out on contract. Vicente supported himself against a nearby pillar and offered her a reassuring nod. “Thank you all for coming. I don’t know if Vicente forced you to show up, but here we are anyway, so... yeah. How many of you have dabbled in alchemy before?”

Nim paused to allow for the assassins to respond. Vicente raised a hand. M’raaj-Dar grunted out some sort of response that Nim interpreted as affirmation.

“Now, how many of you have used poisons during your contracts?” This time the question called forth a bouquet of hands. Nim pointed to Ocheeva. “Can you tell us what you used?”

“A poison of burdening," Ocheeva said. "My mark was a pirate, and I was to kill him out at sea. I slipped the poison into his ale and pushed him into the ocean somewhere between Vvardenfell and Solstheim. He sunk like an anchor. Now those were the days.”

Drumming her claws upon the table, Ocheeva released a satisfied sigh. In her eyes, blissful nostalgia. It glittered like starlight, and Nim nodded in acknowledgement with watery approval.

Telaendril waved her hand to volunteer her story next. “I was to kill a sorcerer," she said, "a member of the Mages Guild. He was on an expedition in the West Weald looking for ruins. When I visited his campsite, I tipped my arrows with a silencing poison to keep him from trying any of that funny business in retaliation.”

“That funny business,” Nim repeated, "Mhm." And with another nod, she pushed down a small swell of discomfort. Of course academics would not be exempt from ritualistic murder. How naive of her to think otherwise. She had met her fair share of cutthroat scholars within the guild, but she'd have expected a more metaphorical kind of backstabbing from them, the career-ending sabotage kind. Which, now that she was thinking about it, to some might actually be worse than murder. 

But what kind of mage would willingly perform the sacrament to call upon a Dark Brotherhood assassin? Nim chewed her lip. Were they better or worse than the kind who would willingly carry out the writ?

Clearing her throat, she brushed away her bangs and turned her attention back to the room. “M’raaj-Dar," she said, "you sell poisons. What are some of your favorite ones to use?”

“Right now, This One would favor anything to keep you silenced.”

Vicente sighed softly from the back. At the table, Telaendril stifled a snicker. “I’m sorry, Sister,” she said, attempting to restrain herself.

“S'alright. We'll have plenty of time to talk about silencing later." Nim glanced down at the notes in her hand and began to pace. "Clearly poisons are useful accessories in an assassin’s toolkit," she read aloud. "For our lesson today, Vicente has asked that I demonstrate four different effects that could be of use while completing your assignments. These will be lethal poisons, paralytics, silencing poisons, and lastly a simple restorative to mend minor scrapes and wounds—"

The scrape of M’raaj-Dar’s schair echoed unapologetically upon the tail end of Nim's last sentence. He stood, mumbling something under his breath, something very clearly not in Cyrodiliic, and then he left the room.

Nim traced his exit with a dull pang of disappointment. If he didn’t care for her as an assassin, she was hoping she could convince him that she was at least a competent alchemist. He sold potions. She brewed them. Maybe they could help each other out. Alas, it seemed another idle dream.

“He probably knew everything I was going to say anyway," Nim shrugged and carried on, "so let’s start with something simple.” From the basket, she withdrew a flower with soft purple petals and a vibrant yellow center. She held it up for all to see.

“The deadly nightshade, Atropa belladonna, is a member of the family Solanaceae," she began. "Tomato, eggplant, potato, tobacco— all solanaceous species that are commonly cultivated for day to day consumption. However, certain members of the nightshade family, such as this one, contain high concentrations of potent alkaloids that are extremely toxic to most animals. Upon ingestion, deleterious symptoms may range from gastrointestinal discomfort to psychoactive hallucinations, and in high enough doses, even death."

“Nim?” Teinaava interrupted, his brows pleated in confusion. “What is an alkaloid?”

Nim inhaled sharply. Her heart skipped a beat. “An excellent question, Teinaava,” she said as she waved the flower in the air. “Alkaloids are one of many compounds that alchemists have identified within plants. They are commonly distilled for their profound physiological effects. In plants, the alkaloid is involved in regulating growth, and they are often concentrated in the leaves to serve as a defense against herbivory. Now, as mentioned, alchemists have found a way to purify these compounds using a series of acid-base extractions. In the deadly nightshade, we will target the compound which acts specifically to inhibit—“

From the back, Vicente cleared his throat. “Nimileth, dear, this is supposed to be an introduction. Let’s dial it back, please. Less method, more results. I think you’re losing some people.”

”Ah,” Nim replied with wide eyes as she gazed at her audience of furrowed brows and nervous grins. They all stared up at her in silence, blinking curiously, the perfect picture of politeness.

“Okay. Let me try that again. Deadly nightshade, when distilled to its essence, has been shown to disrupt a large suite of involuntary bodily functions. This includes among the most vital: heart rate and breathing. So too has it been shown to weaken the muscles and constrict the airways. In large enough concentrations, this greatly increases one’s risk of seizure and coma, as these complications can cause heart arrhythmias that prevent proper blood flow to the brain."

She glanced up at Vicente for a reaction. He gave an approving shrug.

“Outside of its lethal applications," she continued, "nightshade can deliver a powerful burdening effect when used at smaller doses and combined with other plants like morning glory and monkshood. However, if the goal is indeed, er, terminal, when combined with wormwood leaves or the seeds of sacred lotus, the nightshade poison is potent enough to cause heart failure within an hour." 

There was a murmur at the table as Lorise turned to Teinaava. Nim took a pause for questions. There were none. She looked down at her notes again, having lost her train of thought. 

"Poisonous plants and fungi are common in alchemical shops and across Cyrodiil. Vicente has kindly gathered some here today for a demonstration. In front of you is a basket of ingredients and all the alchemical equipment we will need to process them. I would like us all to work together and to take turns using them as we move through our exercises to brew a poison."

The room stirred. Nim could hear Lorise whispering, asking Teinaava to pass her the basket of nightshade. He did, then took a moment to inspect it himself.

"Now," Nim said, "shall we begin with the mortar and pestle?”

Hours slipped away, and by the time Nim had settled into a comfortable cadence, her instruction was over and the lesson was done. Vicente offered his praise as he helped her clean the main hall. He always praised her, and Nim always did her best to keep it from getting to her head. 

If the assassins had been bored during her lesson, they did well to hide it. In fact, from their enthusiastic questions, Nim thought that they had actually enjoyed themselves. That or they were far better actors than she could ever be. And her teaching... well perhaps her teaching wasn't as bad as she’d feared, though she far preferred the hands-on portions of the demonstrations to the lecturing— When the seed pops, you know it's been toasted just enough. Too much longer and you'll destroy the endosperm. See how the color changes when we add the peroxide? That's the pigment of the leaf being stripped away.

Less blabbering, more pointing, and the less she talked, the more questions they asked. The more they thought. The more they understood. By the end Nim was convinced that everyone who had attended had learned something of value. And there were accidents, of course. Spills and small fires, singed hair and chemical burns, but Vicente had been there to douse and heal when she was busy wrangling a mess on the other side of the table. By the end, everyone had walked away in one piece, and they had produced one, albeit weak, nightshade poison. Nim could see why Raminus found his profession so fulfilling. 

“Nimileth?”

Nim looked up to see Ocheeva standing in her private quarters, the door propped open. “Yes?” Nim said, sweeping burnt lotus seeds into her palm. “Something on your mind?”

Ocheeva beckoned her into the room. Nim cast a glance toward Vicente who shooed her off, and after dusting the crushed seeds into the waste bin, she approached. 

“Sit," Ocheeva said. Nim did. "The lesson was just wonderful, Sister. It was so nice to see such an animated side of you for once."

Nim dragged her chair a little closer to the table in the center of the room, and the scrape was painfully loud. "Thank you. I do what I can."

"Yes. I had no idea one could be so impassioned by plants. Here, I thought they just sat there and grew."

"Ah. Well, most of the time they do." 

On Ocheeva's face was one of the sharpest smiles Nim had ever seen, orange eyes aglow like sunstone, intense no matter the expression. She raised her hand to sweep the jeweled adornments that hung from her spines off her shoulders. “Onto other matters now. You've been with us for several months, and we've all been paying close attention to your progress."

"Who's we?"

"Vicente and I, of course. And our Speaker." At the mention of Lucien, Nim’s heart skittered left, and the air in her lungs clung a little tighter. "The Black Hand are meeting in a safe house not far from our sanctuary. In fact, they’re travelling to the Heartlands as we speak. Our Speaker has invited them to visit Cheydinhal. Vicente and I thought this would be a wonderful opportunity to introduce you to more of the family.”

Nim went rigid. Icy tendrils crawled up her legs, up her spine, then down her fingertips. “You want me to give them an alchemical lesson?”

“No, no. Lucien wants us to host a gathering.”

“Like, a party? Do assassins even have parties?"

"Yes, a party. Everyone has parties, Nimileth. We're assassins, not monks, and come the end of the week, we'll be hosting a small one to celebrate Sithis bringing you to us.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Nim shook her hands wildly in front of her, lips stretched into a panicked smile, all teeth on display. “Wait a minute. This is just a party, right? This isn’t my party. Right?”

“It is tradition in this sanctuary to host a celebration in honor of each family member's initiation. It marks the beginning of a new life, a rebirth if you will. Think of it like a birthday celebration.”

“Ocheeva, my birthday was in Second Seed! That was nearly four months ago!”

“Yes, Sister but if we wait until your actual birthday a year from now, then it’s possible you might not be with us anymore.”

“And why in Oblivion not?”

Ocheeva shrugged, ignoring the desperation in Nim's protests. “High turn-over rate in this line of business,” she said with such nonchalance that another shiver climbed Nim’s spine. "But we needn't think too much on that. In a few days time, we’ll all gather to celebrate the joyous occasion of your initiation into our family, and it will be a night you shall remember until Sithis drags you screaming into the Void. Oh, I'm thrilled by the prospect already!”

Nim blinked. Ocheeva couldn't be serious, and yet she didn't appear to be joking. No, Ocheeva was simply nodding with her tight, cheery grin, looking as pleasant as sunshine with those large eyes aflame

“A few days?" Nim said. "But I— I have a contract to fulfill.” And never before was she more eager to fulfill one than she was in that moment. Nim enjoyed her parties as much as the next degenerate, but a party among assassins, and unfamiliar, high ranking assassins at that? It was as appealing as a handshake with a mudcrab.

“Roderick is bedridden, and the contract’s only stipulation was to complete it before the month's end," Ocheeva reminded her. "If you weren't rushing to complete it last night, I'm sure another few days won't disrupt your plans much more."

"Hmph.”

"It’s just one night, Nim, and then you will be free to return to your usual routine." Ocheeva attempted to soften her smile, as if to make it appear a little more sympathetic. Nim only felt as if she were being pitied, which in turn made her increasingly distressed. She reached for her amulet, gave it a tug

"Really, there’s no way around it," Ocheeva added when she realized her attempt was not working. "If our Speaker has declared that we’ll be hosting a party, then it must be done. Lucien would like to take this opportunity to introduce you to the Black Hand. Isn't that wonderful?" Nim shook her head. Ocheeva clucked her tongue. "This is high praise, Nimileth."

"I guess."

"No, don't guess. I am telling you it is. You best accept it as such.”

“Look, I appreciate the sentiment, but I think throwing a party for someone who doesn’t want one kind of defeats the whole purpose. Why can’t it just be a party in celebration of dinner?”

“If you so desire, we need not throw a party in your honor—”

“I do so desire,” Nim blurted out vehemently. “I do so desire not to be a spectacle at any party ever.”

“—after this one."

Nim sunk back in her chair with a sullen pout. “And what if I don’t show up?”

"Well, that would be too bad, Sister. I’m afraid our Speaker would have to find a fitting punishment for such defiance."

"Is that a joke," Nim dared to ask, "or is it one of those Wrath of Sithis type of threats? You're smiling at me all pleasant-like, and I can't tell if I'm to take you seriously at all."

Ocheeva let out a sigh, but her grin barely faltered. “I am not trying to threaten you. We want you to be here, to have fun. That is all. Everyone in this sanctuary wants you to feel loved and welcomed. We want you to treat this place like home."

So they insist, Nim thought, and her pout grew heavier. “Well, I suppose I have no choice then.”

“We all have a choice. Yours should be what dress to wear and what kind of roast you want served.”

A flash of teeth. A warm smile. Mirth in her tone and nothing to otherwise convince Nim she was anything but genuine. She was serious, wasn't she? By Sithis. A party to celebrate her progress? Nim blinked in bewilderment. What a strange lot of murderous lunatics!  

“Well, if I’m going to be there, then I'll be making the dessert, and there better be good wine. A lot of good wine, okay? You can let our Speaker know that is my one condition.”

Ocheeva indulged her with a few gentle nods, looking much the part of a placating guardian. "Certainly. I will." 

And by Sanguine and his cirrhotic liver, Nim hoped there would be Tamika's otherwise she wouldn’t make it through the night. 

Nim left the sanctuary the following morning. Ocheeva might have ordered her to stay until the end of the week, but there was not a chance in all the sixteen planes that she would stay trapped down there every hour of every day until then. 

Climbing up through the well, she emerged beside the abandoned house and was greeted by the balmy air of late-summer in the Heartlands. Muggy, growing hotter by the minute, the kind of day that would have the townspeople sitting shaded on their porches with a woven reed-fan by mid-morning. After years in the oppressive humidity of the Blackwoods, Nim could handle most any heat without great discomfort, and at least here in Cheydinhal, perched higher in the hills, the gentle breeze rolling through the willows broke the stagnancy of the air.

After stopping by the Chapel of Arkay to pay alms and offer prayer, Nim wandered down to the local guild hall with a carefully crafted letter to Carahil. She had not been keeping up to date on her studies or research, and the very least she could do was inform her mentor when she planned to return to Anvil. With some prudent planning, Nim crafted a lie; she would tell Carahil that she was in Cheydinhal to meet with Deetsan, an advanced trainer in alteration and the current leader of the guild hall after Nim had exposed Falcar as a necromancer.  Deetsan and Nim were friendly enough, made closer by the grim circumstances in which they met. Yes, nearly drowning in a well and outing one's guild leader as a traitor had that effect on friendships.

But Nim would make sure that the lie she would tell was only half a lie, which were the best kind of lies, in her opinion. Today, she came prepared with several reams of questions. Deetsan specialized in alteration, Nim illusion, and she was hoping a chat over tea might help her clarify some of the fundamental differences between the two schools. It had been a particularly difficult principle for her to wrap her head around, and though Carahil had explained it six ways to Sundas, Nim's stubborn brain pushed against it like a strong ward.

Theory, theory, theory— it was all Carahil ever wanted to talk about. What was Nim supposed to do with theory if she could cast the spells just fine? And yet the fact that she didn't understand it and that Carahil kept reminding her of that fact left Nim troubled, anxious, because she hated failing at things. She hated not knowing.  

Nim found the bottom floor of the guild hall empty. She wiped a bead of perspiration off her forehead and looked around. Chattering voices carried down the stairwell. She heard one at first. Deetsan's, the conversation muffled and largely incoherent, then a second voice. Softer, more familiar.

Nim ascended the stairs slowly and peeked around the corner to find Deetsan seated at a table in the living quarters with a charcoal-haired man in blue mage robes. His back was turned to her, but when he spoke Nim recognized him with resounding clarity. 

"... last spotted leaving Skingrad. The guards said it looked like he was headed south-east, and after consulting the reports we've received from our informants, the Council and I think he might..."

Raminus?

Nim's stomach flipped inside her. That was his voice. His voice. Him. Here. In Cheydinhal. But it couldn’t be Raminus. What was he doing here ? Panic set in at once, and Nim raced downstairs. What should she do? Stay? Flee?

Nim turned herself in circles, wanting to linger, wanting to see him but having no reason to explain her being there beyond the lie she’d made up just last night. She scrambled to the dining room and rummaged desperately through the cabinets in search of polished silver. When was the last time she had bathed? Why didn’t she brush her hair this morning? Nim sniffed her shirt and it smelled of burnt lotus seeds, and oh, for the love of mudcrabs, why on Nirn didn't she think to change?

Finding her awkward, bulging reflection in the least marred goblet within reach, Nim ran her fingers through her frizzed mop of hair, attempting to smooth down the fly-aways that waved back. She proceeded down to the alchemy desk, which at this hour stood unattended, and retrieved a sprig of lavender from the ingredients cabinet. Crushing it between her fingers, she rubbed it furiously over her arms, down her neck, across her shirt for good measure. 

Maybe it's not too late to leave , she thought as she searched for a fresher sprig. She could run back to the sanctuary, change, wash up, race back. But what if Raminus left by then? Nim couldn't bear the thought. What if—

“Nimileth?"

His voice from somewhere high above, a silver light to part the murk of her racing mind. Nim looked up to the landing at the top of the stairs and scrubbed the lavender in slower, smaller circles. Raminus was standing there, watching her, looking puzzled as the crumbs of crushed flower fell unceremoniously to her feet.  

A meek grin was all she could muster. "Oh, Raminus," she said, ignoring the bits of lavender that tumbled through her fingers. "What good fortune to see you. What brings you this way?"

Raminus descended the stairs slowly. She swept the crushed lavender under the rug with her feet. “I could ask the same.”

“I think I asked first.”

He quirked a smile, just a flash. Nim felt her legs grow wobbly beneath her, and by Kynareth was it hot out today. She needed water. 

“I was just speaking with Deetsan," he said. "I took your advice and read through Mucianus' reports. They were... invaluable. I should have pushed to review through them sooner. I can't believe it took all this to make a change." And then his smile was gone.

Nim didn't quite know what to say, and so she simply stood there staring as Raminus made his way across the ground floor toward her.

"We’ve made progress in tracking Falcar," he explained. "That's why I'm here."

Nim’s ears perked at the news. "Oh?"

"It turns out the necromancers at Nenyond Twyll were in touch with him. Mucianus thought he may have been headed to a hideout or safehouse somewhere southeast of Skingrad. I promised to keep Deetsan updated with any of my findings. I can't imagine how stressful it must have been for her to take on his role in his absence.”

“But that’s an excellent development," Nim said. "I knew Mucianus had to have found something of use. To spend that much time gathering intelligence, I'm just pleased to hear his investigation bore fruit." Raminus nodded demurely. Nim felt like she was talking too much. "It was very courteous of you to travel all this way to tell her about the updates in person.”

“Yes, well, I’d want the same done if I were in her position.” Raminus was halfway to the front door now. He walked to it, paused, looked at Nim and opened his mouth. No sound escaped. Dear Gods, but it was even hotter inside than it was on the walk over. She wiped at her brow. "I'm glad to see you actually," he said.

"Me?" Nim asked. Raminus, here? In Cheydinhal? Happy to see her? She inched forward absentmindedly, and why wouldn't she want to be nearer, and soon she was before him, staring up with fevered longing. She took in all of him. His eyes of moss green, his hair clean but unkempt as usual. "Why’s that?"

Raminus cleared his throat. “Oh. Um. Well, I assume you’ve received word from Arch-mage Traven.”

"Traven," Nim said, and suddenly the world snapped back into focus. "Traven," she repeated. "Of course." She shook her head and pushed her hair behind her ears and felt like such an incredibly dim-witted fool for having believed he meant anything else. “More information from Mucianus' reports, I take it?"

"Indeed. Traven sent word to Count Hassildor, and the Count has responded requesting a meeting with you in Skingrad. I believe the Arch-mage's wrote to Anvil requesting your presence so that he might bring you up to date on our findings."

"Ah, well, I've been away from Anvil actually. I haven’t checked my mail in a few days.”

“Of course. I'm sure you've been busy. Collecting ingredients, I imagine? The growing season will be coming to an end shortly."

Nim gave a relieved nod, thankful for the excuse. "Yes, most everything I need for my usual stock has finished blooming by now."

"Right, and then I'm sure you'll be busy brewing your potions."

"Right," Nim said. "I will."

"And then you'll sell them."

"Right."

"For, um, money."

They fell quiet, and Raminus shifted on his feet, looking away from her. Nim felt somehow even more self-conscious than she was moments ago. She really should have bathed before she left. Gods, she was such a troll.

"Are you— are you in Cheydinhal for very long?" Raminus asked. 

"Uh, maybe. Why? Are you?"

"Actually, I was hoping to catch a carriage back today."

"Oh, so soon," Nim said, crestfallen as she thought of Raminus, here, in Cheydinhal no longer.  

"Yes, I only came to see Deetsan. Had I known you’d be here, I would have…”

“Yes?”

“Brought message from the Arch-mage,” he said after clearing his throat. “I'm sure he'd like to talk to you sooner rather than later. And well, it's been a few weeks since you've visited the University. Your absence is sorely noted."

Nim's cheeks grew hotter. She felt feverish, faint. "Is it?"

"Yes." Raminus looked away again. He stuck his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels and chuckled. "Bothiel speaks of you all the time, really. There's no one else to engage her in her rants about the Dwemer, and the only sound escaping the Orrery these days is that of grinding gears. I suppose it makes for good white noise, but... well, it's not quite the same."

Nim couldn't fight the smile creeping to her face. "I see. Well if the Arch-mage has sent for me, it must be important."

“We could take a carriage together," he suggested. "I’ll pay. If, um, you’re headed that way, of course. But I'm sure your business here in Cheydinhal is important too, so I certainly wouldn't want to keep you from that. I mean, with your alchemy business and all..."

Raminus rambled on, and was that eagerness in his voice? Was he as happy to see her as she was him? Nim’s heart lumbered clumsily in her chest. Thump thomp thump.

"...asters finish blooming in the fall, so the book said, but I guess it must depend on altitude too, right? Phenology, an interesting topic, but pfft, what would I know about asters and listen to me babble on. I don't even know if you collect asters. Do you? No? And what was it exactly you said you were doing here by the way?"

“Oh, collecting... water hyacinth," Nim choked out. "And I had some questions for Deetsan while I was in the area, but I'll ask another time. This business with the Arch-mage seems pressing."

"I really didn't mean to interrupt your—"

"No, no, no," Nim cut him off. "Let me just run over to the tavern and grab my bag. I'll meet you at the gate?"

"Sure," Raminus said, and he smiled, gesturing toward the door. He held it open for her, and she passed through, a familiar comfort washing over her to step into such a beautiful day with Raminus at her side. He followed her out onto the road. “Bothiel will be so glad to see you," he said.

Nim looked over her shoulder at him and already she began to mourn their inevitable departure.“Yeah," she said, working hard to keep her smile from growing any wider. "I’m sure looking forward to seeing her too.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Mistakes and Misinterpretations

The idle chatter of the dinner hour patrons was a welcome din to Raminus' ears. He had always thought best in white noise, and now, seated in the tavern, he drummed his fingers against his tankard and added his own senseless sounds to the background drone. His mind wandered through thoughts of work, to the stack of half-graded essays before him, the lesson plans he'd been preparing for the upcoming quarter. At the moment, all of it seemed unusually small.

Nim was still in her meeting with the Arch-mage, but they had planned to meet here afterward. To some extent, Raminus regretted agreeing to it. He was tired from his travels, tired from his work, and knowing what Hannibal Traven was asking of her set his anxieties spinning in circles. Raminus pushed at his stack of papers. Now, one ale in and her absence so very noticeable, he couldn't quite shake the worries from his mind.

Per Hannibal’s explanation, Nim was to travel to Skingrad to speak with Count Hassildor (honestly this time, not under pretense) as the Count himself had asked specifically for her assistance. Raminus hoped that meant good news. An invitation from Count Hassildor was not to be taken lightly, especially given how poorly the Council's last interaction with him had gone. Raminus had sent Nim out on their behalf and swallowed back a sour mouthful of the memory. What a disaster it had been. He and the Council had nearly gotten her killed in Skingrad, and what had they done ever since? Sat idly by, bickered like children, sent her out into the fray again.

But now, one ale in and with his careful dissection of Mucianus' reports, Raminus was certain things would be better moving forward. He had taken Nim’s advice and was now working more intimately on the issue than he ever had in the past. Where the Council had previously fallen short, he would step in, take the investigation into his own hands. He only wished he had done so sooner. Maybe then he could have anticipated the attack on the Wellspring, and he thought of Eletta and Zahrasha, how there should have been more mages stationed there to protect them. Skingrad, Nim fighting the necromancers all alone thinking that the Council had led her into an ambush. And Nenyond Twyll. Mucianus. The battlemages who had lost their lives. That was blood on the Council's hands. Blood on his hands, and how could Raminus call himself a Master Wizard with any pride when he’d allowed such atrocities under his leadership?

Raminus sipped his drink. Things were going to change, starting now, starting yesterday. He would protect the mages that served the guild, and he would ensure that what happened before would never happen again. Never mind that he’d not been prepared for these responsibilities. Never mind that until half a year ago, his duties revolved around advising and budgeting and designing course curricula. In the wake of recent tragedies, all of that seemed so small, his position suddenly so much larger. Raminus would not lose another mage to the necromancers, let alone Nim. Least of all Nim.

He glanced toward the door. Where was she? Her meeting with Traven was taking far longer than he’d expected, and the sunlight had begun to leach from the sky, casting it in a lilac haze. It would be night in another hour. The tavern would empty of its dinner patrons, and it would be just the two of them. The two of them alone. Raminus’ stomach fluttered. Sipping his ale in anticipation, he scribbled out a note for his lesson on shielding spells, highlighting a passage on their differences from wards, but the distraction did not help, did not quell the churning in his belly when he thought of meeting her here, seeing her again. Talking to her about nothing and about everything, and what stupid luck that he’d run into her in Cheydinhal. Why, it seemed a stroke of the divine.

Raminus reached into his pocket and felt for the small wooden box there. Inside was a ring, simple but enchanted, a gesture of appreciation that he’d meant to give to her on her promotion to Magician months ago. But upon their return from the Dark Fissure, Raminus had been too nervous to approach. In truth, a part of him thought it best to forget about the ring entirely. It was a silly gesture, frivolous and ill-considered thanks after all she’d done for the Guild, and so it had sat in its box on his dresser until Second Seed, weeks after their mission and weeks after stewing. When he’d finally worked up the courage, he made plans to host a dinner for her birthday. With Bothiel, of course, a dinner for the three of them. A dinner among friends. Colleagues. Associates.

But Second Seed came, and with it Nim had fled to Anvil, and so it was that the ring had sat in the box on his dresser for months. Until today.

Raminus waited and the longer he stared at his lesson plan, the more his innards felt like they housed a dozen writhing caterpillars, each threatening to inch their way out his throat. He could feel them tickling there behind his tongue, and he knew they would bloom into the most horrendous of moths should he open his mouth to speak. Yes, he could envision them with crystal clarity: furry, dark brown, a wingspan the size of his face. The kind with eyespots. He shuddered.

Stop riling yourself up over nothing, Raminus scolded himself as he peered into the reflection within his mug. He drank it deeply. This is a cordial visit between colleagues. Nothing more.

But what if it wasn’t… what if…

Raminus snapped the thought in half and tossed back his drink. The impropriety of it, the scandal! Why, he should be ashamed for even entertaining it in the privacy of his mind! His concern for Nimileth was the same as it was for the countless mages of their institution, but alone at his table, alone and thinking of her, he couldn’t help the way his cheeks flushed with so much warmth at the thought.

For the love of Julianos, he was a Master Wizard seated on the Council. The youngest member or not, he’d no excuse to be acting like such a school boy. What he felt for Nim was nothing but the utmost admiration. Yes, he offered himself a reassuring nod, nothing more.

No sooner had he dispelled the thought than he heard her voice calling his name. "Raminus!" Small and wispy, like morning mist, that sound that sliced so cleanly through the din. Nim was standing in the open door across the tavern, her figure silhouetted by the torchlight at her back. Despite the nerves pulling his stomach in knots, it was hard for Raminus not to smile.

"Nim," he said and waved her in. "Your meeting with the Arch-mage went well?”

"Meh," she said and gestured toward the bar. “What are you drinking?”

“Colovian amber.”

Nim returned to his table with another mug of ale in tow, and the two fell into silence and only a professionally passable amount of simpering. Nim smiled bashfully, twisting her mug in circles. Nervous, Raminus looked away.

“I... um. I have something for you.”

“Oh?" Nim chirped. "What is it? May I see?”

"Yes, of course," he said, but the sound was somewhat brittle, his voice on the verge of breaking. Damned moths in his throat making every noise sound inhuman. He cleared it, forced them down. "I'll give it to you before you go."

"But can I see it now?" she asked excitedly. "Surprises are overrated. I'll be waiting here anxiously the entire time."

“Well... alright." Raminus relented, and his crooked smile grew even more gnarled as he tried to strangle his nerves. "I was waiting to give it to you the next time you came to visit, but I guess, here you are. I realize I never got you anything for being promoted to Magician or for celebrating your apprenticeship or for your new house in Anvil. Or your birthday even.”

"You didn't have to get me anything.”

"It seemed right. Consider it a gift for your promotion to Warlock."

"Oh, like a bonus?"

"Yes, like a bonus."

She scooted in, closer to the table. Something in her expression began to dim. "That... that's too kind, Raminus. I really can't. I shouldn't accept it."

"Ah. Oh." What to do now? Raminus removed his hand from his pocket and passed his ale between his palms. "Sorry. I meant no disrespect."

"Disrespect? No, nothing like that." Silence fell upon them. It seemed to startle Nim. She sat up straighter and took a long sip of her drink. "Well, I mean, it's just a bonus. I can at least take a peak, right? If you don't think it greedy of me."

"Greedy? Never. After all you've done? I assure you, it can only be to your benefit. Given your new rank, I imagine you’ll have your work cut out for you."

"You know, I didn't even realize I’d been promoted."

Raminus scrunched a brow. “The Arch-mage should have let you know. He didn't inform you following your return from Nenyond Twyll?"

“Um." Nim tugged at the chain of her amulet, pulling it back and forth, back and forth. Her eyes flitted from Raminus to the latticed window above him. "It’s possible that I wasn’t listening to what Traven said after a while."

Raminus laughed, smiled, nervous again. “Nim, he is the Arch-mage. Surely, you mean that in jest."

“You know, I seem to have some difficulties with authority figures," she said, then waved her hand dismissively. “But that's neither here nor there. You were saying something about a gift?”

“Yes, you’re a Warlock now. Pretty soon, I imagine you’ll be taking my place.”

“Oh, they just give me these fancy titles so that I’ll keep doing their dirty work. This place wouldn’t run without you, Raminus.”

“Untrue. You’ve earned every rank I’ve bestowed upon you, but let’s not argue about it. It’s nothing much, just what I could afford on a wizard’s salary.” Raminus drew forth the wooden box from his pocket. “I had it enchanted. I thought it was something practical you could use in your daily studies. I hope that you find it to your liking.”

He removed the lid, and Nim peered inside. When her eyes settled on the silver band within, she released a muted gasp. The emerald inset twinkled in the light. Her eyes, wide with awe, did not part from the glittering gem, and Raminus' eyes could not part with hers unless they were pried out with a spoon.

“I took it to an enchanter," he said, and he watched her with bated breath, waiting for a reaction that did not come. "An old friend of mine from my days as an Apprentice. See this rune here? It's supposed to help prolong illusionary suspension. I thought about what we— er, what I had said to you at the Dark Fissure and felt that maybe it was impolite. Illusion might not be of much use to me, but I know you cherish your practice dearly.”

Nim blinked then looked up with a wilted expression. Wilted. What had he done wrong? Eyes wide and mouth puckered into a worried moue, she looked like a spurned puppy. Troubled, almost... sad.

Raminus' face suffused with heat. He laid the box on the table and pushed it toward her. “It's also augmented to aid with your alteration," he said, rattling it off quickly, "to reduce some of the charge required to manipulate physical objects around you. You know, since you claimed to be so bad at it.” And he laughed again, but the chuckle he hoped would break the tension stuck in his throat, eliciting a horribly dry croak.

Nim picked up the box, her brows sunken and sulky.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. Panic burned across his face. He could feel it spreading his features wider. Had he offended her? She looked like she was about to cry. “Emerald... it's your birthstone, isn’t it?”

Nim nodded and stared, and after what felt like an hour, finally the whisper of a grin crept to her lips. “Raminus," she breathed out, and his name on her breath— dear Gods, did it sound like a song. "I don’t know what to say. You’re so sweet to me. I don’t know how I could ever thank you.”

Relief washed through him and he felt, for a moment, physically lighter, full of air. "Oh. It’s a reward well deserved. No thanks is needed.”

“But it’s so lovely." And by the twinge in her voice, she seemed to suggest that such a quality should preclude her from ever owning it.

“Yes," he said, "and it suits you.”

Nim slipped the ring on the middle finger of her left hand and spread her palm before Magnus' fading light. The emerald reflected the last of the broken sunbeams spilling in from the window. Her smile deepened the longer she stared. “Is it true then?” she asked, her voice nearly a whisper. Her eyes remained fixed on the ring.

“Is what true?”

“Raminus,” she said again. Finally, that concerning look had left her, and in its place was something gentle. Tender. Yearning.

The skin beneath Raminus’ robes prickled with sweat. He shifted in his seat. When had it gotten so damn hot? “Yes?”

“You fancy me.”

A pause. An electric jolt across his sternum. “I beg your pardon?” But her words echoed clearly in his skull. You fancy me, you fancy me, you fancy me—

“Ramnius, just tell me. Don’t play coy.”

“Nimileth, I—“ His lungs constricted within his chest. All the air left his body. Raminus struggled for breath., “Wh-what?”

“The gifts. Your kind words, that nervous look in your eye whenever we speak.” Raminus could say nothing. He stared at her wide-eyed and petrified and positively crawling out of his skin. “Oh my," she murmured. "You look startled.”

Startled wasn't the half of it. Raminus felt like a pile of scrib jelly turned to liquid beneath the sun. “Oh my,” he repeated, bereft of all other words and growing increasingly damp beneath his robes. Never could he have imagined he’d find himself here. Well... maybe once. Maybe twice, but those were moments from his dreamscape, and he had absolutely no control over such things.

Raminus cursed himself silently as his Cyrodiliic failed him. He certainly didn’t respond so skittishly when this occurred in his dreams. “These rewards are for your accomplishments in the guild," he told her. "We want our members to strive for greatness and—“

“So, I’m wasting my time is what you’re saying.”

“I don’t understand what you mean."

Nim raised a brow, her smile playful, and yet there was something behind her eyes that looked worried. "Don't you?"

"You’ve been an invaluable asset to the guild since you’ve joined. I thought I— the Council made that clear to you.”

“Raminus Polus, I don’t for a second believe a Master Wizard could be this dense. Am I wasting my time in pursuing you? Riddle me that, please.”

Raminus gasped for air. “Nimileth, I am your superior,” he said and paused, allowing time for the words to sink in. Nim worried the corner of her lips and squinted at him. She bounced her gaze from the ring on her finger back to Raminus, and all the while he was unwinding, every last nerve just a spool of yarn pulled loose in the paws of a merciless kitten. “Nimileth, I once gave you your orders. I once taught you."

"Well, not technically," she said. "You taught other first years. You once advised me, but you don't anymore."

"I still grant your advancements."

"Mmm, pretty sure you just told me that Traven promoted me to Warlock."

"A relationship like this would... well, it would be considered terribly inappropriate. Unprofessional. I... I'm afraid it would reflect quite poorly on someone in my position.”

"I do believe it is Hannibal Traven himself that I report to now,” Nim stated matter-of-factly.

"Yes, but..."

"But what? You think the Council would frown upon it if they knew?"

"I don't think, Nim. I know it."

"And that's it? That's the only reason."

Raminus blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Well, if that’s truly the reason you’re so hesitant to answer me, we could ask the Arch-mage. Surely it's happened before. We can’t be the only ones.”

Ask? Ask the Council? Ask the Council if they approved of a Master Wizard fraternizing with a student? Dear Gods, she was serious. Nim leaned back in her chair, and her smile was fast falling, fading with the light of the sun. She waited for Raminus to respond, but all he could do was blush, open his mouth like a dying helpless trout pulled fresh from the river.

“Oh," she said, and her shoulders drooped. "So that’s not really why you’re avoiding the question, is it then?”

Frozen, Raminus’ mouth went dry, and he struggled to produce a sentence of coherent Cyrodiliic. What had he done to convince himself this was a good idea? Damn him! He'd never been good with women, had one ex-wife to prove it, but his sister had told him that women liked jewelry, and Nim, well… Nim was a woman. Woman plus jewelry plus she liked the amulet I had given her before. An enchanted ring seemed fitting.

But now... damn it, how had it led him here? How had he messed this up so badly? Raminus wondered if his affections had always been so obvious, and the thought startled him newly. If Nimileth had thought so, perhaps other mages had too... And what would the Council think if they overheard him, bungling this conversation now?

"Tell me you don't think there is something here," Nim said, so earnest.

Raminus choked on his tongue.

His mind flashed through memories, moments, visions of her. Times Nim had brought herself so dangerously close to him, close enough that he could feel her breath against his skin. That night in the Orrery, her lashes sweeping his cheek. Clutching her hand as they sat above the Dark Fissure. Not so long ago beneath the cracked cottonwood, when she was leaning against him, when he’d felt the desire to hold her burn like wildfire through sagebrush. Times that Raminus had, if only for a few stolen seconds, wondered what her lips felt like against his, what her sleeping body looked like clothed in only morning light...

Raminus looked down at Nim, met her broken expression with horror-struck eyes. Shame gnawed though his belly, forced its teeth into his spine and rendered him entirely immobile. And Nim, poor Nim, flushed so red. Staring down at her, Raminus had never felt so old and lecherous in all his life.

“Nimileth," he finally croaked out, "I'm what, ten years your elder?"

"Oh, less than that," she said. "You're not so old, and I'm not so young. Don't say elder. Nine, you don't even have a gray hair."

"I'm a few years from thirty, and you... well—"

"It's the age? Raminus, I'm twenty."

"No, it's not that."

"No?"

"It wouldn't be right for me to— Our ranks, you must understand. I'm a Master Wizard and you—"

"I'm what?"

"Well, you're not."

“Oh.” Nim withered. “Of course."

It was the wrong thing to say. It had been nothing but the wrong thing sentence after lumbering sentence. Panic swept through him with the force of a rogue wave. "It's not that," he blurted out, then regretted it immediately. If not that then what, you idiot? "Nim, please, I admire you greatly—"

"No, I understand. Really.”

But had she understood? Raminus watched her collect her belongings, stunned to silence. He wanted to call out after her, tell her that he longed for this moment, that for months he had confined it to his dreams. Had she really understood what he was trying to say? Had he?

“I really don’t know how I got this so wrong,” Nim murmured and stood to her feet. She picked her sack off the floor and looked up at him, shaking her head gently before turning her gaze away. “Forgive me for being so forward. I... I hope I haven’t made you too uncomfortable.”

“Nim, don't leave," Raminus said, desperate and yet not desperate enough to chase after her. "Not because of this, please. You only startled me. I didn't mean—"

She paused, stared at him with hopeful eyes, and once again Raminus' mouth fell agape, void of words.

“I really need to go," she said when he failed to respond. "I have to...” But she never finished that sentence. Then she left.

Raminus felt himself the greatest fool to grace Nirn. He didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t. Was he not making it up all those times he thought he caught her stare? Had they shared in that same desire all along?

Raminus cursed loudly in his seat, drawing scrutinizing glares from the busy tavern-goers. "Spineless sload," he hissed under his breath. As if she didn’t already think you were old!

“Aye.” Raminus looked up. It was Ley Marillin, the tavern publican, staring down at Raminus as he dried an empty tankard and gestured toward the ale on the table. “Can I get you another?”

Raminus shook his head and sighed. “No, I’m fine thank you. I’ve hardly touched this one.”

“Listen,” Ley continued. “It’s not my place to say, but Nim... she's a fiery one, a real scorcher. Why, I just lifted her ban on this here establishment about a year ago, and it’s probably for the best you let her be."

"A ban?"

"Fights and stuff, the usual waterfront rabble, her and all her thieving ilk. I'm sure you've seen the type." He clucked his tongue and shook his head, shriveling his nose as he did so. "You shoulda seen what she did to the last bloke who crossed her. Poor Velwyn hasn’t been the same since he got back from Anvil."

Fights? Thieving? Velwyn? Raminus had yet to process the previous conversation, and this one was soaring right over his head.

"You sure I can’t get you another one, even on the house? Mate, that looked awful rough from where I was standing.”

Raminus let out all the breath he had in him. "Yes. Another one, please."

“Back from work, busy bee?” Nim glanced up from the floor and found Antoinetta sitting in a corner of the main hall, alone, her pale face illuminated by a tray of candles. When Nim met her eye, she offered a small wave. “Come sit for a bit?”

With nothing else to do, Nim lifted one foot then the other, dragged her weary body along, and collapsed into the seat.

"Sorry I missed your poison class,” Antoinetta said, passing her needle and thread through the torn pair of trousers in her lap. “It’s my loss, really. I got back into town later than expected. I heard it was good. Bet I would have learned a lot.”

“Eh.” Nim shrugged. “I’ve got a long way to go on my pedagogy before my instruction becomes useful to anyone. I can't believe Vicente asked me to do that. I should have just said no, ran off to Anvil when I had the chance.”

"Oh, for your next contract? Were you planning on leaving us so soon?”

“Soon? I’ve stayed far longer than intended. Vicente and Ocheeva keep wrangling me into staying longer. I swear they don't want me to get any work done."

"And where were you just now?" Antoinetta passed her eyes over Nim, from the pack at her feet to her worn, dirtied clothes. "You look like you just came in off the road."

"I did. I’ve been down in the sanctuary too long. Needed a change in scenery.”

“Well, when you live in the sanctuary, a couple of days worth of visiting isn’t very long at all, not really.”

With a sigh, Nim slumped further into her seat. She hadn't slept much on the carriage ride, just a few hours, and she could use a few couple hundred more. Closing her eyes, she listened to the shambling of the skeletal guardian, and from the training room came a muffled grunt, the thud, thud of a dummy being struck.

"'S'quiet," Nim said. "How nice."

"Yes, it’s often quiet when you’re not around.”

"I barely speak much to anyone here. It’s quiet when I’m around too.”

“It was different before you were here. Everyone was so… so on edge. What with the rumors going around about Maria and Blanchard, what happened with Aventina. It’s just so nice to have someone new around."

Nim squinted an eye open. "What happened?"

"Ugh, Lorise and I will have to tell you sometime. It shook us all up. The silence was so suffocating, but we've moved on from that, I think. New blood is good for us all. People talk when you’re in the room.”

Nim couldn't help but frown. She never thought living in the sanctuary with so many people could be lonely, especially not for someone as sociable as Antoinetta. And yet staring at her in the soft light of the candle flame, Nim watched a thin weight dig out the first lines of a frown.

“Where do you go anyway?” Antoinetta asked, eyes on the leather patch she was mending.

“To take care of my marks."

“Very clever." Antoinetta rolled her eyes. "You’re hardly here in between contracts, I mean. What do you do when you're not here?”

Nim scratched at her cheek and pulled her hand back to find an alarming amount of dirt and road dust under her nails. She picked at it absently. “I have other responsibilities too. People to see, things to sell, debts to pay, you know.”

“Not really. I haven’t known a life outside of the Dark Brotherhood in years. This is my home. All I need is within its walls. At least Lorise lives in town so I get to see her every now and then, but of course, she spends most of her time with Vicente, and sometimes being around the two of them for too long..." Antoinetta shook her head and sighed. "You’ll be staying for a while, right?”

“I have to. Apparently, there’s going to be a gathering.”

Antoinetta sparked alive at that. “Oh, you’re going to love it, Nim! We can be real fun when we want to be. There’s going to be drinking and dancing. We can all let loose for once!"

"Ah, okay. I don't mind any of those things."

"And we can all get ready together! Lorise has this surprisingly large collection of cosmetics, and why I'll never understand. She never wears it! A face like hers, I suppose she doesn't need to, but she's quite good at it! Maybe she could do yours for the night. Would you let her? Can I do your hair?"

"Uh, yeah," Nim said with a nervous laugh, but in truth it didn't sound so terrible at all.

"Great!" Antoinetta slapped her knees, and by now she was bubbling over with excitement. "Oh, it's going to be so much fun. We should plan to go shopping. I don't think I have anything to wear. And did you hear that Lucien is coming, and he’s bringing the other Speakers and...” Swaying in her seat, Antoinetta prattled on, her face curled into a smile so wide it was as if her whole face had become a mouth. “Really, you’ll see," she said with an insistent nod. "It will be such a delightful time. You’ll see."

“I certainly will, won’t I?"

Nim tried to smile, feigning a well-mannered politeness when she could not dredge up the energy for real excitement. Even if playing dress-up with Antoinetta and Lorise did sound like a pleasant evening, the last thing she was looking forward to was a party. No, what Nim wanted to do was go home. She wanted to mope, cry a little. She wanted to curl up on her bed with the stray cats and a bottle of wine and read The Mystery of Talara all over again.

What she wanted was to take her mind off of Raminus and the Guild, and if moping didn't work, she'd occupy her mind elsewhere. She'd go to Skingrad, meet with the damned Count, bite her tongue when necessary like the good little lap dog she was. She'd run the Council's errands for them. She wouldn't say a word. She wouldn't mourn Mucianus or bemoan the fact that the Council was more concerned about their relationship with self-absorbed nobility than they were about preserving the lives of her fellow guildmates. No, she'd say nothing on the matter. Why should she, a cog in the machine? What did she care?

And what did she care about anything these days? When all was said and done, she was a criminal, tarnished, so what did it matter how hard she tried to fix her life when it never worked in the end? At least completing her contracts pleased Vicente. At least he was happy for her, proud of her. Ocheeva and Lorise and Antoinetta and even Lucien would praise her, give glory to Sithis and dance naked in the moonlight in her name, and who knew? Maybe nothing was not so bad in the end.

Nim looked down at the ring Raminus had given her and clenched her fist tightly, tight enough that the ring bit. Gods, what a fool she had been. How could she have misread the signals time and time again? His nervous fidgeting in her presence, his distance, his awkward laughs— tension that she had interpreted as romantic only to be slapped so violently with the truth.

No, not violently. The worst part of all was that Raminus had tried so hard to spare her feelings, avoiding and evading, and how long had she been ignoring it? How long had she been hoping to see something that was never truly there?

An illusion, that was all it was. Only now with the glittering ring on her finger could Nim see it plainly without her witless fantasies clouding her judgment, how misconstrued it had all been in her mind. Nim, the unwanted. Nim, the used. Nim, the pining, pathetic dreamer with fantasies she had never quite learned how to quell.

Nim cleared her throat, feeling ugly and disgusting and small. She looked up to find Antoinetta staring at her curiously, and by now, Nim realized her half-hearted smile was gone.

"You don't look all that excited," Antoinetta said.

"The party, it pushes my contract back," she said weakly and spun Raminus’ ring around her finger. "I should be in the Imperial reserve right now, taking care of it. It's hard to relax when there's still work to be done."

“Hmm, yeah." Antoinetta’s face fell crooked. "And it sounds dangerous too. A warlord in a fort filled with mercenaries under his employ? Lucien sure puts a lot of faith in you.”

“Who told you the details?” Nim asked, though nothing would have surprised her. By now, she’d come to expect that in the sanctuary, her business was everyone else’s too. Antoinetta nodded in the direction of Ocheeva’s door. Nim clucked her tongue. “Nosy.”

“What’s a nose for if not to stick it where it doesn’t belong?”

Nim buried her hands between her knees so she would stop looking at the damned ring. She nodded at the trousers in Antoinetta's lap. "That tear looks unpleasant. "What happened on your last contract?"

At that, Antoinetta scoffed. “You really don’t want to hear.”

“Yes, I do. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know.”

“It was a mess,” Antoinetta groaned, defeated. “My mark woke up while I was in his bedroom. I got him alright, but not before he managed to stick me in my thigh. I fell through the window on my way out.”

Nim whipped her eyes to Antoinetta’s legs and the blue cotton skirt that covered them. “Gods, were you badly hurt?" she asked. Cautiously she reached out to touch her arm, and at least Antoinetta didn’t seem to be in pain. "Do you need—“

Antoinetta shook her head. Short blonde waves dancing against her shoulders. “No, I’m fine now. Vicente patched me up when I got back. The window wasn’t very high from the ground anyway.”

“Well, you completed the contract, and you made it out alive. That sounds like a good day’s work to me.”

“I forfeited the bonus. His wife heard the struggle from the other room and caught me over his dead body. Word made it back to the guards.”

“Oh, Antoinetta, you made it back in one piece. There will be other chances.”

Antoinetta wrinkled her nose and stared bitterly at her torn armor. “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve had contracts lined up for you since you came back from Bruma. Me? I’ve clearly shown how incompetent I am. That doesn’t get you far around here.”

“Well," Nim said awkwardly. "I’ve spent quite a lot of my time training with Vicente. If it wasn’t for his guidance, I don’t know that I’d—“

“You were just as well equipped before.” Short and crisp like a banner snapping in the wind. Antoinetta looked momentarily embarrassed and offered Nim a quick smile, but that sharp edge in her voice had carved most of its cheeriness away.

Nim brought her hands back into her lap and gouged out the dirt under her nails. “I don’t know if that’s true.”

“He’s obviously taken a shine to you.”

“Vicente? Well, I’m quite fond of him too. We spend a lot of time together, I would hope so. He’s been an incredible friend and mentor—”

“Our Speaker," Antoinetta said, the frost in her voice starker. Nim fiddled with her fingernails until they were beginning to crack. "Don’t act like you don’t know it’s true.”

“Can we not talk about Lucien? He doesn’t know me nor I him. There’s nothing to say.”

“He even bought you a gift.” Antoinetta pointed her needle at the amulet around Nim's neck. "And a very pretty one too."

It wasn’t a compliment. Antoinetta was not smiling, and Nim didn’t want to have this conversation. She wished she could make herself invisible, run back to Anvil, bury herself beneath all the blankets she owned.

“S'nothing but my bonus. He probably looted it off a corpse somewhere. It's—”

“It was enchanted specifically for you. He obviously put thought into it. Is that from him as well?” Antoinetta jabbed her needle in the air again, this time pointing at Nim’s hand, the ring that mocked her from her middle finger. In her eyes, a venom more caustic than lye. “It’s new, isn’t it? You weren’t wearing that before.”

“It’s not from him, Antoinetta.”

Antoinetta began mending faster, her hands moving in a blur as she threaded her needle through the patch. “Why don’t you just accept that you’re gifted, and let it be? You’re not fooling anyone by acting coy.”

Faster her hands moved, and the spite was unadorned now. Nim recoiled in her chair. "I don't really understand why this matters."

“Gods, it's so tiring to hear you complain sometimes. As if all of your contracts aren't flawlessly executed. Everyone around you knows it. Why do you bother pretending? Lucien sings your praise, and you don’t even appreciate it. You don’t even find joy in the work."

"Netta, I—"

Antoinetta chuckled humorlessly. "I just don't understand why you're so unhappy all the time. Sithis has blessed you with anything you could want, and you’re not even grateful! What more are you looking for? I just don't get it, Nim. I try and try, and all I can do is— ouch!“

Antoinetta sucked at her teeth. A little bead of red formed where the needle broke her skin. Without asking, Nim reached over and took her hand, letting the soft blue glow of a healing spell engulf it.

Antoinetta's shoulders slumped. She stared at the now healed tip of her finger. “I’m sorry,” she whispered and turned her head, mortified. “I didn’t mean that, Nim. Listen to me whining like a brat. I'm so pathetic.”

“You're not pathetic," Nim said. "You just had a bad day. I told you I didn’t want to talk about Lucien.”

“I should have listened.”

Nim rose, chair creaking beneath her as she stood. “I need to see Ocheeva about some preparations for tomorrow," she lied, then hoisted her pack onto her shoulder. Antoinetta refused to meet her eye, staring instead into the melted wax of the candles. “About the contracts, you can always improve, you know? If you ever want someone to practice with, I would be happy to help you.”

“Thanks, Nim.” Still looking away, her eyes were shimmering now with a thin pool of tears. "I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you for something that I’m—”

“I get it. Don’t say anymore, okay? It's been a long week. We’ll blow off steam tomorrow, right? Drinking and dancing and all manners of deviant behavior.”

Antoinetta chewed her lip. “Right. We will.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: Cheers, Dear Sister

The night of the party came so painfully slowly that Nim wondered if Akatosh had suffered an aneurysm. Hours crept by on the backs of snails, each minute an agonizing, slime-trailed crawl. To make matters worse, all around her, the sanctuary was abuzz with excitement. Assassins flittered back and forth through the halls like rabid bees, cleaning, cooking, babbling amongst themselves, yet the night was approaching no faster. Why was time at a standstill? Why was everyone so excited for such a ridiculous event? Nim was beginning to wonder if the sanctuary's mold had finally ensnared them all in its spore-induced delirium, if she was the only sane one left.

Having no sense of time in the windowless basement, Nim puttered around in circles until she was roped up by Vicente and herded into the kitchen where the whole of the sanctuary (those not on contract) were preparing dinner for the evening party. Nim had offered to do the majority of the baking and set to work on blackberry tarts and fresh loaves of rosemary bread. While she sifted and stirred, kneaded and folded, she chatted with the assassins gathered around her, and though it was pleasant conversation, it would have been more pleasant if they’d anything besides contracts to talk about.

Nim baked for the better part of the afternoon, however long that was. When she finally finished with her share of the preparations, she reclined in bed with A Dance in Fire from Vicente's collection. The conversation at the table continued without her, providing a macabre ambience. Nim listened with half an ear.

"By Sithis, what a night that was!" Gogron bellowed. His voice was the hardest to ignore. "Reminded me of the time you and I raided that traveling carnival. Those contortionists— I never knew a human body could bend such ways while alive! Certainly made stuffing them into their coffins a lot easier, heheh..." 

By chapter five, Telaendril was deep in a retelling of her latest contract and had everyone's rapt attention as they chopped vegetables around the table. Nim caught bits and pieces of the story in between turning her page— something about a scorned lover seeking revenge, a crowded marketplace, a poisoned knife slipped between the ribs. Truthfully, Nim was trying her hardest to tune it all out. The subject was not particularly appealing, and it so happened that she lacked the particular well-breeding required to feign a modicum of interest.

Midway through chapter nine, someone else had entered the room. Nim hoped it was Lorise, prayed it was Lorise, but when she looked to the doorway, she was thoroughly disappointed. Lucien met her eye. She glanced away.

When Lucien rounded the corner, Antoinetta greeted him with a squeal of excitement so shrill that Nim could have sworn it was Schemer squeaking hello. 

“Speaker," Vicente said warmly. "I thought you would be arriving with the rest of our guests. Please join us.” He offered Lucien his seat, and with a small shake of his head, Lucien declined.

“I won't tarry," he said, holding up a perpetually gloved hand. Nim was beginning to wonder if his robes were part of his skin. "The other members of our family will be arriving at the safe house soon. I'm headed there now. I only stopped by to drop off a few bottles of—”

“Bottles?" Nim’s ears perked at the promise of wine.

"Ocheeva delivered your message. Tamika’s," he said. "399.”

"Wow. Tamika's." And Nim eyed the small crate of wine in his hands like a long lost lover. It had been a while since she'd had anything so fine. "A man after my own heart.”

The room filled with muffled laughter, and at once, Nim was washed in embarrassment. She had said it so absently, so air-headed and without thought. Idiot , Nim. How very like her. 

“It's a good vintage,” she said quickly. “That's all.” 

"Nimileth and I shared the same bottle on the night I recruited her into our family. I thought it fitting that we all share the same to celebrate her fulfilled initiation this evening.” 

Telaendril snorted from across the table where she plucked the feathers off a pheasant. "I wish my recruitment had been so relaxing. All I received was a blow to the head."

Lucien kept his eyes fixed on Nim who was now peeking sheepishly over the top of her book. In her periphery she could just barely see Antoinetta who, despite her best efforts, looked ready to pop.

“Sister," Lucien said, inclining his head toward Nim, and she tried to ignore the heat that had since spread to her cheeks. "We are all blessed that Sithis has brought you to us.”

“What a touching thought, Lucien,” Gogron bubbled. “I had no idea you were so sentimental.”

Vicente smirked to himself, chopping onions (as was his duty in the sanctuary). "There are many ways in which our Speaker may surprise you. Get him drunk enough, and he may delight us with a song."

"That is highly unlikely," Lucien replied

"Oh, come now. Don't keep your talents from us. Remember the early days, when you would play for us on quiet evenings?"

"That was some time ago, Brother. I can't say I remember quite as clearly."

"I believe we have a half-harp around here somewhere. Needs tuning, of course. I think I may still know where I kept your old lute..."

"My lute?" Lucien snorted. "It was among the most crudely crafted instruments I've ever played. I'm fairly certain I left it hoping someone would mistake it for kindling."

"As if your hands were not glued to it in your spare time. If I recall correctly, it was the only item in your possession when you joined the sanctuary. I miss the days."

Lucien blinked. Neither said a word. Silence engulfed the table, and for a moment the only sound came from Vicente's knife as it struck the cutting board, chop, chop, chop.

"Well, Vicente," Lucien said and smiled, setting the crate of wine down on the table. "I see I'm not the only one who is so sentimental."

Vicente returned the grin. He gestured toward Nim unexpectedly, and on reflex, she shrunk back against the headboard. "Perhaps Nimileth would like a serenade for her birthday, hmm?"

All eyes turned to her save for Antoinetta's whose attention was directed on carving through a large pumpkin. She stabbed into it with unprecedented fervor. 

"It’s not my birthday," Nim said. "And the wine is plenty."

“I assume the others are on contract,” Lucien said, directing his gaze away. "Will they be back in time?"

"As promised," Vicente replied. "M’raaj-Dar, however, you may find holding up the wall in the hall outside.” 

“Shouldn't he be helping to prepare?”

“Mmm,” Vicente began with a hum, "Nim may have—"

“I stood too close to him, and he didn’t like me breathing his air," Nim confessed. "And, well, in so many words, he told me to go piss on a mudcrab."

“Well, let it be known that M’raaj-Dar certainly values his personal space."

At least somebody around here does , Nim thought bitterly. “It's fine. I don’t take him too seriously.”

“I’m afraid he’s quite serious, Sister,” Vicente insisted. “M’raaj-Dar is not known for his remarkable sense of humor.”

“He’s just a bit rough around the edges. I’m sure he’ll warm up to me eventually.”

"Rough around the edges?" Telaendril snickered. “That is perhaps the kindest way I’ve heard him described.”

“Meh. I bet he only acts so awful because he knows how attractive he is. Handsome men think they can get away with anything."

At that, the room burst into a fit of laughter, and Nim looked to her fellow assassins quite perplexed. When had she told a joke?

“What, you don’t think so?" she asked. "I’ve never seen a more symmetrical face in my entire life. Anyone with a single eye can see he puts quite a lot of time into looking the way he does. It's quite obvious that it must pay off for him.”

Ocheeva, still chuckling, was the first to respond. “Sorry, Nim. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard anyone express interest in M’raaj-Dar, let alone an elf."

“Really?” Nim asked, an inquisitive tone that made it abundantly clear she did not actually believe this to be true. “Haven’t you ever read The Real Barenziah?  Why, I lost my maidenhood to a Khajiit, in fact.”

Nim had returned her attention to her reading before she noticed that the room had grown deathly silent. She looked up from her book to find everyone in the living quarters staring at her as though she had grown another head. Everyone except Lucien and Telaendril. Telaendril was smirking mischievously to herself as she gutted the insides of a pheasant, and Lucien... well, Nim couldn’t tell if his face expressed anger, disgust, or a desperate attempt to hold in gas.

Nim squinted into the room, bouncing her eyes between the sea of shocked expressions. Shaking her head dismissively, she roused herself from her bed and proceeded to the door. "Buncha prudes. Times are changing, yeah? You ought to leave the sanctuary more often." 

After Lucien had left the sanctuary, Nim resorted to standing beneath the well entrance, watching the sun disappear as she waited for Lorise to return. Nim liked the other assassins well enough, more than she thought she ought to, but dear Gods did they love to talk. Gathered all together in one room, she found that hope of peace was fruitless.

Lorise, Nim learned, was the least voluble of the bunch. Quiet but not shy, her questions rare and seldom probing. In her company, Nim found herself comforted rather than made awkward by stretches of silence. They did speak, of course. Most often of Valenwood and of life as a mercenary, the places Lorise had travelled for work before landing in Cyrodiil. Lorise never offered much about herself. She kept herself at arms length even within her own stories, always a distant spectator describing the plights of people she'd come to know and watch die. When a small sliver of her private life did flash in the spaces between, Nim never craned for a better view, though she wanted to. Lorise, in turn, granted her the same privacy, and Nim cherished it, clung to it closely. In some strange way, Lorise reminded her that although they were assassins, they were not shadow pressed to the wall but people built in three-dimensions. People with depth, a life, a past no matter how obscured.

It was not quite sunset when Lorise finally arrived. Freshly washed, her hair still damp, she smelled of lye soap, unfragranced and clean. Under her arms, she clutched a twine wrapped, brown package, and on her face was a positively devilish grin.

"I got it," Lorise said, her eyes glittering with mischievous delight, then without warning, gripped Nim by the wrist and dragged her off through the hall. "Let's go find Netta. Come on."

Antoinetta was in the living quarter ironing out a pale blue dress, but when she spied Lorise and the package, she jumped to her feet and raced for the door. Giggling to themselves, Lorise and Antoinetta prodded and pulled at Nim until they had successfully backed her into Vicente's quarters. 

“Alright, birthday girl, here it is,” Lorise beamed and shoved the package into Nim’s arms. 

“Please don’t call me that,” Nim pouted as she slowly peeled off the wrapping. “It’s not my birthday, and it won’t be for another two thirds of the year.”

From beside her, Antoinetta rolled her eyes. “Oh, psh, so what? We want to celebrate your success and unwind over good food and strong drink! You’re going into this with the wrong mindset. We’re not all mirthless barbarians, I'll have you know. Maybe I ought to bring down a bottle to loosen you up, hmm?”

"S'not a bad idea," Nim admitted. How else was she going to get through the night? 

Nim ripped through another strip of wrapping. In honor of the party, the women of the sanctuary (her sisters as they called themselves) had all pitched in to order her a new dress from a catalog stocked by Borba’s Goods in town. It was a kind gesture, Nim noted, but quite unnecessary. What did they need to dress up for?  They were assassins, and who were they trying to impress in these dimly lit, dust-covered hallways? 

Lorise gestured impatiently for Nim to continue unwrapping. “Netta's right. It’s your party regardless of whether you want it or not."

"It's not my party."

"Don't be a baby. Soak up the spotlight for one night. It won't kill you.”

“Attention is the last thing I want in our line of business. Why is that so surprising to all of you?"

When the last piece of packaging lay on the floor, Nim removed the lid of the box and gaped. Eyes impossibly wide, she stared into the tissue paper, speechless, feeling her face drain of blood.

Upon spying her mortified expression, Antoinetta peered over her shoulder. “Oh my."

The dress was the most hideous color to ever grace Nim's eyes. Though the fabric was of fine quality, she couldn’t think of a single soul, not a single skin tone that this chartreuse brocade would flatter. The vibrant yellow was accented by threads of rich mustard and lime green that were stitched into ornate floral patterns. Nim swallowed hard and stared at the brocade embossment, trailing her gaze over the woven swirls across the bodice. Nim would rather wear a gown made out of one hundred stitched Cowls of Nocturnal before she let herself be paraded around in that thing, and somehow it only seemed to grow uglier the longer she stared.

Antoinetta turned to Lorise, chewing her bottom lip. "Hey, Lo, that’s not what the illustration in the catalog advertised at all.”

Nim unfolded the dress and held it up before her. The cut dipped deeply at the breast, cinched at the waist, and billowed out into a ruffled skirt that was nearly the width of the table. She frowned, peering over the dreadful thing, and met Lorise’s equally panicked eyes. “Is this some sort of cruel joke?”

“Oh, by Y'ffre, no! It looked completely different in the catalog!"

Antoinetta stood in awe, scratching her head in confusion. "What in all hells?" she said. "It should be a crime to even make such a thing!"

Lorise waved a hand through the air, took the dress, and plastered on her most winning smile as she undid the laces and buttons at the back. "Well, maybe it won’t look so bad once you put it on, hmm? It's probably just a bit overstarched. We'll flatten it out.”

Despite the comforting words, Nim was unconvinced this dress was anything short of disastrous. She stared at it, morbidly fascinated, the way she'd stare at a jar of pickled three-eyed calves. Seeing as Lorise was still waiting and seeing as she had nothing else to do, she stripped down to her undergarments and slipped inside, let Lorise lace her up at the back. 

Turning to the mirror on the wall, Nim held in the impulse to shriek. “Blood of Akatosh, look at this,” she managed out. “I look like a slug. A green slug. Maybe not even a slug, just a thick wad of snot. A viscous clump of mucus, the kind hacked up from the back of—”

“Don't be so dramatic," Lorise chided her. "It’s a gorgeous shade to match your…erm… eyes.”

“Please, for the sake of anyone who has ever looked at me, tell me my eyes don’t look like this."

Antoinetta attempted to stifle laughter, much to Nim's chagrin. It would be better if everyone else in the room embraced the horror for what it was and ridiculed it as they saw fit. At least then she wouldn’t feel like such an ingrate for wanting to burn the dress to ashes then and there.

Nim turned toward her companions with a doleful frown. "Lorise, I absolutely cannot wear this tonight.”

Antoinetta rolled her lips inward, and Nim thought the woman was relishing in the spectacle far more than she was offering any sympathy. Staring down at the floofy mess of yellowish-green fabric, she really couldn't blame her. It was the color of ripe booger and far too voluminous to move in without knocking over a table, all the chairs, and everyone in her path. 

Lorise rummaged through the discarded box and pulled out the bill of sale. “I don’t understand,” she said, face pinched. “The catalog had said it would be ‘meadow green.’”

“Maybe a meadow of dead grass in the dry season,” Antoinetta snorted, eyeing the gown with too much amusement. “Not even a troll would wear it to a funeral.”

Lorise crumpled the receipt into a ball and chucked it at Antoinetta's face. It hit her square between the eyes. She chucked it back.

“Stop that!” They threw the receipt back and forth, shrieking, laughing, and Nim permitted a small smile that immediately dimmed when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror.

“We still have time to find a replacement,” Lorise assured her, snatching the wadded receipt away.

"Yes, you can even borrow something of mine!" Antoinetta offered.

Nim turned to her, hopeful. "Do you have something to spare?"

"Nothing nearly as fancy, but I do have other dresses."

"Honestly, I'd rather wear a burlap sack than this."

"It's really not so bad," Lorise said. "And somebody in the room is bound to be color-blind. What if we just cut a little off the train?"

Antoinetta raised her brows, unconvinced, as Nim twirled in the mirror. Examining herself from the back, Nim concluded that she looked like a rotten cupcake growing mold and was better off presenting herself naked. 

“Alright, it's bad," Lorise said. "But don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, okay? I’ll take care of everything. I'll ask around. Now, let’s focus on something else. What about your makeup?”

"What use is it?" Nim whimpered. "I'm doomed."

“None of that. No moping.” With a series of clucks and tuts, Lorise retrieved her pack and set it on the chair to sift through. She laid out her own dress and pulled jar after jar of cosmetics from her bag. Nim examined the array: a small assortment of brushes and sponges, a compact of powdered rouge and a copper tin of crushed kohl, various ceramic pots of thick, colored creams. Lorise then turned to her with a fluffy brush dusted in red powder. “Ready?” she said. "Why don't you take a seat?"

“But this dress," Nim moaned. "Let me out of it first."

"Hold still, alright?"

"No, not until I'm out!"

"Shh!"

"Lorise, please—"

"Oh, don't be a baby!"

Nim made a dash for the opposite side of the room, knocking over a chair in the process, Lorise hot on her heels. Meanwhile Antoinetta stood idly by, enjoying herself without restraint while the two chased each other around the room.

"Stop moving so quickly!" Lorise shouted and caught Nim by the billowing train of her dress. "Aha! It's only as painless as you make it."

"This is pointless," Nim whined as she was sat down before the mirror. "I have half a mind to stand the whole thing up."

“You will not, now stop talking. I need to focus on this here application. Do you want to look like a court jester with a bad hangover?”

“No."

"That’s what I thought. And what will you do with your hair?”

“Leave it up, I suppose?”

“You most certainly will not.”

"I’ll get my comb!” Antoinetta cried out excitedly and raced out the door at once. “Be right back!”

Nim pouted through the brushing and patting as Lorise dusted various rose-tinted powders across her eyes and cheeks. She stared down at her pitiful attire and sighed. "It's not fair," she said, defeated.

"I'm going to fix it, okay?"

But despite Lorise's sincerity, Nim remained unconvinced. Still, she let Lorise paint her lips and her lids and sweep dark kohl on the rims of her eyes. When finished, Lorise turned to the mirror and worked on her own face. As if she needs it. Hmph.

Nim hobbled over to the mirror, and what she found there surprised her enough to draw out a gasp. Nim had only ever let the Siren's in Anvil doll her up to such great lengths but by now, it had been so many months ago that she’d forgotten what she looked like even with lipstick on. The makeup... it did something strange to her features, made them sharper, brighter, gave her so much extra dimension and color that she felt as if she were a painting.

"Is this what I look like?" she asked to no one in particular as she leaned over Lorise's shoulder. Side by side, with the same powders dusted in the contours of their brown, angled faces, Nim thought they looked almost alike. 

"I mean... it's what you can look like," Lorise said, blending out the colors on her eyelids.

"I'm pretty."

"You were never ugly."

"Well, I didn't think I was ugly, thank you. How'd you learn to do that?"

"Do what?"

"That," Nim said, miming the motion of the brush.

Lorise quirked a grin but it faded rather quickly. "My sister. She was always playing with them when she was— when we were younger. She liked looking pretty, spent way too much of her gold on paints like these. She was always trying to practice on me, and it drove me mad sometimes, but I learned that it had its advantages. Really, it was a rather useful skill to possess."

"I didn’t know that you had any siblings."

"Yeah," Lorise said. "A younger one. You remind me of her sometimes."

Before Nim had the chance to ask anything further, the door creaked open just an inch. “Are you decent?” Vicente called through the crack. “May I come in?”

Nim squeaked in protest. "No!" 

“Vicente," Lorise shouted over her, "come tell Nimileth that she looks beautiful.”

“Nimileth, you—" he began, still swinging the door wide, but upon spying her gown, the sentence broke in half. “What in Oblivion is that?”

“Vicente!” Lorise shouted again, her scowl half-blushed, and with a cluck of her tongue, she waved him off. “Oh, never mind him and his meaningless opinions. Like I said, we will—”

But Lorise never finished her sentence. She cut herself off with a shriek as Nim released a blast of fire from her palms. Vicente tugged the door shut, and without another blink, Nim had engulfed herself within a pillar of flame. It was hot, so hot she felt herself sweating despite the ward she held close to her body to protect her. In seconds, the fire ate at the fabric, filling her nose with the smell of burning silk and cotton, and she choked, her lungs full of smoke. 

Pulling her magicka back, she smothered the fire and stepped away from the pile of ash at her feet. Smiling triumphantly, she found herself quite naked, quite content, and quite covered in soot. “Oh, that worked much better than I thought it would,” she said, coughing against the back of her fist.

“By Sithis!" Vicente cried as he cracked the door open again. "Warn someone before you decide to burn the place down! I have a condition, as you all are well aware!”

Lorise sprinted for the door and threw herself against it, shutting it closed while Vicente pounded his fists in protest. She pointed to a nearby dresser where Nim retrieved a plain black cloak and wrapped it around her body like a bath towel.

Dressed as modestly as the cloak allowed, Nim signaled to let Vicente in. He entered, scanned the room, and finding none of his furniture burned to charcoal, he reached for the bottle of liquor on his desk and took a long swig.

“Better,” he said to Nim as she wiped her old shirt down her ash-covered arms. "Much."

Lorise rolled her eyes. “Yes, Vicente. Thank you once again for your meaningless opinions.”

As Nim cleaned herself up, Lorise changed out of her day clothes and into a midnight blue evening gown. It was belted at the waist with sleeves that rested off the shoulder, billowing out and flowing long just past her wrists. It was a rather simple design cut from rather simple wool, but on Lorise, it looked suitable for royalty. Nim wondered how it was that despite her muscle and bulk she looked so elegant, then corrected herself. It was precisely her strength, her power that made Lorise look fit to rule.

Once more, Nim found herself gawking, feeling both a twinge of envy and self-pity. How hard could it have been to find a similar dress, she wondered and cursed herself for not purchasing her own.

Lorise, now fully dressed, approached Vicente and patted him on the arm. She was taller than him by a few inches or so, and he looked up at her whenever they spoke as if she held the moons in her eyes. “Come," she said. "we need to find the birthday brat a new outfit. Now, where is Antoinetta with that comb? She ran off half an hour ago.”

“Antoinetta? Good luck wrangling her away from the Speaker now."

Nim frowned, her stomach twisting. "They’re here already?"

Lorise gave a small pout. “They can't be here! There’s still work to be done! Look at her!"

“Work at this hour? My dear, guests are arriving. Come, maybe Ocheeva has something she can wear.” Vicente turned to Nim, offered her his arm. She denied it. 

“No, you go on. I’ll wait right here until I hear word that a new outfit’s coming.”

Lorise stood with one hand on her hip before Vicente gently took it into his own. He guided her away. “Well, we can’t let them see her in this state,” Lorise said, casting a sad glance back at Nim as Vicente led her out.

“And why not? I think it would make for a marvelous story.”

“Oh, don’t you start with me about stories, old man. I have heard quite enough of them already. You always want to talk when it's convenient for you, and yet…”

The door closed behind them, and their playful bickering travelled away until Nim could no longer hear anything but the shuffle of the guardian making its rounds. Back at the mirror, she assessed the damage done and smoothed the flyaways on her head to retie her bun. Her makeup was mostly there, mingled with some ash. Reaching for Lorise’s cosmetics, she reapplied the red lipstain and, feeling playful, struck her most sultry pose. The image in the reflection made her shudder. Pretty though she was, a svelte seductress she’d never be.

But she didn’t need to worry about making a good impression, right? These people didn't truly matter to her. The Black Hand was like the Dark Brotherhood's Council, she supposed, and if she’d learned anything from working with the latter, it was best practice to ignore them entirely. Besides, this was just a party, a friendly gathering of like minds. Not like they were expecting a speech or—  

Nim froze. She’d forgotten to ask Vicente just what was expected of her tonight. 

Pacing in circles, Nim spotted the bottle of aged liquor Vicente had replaced on his desk. She reached for it, threw back a mouthful and instantly regretted the decision. Whiskey, hot and harsh, burned down her throat, leaving the taste of woodsmoke and amber on her tongue. Nim grimaced in disgust and released a long, dry gag. Whiskey, the worst spirit of all.

Must be as old as he is , she thought, holding the bottle to the flickering wall sconce. The label was far too faded to read. She took another swig.

Above her, shuffling footsteps. Ocheeva’s voice warmly greeted names she didn’t recognize. Nim took another long sip from the bottle, then another, then took the bottle with her to lay down on Vicente's stone slab. When the lull of the liquor hit, her mind drifted off. Thoughts of Skingrad and once or twice, thoughts of Raminus as she mourned what never was. It didn't sting so sharply now with the numbing aid of the drink, but the memory was no more pleasant. From outside, the echo of Gogron’s heavy laughter slipped under the door.

After a few minutes of gazing blissfully into the ceiling, Nim came to and panic set in anew. Muffled laughter and the call of unfamiliar voices grew abundant from beyond the door. The guests had arrived. Just how long had she been laying here?

Jumping to her feet, Nim rummaged through Vicente’s drawers but found only black leather and suede shirts two sizes too large. Vicente wouldn’t mind if she borrowed them. No, if anything he would find it amusing, and she was an assassin, damn it. Why shouldn't she look the part?

Nim slipped one leg into the trousers before she heard a gentle tip, tap along the floor outside Vicente’s room. Tip, tap, tip, tap . Soft strides that were most certainly not the clumsy drag of the guardian’s feet.

A knock on the door. “Sister, are you decent?”

“Er, not really.”

There was a pause, and then the door opened to reveal a beaming Ocheeva dressed in a flowing mauve ensemble. Her smile fell immediately upon spotting Nim wrestling on a pair of leather pants. “Nim!" she gasped. "You’re half naked! Everyone is here and waiting on you!”

Nim fell over and released a shrill shriek, grasping desperately at the armor as it slid down to the floor.

“Ocheeva, I have nothing to wear tonight! I’m putting on this armor! It’s only fitting. I’m a murderer not a socialite.”

“No! Absolutely not! You cannot show up looking like this! Where’s the dress Lorise brought you?” Nim pointed across the room, and Ocheeva turned to find a pile of ash swept into the corner. She shook her head, unimpressed. “Come with me.”

“Ocheeva—“

“Now.”

It was an order that Nim did not dare disobey. Ocheeva led her up the ladder in the far corner of the room and into her own quarters. Now that she stood on the same level as the main hall, Nim could hear the chatter much more clearly now. A woman’s dulcet voice in conversation with Vicente, Antoinetta’s shrill laughter whistling through the air. Ocheeva walked to her dresser and pulled out an emerald green dress of glossy fabric. Nim wondered if it was satin but realized that she didn't truly know what satin was. Perhaps it was silk. Whatever it was, it was certainly not leather.

“Get in it,” Ocheeva demanded without so much as a blink. Nim did as she was told and didn’t even complain when Ocheeva slipped a corset over her head and tightened too tightly.

“ Oof, crack a rib while you’re at it.”

Ocheeva stepped back to inspect the outfit. The dress was floor length and slightly longer on Nim than it was likely designed to be as Ocheeva had several inches of height on her. Short sleeves rested just off her shoulders. Again, not intentional. At least the corset kept the neckline from slipping down any further.

“It’s a good thing you’ve put on weight since you’ve been here," Ocheeva noted. "You finally have something to accentuate.”

“Thanks?” Nim replied only half sincerely. She looked down into the plunging neckline. There, a hint of cleavage, and Nim raised a brow, impressed. “Why do you even own such an extravagant gown anyway? How many parties could an assassin have time for?” 

“You’d be surprised.” A pleased grin spread across Ocheeva's face. “Now, let your hair down,” she instructed.

“Why? A bun is practical."

“We’re at a party, Nimileth. We’re not farming.” Again, Nim listened to her superior and removed the ribbon, letting her hair tumble down. It was a mess, as it usually was, and Ocheeva did her best to make it look presentable. "Why in Sithis' good name are you so dirty ?" she asked, scrubbing at the grime on Nim's neck with a damp cloth.

"Maybe because we live in a hole in the ground."

"I've lived in a hole in the ground most of my life, and I've never been half as filthy."

Nim gasped excitedly to find a long slit cut into the side of the dress. “My, my, so sensual,” she cooed and stuck out her leg to tap the floor in front of her. Her feet left small, soot-stained tracks on the stone, and if Ocheeva noticed she wasn’t wearing any shoes, she chose to ignore it.

Without warning, Ocheeva threw the door open, Nim hadn’t the chance to protest as she was dragged out by the arm. The chatter was silenced at once as the room turned to face the two. Unfamiliar eyes turned upon Nim, and for the first time since she joined the brotherhood, she found herself utterly terrified.

The fear rendered the crowd a blur. All she could make out was Vicente, a comfort amidst the commotion. He walked straight for her, flashed a charming grin, and extended his arm to guide her away. “Ah, Nimileth, so good of you to finally join us," he said. "Such a lovely dress too. I had no idea you were so skilled in conjuration.”

Nim followed. She had no control over her feet. Glancing around the room, she spotted Lorise pouring wine for an unfamiliar Dunmeri man, Lucien and Antoinetta sitting with a blonde Altmeri woman, chatting in the corner nook. Nim craned her neck over her shoulder to get a better look at the woman. From her profile, she looked quite lovely, and  Nim could hardly help it; She’d always been sweet on blondes.

Instead, Lucien caught her wandering eye, and Nim opened her mouth to say hello before realizing she was halfway across the room and had no intention of shouting. She shut her mouth promptly, turned away, feeling his deadpan gaze trailing the path of her gown.

“Now is a good time to use those telepathic powers, Vicente.” She clutched his arm tighter. “I’m panicking, What do I do?”

“Charm them, of course. It should be easy for a master of illusion such as yourself.”

“Don’t tease me, dammit. I’m scared.”

Vicente’s smile deepened. Asshole. “Why don’t we make our way over and see to it that you’re properly introduced, hmm?”

Vicente led her toward Teinaava and an assassin she did not recognize. "Who is he?" Nim asked quietly, looking the new assassin over.

"He is a Silencer, a personal assistant to one of the Speakers who could not make it to the Black Hands meeting."

Nim made her best attempt at a winning smile. Vicente looked it over with a sideways glance, shook his head. She tried again. She raised her chin higher, straightened her back, and when that did not make her feel better, she weaved a calming spell in the silence of her mind. Nim flicked her finger, envisioned Lorise and her calm teal eyes, her broad broad shoulders and sturdy legs. Lorise, always so grounded, strong as a mountain braced against a lashing storm, and the magicka climbed up Nim’s arm and across her chest, spreading down to soothe the taut nerves in her belly. 

“Good evening everyone,” Vicente began with a small bow. “Dearest Silencer, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to our newest sister, Nimileth.”

The Silencer, as Vicente had called him, was a young man, mid twenties. He stood about an inch shorter than Vicente, but his complexion was just as colorless and wan. Breton, she guessed by the sharpness of his cheekbones and the slightest point at the tip of his ears. His lids hung low, lulled by drink, shielding umber eyes so dark and deep she could hardly make out the pupils from his irises. 

When Nim approached, he ruffled his hair, a mousy brown, and smoothed it along the part. “I’m so glad you could make it," Nim said and bowed toward him just as Vicente had. "Thank you for coming.” 

“Ah, Nimileth.” The man repeated her name, took a sip of his wine as if to chase it. “We’ve all heard so much about you.”

“Good things, I hope.” Her smile came easy this time, an illusion of grace. She let it linger.

“Only good things. The best of things. And we’re all so impressed, you being Lucien’s new protégé and all.” 

Nim chuckled to hide her surprise. “I beg your pardon?” 

“Protégé, my dear. It means—“

“Oh, I know the word, only meant I see no reason why anyone would think such a thing. I’m the least experienced assassin in the family.” She reached out, offering him her hand. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name."

“No reason?” the man laughed sharply, and Nim jumped, drawing her hand back to clutch Vicente’s arm for protection. “Forgive me, Sister. I wasn’t expecting such humility. Vicente, this is the recruit responsible for the Countess’s death, is it not?”

Vicente sighed. “I see Lucien has been running his mouth again.” 

"Does he ever truly keep it shut?” 

“Easy now.”

“Mathieu Bellamont.” The man, Mathieu, extended his hand toward Nim, palm turned upward. When she placed hers atop his, he raised it to his lips, kissed her knuckles, eyes locked on hers the entire time.

Men, Nim thought and suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. What is it with this melodrama? Has everyone in the Dark Brotherhood failed a career in theater?

“You smell like you've been sitting around a campfire,” he said coolly. "Been on the road lately? Lucien must be keeping you busy."

“No, I went up in a pillar of smoke not too long ago. I did that one to myself.”

“How interesting." Returning her hand, he swirled his wine back and forth. “Lucien talks a lot, you know. If what he says is true, you’ve given us every reason to hold your work to such high standards.”

“Yes, how interesting,” Nim echoed. “And that almost sounds like a challenge.” 

All three men around her released a hearty laugh, and Nim’s face grew warm. From embarrassment or the liquor roiling in her belly, she couldn’t quite say.

“You mistake me, dear Sister. You’ve not yet had the good fortune to witness Lucien’s death-craft firsthand, I presume?"

"Mmm, I think my fortune has been good enough as it is."

Mathieu raised a brow. "I think not. If you'd seen Lucien at work, you would know I meant it only as the most sincere of compliments.”

“Sister, you ought to loosen up,” Teinaava said. “It’s your party after all. I’ll fetch you a glass of wine.”

It's not my party, she wanted to grumble but instead nodded in appreciation, and when Teinaava scurried off to fetch a bottle, she trailed his path with envy.

“Tense, are you?" Mathieu asked, catching her wandering eye. "Maybe even nervous?”

A simple question, yet it felt calculated, meant to test. Tests did not worry Nim. She’d always done well with exams, and it didn’t worry her now with her head as stupidly light as it was. It took all of a second to realize she had overdone it with the calm spell. Or maybe it was the whiskey...

"Eh," she shrugged, too dismissively. She'd have regretted it were she sober. “I’ve never been around so many murderers before. Would you blame me?”

“Certainly not," Mathieu said, and his mouth bloomed into a smirk so wide that it looked painful to bear. "In fact, I think it quite wise. How can anyone feel safe with all the terrible news as of late.” He paused, cast a side-glance at Vicente who was scowling though Nim could not say know why.

"I beg your pardon?"

“You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you?”

“Rumors?” Nim cocked her head. Vicente cleared his throat, and she felt his arm tense beneath her fingers. Teinaava rejoined them, and Nim released her grip on Vicente to accept her goblet of wine. The feel of it in her hand, having something to cling to, gave her comfort. "What sorts of rumors?"

“Rumors of the most gruesome nature.” Mathieu drummed his fingers against the base of his goblet and his eyes flashed with excitement. Another gossip. But of course. “Brothers and sisters found dead. Murdered even. I’ve heard whispers that they may all be connected." He stopped himself, glancing down at Nim as if to gauge her interest, which was, to his credit, growing rapidly. "Perhaps I shouldn’t go on," he said. "It could very well be unfounded.”

“Whispers?”

Whispers of dead assassins? How was it that she was only hearing of this now? Mathieu nodded hungrily, and she looked up at Vicente only to find him pursing his lips and holding back protest. Mathieu leaned closer. Nim leaned to.

“Whispers of what?” she asked.

“Of a traitor.”

Nim stifled a gasp, but beside her, Vicente scoffed, and it was a caustic sound that burned against her ears. “Oh, come now, Mathieu,” he said with a wave of his hand, jostling Nim who stood right in his arm’s path. Side stepping, a drop of wine splashed off the rim of her cup to the floor. “We shouldn’t be spreading such ghastly rumors on unprecedented grounds. This kind of talk causes trouble for everyone who hears it.”

“Brother but what if it’s true,” Teinaava suggested, and he sounded genuinely concerned. “I’ve heard the same worries from others.”

“It’s an issue for the Black Hand to address in private before mentioned to the rest of the family and certainly not an issue to discuss on an occasion as joyous as this.” 

“I’m sure Nimileth would like to know that all her brothers and sisters are honest, trustworthy assassins.”

Nim didn’t quite know how to feel and fluctuated between shock and morbid amusement. “I would," she said. "Oh, Vicente, no need to be a spoil-sport. I don’t mind really. This is the first I’m hearing of it. Everyone’s always gossiping about me, but how come no one has told me of this rumor?"

Mathieu smiled triumphantly. "You heard her, dear Brother. No need to be a spoil-sport."

Vicente sharpened his glare until it was slivered down to ruby shards. He shook his head, a final act of disapproval. “Let us have a toast instead," he said. "Does that sound agreeable? There are a few more guests you should meet before dinner. We shouldn’t keep them waiting for much longer.”

“No, we shouldn’t,” Mathieu replied mockingly. Vicente's glower grew teeth, could bite.

“To what shall we toast?” asked Teinaava quickly as he refilled their glasses. He seemed as eager as Nim to move on.

“Why to Nimileth, of course,” Mathieu said. “It’s her birthday, I hear.”

“Oh no, it's not. And besides, it's much too early in the evening for me to accept a toast. I’ve not drank enough. How about we toast to erm...“ She paused and twirled a strand of hair around her finger, staring intently at the floor. 

What do assassins toast to , she wondered. Friendship? Sithis? Good grief.

Like hell she was toasting to Sithis. He could stay in that void and be nothing without her. And yet she couldn't toast to the divines, not to sanguine. To their health maybe? “Aha," she said. "I've got it. To a well executed contract.” Everyone nodded in agreement. “And to not getting caught while doing it."

“Murder and getting away with it.” Mathieu repeated it as if it were a question. “Quite an ambitious toast.” 

“That’s what brings us together today, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.” Vicente was the first to raise his glass. “Cheers.”

They met their glasses in the center with a soft clink . Nim looked around the room mid-sip, eager to break eye contact with Mathieu who seemed quite intent on downing his wine in one go. Nim glanced to her right, caught the eyes of the Altmer who had now turned around in her chair.

The woman was smiling at Nim, her skin clear and golden and free of age. Just as suspected, she was quite beautiful. It must be what makes her so deadly , Nim thought. The woman raised her glass. Blushing, Nim quickly averted her eyes only for them to land upon Lucien who was still facing her in nearly an identical position. Antoinetta had moved her chair beside his and was now resting her elbow on his arm rest. Lucien, who appeared to be leaning away, stared at Nim unabashedly. Or perhaps he was looking at someone behind her? She turned, found no one there, and when she looked back, he was indeed still staring. 

The melodrama.

“Mathieu, I really should introduce myself to the other Speakers," she said. "Maybe we can talk some more tonight.”

“Of course, maybe even out of earshot of this one.” He motioned toward Vicente with his glass. “We can have some real fun then.”

Nim smiled. It seemed the polite thing to do. Their talk, while brief, was not entirely unpleasant, but the bar was rather low in a place like this. She hoped all of the remaining Speakers were equally talkative. The less she had to say, the better.

“Shall we?” She offered Vicente her arm.

“Umph,” he replied.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: A Very Degenerate Dinner Affair

The calm spell Nim had cast wore off swiftly. For better or worse, the wine's magic had replaced it just as fast, and by now, Nim was certain that she was either very drunk or that Arquen was indeed flirting with her.

This was her first set of hypotheses.

The second sought to tease apart Arquen's intention which, Nim surmised, was either genuine or for the sake of cruel amusement. Arquen was a statue of a woman, dressed simply in black yet adorned in gold and bejeweled in all her Altmeri splendor. When she talked, she set her perfectly manicured hand on Nim's arm, seemed to enjoy how flustered the gesture made her. Nim found herself too nervous, too tongue-tied to say anything of substance during the entirety of their conversation and instead had drunk all too much wine. It didn't help that she’d always been a bumbling fool around attractive women while sober, though she had thought, in truth, that this awkwardness would pass. Tonight, this assumption was proven false.

Next, Vicente carted her off to Banus Alor, the last guest she was to meet before dinner. Banus lacked any of Arquen's sultry grace and was loud, crass, and impossibly nosy— much more the type of individual Nim was used to dealing with. As they talked, he probed incessantly for the details of her past offenses, asking her over and over questions such as ‘where exactly on the Countess’s neck did the arrow pierce her’ and ‘if you could describe the expression on her face, was it more a grimace of terror or of pain ?’

Vicente, bless his non-beating heart, stepped in before she could even open her mouth and told Banus to wait until dinner like all the other guests had, that way she needn’t repeat herself more than once. Nim didn't dare voice that once was perhaps a time too many and simply snapped her mouth shut and nodded. Forced to mingle, she stayed close to Vicente and followed her routine of smiling pretty and nodding. If, by the end of the night, the visiting Speakers thought her the most empty-headed, mind-numbing idiot, Nim would be pleased. Maybe then Lucien would leave her alone.

Thankfully, it was not long until the pheasant had finished roasting and dinner was finally served. Nim declined the head of the table, offering it to Vicente instead. Lorise sat closest to him and dragged Nim along by the wrist. Mathieu followed on her heels.

Lucien took the seat across Mathieu, having declined the one offered by Antoinetta. Nim risked a glance his way as he sat down, caught his eye for but a second before she pulled her gaze to the basket of bread and reached for a fresh slice.

Steaming plates of vegetables and pheasant were passed around the table. Nim took one of everything and two scoops of the candied yams. Vicente was halfway through a story about a contract down in Alinor, but Nim wasn't listening because sound came to her muffled, faces in a blur. As she chewed, she watched the movement around the table. Drunk laughs and merry swaying. A fist pounding on the table in delight. Wine splashed over the wide rim of Banus' goblet, and someone threw a napkin across the table that landed in the string beans. For a moment, she felt forgotten. Everyone around her was busy eating, talking, laughing, leaving her to her dinner in peace, and with nothing but the wine and the idle chatter for company, her thoughts flitted lazily away.

Around her, the room was hazy with candle light and the thin tendrils of smoke rising from cages of burning incense— lavender and patchouli, another one of Antoinetta's homey touches. It filled the room, masked the once-smell of damp moss and old dirt with a scent as heady and mellow as the wine in her cup. Nim breathed it in, let it lull her into deceiving calm.

How did she end up here, she wondered, in such blissful stupor amidst a room full of assassins? She gazed around the table, found everyone drinking and dressed to high heavens, and there she was, sitting like an esteemed socialite in the center. I should hate this, she thought, I should feel vile, repulsive. All she felt, however, was the warm flush of wine.

The conversation shifted. Vicente relaxed into his chair, sipping from a goblet, the fluid within staining his thin lips a dark red. Nim listened as Banus expressed his regrets at missing Lorise’s fight against the Gray Prince, and then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw his stare flicker toward her in a bright flash of crimson.

“Nimileth, please, I can’t take the suspense any longer,” Banus said in between mouthfuls of roast pheasant. “We are all dying to hear about how you managed to murder the Countess without leaving any trace of evidence.”

Arquen clucked his tongue. “I heard she was missing most of her face and several fingers. I hardly call that 'leaving without a trace.'"

“Oh, but they thought the guard had killed her. He could hardly remember his own name when he regained consciousness. However did you manage that?"

"Um, I paralyzed him," Nim said. "I guess he hit the ground too hard on his way down?" A small round of chuckles circled the table. Nim didn't think she’d said anything particularly funny and so she didn't laugh, instead felt a bit confused and smiled nervously. “Really, I made quite a mess of it.”

"I read that the Imperial Watch thought he had suffered a psychotic break," Banus continued. "It was the only conclusion the Legion could come to. The arrows that they found in Caro's neck were legionnaire-grade steel with the Empires seal branded onto them. Where in the sixteen planes did you acquire those?”

“From the Northwest tower of the Imperial City," Nim replied. "They only take inventory the first and third Fredas of the month. New shipments arrive Middas. Things go missing. No one notices. I never liked having to pay for my own.”

Arquen looked over the rim of her goblet. Her eyes twinkled, something like fondness but sharper, with a smile of brilliant white. "And what was it like, your first kill?” So casually, she’d asked it, almost lovingly, as if asking Nim to describe her first romance.

“Oh, it wasn’t my first kill.”

“But do tell us something,” Gogron insisted with a deep bob of his head. “I’ve never heard you talk about one of your contracts before.”

The surrounding conversations had begun to trail off. The attention of the other assassins turned toward her. Even M’raaj-Dar, who’d never spoken to Nim unprovoked, looked at her with eager eyes.

Nim fought the urge to slump down in her seat and averted her gaze from Banus, whose expression was beginning to stray uncomfortably close to a leer. "All that Countess stuff, it was really nothing to write home about. The papers had a wild time with it, that's all."

Banus shook his head. "Keeping all the fun to yourself. What a minx.”

“No, no. It was nothing much."

It didn't sound half as convincing as she’d hoped and instead sounded painfully glib, like she was fishing for praise, for someone to say oooh, no Nimileth, you’re really the most specialist murderer of all! Regale us with tales of your glory, please! Nim's eyes darted around the table. Not knowing what else to do, she reached for another slice of bread and shoved it into her mouth. So what, Alessia Caro was a countess? A dime a dozen, pah! Why did anyone care?

"Oh leave her be," Lorise said, placing a hand on Nim's shoulder. “Nim’s not a fan of unnecessary bloodshed, if you haven’t heard. She finds the topic very tiresome. Banus, you're going to bore her out of her skin.”

Laughter broke out again, save M’raaj-Dar who rolled his eyes so hard they nearly popped out of his skull. Lucien laughed, one deep chuckle, and when he cleared his throat to speak, the laughter tapered to silence. “Don’t let her modesty fool you, Brother,” he advised Banus at his side. “That’s not what she told me on the night we met. I think it’s all an act, this part our dear Sister plays. What for, I can only wonder.”

“Yes, I’m quite vicious," Nim snorted, "sneaking into the rooms of old encumbered men to do what nature was bound to do soon anyway. All the geriatrics fear me. Did you hear about the next little number I've been assigned? To steal a sick man's medicine." She waved her fork through the air as she talked, taking pause only to skewer a roast potato. "I swear it’s like nobody trusts me to do any of the dangerous work around here.”

She offered Lucien a grin, dry and unwelcoming, and his lips smiled back to mirror hers, curled yet humorless. But his eyes… Deep brown and as polished as garnet, in the dancing light of the brazier above, they were positively devilish. Nim plopped the potato into her mouth and chewed.

“A bit of danger. That’s what you like?" Arquen said. "Aren’t you the assassin who snuck their way into the Imperial Prison without any notice from the guards?”

Instead of answering, Nim took a long sip of wine. I am not doing myself any favors, she thought, for if anything, the wine only made her feel warmer, pinker, more light-headed and full of air. Staring at Arquen did not help either. “Indeed.”

Arquen's smile held the sheen of a pearl. “I bet you slipped right through the bars, a tiny thing like you.”

Lorise beamed. “And she choked the poor man on his last meal! She’s quite an artist when it comes to cover-ups. Why you should hear about the stunt she pulled up in Bruma—"

“Well, that’s enough about me,” Nim cut in and waved her fork through the air again. She turned to address Arquen. “Do tell, Speaker. What was your last contract like? I hear those of your rank don't see very many.”

Arquen parted her perfectly painted lips, but before she could slip a single word through them, Mathieu interrupted, nudging Nim in the side. “Lucien was telling us all about your recent escapades. What was it about Bruma... a stuffed minotaur head?” Lucien nodded, pleased, almost prideful. “And just before we arrived in Cheydinhal, what were you saying, Brother? Something about a first-mate, I believe.”

“A pirate captain down on the waterfront,” Lucien corrected. "A mutiny, so it was said."

“So it was said," Mathieu echoed. "Your very first contract, was it not?”

Avoiding Mathieu’s febrile stare, Nim looked down to his plate, noticed he’d hardly eaten anything off of it. Instead, he raised his goblet to his lips, his third since they’d sat down to dinner. “Indeed.”

Arquen threw her hair over her shoulder, wrapped a manicured hand around her goblet, and Nim couldn’t help but admire how long and slender her fingers were, each nail a short oval shape. "But if not Alessia Caro, who was your first kill?"

“Uh, my first kill?” Nim recalled her adolescence with the numbed indifference supplied by distance. At least it felt like a great distance. The ritual sacrifice in Mephala's coven had been more of... more of a group effort really, and though she’d spilled blood, she’d never delivered the final blow. Her time in Leyawiin, on the other hand, had been rife with peril. She would have died there surely had she not learned to defend herself. Nim ate a forkful of yam and realized it took more than a moment to recall. “It was a skooma addict down in Leyawiin,” she said, her mouth full. “She had no money for even the cork and threatened to off me if I didn’t give it to her anyway. It was the first time anyone had made good on that threat.”

“You sold skooma?” M'raaj-Dar’s voice dripped with contempt, but his eyes had widened, betraying the barest hint of surprise. "In Leyawiin?"

“For the Renrijra Krin," Nim said, not sure why. A few strong drinks and suddenly her tongue moved of its own accord. Splendid. "I brewed it mostly. Never sampled it myself, but I heard it was some potent stuff.”

M'raaj-Dar scoffed. “A Renrijra thug,” he sneered and sipped at his wine as if to rid the bad taste of conversation from his mouth. "This One should have known from the looks of it."

From across the table, Banus rapped his fingers against his chair and shifted forward with a loud scrape. “Enough of the side-stepping, dear Sister. I’m going mad as Ayem here in my seat. Now, I didn’t come all the way up from Black Marsh to return without hearing it from your own lips. Countess Alessia Caro, her death. When you watched the arrow strike her, was the call as unholy and sublime as the echo of the Void itself?”

Feeling all eyes upon her, Nim didn’t dare blink away. She licked at her dry lips as the memory winked into her mind. The Countess’s paling face. Her mouth sanguine, glistening. The blood running over the rim of her lip like an overflowing goblet of wine. Staring down at her, Nim had never felt so serene, ethereal, so barely there while the life faded from her eyes. And Nim had never felt that ever since. Every kill afterward— cheap, ersatz, nothing but a smudge upon the slivers of her soul.

She offered the pining Banus one final remark. “I only wish that bitch screamed louder,” she said, and the words curled along her lips.

They took a break after dinner, allowing stomachs to settle before pie. Perched in the corner, Nim found herself in a riveting discussion with Banus and Vicente on the efficacy of illusion magic versus plain and skillful stealth. She was halfway through her argument about why no one should stoop so low as to use chameleon when she spied Lucien approaching from afar.

Oh rats, she cursed silently. Did he hear me? Nim knew all too well how much that man loved his lazy chameleon charms. Excusing herself politely, she turned and walked briskly to Vicente’s quarters to catch her breath and to pray he hadn’t heard.

Pressed against the door, the room teetered in her vision. She stabilized herself, inching along the wall until she reached the mirror. There, she tousled her hair, reapplied her lipstain, and the reflection looked back at her rumpled and flushed but a lot calmer than it had at the start of the evening. Nim shrugged, pleased enough. It was better than she looked half the time.

Returning, she found the party had arranged itself into new circles, people shifting between groups like water moving with the tides, and Nim could make out nothing from their chatter but soft voices, sharp laughter, the clinking of metal cups. An eerily normal scene.

She skirted the edge of the hall, electing to stand alone, people-watch and regain her bearings before diving back into the fray. The night had not been a wholly unpleasant experience to her surprise, especially not now as drunk as she was. Still, there were forced grins aplenty; it required conscious effort to appear mildly interested whenever someone reveled in their latest contract but given how kind they’d been during her lesson, Nim promised to try. Letting out a tired sigh, she worked the muscles of her face loose. Smiling, she found, took an exhausting amount of effort.

Nim watched Vicente and Lorise giggle over their cups, and when they stood together, hand in hand, it seemed the world could be on fire and they wouldn't smell the smoke. It made Nim's heart heavy with joy, but so too something duller, grayer. She cast her gaze across the room, where it landed on Antoinetta who had been avoiding her for most of the night. At the very least, she had been thoroughly preoccupied, and Nim did her best to pretend that the distance didn’t bother her.

Just as she had been an hour ago, Antoinetta was standing near Lucien, looking at him with those big blue eyes, so round and hopeless with desire. Lucien was talking to Banus, and the conversation never seemed to include her. It made Nim feel uncomfortable, sad to watch Antoinetta eventually sulk away. Nim thought of Raminus, wondered if this is what she’d looked like beside him, but the thought didn’t last for very long.

A warm presence brushed her shoulder, and Nim jumped a good few inches into the air. "Eep!" she squeaked. It was Mathieu at her side. He’d slid up so silently, without warning, that she didn’t so much as see him until he was standing mere inches away.

“They’re trouble-makers, the lot of them.”

Nim looked at him quizzically. “I beg your pardon?”

"You've begged for that twice tonight."

"Umm." His words were slurred and he reeked of wine. Nim supposed she did too and proceeded to think nothing more of it. "Guess I have."

“Well, maybe I'll let you earn it.” Mathieu nodded toward the room. "Look at them."

Gogron was now arm-wrestling with Vicente at the dinner table while others gathered to cheer beside them. In the reading nook, Lorise sat with Arquen and Ocheeva, petting Schemer in her lap, deeply engrossed in conversation. Far, far along the wall, near the Black Door, stood Lucien. He was alone with Banus Alor, and he was smiling, laughing, looking oddly human. Perhaps the most human Nim had ever seen him before.

"Alright," she said. "I'm looking."

Mathieu smiled warmly. The skin was pink and stretched tight around the apples of his cheeks, his eyes squinted into such thin lines, Nim thought they were closed. “You don’t even know what you’re doing here, do you?”

“C’mon now. I think I’ve proved I’m more than capable.”

“Maria said the same and look where she is now. You're in so deep you think you've hit the bottom, but it doesn't end, Nimileth. It never ends.”

“Who’s Maria?”

“You’re not like them. It’s so painfully obvious."

"And are you?" she asked.

"Am I what?"

"Like them?"

"Maybe," he said. "Or I tried to be."

Nim had no idea what he was talking about, only that the mood had suddenly shifted, and though she didn't know the trajectory it now took her, she followed mindlessly down its trail. "Maybe we should try harder then," she said. Mathieu snorted at that. "What?"

"Does this work please you? Is this what you want to be?"

"I don't know that I want to be anything," she said, and soon the words were tumbling out of her with a stupid, well-oiled smile. "I don't know that I want to be at all. Sometimes, I think 'is this what my life has come to? How pathetic.' And then sometimes, I really don't care. Sometimes I just want to feel something no matter how sharp or dull the ache."

Mathieu stared at her for a long moment, blinking. His eyes had widened ever so slightly.

"Sorry," she said. "I'm drunk. Pretend I didn't say that."

"No, I—" He stopped himself, stood silent for a thoughtful moment. "If you truly feel that way, then you should seek better things than what we offer."

"What do you offer?"

"What did you hope to find?"

"I don't know," she said. "I thought I would by now, but I don't."

"You won't ever know because we can't give you anything."

"Oh, is this that Sithis thing again?" she asked. "You know, he still doesn't make any sense to me. Void and vacuum and all that. Whatever." Nim pointed at the crowded room, to the table where Vicente and Gogron stood. Those gathered around them were still spectating, whooping, spilling the drink from their goblets as they jumped merrily about. "Look. They have something. Something that I want."

"Something that you think you want. But listen, Nimileth." Mathieu leaned closer, beckoning to her with a curled his finger. She inched closer, unthinking, and though he was still smiling at her with his sloping, lazy grin, his tone had shifted once more. Something solemn touched its edges. Something darker, pleading. "Nothing is sacred here," he said.

"We're not at temple. Isn't that the point?"

"You still don't understand."

"Understand what? It's not so deep. We kill. We get paid to kill. We find companionship in other's who kill as well."

"No, Nimileth. No, sweet girl. This life we live is one we will live utterly and completely alone. You can share it with nobody. You cannot trust a soul.”

"You're drunk."

Mathieu flashed a toothy grin. "Yeah. So are you."

She jostled him with a bump to the shoulder, trying to be playful, and she laughed. As soon as she had done so, however, her smile slipped away, and she found herself trying very hard to understand what had just happened. They’d shared a secret just then, but it evaded her— stupid wine-addled brain— and the meaning came to loose threads, unspooling through the murky haze of disconnected, drunken thoughts.

But even then, she knew she wasn't ready to release her good spirits, and Mathieu was making swift work of killing her mood.

"I'm not going to be alone," she said. Someone would want her someday. Like how Lorise wanted Vicente and vice versa. She would find that too. One day. “And why should I trust you anyway?" She batted her lashes at him, all coyness. "Are all members of the Black Hand this cryptic? Gods, you and Lucien both. Everything you say sounds like a puzzle."

Mathieu bumped her back. His shoulder was bony, almost as slender as hers. "Why shouldn't you trust me? What have I to gain? What have I to lose?"

"Suppose you’re working with that traitor you were talking about. Suppose you're feeding me your honeyed words and lies, looking to isolate me. I'm easy pickings, right? The new girl.”

“Suppose you are and suppose I am.”

"I think you’re the trouble, Mathieu. I think I smell it seeping from your pores.”

He threw his head back against the wall and squinted at her through red, inebriated eyes. But they remained watchful, those eyes. Strikingly so. “Mhm, and what’s it smell like?”

Nim leaned in, bringing her nose an inch away from his neck. “Like too much cheap wine and a few dead rats."

“That’s just my cologne, sweet Sister.”

“I suggest you buy a new one.”

"I suggest you move your face away from mine if you find my scent so offensive."

"Why? Am I so terrible to look at?"

Mathieu shook his head, such a small, gentle movement. "Not at all," he said. “Not at all.”

It gave Nim pause. She looked up at him, his eyes sliding over to hers, and suddenly she was frozen. Her mouth fell open. Mathieu stared at it too.

"Truthfully?" she asked and cleared her throat because somehow it had grown terribly dry.

Mathieu nodded. Nim blinked then looked away, let her head fall onto his shoulder. "Then I suggest… I… let's just stand here for a bit while I think of a better suggestion."

And they did. Quiet and grounded, and the room did not spin. Nim remained stiff, listening to Mathieu's breath as it left him. He was stable support, bony and sharp, but stable, and when he wrapped an arm around her, she let herself sink against it. The sounds of the room came muffled to her ear, were nothing to her ear, and for a brief moment, she forgot where she was. And there was peace in forgetting and in not knowing. Nim pressed herself even closer to his side.

"Hmm," he hummed.

She hummed back, content in her stillness. Her eyes flickered closed, and she breathed in deep, and perhaps she was holding him just as steady too. By the Gods, you are drunk, Nim, a voice within her chided. But it seemed to matter little at that moment.

Mathieu's hand rested on her hip. She couldn't remember the last time she had been touched this way. It was nothing salacious, nothing obscene, but thinking herself sly, she sidled closer and his hand slid down her body a little more. She liked that, being so near to someone. Being embraced and being looked at and being seen. Her heart beat faster in her chest, and what was she doing? Truly, she didn't know, only that she liked feeling held, feeling heard, and when eventually, Mathieu peeled away, she was overcome with the crushing weight of disappointment.

"Wait," she said. "I suggest you don't go."

"Tempting," he replied, "but my cup runneth dry. I'll be back in—"

Nim reached for him, grabbing hold of his sleeve. "Please?" He raised a brow, looked down at her hand clenched around his shirt, then smirked. Nim felt suddenly very embarrassed, very desperate. What a fool she was, chasing after the first thing to show her kindness. "Sorry," she said and released him.

Mathieu glanced across the room, as if looking for someone, then stepped closer. Nim suddenly thought it too close. "And what if I suggest that I kiss you?”

She snorted. "I beg your— what? You don't even know me."

“So?”

That had escalated quickly. Quickly enough to give Nim whiplash, and the aftershock was sobering enough to stir awake some sensibilities. She stared at him wide-eyed before letting out another bark of laughter. “Mathieu, we're cork high and bottle deep. "

“All that may be true, but it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t."

"Ahh, I... Oh. Were you flirting with me that whole time?"

“By Dibella, I thought the naivety was just for show.”

Nim’s face grew hotter, and it didn't help that she already knew her cheeks were terribly red from the rouge. Was I flirting too, she wondered, or was I simply drunk? Ah, the eternal question. It was a bit too blurry now to distinguish, and if she were speaking honestly with herself (which she was, this many cups in), she wasn't unappreciative of the attention. It was an honest advance. Nim gave him credit for that. Under different circumstances, in a different setting.... but well, he wasn't Raminus.

There was a commotion across the hall as the living quarter doors swung open. Out emerged Gogron with a plate full of pie. Nim stepped aside to put distance between them. “Oh, look!" she said, pointing. "Here comes Gogron with dessert. Come Mathieu, let’s find our seats.”

Dragging him back to the dining table, she pretended their conversation had not occured, and the remaining guests began a slow trickle back to seat themselves as well. Settled in her chair, Nim glanced to Mathieu, caught a flash of mischief in that toothy grin of his. He didn’t sit down as she had and instead reached for a greasy butter knife to rap against his empty goblet. The chatter filling the hall quieted as all eyes turned to him.

Mathieu swayed on his feet then regained his balance. After clearing his throat, he said, “In honor of Nimileth’s initiation into our family, I propose that I welcome her with a kiss.”

Nim’s eyes flew open in as much shock as awe and pulled her hand across her mouth to stifle the snorts that escaped her. What an odd display of shamelessness, she thought. She found it almost admirable.

A handful of awkward chuckles echoed around them but so too the sound of wood scraping on stone, a pair of approaching footsteps, then another. Both Lucien and Vicente had stood to their feet at once, making a beeline for the table.

Vicente spoke first. “Alright there, Mathieu,” he said, setting his palms firmly upon the table. “I think you’re starting to let the wine cloud your judgment. Less coquetry, more dessert, hmm? Why don't you take your seat and try eating something solid for once?”

Lucien nodded in agreement. “Vicente’s right, Brother. You’re looking a bit paler than usual. Perhaps we ought to take you for a fresh breath of air.”

Mathieu stepped backwards and pointed his butter knife at Lucien, then at Vicente, and finally at Nim. A manic laugh spilled out of him. Wild and amorphous, beating against the walls like a storm's whipping wind. “Give me one reason not to.”

Nim held her hand to her chest, releasing an exhausted breath after having laughed herself into a bout of painful cramping. “Well, Mathieu," she managed out, "Suppose I’m spoken for.”

The room filled with a chorus of ooohs.

“And why shouldn’t I be?” Nim snapped. “You all ooh and aah as much as you like, but the Bosmers are the only one’s finding any lasting romance in this dungeon. We're perfectly cute and perfectly capable, thank you very much.”

“And are you?” Lucien asked.

"Perfectly cute and perfectly capable? Why yes, I dare say I am."

"Spoken for," he amended, took his seat and stared straight at Nim, hands steepled stupidly on the table as if conducting an interview.

“No.”

The sanctuary roared. Mathieu shrugged his shoulders, and his face fell lopsided. It looked a bit as if he were melting. “Well then, for Sitihis’ sake, hang a man for his courage.”

"For his audacity," Vicente seethed. “You will do no such thing. Now sit down. By Sithis, man, we'll all be drunk off that desperation alone.”

Mathieu threw up his hands and the butter knife slipped from his grasp, clanging obnoxiously against the floor. “Nim and I were just having a bit of youthful fun, that’s all. Nothing you old freaks would know about.” He returned to his seat and turned toward Nim, resting his cheek on his knuckles as he leaned against the table. “But if you are as unspoken for as you claim to be, then why be alone on your birthday?"

"Mmm, it's not my birthday, and I'm not alone. I'm here."

"And surely there must be someone who catches your eye. Out of everyone here, one must leave you wanting and lecherous?”

"Ew," Nim said, but she did meet Arquen's eyes. Familiar burning heat suffused her cheeks, and her eyes lingered there a moment too long, lips parted, her mouth growing drier by the second. The table waited. “It’s a little bold of you to assume that I’d want to kiss anyone here," she said at last. "Suppose I find all of you terribly unattractive.”

“Nonsense,” Banus said. “I know for one that I am a sex symbol of the Dunmer variety.”

“I know who’d she pick,” Telaendril squealed as she accepted her plate of pie from Gogron.

“Don’t!” Nim cried and followed it with a drunk chortle, desperation clinging to her voice. She shook her head fiercely, but Telaendril had no mercy.

“I have it on good authority that Nim fancies M’raaj-Dar as a God among Khajiit. I for one would like to see some of this Bosmer-Khajiit action that she’s so fond of.”

M’raaj-Dar choked back on his wine. “Over my dead body. This One would first lay with a scamp.”

Nim buried her face in her palms and mumbled through the cage of her fingers. “I hate you all," she said. "I hate you all so much. This is horrible."

From beside her, Mathieu nodded in approval. He passed a plate of pie her way, took a bite. “Well then, I see where I went wrong. Exotic tastes. How could I ever compete?”

“Exotic taste is how you describe fruit not people," Nim said and shoveled a hefty forkful of pie into her mouth, grateful for the distraction. "Khajiits, they taste the same as any man or mer. Actually, maybe a bit sweeter. All the moonsugar.”

Banus roared across the table. “Ha-hah!" he cheered. "I knew there was more to you. Why, I bet you're as filthy a fetcher as they come!”

Nim sunk into her dessert, ignoring the scathing glower from M’raaj-Dar all the while. Embarrassed but unwilling to indulge it, she smiled blissfully to herself. A filthy fetcher she was indeed and for that she wasn’t troubled. There were far worse things to be known for.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: Against the Muted Night

“Come on,” Mathieu pleaded. "Let's go."

Nim ignored him for the second time.

"Just for a minute or so," he added.

Nim had thought a public scolding from Vicente would have been enough to dampen his spirits, and yet there Mathieu sat, awfully persistent. She shrugged him off but indulged him with a grin. “Stop acting like a school boy.”

“A school boy? Sithis, and I thought you were the one who'd just turned twenty."

"I told you, it's not my birthday."

"Oh, then how do you explain the fact that you're acting like an old crone?”

Nim snorted. Ocheeva, who was sitting on the bench beside her, eyed the whispering pair suspiciously with a sidelong glance. All the while, Gogron’s booming voice regaled the assassins clustered in the corner with another tale of skull bashing and bone splitting.

Nim lowered her voice to an even fainter whisper. “I’m going to give Vicente a heart attack if he finds I’m missing all of the sudden."

"Old codger doesn’t even have a heart-beat. What’s to fear?”

Nim considered it, supposed it was true, and scanning for the undead man in question, she found Vicente sandwiched between Banus Alor and Lorise, nearly toppled over from laughter. Nim had never seen him so lively before, and a part of her longed to hear whatever joke had been funny enough to make a dead man look like he was suffocating. “Fine," she relented, "but we must go quick before Vicente catches on. Come, let’s use the well entrance.”

Ignoring Ocheeva’s trailing eye, they skittered away like mice or two wispy house centipedes scurrying creepily for the shadows.

Up and out the well, they climbed into a mild Hearthfire night. Refreshing, each lungful of sweet air, and it smelled of river reeds and the dawning autumn. By now, the evening had lifted much of the heat from the town, and a cool wind swept through the streets to throw the skirt of Nim's dress carelessly to the breeze. She walked to the front of the abandoned house, paused and peered up at the roof.

“You really think it’s safe to climb up?” she asked warily. She drew in a deeper breath, and it sobered her just enough to awaken some primal instinct to survive. “Suppose we reach the roof and it collapses down with us on top? Then what?”

"Then we die," Mathieu said. “Doesn’t the risk make it more tempting?”

Looking up at the crumbling shingles, the cracked wood, the sloping roof, Nim decided that even considering such a feat meant she was far more drunk than she should be. She met Mathieu's eyes, smiled, excited. "You're trouble. I knew it all along." Mathieu said nothing, but that pleased look spoke loudly enough that Nim knew it could be nothing more than prideful agreement. She pointed to the third and highest level of the house. “There’s a window in the attic. Let's go that way.”

Nim released the lock on the front door with a spell, and led Mathieu up to the stairs by way of her magelight. They slipped out the cracked window and onto the roof. It didn’t buckle immediately— a good sign— but beneath her bare feet and the flats of her palms, the shingles were crumbling, soft and bloated from recent rains. Nim scaled up on hands and knees, and once she reached the peak, she hobbled toward the chimney. Straightening her dress, she leaned back and gazed out across the town, waiting for Mathieu to join her.

The wind died down, if only for a brief spell, and a muted indigo drenched the night. Magnus and Secunda hung swollen above, and through the moonlight, she spied the silhouette of a bat taking flight. Another bat. Then another, then countless fluttering, flapping wings cut through the air.

“It’s nice up here,” she said when Mathieu had at last reached her. “Quiet.”

“I told you it would be. I could use a little stillness. I thought you might like it too.”

They settled into place, Nim with her back to the chimney and Mathieu leaned against it. He stared at the city streets below, and they fell into companionable silence, watching the nothingness, waiting for any sign of movement that was not stirred by the wind.

In the distance, Nim heard doors closing, foot traffic from the main street. The last of the tavern-goers wandered home, and soon the orange glows in the windows of neighboring houses were snuffed until the street was dark and sleeping.

Nim felt like a shadow atop the abandoned house, so distant from the people sleeping soundly all around her. She wondered if she could ever be one of them, if she’d ever have a stable routine, hold a reputable job, one that didn’t require her to harbor such ghastly secrets. Even in the Mages Guild, she hadn't found peace from it. Even as the Council's lapdog, she was sifting through nightmares, forced to pretend all was okay for the sake of others when she emerged from the depths, the horrors slain.

Nim wondered and wondered harder, and her wondering struck a hard pang inside her that bore the resonance of a cracked bell. She had never wanted much from life. Freedom to learn and a chance to grow— why was it still so difficult to find?

She looked to Mathieu. His drunk face rested peacefully in the smallest of grins as he watched a stray rabbit dart into the chapel cemetery. She wondered what a man like him wanted from life. He couldn’t have been much older than her— two, maybe three years, but he didn't wear them particularly well. His face was gaunt, full of shadow. Purple skin hung beneath his eyes, painted there like bruises, like bodies swaying from the gallows. She’d seen him drink more than anyone at the party, yet he was still walking, talking, functioning well enough. Did he do this often? Did he need to? Why?

Does he like the person he has become, Nim wondered. Do I?

Nim sighed and closed her eyes, dissolving the question with a breath. She focused not on the half-formed knot inside her and let herself sink into the numbness of her glow. She drifted into softer thoughts, sleeker dreams. Bathed in moonbeams, she and Mathieu could be two youths like any other sharing a drunk moment below the stars. Nothing sinister about it. Nothing promising.

And if she squinted her eyes, she could pretend it was all normal, that she was just like the city-goers with their lists of errands and their mundane little worries, the comfort of their warm beds and locked doors. She could be that person one day, couldn't she? After all, she’d been dragged through worse and survived.

A ribbon of wind whistled through the black oaks that lined the city wall. It threw Nim's hair over her face, and the daydream shattered harshly, carried off by the breeze again. Nim didn't bother chasing after it and instead stared out across Cheydinhal, into the darkened windows of houses she didn’t own, into the lives of people she wasn’t. But someday? Maybe? That future felt so far away, and even as the shadows danced and the moonlight spilled, she could barely make out the faintest outline of its shape.

Nim felt suddenly alone, smaller, caged despite the vastness of the night. The sky was too big, too open, the moons too bright, and it was all too much and when she sucked it down, it filled her lungs like lead.

Mathieu stirred at her side. He shifted away from the chimney, leaned backwards to rest his head against the roof beside her hips. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like if that moment never happened?”

“What moment?”

“You know. The one that changed you." He looked up at her, into her. "The one that killed you.”

“I think I’ve died many times.”

“Everyone who finds a home in our family has died at least once. So how is it that we're still alive?"

Nim pulled her legs in close and tucked her knees under her chin. “To humor the gods, I suppose.”

Mathieu snorted. “You really don’t want to take any responsibility for why you’re here, do you? There is no one up there watching out for you. The only person punishing you is yourself."

"I'm not punishing myself," she said, feeling a sudden flare of defense. "And so?"

"So we’re alive because we’ve willed it. Because we've refused to lay down and let the world roll us over. You think this is some divine plan ordained for us at birth? Are your gods really that cruel?"

"No," Nim said. "And they're your gods too."

"If the gods made this my fate, then I have no gods worth worshiping."

"I don't think it works that way, and besides, I didn't mean it was fate that brought us here."

"Then you know we sought this life out, one way or another.”

Nim scrunched her face, holding the tip of her tongue between her teeth. "Of course, I know. That's what I just said. And I do take responsibility for it."

"Sure you do. And I'm sure you're fine with it, huh? Everything is peachy keen, and you don't dream about what life would have been like had you chosen a different path. The thought must never cross your mind."

"I beg your—" she began, caught herself, and started over. "Excuse me?" Mathieu said nothing, yet he stared as though trying to pull words through her eyes. "Never mind," she said. "Again with this odd mysticism. I've already accepted what my life has become. It's done."

"Twenty's a pretty young age to be calling your life done."

"That's not what I meant." Mathieu supplied a knowing look, and with those small dark eyes of his, it was so uncomfortably piercing that she found herself wishing to scratch. "Whatever," she said.

Nim lay down beside him. After sitting still for so long, the movement left her a little dizzy and her head felt too heavy. There was pressure behind her eyes, an incipient headache. The wind had picked up again, and it swept at Nirn somewhere much farther away. She barely felt it on the rooftop now, and the shrill song was so faint against her ears that for a moment, she thought she was making it up. She closed her eyes, tried to focus on its rhythm, anything besides the mounting pulse inside her head.

“Hey, who’s Maria?”

“Hmm?”

“Maria," Nim said again, licking at her lips. They were dry, the inside of her mouth sticky, and the throbbing behind her eyes crested in small, frothless waves. Mathieu's ears twitched at the name. "You mentioned her before dessert.”

“Oh, I did?”

His gaze shifted away but not before she caught it. There was something there that she recognized. A hollowness. An ache. A glint of something tender now frayed at the edges and leached of color by loss.

Mathieu stared far away, stared blankly. “She was a member of our family. Someone very dear to me.”

“As in a former flame?”

“As in she’s no longer with us.”

“Oh, Gods. I- I’m awfully sorry, Mathieu. She was one of the fallen you had mentioned, wasn’t she?”

“An occupational hazard, I’m afraid. They really should do well to warn you about such things."

Nim’s stomach plummeted. Cautiously, she placed a hand on his shoulder. "What... what was she like?"

"Lovely," he said. "Beautiful. Perfect.” And his voice drifted away, twisting like smoke from the chimneys, unfurling, growing thinner. It dissipated into the night.

Nim didn't know what to say after that, how to follow it up, what to provide other than another pitiful sorry. “It’s a shame to hear of all the people we’ve lost."

The sound Mathieu let out was half scoff, half laugh. She didn't not know how to interpret it, and still his gaze remained averted.

"I really had no idea that it was happening,” she continued, “but at the same time, I can’t imagine why anyone would find it all that surprising. It's what we do for a living right, kill? Is it really such a shock that one of us could have turned on another? I mean, what holds us together in the end besides coin? They say it's the Night Mother and the Dread Father, but who are they? Isn't Sithis supposed to be nothing at all?"

She looked over to find Mathieu staring at a loose shingle, his expression glazed, grown farther away, lost to memory. How long had she been prattling on?

“Gods," she said. "Mathieu, I didn’t mean to sound so callous. I’m sorry. I know what it’s like, losing someone you cherish deeply. I can’t imagine it’s very easy to find companionship like that, finding someone who accepts you wholly. Especially like this, being what you are.”

"What we are," he corrected her, shaking the dust from his eyes. Then he sighed. “Eh, not all victims are innocent, Nimileth. You know that well, I’m sure.”

Nim's frown deepened. She sat up slowly, holding her head in one hand, hoping the headache would soon quiet, but it had only grown louder at the sound of her own voice. "Urgh," she said, stifling a groan.

“Oh, don’t look so troubled," Mathieu pouted. "I didn’t mean to bring down the mood. I didn’t take you as the sensitive type.”

“I'm not, but maybe not all assassins are so cold and heartless.”

“Ah.” Mathieu rolled over to face her, walking his hands along her legs to pick off stray pieces of shingle. “And you're ever so generous and kind, I assume."

"Maybe. Toward some people more than others."

"And how exactly did a tenderhearted individual like you come to join our ranks then?”

"Oh, you've heard the story, haven’t you? Is there a soul in the Brotherhood that Lucien hasn’t told?”

“No, I don’t think there is. But what I mean is, why accept the invitation after achieving what you wanted? If revenge was all you sought, what could Lucien have left to offer?”

“I don't know."

"You do," he said. "I know you do."

"Well, perhaps I don't want to tell you."

"Oh, what a weak reply." Nim chewed her bottom lip and wiggled her toes. Mathieu's graze tickled slightly as he brushed away debris, but she didn't dare tell him to stop. "Okay," he said, feigning a yawn as he began to turn away. "Suit yourself then."

Nim grabbed hold of his shoulder. "Wait. Why did you join?"

"Because I had nowhere else to go. I stay for the same reason. And you? Is it the same? It often is."

"No, I don't think so."

Another smirk. "For as clever as I'm told you are, you don't seem to do much thinking."

"It's like this," she began, reeling away slowly to crumple herself into a ball. "I've hurt people, yeah? But I've been hurt too. It's just a part of life. For a long time, I thought it was simply the way the world worked, to give pain as much as you receive it. But then... well, I've met kind people, people who ask for nothing in return, and I thought 'I can be like them.' I could find peace too. I could learn to forgive, just like they taught in the chapels. And I tried. Honest to the Nine, I did. But when I saw Alessia Caro, when I killed her that day, I realized it felt much better to stop trying." Mathieu said nothing, only listened. Nim swallowed a hard, dry lump. "Is that terribly selfish?" she asked.

"Most things we do are."

"That's not true."

"For some people," he said. "But not us."

Nim rolled her lips inward and pressed them thin. They were numb by the time she released them. "Do you feel that when you take a life?"

"Feel what?"

"A fire inside you. I didn't know I possessed it, but it felt good to let it burn. Sometimes, the thought of never feeling it again is kind of frightening."

"I haven’t burned yet," Mathieu said. "But I will. I have dreams, wishes. One day I’ll set them alight, and I don’t care if there will be anything left of me at the end of the wick."

"Will it be worth it?"

"It will be." Mathieu did not miss a beat. "And for you? Was it worth it, killing the countess, coming here?"

"It's hard to tell when everything is still covered in ash, “ Nim said. “I keep telling myself, one more mile and there will be trees. One more mile, and I'll see the edge of the forest. I think, 'that's my freedom,' 'that's my salvation,' and yet a part of me is convinced that when I reach it, I'll just burn it down again.”

"So walk to an ocean then," Mathieu said as if it were the most obvious of advice, "if you're so scared of catching the world on fire. Like I said, you're twenty. You're not so far down the road that you can't turn around and walk back."

"I don't know. Sometimes I think I like the way the ash feels when it chokes me."

“Well,” Mathieu sighed. "Have fun then."

Mathieu bent to the side, let out a grunt and a string of cracks along his spine. He gave Nim a reassuring nod then laid himself flat against the roof to look skyward. Nim turned her eyes to the heavens too, only silence and the heavy air of loss between them.

"You're still not like them,” he said. I can tell."

"I think I am."

"You think that you should be like them. Maybe one day you will be. Or maybe one day you'll die again."

"Are you always this morbid, or is it only when you drink?"

"Morbid?" Mathieu crumpled his face, feigned offense. "I consider myself quite lively. Why, any minute I'm half a breath away from breaking into song. You want morbid, talk to Vicente. The man is deceased."

Nim chuckled at the stupid joke, and Mathieu snickered as well. Rolling back onto his side, he blinked up at her and there was mischief in his stare again, in his eyes like two stones of onyx bouncing starlight back into the darkness. "What," she asked him. "You're looking like trouble again."

“If I'm trouble then what are you, dressed like that?"

"Dressed like what?"

"That," he said, throwing a glance down her body. "Lucien could hardly take his eyes off you at dinner. You know, you'd have much better chances with him than M'raaj-Dar."

Nim let out a snort. "I wasn't paying attention anyway.”

“Are you sure? For a moment there, I thought I saw you looking back at him.”

"Well, you thought wrong."

"Did you notice how upset he was at the mere idea of our little dalliance? Vicente, I can understand. He's awfully protective, but Lucien? I dare say that man was jealous."

Nim rolled her eyes. “So? What an unremarkable thing to talk about."

“Prickly, are we? I heard all about the chase you lead him on. Sore spot for you still?”

“No," she said crisply. "But I find the topic incredibly tiresome. Everyone and their scamp feels the need to discuss our esteemed Speaker’s opinion of me or whatever. I’ve barely spoken with him. He doesn’t know me nor I him.”

“I wouldn’t have thought so by the way he regards you. I haven't heard him speak so highly of a member of his sanctuary since Ocheeva was promoted to Executioner.”

“Well, I don’t care to hear about it,” she said, dismissing him. "So don't ask me about him again."

"Oh, don't be a bore. A part of you must be curious about him. Everyone is."

“Not I. You couldn't pay me to care, and believe it or not, I don't find it particularly flattering to know people are talking about me behind my back.”

“They say he's taken special interest in you." Mathieu's tone was light, almost teasing. "Some have begun to speculate..."

They? Who was 'they? ' And why was he still going on about Lucien? Lucien this, Lucien that. For Talos' sake, she thought the people in her sanctuary were weird enough about him. “Look, I said I don’t know him. He’s been nothing but strange with me since I joined. If you want to fuck him, be my guest.”

“Ho, ho, I’ve struck a nerve!”

Nim recoiled away. Before Mathieu could protest, she was wobbling on her feet, inching her way down the rickety slope of the roof. “Nine, you gas on like a speared netch," she called over her shoulder. "Come on. It's late, and I've had enough fresh air. We should get back to the party anyway.”

“Change in temperature, eh? Suddenly you’re as frigid as an ice-wraith in Evening's Star. So uptight. What’d I say?”

“Oh boo-hoo," she jeered right back. "The whole sanctuary is filled with gossips. Go ask them for rumors.”

Nim dangled off the ledge of the roof and lowered herself down slowly. She slipped into the attic, turned and waited to help pull Mathieu back inside too. When they were both on slightly steadier ground, they proceeded down the stairs. That was when Nim froze. She heard a sound. Then another much the same. Labored, heavy breathing traveled up the stairwell from the floor below. She heard a grunt. A throaty groan. It sounded like someone was in pain.

Nim stood there processing the sound, sharing a confused look with Mathieu. She stepped forward and heard the creak of wood, but it did not come from the rotted floor under her feet. It sounded like chair legs creaking— no, something heavier.

And then she understood.

"Why can't we go back to the fort?" It was a woman's voice from the floor below, and all the while, Nim heard a creak, creak, creak and the muffled thuds of something hitting the wall. The woman moaned, then spoke again, her voice playful but out of breath. "Don't you— don't you ever get tired of sneaking around?"

There was no response, only more of those noises. The groans, the breathing— they weren’t pained, they were pleasured.

Nim’s blood turned electric. "Dear Gods," she said, turning to Mathieu with a whisper. "What are the chances? Should we—"

Without warning, Mathieu descended the stairs.

Panicked, Nim followed, clutching at the back of his shirt. Casting her night-eye, she proceeded to the second floor landing with ginger steps, hoped that if they walked carefully enough, they might not give away their presence. Mathieu crept in the shadows as he skirted the walls. Nim carried on at his heels, then heard a giggle. A familiar giggle. Without thinking, she looked into the bedroom.

“Oh," she gasped, and what she happened upon would be forever burned into her memory. "Oh, Mara mother mild."

In the room, upon the bed, that creaky ramshackle bed, Nim watched Antoinetta bolt up in a panic. “Nim?” Her eyes were wide, her hands clutching her bare chest. She was scanning the darkened perimeter of the room until her gaze rested on Nim and Mathieu, who stood frozen at the bottom of the attic steps.

Nim stepped backward, sideways, anywhere. She bumped into Mathieu’s chest, releasing a startled cry. Righting herself as she clutched at him, she watched a second figure rise from the bed. It approached the bedroom doorway, stopping to lean against the frame.

"Good evening," said the figure, and it was Lucien, undeniably Lucien. He reached for the corner of his mouth, wiped away a smear of lipstick, looked to Nim, then to Mathieu. “What a coincidence this is.”

“Ah Lachance,” Mathieu bubbled gleefully. “Come to enjoy this tranquil summer night? And with a beautiful lady friend to accompany you too. They say great minds think alike.”

Had her spell not been in effect, Nim might have missed the twitch in Lucien's eyes. Anger, disgust? There then gone quicker than lightning. "Do they?"

“Mathieu, we should—”

"Hello, Nimileth," Lucien said with a wintry smile. Behind him, Antoinetta scrambled to pull her dress back on.

"Hi."

“I see you’re getting along well with the rest of the family.”

"Oh, yes. Just fine."

Mathieu wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her uncomfortably close to his side. His bony hip was digging into hers, and she stared up at him in confusion when he swiped the hair out of her eyes and bent down to place a chaste kiss on her temple. At that Nim’s mouth fell open, stunned.

"Adorable." Lucien’s smirk fell, now bordering on a sneer, and through the dark she could see he was attempting to set Mathieu ablaze with his glare.

“Yes, I’d like to say so," Nim said stiffly. "And I see the two of you have some business with each other. So Mathieu, we should go. I’m sure Vicente is looking for us.”

“Oh, Let him look," Mathieu said. "He’s immortal. He’s got all the time in the world.“ And he was still smiling innocently, still playing with Nim's hair, his free hand sliding down her arm, reaching for her fingers. Nim snapped her hand away.

“Mathieu,” she hissed and without further delay, stomped off toward the staircase and disappeared into the basement.

Nim waited before the Black Door, eyeing it from her periphery, feeling that the same stomach-curdling dread she had grown to associate with cursed artifacts of unknown provenance. Mathieu was taking his sweet time walking down the stairs. Still gawking probably, still making mind-numbing conversation with Lucien while poor Antoinetta lay half-naked on display.

Lucien and Antoinetta— how did she miss that? And now Antoinetta’s reaction to that stupid amulet made a little more sense. Nim had all but assumed her affections unrequited. She certainly knew better now; whatever she’d seen in the second floor bedroom was quite obviously being reciprocated.

The basement door squeaked open, and Nim spun around at once, throwing her hands at Mathieu and pushing him hard against the wall. “Pleased with yourself are you? What’s your problem?”

“What did I do?”

“Playing dumb are we? You implied we were getting all... all hot and frisky out there."

“Hot and frisky? Oh, Nimileth. I did nothing of the sort."

"Please. It’s like you were egging him on. If there is some cock measuring contest between you and Lucien, leave me out of it. Gods, was that your plan the whole night? To cozy up to me just to make him jealous?”

“My dear, we were just joking, Lucien and I.”

“Well maybe you should explain the joke to me then,” Nim sniffed, pushing the Black Door open and walking swiftly away. “I don’t understand how it was funny.”

The main hall had emptied considerably since they stepped out. The visiting Speakers were nowhere in sight. Of the assassins, only Telaendril and Gogron remained. They were snuggled up with each other, a twisted pretzel ensconced within a plush armchair, sharing a sleepy, tender moment in obnoxiously loud slumber.

Nim eyed Gogron and Telaendril, feeling bitterness creep in where it hadn't been before. The two of them, Vicente and Lorise, and now Antoinetta and Lucien— seeing so many people together, holding each other so close.... well, Nim suddenly felt very unsnuggled.

She looked over her shoulder at Mathieu. His dark eyes sparkled wickedly, and she wondered if she should have taken up on his offer, kissed him when she had the chance. Would it have been so bad? Even if his interest was never genuine in the first place…

Damned wine, Nim chided herself, shaking such wanton thoughts from her head. Acting like an adolescent, the hells’ gotten into me?

“Nimileth!” Vicente called out from behind her, and before she could swivel back around, he was bounding up towards her with unnatural speed. “By Sithis, where were you?"

He was in front of her in seconds, gripping her shoulders, eyes wide. "Are you okay? I was looking all over for you."

“Yes, Vicente, quite fine. Just needed some fresh air. Where is everyone?”

“Retired to bed if they could still walk themselves." At the sight of Mathieu skulking a few paces behind, Vicente’s stare narrowed sharply. "Our guests have already been shown to their lodging. You should join them, Silencer. It’s rather late. Why don’t I show you the way?”

Mathieu responded with a coy smile, batting his lashes with a zeal meant only for the stage. “How chivalrous of you, Brother. A true gentleman you are to walk a young, drunk man home so late at night.”

“Only the best service for our esteemed visitors.”

Mathieu threw a wink Nim’s way. “What are the chances he tucks me into bed too?”

“Alright, enough.” Vicente gestured toward the Black Door. "After you. We might have a chat while we’re at it."

“Oh, it must be serious. It sounds like I’m in trouble.” Mathieu then turned to Nim. “I guess this is farewell. It's been a pleasure, Nimileth.”

“Yes, good night then,” Nim replied curtly, and Mathieu’s playfulness was doused with a sigh. “And um, thank you for your company," she added. "Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime.”

"If fortune is on our side." He bowed his head and departed on Vicente’s lead, offering Nim one last wave and a smile that she so wanted to believe was sincere.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Fine Drink in Good Company

Nim had known within minutes that the nightcap of brandy had not settled well. Her stomach churned, bubbling, groaning. Lazily, her eyes roamed the room, and since when had there been two main halls? For an alchemist, one would think she'd know how better to mix her solutions, and for an alchemist, one would think she'd know when best to stop drinking them.

Whiskey and wine and more wine and something rancid that Lorise had brought back from her favorite Bosmeri butcher. Rotmeth, it was called, the drink of her people. Nim had eyed it suspiciously. She wasn't sure she wanted to belong to any people that drank down such foul smelling swill. Yet after a glass or two, well... she reasoned she had drank far fouler things for worse times.

Now, she sat in the main hall of the sanctuary clutching a cup of water, the one Vicente had left her with before escorting Mathieu to the safehouse outside of town. He had told her to wait for him, that they should have a frank little talk afterward. Damned old man, she thought. What's he think, he's my father? What was there to talk about, anyway? Not to mention it was long past midnight; sometimes she swore he forgot the limitations of the mortal form.

The sanctuary was much emptier now, and for such a late hour, its echoes evinced signs of conscious life. The skeletal guardian shuffled, mace scraping against stone, and at the table, Schemer squeaked happily between mouthfuls of dinner crumbs. Nim sipped her water and tried fruitlessly to stabilize her spinning vision by staring at the silver ring on her finger. Equally fruitlessly, she tried not to think of Raminus. Really, what was so wrong with her? What about her was so repulsive? Even Lucien of all people found companionship despite being... whatever he was. Nim wondered where Lorise was. Back home, maybe? She wondered if she should go find her, tell her about Raminus and Mathieu and Lucien and Antoinetta just so she’d stop thinking about it.

Waiting and waiting, Nim tapped her chipped nails against her armchair and attempted to drown out the sound of Gogron's raucous snores. It did not work, and in the not-so-quiet of the sanctuary, she felt suddenly very alone.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

The voice rang dully in her ears, and she swallowed a flare of irritation as the not-silence was forced to an end. She turned to face an approaching Lucien Lachance and sipped loudly from her cup, watching with lidded eyes as he drew closer.

“Speaker,” she gurgled out. Water trickled out the corner of her mouth, and she wiped at it gracelessly with the back of her hand.

“Is it formal titles now? What a shame. 'Eliminator' doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as melodically.”

“Helloooo Luuuciennn,” she sang out. “Is that melodic enough for you?”

"You’re not avoiding me, are you?”

“What, have I done something to make you think so?”

“We’ve hardly spoken this entire evening.”

“Yes, well. We’ve both had many people to entertain. Busy, busy bees we've been.” 

If her wits were not already so worn she might have found herself embarrassed in Lucien's company given what she’d seen him doing to Antoinetta less than an hour ago. Lucien drew closer, glancing around the main hall before resting his eyes on Nim. She sunk into her chair on instinct.

“It seems our guests have retired for the night," he said, "and you don’t look so busy now.”

Nim could think of no excuse that would grant her leave from the Speaker’s presence unless she wanted to hide in the bathroom which, given the history of their encounters, she wasn't sure would even work. Damn that nightcap, she thought, Damn that nightcap and damn me and my slow inebriated wits!  "What about it?"

"I thought perhaps we could talk."

Nim batted her lashes slowly, hoping and failing to blink him away. "Where’s Antoinetta?”

“That's not really what I'd intended to talk about."

Terse, the reply. Nim squinted at him dubiously. “Well, I didn’t see her come in after... you know.”

“We needn’t worry about Antoinetta. She’s a grown woman. Quite capable.”

“But where—”

"I told you, she's fine. Do you have no trust in your Speaker?"

“Not really," Nim answered bluntly, "but it’s none of my business, I guess. So what do you want?"

"Just to talk. Do you oppose?"

"We are talking."

"And may we continue?"

Nim paused, for effect. "I guess I could spare a moment of my precious time." 

“How cordial.” Lucien gestured behind her, to the table stocked with half-full decanters of assorted spirits and a few uncorked bottles of wine. "May I interest you in a drink?" 

"Why? To lower my guard?"

"Is that what you would do if the roles were reversed?"

"Maybe. Depends on my intentions."

"And on the night we met, what were your intentions with me?" Nim chose not to respond and pursed her lips, unamused. Lucien gave a smooth, placating smile. "Well, what a fool I was then," he said with a purr, "for thinking you were all politeness." He gestured toward the table again. "Drink?"

"Pfft," Nim said and rolled her eyes for good measure. "You think you're funny, but you're not." Lucien appeared unbothered, and she took his silence as a challenge, raising a single finger into the air. "One drink," she said and immediately regretted it when a flash of victory swept his face.

“You're insolence is unfamiliar to me," he said as he walked away. "But I warn you, it only holds its charm for so long."

"Pfft," she scoffed again, but this time with less effort, and the sound tapered off into a wet plrrrbbb. "And did you know that slinking about unannounced has never been a charming trait to anyone?" Lucien did not respond to the jeer. Boo. No fun at all.

She could hear things being moved around the table, bottles clinking softly as he sifted through the assortment. Turning in her chair, she watched him inspect the labels, replacing whatever he found unpalatable. Clink, clink, clink , the sound of the glass, so soft and calming it could have lulled her to sleep then and there. Slowly, hardly aware of it at all, she let her eyes slide closed...

"I am willing to disregard it for now," Lucien said, and Nim forced her eyes open, having nearly forgotten what they were talking about seconds ago.

"Huh?"

"Your choice of drink?"

"Oh, umm." She'd already had so much today— Surille, Tamikas, some Cyrodiliic brandy. What was left for her to try? “How about some of that Argonian Bloodwine that Banus brought with him? I’ve always been curious about it.”

“Long gone. You better keep that interest piqued."

“Damn, why'd you ask then? I’ll have whatever." And truly it didn't much matter now. She’d drink most anything like it was water.

A minute later, Lucien returned with two silver goblets and a bottle of dark wine. Nim didn't recognize the vineyard on the label as he poured out their drinks. He reclined backwards, watching silently as she raised her cup to her lips. She gave it a whirl, sniffed it then sipped. It was a medium-bodied red, not as sweet as she would have liked, more dry, a little earthy with a note of red currant. Nim took another sip and let it sit on her tongue to savor the lingering tug of iron on the finish. 

"'S'good," she said and could feel her eyelids hanging low, heavy. It took some effort to keep them open.

Lucien twisted the stem of his goblet on the armrest. “I would like to know more about you, Nimileth."

"Oh, is that so? I’m terribly dull.”

“I doubt it."

She yawned. "Even when I tell you so?"

"Especially when you tell me so," he said. "We haven’t had the pleasure of becoming acquainted."

"My pleasure or yours?"

He ignored her. "You underestimate how curious most find you.”

"Meh." Nim shrugged and tilted her head, and even when she righted it, Lucien’s body teetered in her vision despite him remaining quite still and quite seated. 

"Flippancy. You revert to it so quickly."

“You ever consider that if you didn’t lurk around so much, maybe I'd be more inclined to engage?”

“I lurk, do I?" Lucien chuckled dismissively, as though he didn't believe it.

“Don’t tell me you lack an ounce of self-awareness. If you’re not a lurker, then what are you?"

"Silent," he said. "Proficient in my craft. It is one of Sithis' many blessings."

"Deathcraft, bloodshed, Sithis," she groaned. "Is that all you ever talk about? There has to be another side of you, right? It can't be contracts and daggers and hailing the Dread Father twenty-four hours a day. Don't you have hobbies or something? What do you do for fun?”

“I don't think you really want me to answer that question truthfully." And there at the corner of his lips was a smirk so devilish it made Nim contemplate priesthood. 

“You can’t possibly be that one-dimensional. No one on Nirn is that boring."

He leaned forward, leaned closer. Nim recoiled away. Lucien was still grinning to himself, and Nim wondered just what he was so damned proud about. “I'm well practiced in several instruments," he said. "Lute and harp in my youth, these days mostly the lyre. An Ayleid heartwood, specifically. My residence has wonderful acoustics.”

Nim released an exaggerated gasp, placed a hand across her chest to feign surprise. “An actual hobby outside of torture and dismemberment? I'm shocked." She reached for her cup of water, sipped. "Are you any good?”

“I suppose it’s subjective."

“I didn’t take you as one for modesty."

"You are welcome to make your own judgement."

"Sure, maybe you could serenade me," she said then snorted. "Divine's know I could use it.” At the echo of her voice, Nim's cheeks scorched uncomfortably. She hadn't meant for it to sound so kittenish. It wasn't an invitation. She was simply speaking mindlessly. Blasted wine.

“Perhaps I’ll invite you to listen sometime,” Lucien said, watching diligently for her reaction.

Nim opened her mouth to decline then quickly shut it and slouched. The thought of Lucien with a lyre did amuse her, only because she could scarcely imagine it. Lucien, all shadow and smirk, head bowed before his instrument. She didn't know what an Ayleid heartwood was, but she imagined it was something small and delicate that made a thin, reedy sound like ping, ping, ping.

"A rare smile," Lucien said. Nim hadn't realized she was grinning at all and felt the sudden urge to roll her lips inward and chew off whatever it was he was staring at. “What about yourself? Musically inclined?”

“I can hold a tune, but it’s nothing to write home about. I screamed a lot as a child. Strengthened my pipes.”

Lucien chuckled against the rim of his goblet. “Well look at us. We’re half of a troupe already. I'll think of a piece that suits us both, and we can see if we sound any good together."

Nim searched her mind for the most precise words to express how little she desired to do that, and fortunately, she still had the good sense not to speak them. "Well, that's a thought. Not one I'd wish to manifest."

Lucien chuckled again, more of a hum than full-throated laughter. He leaned his face into his palm and watched her shift further into her chair. "You can relax, you know. I came only for conversation."

Conversation. She'd heard that one before, and she still wasn't sure what it meant. Or was he flirting with her? Gods dammit, Nim, she thought. After Raminus and Mathieu, she could hardly trust her intuition. Maybe this was all some sort of intricate joke between Lucien and Mathieu, poking fun at her or poking fun at each other at her expense. Maybe neither. Maybe this was Lucien's attempt at being playful, seeming harmless and non-threatening after the incident in the washroom.

If so, pathetic, she thought, and yet Nim found the idea so wholly absurd that she let herself smile at the sheer senselessness of it. What a man. Can't read a room for guar dung! 

Lucien smiled back at her. And why ? Men like Lucien smiled as a form of currency. They smiled when they wanted things from people, women especially. Suspicion trickled in, though it was weak, drowning in the vast lake of wine that sloshed in her head, and with another sip from her goblet, the wine rocked that suspicion until it was spread so thin, it was nearly dissolved. 

He's trying to scare you, she told herself. But he won't. You won't let him . Besides, this was the sanctuary, and Vicente would be back soon. Lucien wouldn't be so bold as to try something like that on her again.

“And what do you do when you’re not serving our Dread Father?” Lucien asked, tearing her away from her thoughts.

“Oh, um." She considered her words carefully. "I’m an alchemist."

"Yes, and?"

“What do you mean ' yes, and?’ That's my job. Are you not aware that most people have jobs?"

"So you're telling me that I'm one-dimensional when the only thing you do outside of this sanctuary is more work? Interesting."

Nim twisted her mouth into a scowl. "Oh, there's plenty else. Every now and then, I scream. Wouldn't do to let that skill grow rust, especially now that I hear there's a new career opportunity for me.”

"Oh yes, Nimileth, how very ambitious." Lucien readjusted himself in his chair, shifting it another inch closer. They were separated by a small end table and a few feet of space, and Nim took notice that the distance between them was continuously growing smaller. She said nothing of it, simply stared. “Tell me about where you grew up," he said. There was a rigidness to his voice now despite his calm, easy expression, an unyielding quality that suggested it was not so much a request as it was a command. 

She shook her head. “I’m not telling you that. You look like the kind of man who’d try to use my past against me, and you’re not going to get any secrets out of me with a glass of cheap wine.”

He blinked. Nothing else in his face shifted. “Then maybe you should have another.”

“Sure, but I’m still not telling you." 

She held out her goblet for a refill. Lucien obliged. He steadied it as he poured, wrapping his hand around hers. “And what would you rather talk about instead?” 

Calloused fingertips brushed the back of her palm. Nim allowed his touch to linger while she studied his face. His lashes were dark and quite long, his brows thick, well-sculpted. Candlelight flitted across his eyes, and she found them a much warmer shade of brown now that they weren’t directed at her. Pleasant. Almost.

“Let’s talk about… the neighboring provinces. Have you travelled out of Cyrodiil much?” Lucien nodded and reclined backward, said nothing. “On contract?” she asked. He nodded again. “Where? Don’t they have local sanctuaries for that kind of thing?”

“They do, but even assassins must stretch their legs. You learn much about your skills, your limitations while working within novel settings. Unfamiliar cities make for the most challenge. Last Evening Star, I found myself in Skyrim trailing the head of a bandit clan. His camp was based out of a cavern in the foothills of the Jerall Mountains, but he was headed home for the New Life Festival."

“A real family man, was he?" 

"He was visiting his mother's house in Riften."

"Can't imagine a bandit leader as a mama's boy."

"I assure you, he was."

"How sweet." Nim snickered to herself but the humor shriveled to dust in her throat. She swallowed it down and it scraped, settling in her stomach with the uncomfortable weight of a fully formed rock. 

There was an intrusive flash across her mind's eye, a weeping mother doubled over. Sisters, brothers mourning the death of their sibling. The image seared there in her head. Bandit or not, he was somebody's son. And her contracts? What of their families? Who had wept for them, buried them, prayed for them? Nim worried the corner of her lip with her tongue and held silent, staring intently at the grout in the floor.

She sat like that for several moments, lost in thought, and when she swallowed, her spit was sour. The weight in her belly had since dissolved, giving rise to a simmering nausea, and when she looked up, the room had begun to spin. I should have gone to sleep when I had the chance , she scolded herself, let this sickness be a problem for future me . She reached a shaky hand for her cup of water and downed it in one gulp.

From beside her, Lucien cleared his throat. Suddenly reminded of his presence, she looked up to find two of him watching her curiously. She blinked, shaking her vision back to normal, driving the second Lucien away. "Oh, Riften," she said, attempting to return to the conversation. "Was it cold up there?”

Lucien narrowed his eyes, unimpressed. “It was Skyrim at the beginning of winter.”

“Yeah, I suppose I ought to have known that. Did you see a sabre cat? What about a mammoth? I hear there are these giant spiders up there that can project venom from their mouths. You see any of those?”

“Frost spiders, no. I saw a dead sabre cat that some hunters brought into market to sell. The eyes and fangs are valued for their restorative properties.“

"Riften the only place you’ve been to up there?”

“I saw a fair bit of Markarth.”

“Dwemer city, right?” Fathis Aren had spoken of entire centurions unearthed from the Dwemer ruins of Skyrim, and the thought of such a sight sent a chill up her arm, prickling the hairs that grew there. “You know, I wonder if they’re in need of any excavators," she said absently. "Could be fun."

“Are you that eager to get away from me?” 

“No, I only meant—“

“My turn to ask a question," Lucien said, cutting her off. "How did Alessia Caro wrong you?”

“Alessia Ca—” Nim paused. "That's a rather personal question actually." And of course, he was going to ask personal questions. She should have expected it from him sooner, what with his wine and his smirks and his lingering gaze. Were she sober, she might have found herself more irritated that he was bold enough to bother her after what he’d done in the washroom. Were she sober, she'd like to think she'd have had the good sense to walk away the moment he showed up.

Lucien only shrugged. "Why? She's dead."

Nim twirled the silver ring that Raminus had given her around her finger. She sat there, too much wine in her cup and Lucien's eyes eager upon her. “She was vile, a true monster if I had ever met one."

"But what did she do to you?”

"Well nothing really. It was the people I worked and lived with that she targeted. Khajiits and Argonians mostly, thrown in jail and tortured, evicted without cause. Men, women, children; it didn't matter.”

“She hurt someone close to you,” Lucien said, more of a statement than a question. "The Khajiit you spoke of earlier today. Who was he to you?" 

"He was..." Nim looked down into her goblet. Her face darkened in the reflection, and when she blinked, she felt for a moment as if she too were mired in that burgundy murk. "He was everything I ever knew. The closest thing to family I've ever had."

"Tragic then, your loss." Soft and gentle, Lucien’s voice, as he twisted the stem of his goblet. He brought his wine to his lips, and his skin glowed with warmth, pink about the cheekbones and the tip of his nose. 

He is drunk too , Nim realized, and something about knowing it left her even more unsettled than if she were the only one drunk between them. Suddenly, he seemed more human, but only just, and it still bordered on the uncanny. His eyes... how could they be so full of intent yet so empty, his smile so strangely joyless despite the deep curve of his lips? Is this an attempt at comfort , she wondered, or are these simply idle words? She didn't need them from him either way.

"We among the Black Hand know the importance of family better than most," Lucien said. "To have it taken from you so young... it has sharpened you, no doubt."

"Sure," she said, hoping to sound less doleful, more distant. "Ah, but so it goes." She downed the contents of her goblet, and before Nim could even ask, Lucien poured her another.

"How did it happen?"

"He was Renrijra,” she said. “He sold skooma, and he was a thief. One day he got caught. Story as old as time."

"I see."

"Ah, I know what you're thinking. He was a criminal, so wasn't it justice?" She shook her head, whipping it back and forth. "He wasn’t a bad person. I was going to pay his fine, but he never had the option, just death. Slow and torturous and unwarranted. Alessia Caro did it for fun. For the hell of it."

Lucien held quiet. He probably does the same thing. Haven't I done so too?

And suddenly... he was looking at her that way again, the same way he had regarded her in the washroom. That unbearable intensity like a pitch-black knothole staring out from the hickory brown of his eyes. It searched her, that emptiness. For what, she couldn't say, only that it sifted and scraped across her face hard enough that it nearly scratched right through her skin. In the silence, Nim felt too aware of herself, as if naked, a rabbit alone in an open plane.

“So you are capable of passion," Lucien said. It took her utterly and completely off guard.

"I— what?"

"Of fire and of fury."

“Well, I’m not a stone," she said, scrunching her brows, and really, he ought to have known better. What a dumb thing to say. "Of course, I’m capable of it.”  

“Ah, but you hide it well. So phlegmatic."

"Phlegmatic?" She scoffed. "That's an ugly word."

"Why bother then with the stoic facade?”

“Because I'm a busy bee, remember? I'm saving my energy for other endeavors. Important ones. Interesting ones.”

Lucien clucked his tongue in disapproval. “And it’s such a waste that you do.”

"Oh, spare your chiding. I'm doing fine as I am. Everyone says so."

"And are you content with being fine? Is mediocrity all you strive for?"

"I said spare me your chiding, didn't I?"

“Very well."

The response came out a bit brusque, enough for Nim to make note of it. So now he wanted to be annoyed with her ? Good. She'd let him.

“And what would you rather discuss?" he said. "The surrounding provinces?"

Nim yawned and arched her back in a long stretch, let her eyes crawl over him lazily. The disappointment in his expression was undeniable now, and the longer she met him with her content little simper, the harsher it seemed to grow.  "Sure."

"So, what do you have to say?"

"Admittedly very little."

"Because you’ve never even been to any," he said, as if it meant something, as if she should feel embarrassed, and he smiled a cold, serpentine smile. "I bet you’ve lived in Cyrodiil all of your life."

Nim gave a shrug. "You're not wrong."

Gods this is dull, she thought with another yawn. Would it be rude if I left? When she closed her eyes, she imagined the comforts of her shabby bed, the stiff straw mattress, the scratchy sheets. Right now, it sounded like a dream.

"Alright well," she said, pushing herself to her feet. "I'm gonna get some more water. Be back soon. Or maybe not at all."

Nim stood. Too fast. The rush to her head carried far more than just blood, and when she took a step forward, her legs slid out from under her.

"Whoooa," she said, swaying on her feet. She threw her arms out to the side to find balance and staggered forward. Blinking and stumbling, she tried to regain her bearings, but her head was so fogged and her vision so crooked. And then she was falling over, the world tilting on its axis.

A hazy shape moved in her periphery. It reached for her, and soon its hands were clasping her shoulders, guiding her back to her chair. "Sit down." It was Lucien's voice. She leaned into his grasp. "Here. Allow me."

"Mmph," she mumbled out. Her head was still spinning, so fast it began to frighten her. "Did you poison me?"

"It's called wine, Nimileth."

" It's called wine ," she mimicked back. "How sharp you are."

"Stay here. I'll be back shortly. Perhaps you'll have thought of something interesting to talk about when I return, hmm?"

"Mmph."

Lucien walked away, and Nim watched him become a blur in the distance, growing smaller and smaller in her still spinning vision. 

I wonder if Vicente got lost on his way home, she thought as she slouched back into her chair. What's taking him so long? He said he'd be right back.

She looked to the doorway, squinted, waited. No Vicente. Down the hall, the skeletal guardian rounded the corner. Schemer stood fully perched atop the table. At her ear, she heard a loud, shuddering snore, and it was the last thing she would remember of the night.

When Lucien returned to his seat, he found Nimileth staring off into a distance much greater than the length of the room. She did not seem to notice him as he approached and instead sat there swaying side to side, moved by a draft of wind he was certain did not exist.

"Hello," he said and refilled her cup with water. Nim took it with a lazy smile.

"Thank you," she beamed. "Such a gentle man."

"Hmm."

This was not, in fact, how Lucien intended the night to progress, but when he'd seen Vicente leaving the sanctuary with Mathieu, he took the chance to wander down, and there she was. Alone. Truthfully, Lucien had begun to regret not walking back to Fort Farragut with Antoinetta when the other Speakers had left for the night. All that effort to get them under one roof only for Nimileth to disappear with Bellamont the first chance she had. He hadn't anticipated it. It embarrassed him. Hopefully, Banus and Arquen had spoken with her long enough to form their judgments, and hopefully, it would be the same as his.

What would Mathieu tell his Speaker upon his return? He must have formed some strong opinions, being alone with her for as long as he had been, and it was not without a flicker of annoyance that Lucien found himself wondering what information Bellamont had wrung out of her that he could not.

"So," he said, returning to his seat, "what have you come up with?"

With a loud grunt, Nimileth cleared her throat. She raised her hand, gave her finger a little twirl, then pointed it right at him. "I have a question for you."

"Very well," came his flat reply. "Let's hear it."

She chewed her lip, squinted, looking sly. “ What..." she began with a needlessly long drawl "...is your favorite fruit?”

“My favorite what?”

“Fruit."

"Fruit?"

"Fruit," she said. "The seed-bearing structure of a flowering plant. You're an alchemist too, I hear. You don't know fruit?"

She reached for the bottle of wine, leaning forward so fast she had to catch herself by the armrest to keep herself from falling out of the chair. Lucien brought the bottle closer to him, just far enough away that she'd need to shift nearer and stretch for it. Eyeing it, she slid to the edge of her seat.

"My favorite fruit." Lucien glanced around the room until his eyes landed on the dining table and its array of cluttered plates. “An apple, I suppose.”

Nim shook her head, unconvinced. “No, it’s not. You just picked the first thing you saw. S'okay. You can take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Silently, she sat. Blink, blink went those large dark eyes. Lucien, not knowing what else to do, entertained the question sincerely. “Well," he began after a few more eerily quiet seconds, "there are these berries that grow in the Ascadian Isles of Morrowind— comberries, they're called. Have you tried them?”

"Nope," she said. "Heard of em. They've restorative properties. Replenish magical reserves, yeah?"

"Among other things."

"Read about it in a book." She bounced her eyebrows and grinned triumphantly as if reveling in some great feat of victory. "See, you don't need to travel to know things." Lucien reclined in his seat and swirled his goblet idly. Nim stared at it, then back at her empty cup. "Hey, can you pass me—"

"Drink your water," he said.

"Don't tell me what to do."

She leaned forward, dragging her chair along behind her until she was close enough to grab the bottle herself. "So comberries," she said, crossing her legs and slapping her bare soot-covered feet very loudly against the floor. "What do they taste like?"

“Tart when eaten raw. Mildly astringent. In truth, they're not very enjoyable on their own. They're most often served as a confection cooked in sugar.”

“Not so hard, huh," she said. "And your favorite vegetable?”

“Eh." It took him a moment to think. "Courgette.”

“That’s also a fruit.”

Lucien looked to her, askance. “No, it isn’t.”

“T’is. Has seeds, does it not?”

“A tomato has seeds.”

“A tomato is also a fruit.”

"Oh, don't be a pedant," he sneered. "No one in their right mind would consider a tomato a fruit. "

"Well, I never said I was in my right mind." Nim nodded, raising her empty goblet of wine to her lips and attempting quite unsuccessfully to drink another sip. She stared at it for a moment, confused, then pulled from the bottle that was still in her hands. "But doesn't mean s'not true. Shouldn't you know this? Aren't you an alchemist?"

"I dabble," Lucien told her, and again, Nim looked unconvinced. “But I'd never be so deliberately abstruse as to claim that a tomato is a fruit. What about corn? Next you'll try to convince me that's a fruit too.”

“No thass a grain,” she slurred and took another swig from the bottle. Wine glistened on her lips. She wiped it off on her shoulder.

“A grain?”

“It comes from a grass, just like wheat or oats or rice.”

“Rice is a grass?”

“I’ll tell you what’s not a fruit." She smiled coyly, like a tutor helping a youth solve his elementary math problems, and it made Lucien irrationally annoyed.  "Cabbage. Leeks. Cauliflower. Carrot. Radish,” she said in one fluid breath while counting them off on her fingers. “You catching the pattern?”

“Hmm,” he mused, finding himself thoroughly surprised that he was still entertaining the conversation at all. “Then I think it would be lettuce.”

Nim bobbed her head with slow seeping enthusiasm, her eyes flitting closed as she did so. “A fine choice that lettuce is. So crisp. So succulent.”

Lucien watched her, uncertain of what was happening. She sat like that for a long time, drifting off into another plane of consciousness while her head bobbed to a cadence only she seemed aware of. Lucien sat in silence, crossed his legs and cleared his throat which only then seemed to remind her that she was not alone.

She opened one eye. It watched him lazily as he took a sip of his wine. Lucien found himself uncharacteristically unnerved. “And what is your favorite vegetable?” he asked. The words sounded childish, foreign on his tongue.

Nim slapped her knees with unprecedented fervor for having been in such a drunk stupor seconds ago. “Oh, a potato, hands down. They’re extraordinarily versatile. So many ways to slice them, and so many things to do with them once they’re sliced. Once I had a longing for potatoes so fierce that I ate three in one sitting, and I tell you, I could have probably eaten more...”

Nim proceeded to describe the experience in a disturbing amount of detail, much more than Lucien would have ever asked for. He allowed her to carry on and listened with half an ear. This was not how Lucien intended the night to progress. Truthfully, it was best for him to take his leave. This deep in her cups, he thought her walls would stand less guarded, but never would he have imagined that what lay beyond them was so terribly mundane.

Yet Lucien could not bring himself to stand, and his gaze remained fixed on the relaxed sway of her limbs, the shimmer of candlelight in the glassy dark of her irises, and maybe he too was a few goblets too deep, for he remained seated despite better judgment. “Have you ever had an ash yam?” he asked her

Nim’s eyes glowed with the spirit of inquiry. “Are those also native to Morrowind?”

"Yes. They have a very unique flavor."

"Mmm, like what?"

"Smokey. That's the best way I can describe it. I’ve yet to experience it in anything else.”

“Mmm, I like smokey flavor.” Nim hummed. Absently, she reached for Lucien’s hand and gave it a series of quick pats. “We should go to Morrowind then. I would like to taste these comberries and ash yams. And some of that sujamma Banus was talking about. We could go find some.”

Lucien placed his free hand atop hers, mindful of the warmth it radiated. “Maybe when you find time to fit it into your busy schedule. It can be dangerous for our kind there.”

“Oh?” Her voice rose to such a high pitch he would have mistaken it for a birds chirp had he not been staring directly at her lips. “Cause of the Morag Tong? They can just smell Dark Brotherhood all over you, huh. I bet you reek.”

"You bet I what?"

But Nim did not respond and instead launched herself into an aimless screed about the vegetation of Morrowind, describing plants she's never before seen and quoting scraps she'd obviously picked up through reading. Lucien endured it quietly, speaking only when she paused to offer forth answers to her questions. She laughed at that, for some reason, and by now it was quite a full, resonant sound, not like before when she'd been keeping herself hidden from him. There was a melody to her laughter. Lucien found he enjoyed it. He wondered what she sounded like when she screamed.

“You know, I hear that in Morrowind there are these great big trees— trees? No, I mean Tels." She raised her brows a few times as she drank from the bottle, looking smug and satisfied as she recalled the proper name. “Muchrooms," she said. "Mush... mushrooms. Big ones.” She offered Lucien a few enthusiastic nods. “Big.”

She was breathing more slowly now, her chest rising and falling in a lax rhythm, and he thought she looked different tonight in the guttering orange flame of the wall sconces. Not as spindly as he remembered, less breakable. A shame.

"Nimileth," he said, reaching for the wine, and he liked the way her name filled his mouth when spoken aloud. "There is more I want to ask you."

“Oh, speaking of trees, what about Grahtwood?” she said ignoring him, pulling back just out of his reach.

What an insolent creature , he thought but not with contempt. Such disregard for his authority, it was an unusual trait for a member of his sanctuary to possess. He'd have some fun wringing it out of her. Now, however, he'd pay it no heed for she was still new blood, and just as every one of his assassins had, so too would she come to learn the esteem of a Speaker's role.

She would need to and soon, with what he intended.

“I hear the trees move down there," Nim continued, and Lucien realized he hadn't been paying attention to anything she was saying anymore. "Trees with legs. Legs, er... roots. Mobile roots. Trees that house entire cities.”

Her eyes rested on his then traced the outline of his face, flickering open and closed as she fought the call of sleep. Though she was not what Lucien would consider beautiful, he thought her a quaint thing, small and unsuspecting under that carefully crafted illusion. If only she let it fall. If only she let herself flourish as the Dread Father had intended...

The thought sent shivers creeping down his skin. He could draw that power out of her. He would draw it out of her. The Black Hand's orders ensured it, and she would become one of them, one of his in name.

"Ooooh, I got it," she drawled. Her eyes were nearly closed. She slumped back in her chair, hair spilling over her face. "The Hisssst. Yeah, that’s it. That’s the tree. The. Tree."

"Mhm," Lucien said absently. HIs eyes slipped from her lips to the amulet resting between her breasts. His amulet. The blood-red gem at its center glittered in the firelight, flashing with every twist of the dancing candle flame. It sat there pressed against her dark skin like a heart flayed open, bared to the room. His amulet. His Eliminator. And soon she would be much more.

“Y'know bout that one?" she asked. "The tree?" The wine bottle was slipping from her hand. Lucien leaned forward to grab it before it fell. 

"Of course." He set the bottle on the end table then reached a hand out to swipe the hair shielding her face from view. Testingly, he brushed it back behind her ear, let his hand lightly graze the skin there, and she shivered. Heat swelled within him to see the gooseflesh rise along her arms, and it was a lurid heat. Blinding, all-consuming.

"And whasss the name of that big one in Whiterun?"

"The Gildergreen."

"You've been there before?"

"To Whiterun? No."

"Oh, then we should go there too." She was mumbling, almost incoherent. Lucien had to strain to make anything out. "To the Gillergreen."

"One day, perhaps."

"I want to see the Gillergreen. You should take me there, Raminus, so I can see it with my own eyes."

Lucien paused, caught his breath at the back of his throat, and within him, he felt the heat flare anew. He could have sworn he'd heard another name on her lips. Half a second of a slip. How peculiar.

Inside him, the heat burned deeper, burned red like freshly-fed fire, and behind his eyes, he entertained the vision of a stranger’s fevered hands roaming her skin. He saw a dark room, the silver glow of moonlight at the window, a flash of something copper and scarlet upon her bare body. It settled in his mind, that image, and with it the tautness inside him pulled even tighter. Lower the fire churned, growing hotter. Hotter.

All that time Nimileth spent away— Lucien wondered what she did when she was not working for their family, working for him. Did she think to have a life outside the walls of his sanctuary? Why it suddenly mattered, he couldn't quite say, only that he wished to see it rent apart and that vision left him hungry, yearning for release be it carnal or sanguine or better yet, some amalgam of both. 

Nim murmured something incomprehensible, and Lucien watched bitterly as her head rolled out of his grasp and against the backrest. He trailed the soft brown flesh along the length of her neck, reached toward her again, rested his fingers on her pulse. And he stayed there, ghosting over her throat, coiling a finger around a stray lock of hair until Nim’s hand snaked up against his chest, grasped his wrist, and pulled it away.

“What are you looking at, hmm?” she hummed, her voice barely audible as she licked her dry lips.

“I could do so many horrible things to you right now, Nimileth. Unspeakable things.”

Nim let out a lazy chuckle and rolled her neck slowly to face him. “I bet I could do them too. You’re not so special, you know.”

“I bet you could, my timid, little creature.”

“Dreadful things,” she whispered back.

“Show me how.”

“Like this.” Nim placed both hands around his throat and squeezed lightly. “And a nice warm spell. A spell that would make you shut up forever.”

He let her keep her grasp on him, her thumbs pressing down against his windpipe. Heart fluttering, breath quickening, she applied a minute amount of pressure. “Do you want to know how I’d do it?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“They wouldn’t be able to recognize your body after I’m through with it. I’d take every inch of you and make it something greater. I’d make you bloom. You have no idea the self-restraint I’m practicing just to keep my hands off of you.”

“Do it then," she said wearily and released him with a sigh. "I dare you.”

Lucien placed a hand on her shoulder, let it slide down her arm and drag her sleeve along with it. He gripped her firmly, his other hand hovering beside her cheek. He grazed the tips of his finger across the skin there, warm and rosy from the settling wine, and he wondered if Mathieu, that other man, had dared to touch her like this when she was his assassin, his knife to wield. She hummed something, smirked to herself, and Lucien leaned closer to press his fingers to her lips. She parted them slightly, squinting her eyes open. Taking her chin in his hand, he lifted her listless face to his and lowered himself to her mouth. Wine-stained breath blew softly against him, and she smiled, giggled. He was so close, he could nearly—

“Lucien?” Vicente’s voice, once pleasant now so very strident, rumbled through Lucien's ears, and just like that, the reverie was shattered. “What are you doing?” 

With a long, disappointed sigh, Lucien watched Nim move sedately out of his grasp. He turned to face Vicente, standing to full height. “Nimileth and I were just making conversation."

“Vicente,” Nim yawned as she righted herself in her chair. “He’s going to do terrible things to me, heheh . Isn’t that a riot?”

Vicente's eyes flashed bright with fury. He clenched a fist, took a step forward, teeth gritted as if on the verge of some inhuman growl. "Lucien," he said forcing his lips into a wolflike smile. “I think she looks a little tired, don’t you?” And then he was moving toward Nimileth before Lucien had even pulled the breath from his lungs to reply.

Lucien reached out for her, attempting to raise her to her feet, but Vicente cut him off, stepping between them. Vicente slid an arm beneath her knees, another around her shoulders. “I’ll take her to bed then. Unfortunately, the party is over. Nim, say goodnight to our dearest Speaker.”

"G'night," Nimileth slurred as Vicente scooped her into his arms. She giggled against his back, waved at Lucien over his shoulder.

“She’ll stay with me tonight. She's drunk far too much. I think she might be sick soon. Someone should watch over her, make sure she stays safe.” Vicente proceeded down the hall toward his chambers, and watching her being ripped away made Lucien's vision flare red. 

Glaring into the back of Vicente's skull, Lucien watched until he disappeared around the corner. How touching, he thought, licking at his lips. Dismissing the phantom taste of wine there, he left.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Thinking of You

Nim awoke in Vicente’s chambers, alone save the faint, sour scent of stomach bile and rancid wine. She sat up slowly, blinked, tested for signs that she was still drunk. Her head felt heavy, but it wasn't throbbing. When she smacked her lips, her mouth was disgustingly dry.

Just dehydrated, she thought hopefully and swallowed a sticky swallow. Given her spotty memory of the night before, she was lucky she wasn't more hungover. Glancing down, she noted she wasn’t dressed in her evening gown but one of Vicente’s shirts. Comfy. She’d ask him where he bought it the next time she saw him. 

Walking sluggishly to the wash basin, Nim splashed her face and had just enough time to fool herself into a false sense of security before the pounding in her head began. Deep resounding throbs, like a fist smacked against the inside of her skull— Son of a mudcrab, she cursed and immediately wished for death.

Moaning and mumbling, Nim sought out her stash of potions or at the very least, a tall glass of water. She hobbled out of the room and up to the living quarters, holding her aching head in her hands. Telaendril and the twins sat in the reading nook, sipping tea and quietly chatting. They offered Nim a chorus of ‘Good Mornings, ’ stifling giggles as she lumbered on past them.

In the living quarters, Gogron was snoring loudly into his pillow, his hulking body far too wide for the narrow bedframe. A fixture of the living quarters, was it even morning in the sanctuary if she couldn't hear him sleeping? And was it morning? Nim’s head pounded again. How long had she been laying in the bedroll on Vicente's floor? 

A sudden bout of nausea nearly brought her to her knees. She swallowed down a sour mouthful of spit. The trunk at the foot of her bed held some travelling potions and Lucien's old alchemy equipment, a spare stash of ingredients that she’d stored from her poison lesson. Sifting through, growing more desperate by the second,  she retrieved a tonic she’d brewed for Antoinetta’s cold a few weeks ago. It had a mild numbing effect. She took it along with her satchel of herbs and her equipment then set off to scrounge through the pantry for the ginseng Vicente kept for tea. 

Settled at the dining table, Nim took a moment to compose herself, close her eyes, breathe. Her stomach was churning up a storm, bubbling and spitting and making her wish she was somewhere approximately halfway between her chair and the mantle of Nirn. The poison inside her had already metabolized, little good a cleansing draught would do now. At the very least she could rid herself of this headache, and with a shaky hand, she uncorked her potion and tipped it down her throat. It was bitter, horribly bitter. She hoped it hadn’t fouled.

A soundless orange blur crept into her periphery, and she glanced up to see M’raaj-Dar clad in only a bath towel as he made his way from the washroom toward his bed. He moved so silently across the room that Nim would have found it unsettling had she not been distracted by the glimpse of his legs. Thick thigh muscles flexed taut below his towel as he gathered a change of clothes from his trunk. The lack of a scowl on his face suggested he hadn't yet seen her, and with bated breath, she watched him run hand over his head, tousling the honey-blonde locks that grew there.

M’raaj-Dar’s torso was bare. Even through his fur she could see the sharp outline of his abdominal muscles. When he pulled on his shirt, the towel slipped ever so slightly down his waist. It shifted, slid lower, revealing two long furrows along the crests of his hips, and Nim, having completely forgotten her task at hand, gawked openly at the display.

“What are you staring at?” M’raaj-Dar hissed, and when she snapped her eyes up to his, she found them pointed so sharply, she swore he meant to draw blood.

Panicked, she fumbled for words. “Oh, nothing! Nothing! I see nothing. I didn’t hear you come in, that’s all. I just looked up once, and there you were, haha . Just in a towel, and me sitting here with my potions and—”

“This One did not ask for a novel about your mundane little life,” he spat and gathered his clothes into his arms. “I feel filthier having breathed the same air as you and now must bathe again to rid myself of your stench.” He fled the room, the slam of the door loud enough to rival Gogron’s snores. Nim returned to her ingredients with a sigh. 

She’d just begun peeling the old, gnarled ginseng when she heard the living quarter door creak open. Had M'raaj-Dar returned to berate her? Her heart leapt into her throat. Oh, but he looked so handsome when he insulted her. She hardly minded at all.

Nim risked a glance up, found Antoinetta scurrying in, still dressed in the lacy blue ensemble she’d worn to the party the night before. When she met Nim’s eye, she looked suddenly flustered and offered up a small, rosy-cheeked smile. “Hey.” Then Antoinetta slipped the sleeves of her gown down past her shoulders and began to undress freely beside her bed.

Nim looked away but not before catching sight of a smattering of angry purple blotches that marred Antoinetta's neck. She looked back, alarmed. There were more along her decollete, her chest, travelling down the length of her ribs. Worrying the inside of her cheek, Nim scrutinized the colorful display, and when Antoinetta had slipped out of her dress completely, she had to bite her tongue to keep from wincing.

"Yikes," she said. "What happened to you?"

"Huh?" Antoinetta tugged a shirt over her head. "Nothing. Whatcha brewin’?"

Unconvinced but unwilling to pry, Nim returned her attention to the ginseng. “I was thinking something to flush my system, but it's too late for that. I'm forced to suffer the consequences of last night. Now, I just want to go back to sleep. Gods, I can’t believe how much I drank.”

Antoinetta flopped onto her bed. “That bad, huh? Well, it just means you had real fun. Let loose, right? Now you can stop acting like we’re all humorless savages.”

“No, last night I was the embodiment of refinement and social grace as I passed out on Vicente’s floor. Ugh." Just the thought made her stomach turn. Nim took a much needed sip of water and ran her hand up her forehead and down her cheeks. She squeezed her eyes closed. Another wave of nausea passed. “I don’t even know how I wound up there.”

“It happens to all of us at some point. But you looked real nice. See, would it kill you to clean up more often?"

"That may have been the dirtiest I've ever felt."

Antoinetta sat cross-legged, toying with the teeth of her comb. She giggled. "Well, you were having fun. It was nice to see. You're so... so phlegmatic sometimes.”

"Phlegmatic? That's twice in the span of a day I've been called that." Nim tried to chuckle, but it hoarsened into a groan. The pounding in her head grew stronger. “Ugh, I’m so hungover, Antoinetta, if you want emotion from me, all you’re getting is some form of revulsion. I’m nauseated.”

Antoinetta smirked, and they fell quiet as they carried on, Antoinetta with readying herself for the day and Nim with preparing the remaining ingredients for her potion. Nim snuck a glance up when she drank her water. Each time she did so she glimpsed more bruises decorating Antoinetta’s body. But Antoinetta didn’t seem pained, humming merrily to herself as she combed through the knots in her hair. Uneasily, she looked away. Far be it for her to question the habits of someone else’s bedroom.

“So, what did you think of the visiting Speakers?” Antoinetta asked as she pulled on a pair of trousers. “You seemed awfully close to Bellamont by the end of the evening.”

“Meh,” Nim shrugged. “I can’t say much about them, can I? Mathieu, well—” She pressed her pestle against the ginseng and sighed. Brewing was hardly worth the effort at this point. She might as well crawl under her covers and waste her entire day in bed.

"Yes, what about him?"

"Huh?"

Antoinetta giggled. All giggles she was this morning. "What about Mathieu? You were just talking about him then stopped. You must have gotten on quite well with him if you spent that much time together all night."

"It wasn't that much time.”

"Mhm,” Antoinetta teased. “You should have seen Vicente. He was like a madman, searching under all the furniture for you."

"Oh, he was not." Slouching in her seat, Nim did think of Mathieu— his sad eyes, his dark humor. He invoked within her a sense of pity and so too something terribly familiar. She supposed he had enticed her in that morbid way hopeless things often did. His questionable fixation with Lucien, less so. “I like him,” she admitted. “Or I think I do. I don’t dislike him. That’s nearly the same thing.”

Antoinetta rolled her eyes. “You’re awfully funny, Sister. Always so wary. It’s not a sin to find companionship, you know.”

“I already have friends here. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Antoinetta nodded enthusiastically, a little too enthusiastically.

“Besides,” Nim continued. “being cautious is no sin either. Especially if these rumors are true. I had to learn about the recent killings from Mathieu. No one in the Sanctuary told me a damn thing about it. You’re stingier with the gossip than I thought.”

“I don’t think it's meant to be common knowledge. We still don’t know much about the murders ourselves. How do we know we aren’t being hunted down by outside forces?”

“Like who? The Imperial Legion? The Morag Tong?”

"Well…” Antoinetta bit her bottom lip and leaned back on her arms. “I don't exactly know."

"Hmm." Everyone in the sanctuary was so tight-lipped about these specific murderers, and given that they never seemed to shut up about the damn subject, she couldn't for the life of her understand why. She should have asked Mathieu when she had the chance. Who knows, maybe she'd have it again.

"We shouldn't worry ourselves about it." Antoinetta said, working her hair into two plaits and offering no more. "The Black Hand are working hard to track down the culprit. We should trust their leadership.”

“Trust, yeah? How can you be so sure they have a plan?” 

Antoinetta looked away, a bit nervously. “Oh, I… may have overheard a few things."

"From Vicente and Ocheeva?"

"Just around."

"From Lucien?" Antoinetta scratched behind her ear. “He tells you things like that?”

“Well, vaguely. I mean, we talk, and our Speaker is doing everything in his power to keep his family safe. You just have to trust him, Nim. He really is watching over us.”

"Yeah, that part I believe." When she snorted, Antoinetta furrowed her brows. “I just hope he's as competent as I’ve been told if we’re all trusting him with our safety.” 

“He is,” Antoinetta said, almost defensively. A faint blush rose to her cheeks. “You wouldn’t question him If you got to know him better.”

"Oh?" Nim couldn't help but smirk. “And what would I think of him if I got to know him as well as you?”

Antoinetta froze, and the pinkness of her face swiftly turned a bright, blistering red. “Wh- just what do you mean by that?”

“S'not a secret, is it? The two of you.” Antoinetta stared open-mouthed and flustered, her face burning as she struggled to reply. “Well if it is a secret, you’re not terribly subtle. I know what I saw last night. You don’t mean to tell me that was just business as usual?”

“What I do with our Speaker is none of yours anyway,” Antoinetta snapped, grabbing her boots by the laces and making for the door.

“Antoinetta, I was just being crass!” Nim called out. “I didn’t mean anything by it other than to make a joke!”

But Antoinetta had already left for the main hall and departed with a violent slam of the door. The second one that morning.

Nim lay half-asleep in the living quarters, her only company the resonant snorts of the slumbering Gogron a few beds away. With her eyes closed, her mind wandered to more scenic vistas. A fresh ocean breeze and the sun hot against her skin. She imagined digging her feet into the sand, cool water passing over them, and when she looked beside her, there was Raminus, silhouetted by the sunset over the Abecean Sea. 

He looked so real, even in her dreams, eyes like summer moss framed by the charcoal of his hair. How many hours had she stared at him to capture this image so completely— the gentle curl of his lips, that nervous smile whenever she got too close. Only Dibella could understand the longing by which she knew him.

Nim turned over in her bed, and Raminus faded from her mind’s eye. New images focused like crystal. She saw a woman, elven, altmeri. Long blonde hair flowed like silk, catching the sun, and her smile as she looked to Nim was so brilliantly bright. The image faded again, and Nim saw M’raaj-Dar. His naked body surfaced hazily into view. In her dreams, he offered her a warm grin and laughed buoyantly, gazing deeply as he reached out with his broad arms. For a moment, Nim thought she felt his hand against her, wrapping around her shoulder, giving a tender squeeze...

“M’raaj—“ she murmured through her half-sleep before realizing she was actually being shaken. Throwing her eyes open, she bolted up in bed, nearly crashing directly into Lorise’s chin. “Blood of Akatosh, Lorise. I nearly had a coronary.”

Lorise looked down at her with cool blue eyes, a cheeky grin that held back laughter. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I thought I heard you mumbling. I came to see if you were awake.”

“I am. Now. Did you… did hear anything I said?”

“I’ll keep it a secret though. Feeling any better? You had quite the night.”

"I did?"

"You don't remember retching all over yourself, I take it?"

“Oh, holy hells,” Nim groaned. “You saw it, did you?”

"I did a little bit more than see it , " Lorise admitted. “Don’t worry about the dress, by the way. I’m having it washed. I'll return it to Ocheeva when it's ready.”

Nim thought she would drown in the embarrassment. “Oh, Lorise! I’m so sorry you had to do that! I knew I made a fool out of myself! Oh, I'm never drinking again!”

Lorise patted her arm reassuringly. "No need for that. Just don’t think about it then. Are you hungry? I just came back from shopping.”

Nim sat up a little straighter. Her abdominal muscles were sore (from all the retching, she imagined), but she otherwise found that the potions and the sleep had restored her to subpar levels of vigor. Lorise walked across the room to the dining table where she pulled groceries from several canvas bags. Nim dragged herself out of bed, ready to offer assistance and sneak a few bites of the rather supple grapes that sat invitingly in a chipped, clay bowl.

“Here I‘ll put some of these away,” Nim said, plopping a handful of fruit into her mouth. She picked up a sack of potatoes. Lorise pointed to a cabinet along the wall.

“Bottom shelf.”

They worked to the ambient song of Gogron’s snores, and before the groceries were completely put away, Nim had finished the bowl of grapes in its entirety. She hadn't realized how hungry she was while sick, wondered how Mathieu was doing, wherever he was. Surely he had drank as much as she had. Perhaps more.

"Hey, Lorise," Nim said, rearranging the cabinet of milled grains to fit another bag of flour. “I hate being a busybody, but is there something weird going on between—“

“Antoinetta and Lucien?” Lorise interrupted. Nim turned around, and Lorise’s eyes were sparkling. “Yes, by Y'ffre, I was wondering when you were going to bring it up. Vicente was supposed to tell you all about it but, that’s what I get for trusting—”

“I was actually going to ask about our Speaker’s relationship with Mathieu.”

Nim already knew what was going on between Antoinetta and Lucien, didn’t have much of a choice but to learn first-hand, and if there was any doubt regarding what she’d seen last night, the conversation this morning had laid it to rest. 

“Mathieu and Lucien?” Lorise threw her head back, letting out a full, hearty laugh. “Of all the messy relationships Lucien tangles himself in, you ask about Bellamont? You sweet, little thing.”

Nim felt a tad flush. “I just get the sense that there’s history there," she said. "He seemed alright when we were talking by ourselves, but then we ran into Lucien, and it was like a lever had flipped. Everything was competition suddenly, like he needed to prove himself or something.”

“Like a younger brother trying to show up his elder?” Nim nodded. “Vicente told me that Lucien was Mathieu’s mentor when he first joined. I suppose they are like siblings, in a way. He was young when he was recruited. Younger than you even."

"Oh. I didn't know."

"Mathieu’s very ambitious, so I’m told," Lorise added. "Did you know he’s the youngest member of the Black Hand? That type of person must thrive off the spirit of a good competition. It’s nothing more than a friendly sibling rivalry, I imagine."

“Hmm.”

Lorise eyed her suspiciously as she folded the now empty grocery bags and set them aside. “Why do you ask? Something happen?”

Nim shook her head. "No."

Once the groceries had been stored away, the two women sat at the table sharing a bowl of berries between them, chatting idly about forthcoming plans. Lorise had a scheduled battle at the Arena. A combatant had challenged her title. She spoke of the match serenely, longingly as though discussing plans for an overdue vacation. Nim wished her luck, to which Lorise replied ' thanks but I don’t need it,' and Nim was overcome with awe and a just little terror.

“It feels like I’ve been down here for a month,” Nim said, clearing her throat and taking a sip of water. She planned to take her leave for Fort Sutch the next morning. The open air would do her well. "I swear my throat is growing mold. And there are these weird blotches on my back? I must be allergic."

"It’s pretty nasty," Lorise agreed. "I had these rashes on my arms my first month or so down here. But now I have house in town. I'd recommend it have you the coin." She winked at Nim.

"Well, I don't." Nim picked up another berry. "But say, for all the time you spend in the arena, why don’t you have a house in the Imperial City?”

“I'm not much of a city girl. It’s dirty there, streets are too narrow. Far too crowded. And it's loud.”

Nim threw a glance around the cramped room, appreciating the fact that they were sitting in a basement where stagnant puddles of water had formed from the condensation on the walls. Nearby Gogron was still snoring as though he were Death’s personal war drum. “Aye, it is all those things,” Nim said. “But I bet you have enough money to live in the glamorous parts.”

“Eh, glamour doesn’t suit me much either. What about you, get to the capital much?”

Nim gave a hesitant nod. “Lived there for a bit. I had big city dreams, just like any other penniless urchin might. But the city was so much larger in my head. They do have some lovely public gardens though.”

“You said you lived there? Waterfront, right?”

Surprised, Nim cocked her head. “I don’t think I did. How’d you know?”

“There are few places where a woman with no name and no coin can make a living when she turns up in the Imperial City.” Lorise sipped her drink with a knowing look. “We’re not so different, you and I. Tell me, is Armand still the local doyen?”

Nim startled to hear such a familiar name on Lorise's lips. In her mind, she had imagined Lorise was always successful, never scrounging in the gutters for yesterday's discarded meals. “Uh, yeah,” she stammered. “He’s doing just fine. Same stick up his ass, I’m sure.”

Lorise chuckled, brought her glass to meet Nim's at the center of the table with a clink . “To Armand then, for never changing," she cheered. "I hope he’s found someone by now. He was awfully uptight when I knew him. I think it would do him good.”

“He has actually.” Nim thought of Methredhel with a wistful pang. Though she rarely admitted it, she missed that ramshackle house. She missed Amusei, the late nights on the dock, the ten-septim bottle of wine they passed back and forth between scary stories and tales of heists of yore. In her mind, she could still hear their laughter, grating. The playful jeers. The splash of the rocks they threw into the lake and the soft ripples it left beneath their feet. 

Nim didn’t speak much about her past with anyone these days. Every year she’d been alive felt like it belonged to a separate person. She looked to Lorise, wondered how similar they might be despite seeming outwardly opposite. After all, their paths had brought them both here.

“My little sister always wanted to visit the Imperial City," Lorise said. "She saw a painting of it in a book once, thought it the most majestic place on Nirn. I think she would have liked the painting better.” Sighing, Lorise rested her elbows on the table, stared intently at Nim, squinting a bit. “You know, you remind me a lot of her, my little sister.”

Nim fidgeted in her seat. “A murderous wood elf too, was she? I didn't realize it ran in the blood.”

“No,” Lorise laughed, “at least not to my knowledge. She was the most loveable person you could have hoped to meet. Quiet, but not shy. Sure of herself. She knew when silence spoke louder than words, but when she spoke, she did with such conviction you would have believed the sky was purple if she said so. Everyone she met doted on her. She didn’t even have to try."

"Well I—" Nim cleared her throat. "I don't think that describes me."

"You even look like her. It's the eyes, I think, big as moons and the color of the forest at nightfall. And the hair. Hers was a bit more red though, like mahogany bark.”

Nim scratched at her shoulder absently. “You speak as though she’s no longer with us.”

“Well, I don’t know where she is. I haven’t seen her in many years. I came to Cyrodiil hoping to find her. Wasn't able to in the end.” 

“I’m sorry,” Nim said, offering weak but genuine condolence. A moment of solemn silence passed.

"So it goes."

Standing, Lorise walked to the cupboard and pulled out a wax-sealed wheel of cheese. At the squeaking of the pantry hinges, there was a skitter across the floor. Nim looked down to see Schemer darting out from beneath the beds, nearly tripping over his feet as he raced toward the table.

"So you and Bellamont, huh?" Lorise said as she sliced. "Want to tell me what's going on there?"

"Ugh," Nim groaned. "You and Antoinetta both."

"She beat me to it? I haven't even seen her all day."

"Did she go somewhere?" Nim asked, feeling guilty. Was this all because of their argument that morning? She still didn't understand what she had said to cause such a volatile reaction.

Lorise shrugged. "What's with that frown?" she asked, throwing a square of cheese to the floor. Schemer sat back on his haunches as he chewed it, beady black eyes glittering.

"I don't even know," she sighed. "Probably best I don't think about it either."

Lorise made a little gasp and spun around, one hand on her hip, the other wagging her knife in the air. “Well, now you absolutely must tell me. After everything I did for you last night, why it’s only fair.” 

"Lorise, I— it's probably not even a big deal."

"So? You'll feel better getting it out."

Nim let her frown fall even more crooked. “Alright, but you can’t tell anyone, please." Lorise nodded swiftly and rushed back to the table. Hands clasped on the surface, she leaned forward, big blue eyes so eager for more.

"It's about Antoinetta.”

"Alright."

"Last night I... she was... I saw her with..." Ugh, why was it so hard to force out? Nim closed her eyes and tried not to picture the scene, found it difficult. No, impossible. "I walked in on something I shouldn't have."

"Ahh," Lorise said, as if suddenly everything made sense. She leaned even closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. “So you saw them together, didn’t you. Her and Lucien? Caught them in the act?”

Nim leaned forward too and gave a small nod. “How did you know?”

“I mean, it’s not exactly a groundbreaking discovery. I think everyone in the sanctuary knows.”

“I just— I knew she doted on him, but Lucien looked rather uninterested all night. I didn’t think they were... an item."

“An item! ”

"I made a brainless joke about it this morning. I think I may have offended her.”

"An item!" Lorise repeated, chortling much to Nim’s confusion. "I’m not sure what he did to be worthy of such idolatry. She is so sweet on him that her teeth are bound to rot out.”

Nim gave a small shrug and reached for more berries. “Well, they do make ivory replacements these days so I suppose it’s not the worst affliction one could have.”

“Was it up on the second floor of the house? That’s where I caught them last time.”

“Yes, it was actually.”

“That rickety bed should have given her a splinter by now. I don't know how she can stand it."

“It was um… quite loud.”

"Ah, but the bed is better than where I found them last time."

"Where did you find them last time?"

"Oh, what a scene it was. Picture this— Antoinetta in the center of the room, one leg hanging from the—" 

"Whoa, whoa whoa," Nim cut in. “Actually, I don't want to know. It was embarrassing enough that I walked in on her with Mathieu right next to me.”

“Hah! Antoinetta lives for the voyeurism. She’s positively tickled pink. I’m certain of it. Don’t worry about her, Nim. She’s got a quick temper, but she never stays mad for long.”

"Yeah?" Nim sighed, her breath heavy with doubt. “Maybe. I often get this feeling that she doesn’t much care for me. This is the second time she’s snapped at something I’ve said, and I don’t know, maybe I just don’t understand her.”

The gossip over, Lorise slouched backwards. “Look, I love Netta dearly and she really is a sweet girl, but when she's with Lucien..." She let out a low whistle.

"You don't seem concerned. When Lucien gave me that necklace, you made such a fuss about it."

"What Lucien wants with Antoinetta is not what he wants with you. It's different."

"He doesn't want anything with me. He's just annoying."

"Not the way I see it. Certainly not the way Netta does either.” 

Nim clucked her tongue, rolled her eyes so hard they strained. 

“You don’t believe me,” Lorise said. “I mean look at it from my perspective— you’re both young and pretty and inspire his appetite. Makes sense why suddenly she doesn’t feel very special anymore.”

Nim choked back on her berries and hacked up a chewed clump into her palm. “His appetite?” she asked, wiping her hand on her trousers. Schemer walked over to sniff it, and with a gentle boop on his snout, she shooed him away. “Lucien must be twice my age. I do no such thing.”

“And when has that stopped a man before? Vicente is ten times my age. Your humility is admirable but just another reason for her to envy you.”

“I don’t think I understand how Lucien plays into this."

"Mhm," Lorise said. "If you want to make yourself blind, go ahead. But do tell me one thing." Nim pursed her lips in anticipation, then nodded.

“Did you see his… you know?"

“His what?”

Lorise bounced her brows a few times. “You know, don’t act coy.”

“No, I don’t know,” Nim said. “And what are you doing with your eyebrows?”

“His...” Lorise pointed both a finger toward her lap. On her lips, a nasty smirk. "...pecker."

With a dry retch, Nim recoiled from the table. “Stendarr have mercy upon you, Lorise! I did not! Gods, why would you even ask that?”

“Well then Stendarr has mercy upon you too! What if they were going at it fully leafless, in the buff? I’ve heard them before. It’s like a woodpecker drumming against the headboard. And Antoinetta’s screams, Gods, if you thought her laughter was shrill—”

Nim threw up her hands and pressed them to her ears. “This is too much for me!" she cried. "I just wanted to help unpack groceries and eat lunch! I shouldn’t have said anything!”

And with that, Lorise’s cackle joined the chorus of Gorgon’s thunderous snores, adding note after note to a cacophonous orchestra.

Nim was halfway up the ladder of the well exit when Vicente called her name. She gazed up at the light seeping in through the iron grating, stared with disheartened, pining eyes. So close, yet so far away.

“Nimileth!” Vicente was walking briskly toward her. “Are you leaving?”

“That was the intention."

“We should speak first. I promise you it won’t be long.”   

Nim leapt down from the rungs of the ladder and turned to face him. “Is this about what happened last night? I know I drank too much, and I think I hurled in your room, so let me say, first and foremost, that I am deeply sorry. Whatever punishment or repayment you think is—”

“This isn't about you being sick," he said, and when she peered up at him she met pale, fretful eyes. "Is that all you remember from last night? You don't remember what happened before I found you?"

Nim gave a pout of confusion. "Ermm, I... think I had fun?" she said. "Probably a lot fun if I drank that much."

"That's all?"

"Well, there’s a certain edge to drinking with a bunch of murderers that you just can’t get outside of the Sanctuary, eh?” She jabbed her elbow playfully into Vicente's side, offering him a bright, toothy grin. After speaking with Lorise about all the dumb things they had done the night before, she felt better about the fact that she’d managed to have such a good time. To her disappointment, Vicente did not look pleased.

“What about at the end of the night?”

“What about it? I don’t remember much after you left to see Mathieu home.”

“You were speaking with Lucien. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah, vaguely.” She shrugged a shoulder and shifted the weight of her pack. Lucien again? For Talos’ sake, these people needed hobbies. Why was everyone so obsessed with him? “I think we were talking about bees."

He arched a brow. “Bees?"

"Or maybe it was trees? I'm not sure. But what I do remember is that he was being awfully dull and eventually I fell asleep, so I don’t imagine it was any more exciting than that.”

Vicente cast a glance around the sparsely occupied main hall. He stepped closer. “Nim, listen to me," he said lowering his voice. "I’m afraid it wasn't so innocent a conversation. If you can remember anything he said to you, I think you should tell me."

"Why?"

"Because I worry that our Speaker has taken an interest in you that isn’t entirely professional.”

Nim furrowed her brows so tightly she could see them creep into her vision. "Oh Nine, Vicente. First Lorise and now you? I thought we had this discussion already.”

“Please let me finish," he urged her. The concern in his voice was enough to raise alarm. Vicente wasn’t a worrier, not outwardly. Nim felt a small spike of fear, stamped it down. "Come. Let us speak in my quarters.”

Nim did not huff and puff and pitch a tantrum though she wanted to. After all the grief it had caused her earlier today, Lucien was the last thing she wanted to discuss. But she trusted Vicente, enough to shuffle alongside him despite her annoyance. 

Once inside, Vicente closed the door of his quarters. He and Nim sat at the table, his hands clasped and back straightened. He looked so terribly severe, a vision she’d never before seen, and her irritation gave way to confusion. What happened last night, she wondered? What was troubling enough for him to act like this, for the mood in the room to shift so starkly. Colder, harsher. Her palms grew clammy with sweat.

“Okay,” Nim said, slouching backwards in her chair. “I’m all ears."

"Do you remember the conversation we had after Lucien gave you that amulet?" He pointed at it. Nim nodded. "I said he could be over-zealous, that when he found a promising recruit he gave them certain attention."

"I remember."  

"Let me tell you a story about his last Silencer. Her name was Aventina Attius. Lucien recruited her when she was about your age. It’s not a rare thing at all for orphans to join our ranks. Yes, you’re hardly the first. Aventina came from a fragmented home— a father drowning in debt from his gambling habits, a mother who lost herself to the bottle and beat her out of drunken rage. She murdered her own parents just to be free from them, and it was a gruesome scene, so I was told. When Lucien found her, she was still living among the carnage, and after accepting our invitation, she came to relish our work. She found joy in it, meaning in the Night Mother's love and purpose in Sithis calling. All things she never had before. Lucien doted upon her, his newest treasure, showered her with affection, and Aventina was elated. The darling girl, she'd found real love at last. Really, I can't blame her for trying to hold on to it.

"Aventina did anything Lucien asked of her. If our Speaker said jump, Aventina said how high. She worshiped him, and why shouldn't she? He was her savior in her eyes. If Lucien pointed, she’d run. If he asked, she'd kill without reason or remorse if only to keep him pleased, but it wasn’t enough for Lucien. I've come to learn that very little is. He sent her on contracts that no one in their rational mind would assign to her. Aventina was enthusiastic, but she was young and new, novice in her execution at best. She would return from her contracts nearly incapacitated. I begged Lucien to relinquish her from her role as Silencer, yet each task he gave her was more dangerous than the last. He told me these were tests of loyalty, of prowess. These were tests to hone Sithis' blessings and if Sithis willed it, she'd return home. Aventina didn't care how dangerous the contracts were. As long as Lucien was there to soothe her wounds when she returned, she’d go out and kill for him again. Lucien knew she wasn’t skilled enough. We all knew. Can you guess where Aventina is now?"

Nim shook her head.

“She’s dead, Nimileth. Lucien smiled at her wake as though he never knew her.”

“But the tenets prevent us from hurting one another,” she said.

“Lucien didn’t strike her down. He placed her at Sithis’ door, and she entered willingly. To Lucien, it was an act of devotion.”

“What about Antoinetta?“ she asked. "You should be having this conversation with her."

“Antoinetta is very much the same. Rescued from the gutter within an inch of her life by a man who promised her love and acceptance. She adores him. She wants to please him. His interest didn’t last longer than a few months. I'm afraid she'll never know how lucky she is.”

“But last night, I saw—“

“What you saw was Lucien sating his base needs," Vicente cut in. "Antoinetta will always offer herself to him, but Lucien is a predator at his core, and a predator lives for the hunt. Why do you think he would so willingly throw Aventina away? Because she gave him everything, every part of herself until there was nothing left for him to take."

Nim was shrinking. Why was he telling her this? What did it have to do with her? "I don't understand."

"Nimileth," he said grimly. "I know Lucien better than anyone else in this sanctuary, perhaps better than anyone else in his life. Indeed, there was a time when I had considered him something akin to a son."  Vicente paused. It had cost him something to confess that. A shift behind his eyes, a dimming light. "I trained him when he joined us. I taught him about this world, the people within it, how to gain their trust, how to use them. He was a voracious learner, but I always knew there was something... more. Something innate. A spark of fire I don't think can be kindled only awakened. He took to this life so naturally.

“There is something you need to understand about our Speaker's nature. He is ravenous, always looking for weak prey. Young men and women with no home to run back to. Those who are broken and lost, easily molded.”

“I am none of those things,” Nim snapped.

“And yet Lucien will see what he wants."

They didn’t speak for some time. Nim’s shoulders had stiffened significantly as the quiet between them progressed to something thick and leaden and stifling in her lungs. She clutched at her arms, squeezed them tightly.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Vicente said. “I only wanted to—“

“I’m not scared."

He nodded. “Last night, I saw him look at you the way he looked at Aventina. I fear he’s thinking of you, Nim. In terrible ways.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: Bloodcrusted

The contract itched to be completed. Nim felt the weight of it in her pack. Silly, as it was only a rumpled piece of paper, but a paper onto which a death wish had been written, and it seemed that grim detail had added extra mass. She had dragged her feet on the job for over a week and was now regretting it immensely for it seemed to have only grown larger in that time. Occupied by that foolish party and delayed by the consequences of her poor decisions, she was feeling, in truth, a touch irresponsible. 

"Ugh," Nim groaned, nose scrunched. Disgust. What had she been doing in the meantime? Training assassins in the art of poison, lusting after a man who didn't want her, baking pies, getting horribly drunk— what a life!  At least by the end of this week, she'd have that contract off her back and yet another hefty bag of gold to compensate her for it. And once another contract was completed, what then? Another? And then?

Nim shifted her pack and chose not to think about it too deeply.

Outside the city gates, far beyond the murk of the sanctuary, blue skies marked a mild early autumn day. It lightened Nim's mood considerably. The further west she walked, the less she thought of work. Instead, she ambled mindlessly, the road twisting down the hillside. The hardwoods grew much fewer and farther in between, eventually receding completely to spit her out into cleared fields. Knee-high grass brushed the edges of the road, and far beyond the switch backs, Lake Rumare glittered with an opalescent sheen beneath a distant and dazzling sun.

Kynareth's Breath, it's a lovely day , Nim thought, bathed in the cleansing light of Magnus. She managed only a few more steps when she stopped suddenly, her heart sinking into her stomach. She had forgotten to pay alms at the Chapel of Arkay before leaving Cheydinhal, and it was now the third week in a row that she had missed Sundas mass. Pausing, she looked behind her into the mouth of the forest, wondered if she should double back. 

Inside her, a dullness. A blunt ache where her heartbeat should have pulsed. This is ridiculous, she thought and gave her head one firm shake before whipping it back to the road. After all you've done, how are you getting so worked up about missing prayer? She kicked a stone and watched it disappear into the brush. What could she even say, blessed Arkay, forgive me for I have sinned? Or was ushering souls from their bodies not an act of prayer itself?

The coin in her pouch jingled as she walked, and how convenient for Arkay's house to stand guard over Cheydinhal, in a town where his wheel turned far too quickly. Spin, spin, spin, the whirling of the wheel, and Nim envisioned herself strapped to its center. Preserving his teachings to battle necromancy, tipping it out of kilter with every contact she completed. At least she didn't raise the dead. Surely, that counted for something.

Proceeding down the road, Nim admitted that she did not wish to commune with the Gods today anyway, not after having spent nearly a week in the company of assassins. Not after laughing with them, drinking with them. Certainly not after dreaming of them so… vividly. 

At the intersection, the signpost pointed in four directions. Turning toward the Gold Road, she travelled toward Skingrad and the coin in her purse sang clink, clink, clink, and its song had grown even louder in the hours walk. Her week’s work would carry her far from the sanctuary. It would be good for her, to get away, to focus on things that mattered beyond filling her pockets and return to the guild she’d once loved.

But what was it that mattered to her in the Mages Guild these days? Taking meetings for the Council? Killing necromancers? Idly, her thoughts wandered to memories from a year ago when her life had been filled by classes and experiments, promises of a richer life, when standing in the courtyard of the Arcane University still made her heart trip over itself. She could scarcely remember the last time she had felt that way about anything.

Nim shifted her pack, and the weight of it strained on her shoulders, pressing her down, down, and when she raised her foot to take the next stride, she felt she was dragging herself through mud. Jingle, jingle , the ringing of her drakes, and they reminded her of contracts and meetings, mages and murder. It bled together sometimes, these duties, her days filled by little more than the next item on a blood-soaked errand list. Every hour, every breath, one more task to be completed. 

But so it was. So it always had been, hadn't it? Why now did the path forward take such effort to endure?

Ah, of course , Nim thought when she realized, glancing down at the coin purse on her belt. It was still bloated from the last set of contracts. Would've been lighter had she paid alms before leaving town.

Count Janus Hassildor, Nim soon learned, had been informed of her arrival in Skingrad long before she had ever set foot on castle grounds. Hal-Liurz, his stewardess (now that Mercator had been burned to soot), lead her up the stairs, down through the private quarters, and into a lavishly furnished study. Nim took a hesitant step forward as the door closed behind her. The walls were lined with fine oak bookshelves, an arrangement of velvet couches and armchairs. In the middle of the room there was a low table upon which sat a steaming pot of tea. Two empty cups had been placed out beside it. Nim flicked her eyes from corner to corner.

"The Count will be with you shortly, " Hal-Liurz had said, and indeed, when Nim looked around the room with her detection spell, she confirmed that she was the only occupant. Or would a detection spell even reveal a vampire? She made a mental note to test it with Vicente later.

Nim found her seat on the sofa and reclined back against a decorative pillow, fiddling with the ropey fringe that lined its border. She braided it. The minutes ticked by, still no Janus. But of course it was bred into nobility to keep their guests waiting just long enough to be aggravating. What had she expected?

Could have had a drink at the tavern and come back by now, Nim snorted and poured herself some tea. Don't they know I have places to be too?

Beyond the window, the sun climbed down behind the Colovian Highlands, its rays spreading about the peaks in a corona of golden light. Nim blew the steam off the surface of her tea, watching the descent, and why the Count had asked for her specifically, she still didn't understand, especially when their only prior encounter had not been particularly cordial. Mulling it over didn't lead to any good hypotheses, and she burned away the other half-formed guesses with a sip of too-hot tea. Vanilla, jasmine, a hint of orange. Beneath that, another faintly floral flavor she didn't quite recognize. They blended together, delightfully smooth. Nim opened the lid of the teapot to peer inside and wondered from where it had been imported and how much it had cost.

By the time she heard the door knob turn, Nim had finished over half the teapot, and her bladder was uncomfortably full with regret. In walked the Count, dressed in dark finery, hair lightly oiled and combed back into a sleek coif. He looked like a painting, so perfectly preserved. Nim knew of his nature, knew it was an image not meant to be seen walking Nirn out of a gilded frame. 

When he spied her sitting there, teacup poised before her lips, he cocked his head, and Nim could have sworn she saw a flash of surprise. “What?" she said. "Not who you were expecting?”

"No, you are indeed who I had asked for. Only you look..." His eyes passed over her again, never blinking, "...different than how I remembered."

Nim slurped at her tea. “Maybe you’d recognize me better if I was wearing Mercator’s charred remains.”

"Ah." A wispy smile swept across Janus' lips, fading just as quickly as it had appeared. "My mistake," he said airily. "I see you are as refined and gracious as the night we met. Forgive me."

He offered a bow before striding forward, and there he loomed at the far end of the couch, tall and pale and distinctly Colovian. He seemed to be waiting for something, some formal gesture, some greeting, some word or signal that Nim lacked the well-breeding or the years at court to be aware of. Instead, she sat rooted to the sofa beneath his shadow. “Uh-huh,” she said.

The Count sighed. "I welcome you back to Skingrad, though we meet now under very different circumstances. I fear this time you may find the results no more to your liking than the last. Less so, perhaps." He took a seat in one of the armchairs opposite her and glanced down at the teapot. "You've already partaken in the refreshments, I see."

"I thought it was here for me to drink." Nim crossed her legs tight at the knee. "Unless you were intending to serve it cold?"

Janus stared at the mud-caked underside of her boots as he poured out a cup for himself. A clump of dirt fell from her shoe and shattered on the rug only to be joined moments later by a dried leaf pirouetting its descent to the now soiled floor. He swirled a cube of sugar into his tea and said nothing.

Under the Count's watch, Nim felt like she was being dissected, every graze of his eyes like that of a scalpel. He had a way of sitting in silence, of staring, of not-quite-breathing that lent him a larger presence than allowed by his frame. He filled his armchair like dark wine in a glass, warping to the edges, sophisticated and fluid and in the moment, so very still.

Vampirism or noble-blood , Nim wondered, but she couldn't determine the source. The only thing she knew for certain was that he made her feel distressingly small.

She cleared her throat and tried to make herself appear larger, scooting up on the sofa and slinging an arm across the backrest to give her slight frame the illusion of width. "I’ve been told that you have information of value to the Mages Guild," she said, "Here I am, at your request.”

“Yes, I informed Hannibal weeks ago. Thank you for coming so promptly."

"Well, I only heard of—"

"I am not interested in you or your Council's excuses," he said, waving her off. Nim pursed her lips, tried not to glare. "If you wish to tarry and delay, I will not rush you. I fear, however, that the information I have for your guild will not be met with fond smiles and pleased handshakes. You will want to return to your Council quickly when you hear what I have to share. Quicker than you came, no doubt."

"Alright then. Let's hear it."

"Mmm," Janus hummed. Soft laughter passed through his pressed lips, and today, they were unnaturally plump. "You didn't truly think it would be that simple? No, no. First you will see to a small nuisance that I'm rather eager to put behind me. Then I will tell you. I assured your Arch-mage that the information I provide will be well worth your efforts. One good deed deserves another, after all."

"Oh." Nim sunk back against the pillows, feeling her stomach sink a little too. "Of course. And how small of a nuisance are we talking about? I take it you're not referring to like... a rat infestation or something?"

"Not quite, and normally I would see to such issues myself, but the circumstances have changed most recently. While it is a minor situation, neither I nor my guards can become directly involved."

“And if it's so minor, why am I here?”

Janus squinted his sharp, red eyes and took a sip from his cup, unimpressed. “You are here precisely because it is so minor. From our previous encounter, I have reason to believe you can be trusted. Consider the implications of that as you handle this small matter for me."

Nim considered the implications, found she didn't quite like them. "I'm not sure I'm—"

"Stop talking." Commanding though not exactly harsh. Nim found herself annoyed at how readily she conceded to it. "A short distance east of this castle is a cave that the locals have taken to calling Bloodcrust Cavern . It's bore that name for decades now. Folklore says that those who wander too near are taken, never to be seen again. I'm afraid there is some truth to these legends. The cave has been home to a number of foulsome creatures over the years: goblins, trolls, bears, the like. In the past, I've had my stewards pay the Fighters Guild to clear it out, but most recently, I've learned that a nest of vampires have taken residence there. Unfortunate news, indeed."

"Ah." Nim repositioned herself on the couch. She slid across the backrest and into the corner, stretching herself long to occupy far more space than was either reasonable or comfortable. "And these vampires, are they friends of yours?"

"Excuse me?"

"Kinsmen? Aren't you all... related somehow?"

For a moment, Janus' haughty composure almost broke. His eyes flared, the red within them deeper, hotter. His mouth twisted into a grimace. "Don't insult me," he snarled. "I would never be so careless as to turn another. I have nothing to do with these... these vermin. I know nothing about from who or where they have come, only that they are little more than wild animals who prowl the country, moving from town to town driven by thirst and thirst alone. It isn't the first time a group like this has come to the West Weald, mind you. On some level, I believe they're aware of what I am. Whether they covet all I have or simply wish to see it destroyed, I cannot say, but what I do know is that any vampire who chooses to live the way they do has given in to its vilest instincts. They are as rabid animals are, letting blood and spreading disease wherever they wander, and the threat they pose to this town cannot be tolerated. They must be destroyed."

"So you've sent for me to eliminate them."

Janus' eerily timeless face creased into a smile the way once-folded paper did, pleating back neatly into the same well-worn groove. "Well, well," he tutted. "Look at this. How keenly that university education has sharpened your mind." Another wave of his hand. His smile curled into a sneer. "If I wanted to invite them over for tea, I would have sent my steward. Of course, I've asked you here to exterminate them." 

"Uh, listen," Nim said and scratched behind her ear. "I think you may have the wrong idea about what my role is in the Mages Guild."

"You do the Council's bidding, do you not? When they point, you fetch."

"No," she said and suppressed the urge to bite back as she knew she was expected to. "No, it's not like that at all."

"My informants have reported that you've risen rapidly within the guild. Warlock now, is it? It's unlike the Council to promote young mages of unknown pedigree through the ranks as swiftly as you've ascended them. I used to wonder how you managed it, if the Council truly has been in such a dire need of replacements. I know Irlav is gettin up in his years. Perhaps Hannibal fears the Brainrot will set in any day."

Nim tensed. She bit down against nothing, clenching her jaw until the bone began to ache. "My loyalty is to the good of the guild. It always has been."

"Of course." Janus hummed against his teacup, pleased. "And I bet you think that you've earned all those titles of yours on your own merit. How very predictable. Back at their beck and call, turning yourself in circles to please them. I'm sure they're so thrilled to have found you. What gutter, I wonder, did they pull you out of that you cling to their promises as though they mean something? Or perhaps to you, they truly do. I don't blame you. Every hound wants to believe they're the master's favorite."

Nim's mouth fell open. Her lips quivered. Drinking down her expression, the Count's smirk grew even wider, stretching until it reached the apples of his cheeks. There it rested contently.

"Regardless," he continued. "if Hannibal trusts in your abilities, I would not pass up the opportunity to employ such services myself."

"My services?" 

"Yes. The ones you've convinced the Council you're capable of carrying out. Or the others. Whichever you feel most appropriate for the occasion." 

"The others?” Her voice was small in her throat, so small it made her wince.  “I— I mean, I may have killed a few necromancers here and there."

"Oh more than that, Nimileth. Far more than that."

"What?" she balked, then shook her head. "Look, vampires—  that's more a thing I'd imagine the battlemages to handle, and while I appreciate your confidence in my skill, I'm not terribly well equipped to be slaying vampires, let alone picking off a nest ."

Janus sighed. "Hmm," he said. He was beginning to look bored. "Disappointing, but if you want the information I have, I'm sure you'll use your imagination. There is one more layer to this problem, one you may find to your benefit, for where there are mindless animals, predators are never far behind. A group of vampire hunters has come to Skingrad, led by a man named Eridor.  He’s quite good, from what I hear. Asks many questions. Too many for my comfort.”

"Well, why didn't you bring that up sooner?" Nim sniffed. "That is convenient for me."

"While Bloodcrust Cavern is occupied, yes, and so long as this Eridor does not stick his nose where it does not belong, you may use him to your advantage. He is, however, another part of my problem. I do not need a flock of vampire hunters running about my city, inquiring into histories and rumors with some misguided sense of righteousness. Eridor and his companions must be gone soon before they start asking the wrong kinds of questions. " 

“Gone.” The Count nodded. “You don't mean dead, do you?” 

“I mean gone. The decision is yours. Kill them, run them out of town. It matters not to me, only that they disappear.”

“Well, if I can get them to help me, then I see no reason to kill them.”

“Really?" He looked at her curiously, then he smiled. With teeth. "Why, in truth, I had expected a different response from you."

"What?" Nim said again and sat up a bit straighter. "Why would I— what do you mean by that?"

But Janus did not answer as he rose to his feet. "You will return promptly," he said. "Two days."

And despite Nim's protest, he left without another word.

By the time Nim set to scouting, the sky had bled through sunset, and a star-speckled indigo stretched above. It shrouded the alleys, washed the streets in a twilight gloom. At this hour Nim figured any half-decent vampire hunter would be out surveying town, which meant any half-decent vampire-hunter hunter should be out on the prowl as well. So it was she put herself to work.

She checked with the beggars first, as always. They were the eyes of the city, the best sources of information, especially the kind you never knew you wanted which (surprisingly) was always well in stock. Twenty septims lighter, she left the beggar's camp having learned that Eridor and his company were staying at the Two Sisters Lodge across town. She decided it would be her first stop of the night.

The streets of Skingrad were well-lit, well-patrolled, the weeds along the sides trimmed back to stubby clumps. She had to hand it to Janus; he kept a clean city. Or maybe prioritizing a well-groomed appearance was yet another side-effect of vampirism. Following the beggar's directions, Nim turned into the southwestern district, a poorer part of town, and even here, the roads were freshly cobbled, not a pothole in sight. A gaggle of small children dashed past her, shrieking as they chased after a ball. A scrappy dog yapped at their heels, and in the distance, a peeved woman shouted a name, calling someone home for dinner.  All around her, window shutters were flung open, and the smell of fresh bread and peppered stew wafted out into the streets. Nim breathed it in and caught passing glimpses of bustling kitchens, stoked hearths, families sitting down for their evening meals. There was warmth here, warmth she hadn't felt in the Count's opulent study, and it made her feel strange to think a man as unpleasant as Janus worked so diligently to maintain such a simple peace as this.

Nim rounded the corner, walked another few blocks, and soon she was out of the residential districts and onto a thoroughfare lined by sleeping storefronts. The inn stood at the end of the road and the foot traffic here flowed much thicker. People poured in from intersecting streets, all headed to the same tavern, and so when Nim heard the pitter patter of heeled shoes striking stone behind her, she didn't think anything of it. 

Until the footsteps grew louder. Until their pace quickened. Soon it slowed to match hers, and then it was feet away, inches away, far too close for comfort. 

The hairs on her nape prickled. She could feel the shadow of the prowler looming just over her shoulder. Reaching down to her belt, she touched the hilt of her dagger, reminded herself that it was still there, and the cool metal against her fingertips lent her almost as much comfort as the hot rush of magicka in her blood.

“You!” A shrill voice called out to her, not quite a whisper, not quite a screech but something unsettlingly in between. Without warning, a hand clamped down on her shoulder, gripping her, pulling her around.

Nim spun to face the prowler and slammed her wrist against their throat. Pinned beneath her arm was a man only a few inches taller than her. He choked down a gasp and blinked, and it took all of a second for Nim to recognize him by that horrific, obscene haircut. 

"Glarthir," she sighed, releasing her grip. "Not again, good Gods. Every time I'm in Skingrad—"

“I knew you’d finally come,” he whispered. His eyes flashed manically, sweeping up and down the street. Nim stared at his hair. A deep widow-peak crept down from his receding hairline, the rest of his locks blown back into an unsightly mane. He looked like a feather-duster. The resemblance was uncanny and it only served to draw more attention to his wild, darting eyes. “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

“How many times must I tell you, I don’t know you, and I don’t care to know you.” 

Nim began to walk away. Glarthir followed, keeping his voice hushed but fevered, and even as Nim quickened her pace, Glarthir spoke to her back, explaining his suspicions regarding one of his neighbors.

"She watches me every day," he said of his neighbor, a poor woman by the name of Bernadette Peneles. "Bright and early, she begins. From six in the morning onward. Her house is almost directly across the street from mine, and her bedroom window faces my own. I notice she rarely keeps the curtains drawn while I'm home. Coincidence? I don't think so..."

Glarthir continued on, yammering in her ear, listing a surprising amount of detail about Ms. Peneles' daily routine. And for someone who was convinced that he was the one being followed, Glarthir sure took his time stalking random women about town. Nim felt almost embarrassed to think that the first time she’d set foot in Skingrad, she was nearly desperate enough to take him up on his offer; a bit of gold in exchange for some work as a private investigator, well, it seemed almost like an honest living.

Nim's pace was brisk now. Glarthir was trying desperately to keep up while also attempting to conceal the fact that they were talking. Thinking himself discreet, he chose to whisper out of the corner of his mouth in a manner that suggested he was either learning how to whistle or suffering from a stroke. Either way, it made his words near incomprehensible.

Nim nodded a few times, said, " uh huh ," and then, without a parting word, sprinted down the street.

She entered the Two Sister's Lodge a moment later and a bit short of breath. Smoothing down her clothes, she double-checked that Glarthir wasn't trailing her. He wasn't. Relieved, she peered over the ground floor landing and down into the sunken tavern floor below.

What does a vampire hunter look like, she wondered? Inconspicuous, probably. Dressed to blend in with everyone else. If true, it would make her task much harder. But maybe a vampire hunter would want people to know who they were, announcing their presence in hopes that it drew out the predators nearby. In that case she'd expect they'd be well armed at all times.

The vast majority of the tavern's clientele this evening appeared to be vineyard workers still wearing their soil-dusted clothes. A handful of off-duty guardsman drank at the bar. Nim scanned the room, searching for leather, sheathed swords, something indicative of a mercenary for hire. At least she imagined that was what a vampire hunter would look like. It seemed a good place to start. 

Her eyes eventually fell to a corner table at which sat four men, each bearing swords. They were dressed plainly, not armored, and in front of them was a map. Nim could see them poking at it, tracing sinuous paths with their fingers and speaking low over the rims of their tankards. She shuffled down the stairs to approach them. “Excuse me,” she said, "I'm looking for Eridor."

No one at the table glanced up. They were preoccupied with their hushed conversation and their dinner, speaking in whispers she could not hear. One of the men was now drawing directly on the map, circling street corners in charcoal, etching lines between others.

Nim hoped this band of hunters was as competent as Janus had made them out to be. Vicente aside, she had fought vampires in earnest exactly once before. True, she had managed to keep her head still attached to her spine by the end of the fight, but so too had she managed to start a house fire that required nearly all units of the Imperial City fire warden to be deployed.

Nim stepped closer and struck as serious an expression as she could muster.  "Excuse me," she said again and tried to raise her voice above the tavern din. “I hear you’re a band of hunters. I'm looking for Eridor."

No response. She stepped even closer. "Excuse me." Closer still. "Eridor?" And by the time she was mere feet away and had received not so much as a blink of acknowledgment, Nim decided to yell. "Hey!"

The table of men turned to face her alongside half of the tavern. Apparently, if she wanted attention, all she needed to do was shout for it. What a useful lesson to learn this late in life. "Eridor?" she said, much more quietly this time and placed a hand on her hip, assuming a stance that she hoped meant business.

Maybe-Eridor, slender and russet-skinned, rolled up the map on the table and tucked it into his coat. Nim caught a flash of leather underneath— a bandolier stocked with small glass vials of bright orange liquid and several sharp darts. Another Maybe-Eridor, much smaller, tawny and elven, turned in his chair to face her.

"Ah," he said when he saw her. "Nuvah ahd halan no?"

"Cyrodiilic? I, uh, I don't speak Bosmeris."

"Oh. Apologies. I merely assumed. I am Eridor. May I help you?"

There were scars on his skin, a trail of raised dots. They followed his hairline and dispersed down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. Nim stared at them shamelessly. She'd very rarely seen markings like this, scars scratched into the skin with intent beyond the ones on Lorise's legs and single band on her bicep. Lorise had told her they were common in Valenwood, but even then Nim didn't think people would wear them on their faces. Especially when his was such a good face— strong jawed, pleasantly symmetrical.

Eridor had noticed that she was staring, yet his expression remained the same, questioning, slightly puzzled. "Nimileth," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. She extended her hand forward. He looked at it, then back up to her. "I, uh, hear you're looking for the source of an infestation. I have something that may pique your interest.”

The men at the table shifted. A few sidelong glances circled the table. Eridor (or who she had come to assume was Eridor since he had, in fact, responded to the name) pivoted fully in his seat. He did not shake her hand.

"We’re only interested in one thing and that’s where the vampires are hiding," he said. 

"Straight to the point, huh. You know I was trying to be, like, a little covert."

"Where the safety of the good people of Skingrad is concerned, I find it best to be forward." There was a slight accent to his Cyrodiilic, a different length on the vowels, rougher rs, faint but familiar. Nim had heard it when Bothiel was excited and speaking too quickly, and every now and then, Lorise slipped into it while drunk or speaking with Telaendril. "If you've seen anything unusual, particularly anything implying the presence of the undead here in town, please report it at once.” 

“I know where they're hiding," she said. "I know where you can find the nest. If I tell you, will you let me come with you?”

One of the Not-Eridor's across the table snorted, and Nim became keenly aware that they were now all looking her over. Eridor glanced down to the dagger sheathed at her belt then quirked his raised brow even higher. "What? You plan to help us fight them?”

"I've killed some before," she added quickly. "Technically."

"No, she hasn't," scoffed the snorting one. He took a swig from his tankard, burped, then drank again.

Eridor narrowed his eyes at him. "Carsten, that's unnecessary. She brings us information. We'll at least hear her out."

"Aye, but look at her," Carsten said, waving his hand in her direction. "We can't be watching over little girls who want to play hero for a day. Surest way to get us all killed."

Nim bristled. She squinted at Carsten, then at Eridor, then at his legs which were dangling off the edge of the stool, not quite touching the ground. "Ten gold pieces says I'm as tall as your leader here," she said, pointing at Eridor. "You let them talk about you that way?"

Eridor remained unfazed. "Miss, we're not amateurs, and we aren't taking new recruits. All we ask is that you share your information with us. There's no need for heroics."

"I'm not looking to join."

"Then why did you ask to come with us?"

"For..." Nim stumbled, "... the adventure? Cause I think I could help?" Eridor's eyes narrowed, a little more skeptical now. "What?" she said. "I know my way around a fireball. You don't think that could be of use?"

"We prefer to work alone."

"Well, you're not working very efficiently, are you?"

"And why is it that you know where these vampires are hiding in the first place?"

Nim realized she now had to lie and hoped she didn't look as flustered as she felt. "I've been doing my research. I'm an alchemist, you see. Been looking for new ways to source my ingredients. Vampire dust is a rare find in alchemical shops. I've got a few orders I need to fill before the end of the month, but supplies are running low, and I haven't the gold to spare to buy more. Figure it's cheaper to erm... harvest it myself."

The Not-Eridor's at the table scrunched their faces in disgust. Nim gave a shrug. "These are trying times, yeah?" she said. "Inflation. Dead monarchs. Necromancers on the road causing supply shortages. I've got mouths to feed, now look— I've been around this town for a while. You ever heard the rumors of a cave a ways southeast of here? They say people who stray too close are never seen again. It has me thinking."

"A cave," Eridor repeated, stroking the sparse hairs on his chin. "Okay, we'll listen. Vontus, move over. Make room for her to sit. Nimileth, was it?" He did not say her name how she pronounced it. A slightly different rhythm, emphasis on the vowels that she had never given it before.

"Oh, erm. Yeah."

"You said you're an alchemist, correct? Can you make any of these?" From the belt at his pocket, Eridor removed a vial. It was filled with the same orange liquid she had seen in the ones strapped to Not-Eridor's chest. He held it out for her. She took it, turned it over in the light of the brazier.

"It's liquid fire," Eridor explained. "At least that's what the alchemist who sold it to us called it. A burning poison, she said. It works well enough against vampires, but we've reached the last of our reserves. Shamar here," he pointed across the table to the man with the bandolier, "can make salves and basic healing potions, but he's tried and failed to recreate this one. If we bring you all the vampire dust we collect, can you make them?"

"I can do you one better," Nim said. "I can teach you how to make them yourself."

Eridor grinned. "Excellent." He stood to find a seat for her, dragging a stool away from an empty table, and Nim noted that they were indeed the same height. "Then, please, tell us everything you know."

The morning had dissolved into a nightmare.

The previous night, during her discussion with Eridor, it was decided that Nim would wait in Skingrad while the vampire hunters did their vampire hunting. Once they were safely returned with heaps of dust in payment, Nim would spend the evening teaching Shamar how to distill fire salts. The group had left at the break of dawn. Hours later, and they had not come back.

When the bell tower struck eleven, Nim had decided to head out after them. She wasn't the greatest fighter, this she was well aware of, but she was confident enough in her past experiences to know that fire would kill a vampire.

They're probably just being extra thorough , she had told herself as she left town for Bloodcrust Cavern. When I get there, they'll be sweeping up the dust.

But what she found inside...

What she found inside...

Nim pressed through the cave's yawning mouth, into darkness. She tasted metal on her tongue. Pulling her night-eye over her vision, all was cast in shades of blue. Blue ceiling and blue ground and even bluer splashes still wet on the walls. Nim touched the streaks with a trembling hand and forced herself not to shudder.

Groans echoed down the tunnels, and her heart sank though groans were better than screams. She hoped. Nim let her detection spell wander as far as it could, and prayed that the undead still possessed some form of an aura. Maybe Arkay might find her a fitting champion of his cause if she brought these hunters home safely. Why hadn't she gone with them in the first place? She could have helped them, watched there back, she could have—

There, in the antechamber, was Carsten, torn to pieces. His neck was an open hole. Shamar was faceless in a pool of blood, arms ripped clean from their sockets. Vontus and Eridor were nowhere to be seen. 

A scurry across the cave. Skittering gravel. A thump behind her. 

Not three seconds later, Nim whipped around and was immediately battered to the floor. Hissing and snarling, her assailant swiped her face. Sharp nails tore across her skin, and she screamed from the shock more than the stinging pain. The creature on top of her reeked of burnt hair and fresh blood, and as it thrashed and swung for her, thick droplets of cold liquid splashed her face. Reaching out desperately, Nim felt her hand connect with a bony shoulder, and she let a burst of fire surge from her palms. 

The shrieks that came from the creature were unearthly. Lit aflame, it toppled backward and rolled across the ground as if attempting to beat the fire back. Nim lurched forward and fired another burst of her spell. She fired again. And again. Fire spewed from her palms.

When the creature was but a crumbling log of cinders, Nim came to the dreadful realization that she had used up most of her magicka. Anything more powerful than a single fireball was bound to push her dangerously close to fatigue.

"Bastards." She heard a loud echoing hiss then another string of words in a language she didn't speak. The voice sounded off the walls. Nim wound her way towards it.

Fortunately, the only other vampire she ran into was limping across the cave with his skull half-way bashed in. Putting him out required very little from her. What remained of the others in his clan was mostly ash.

Unfortunately, Nim found Eridor slumped on the floor, covered in soot and wan from blood loss. His hands were weakly squeezing a gushing wound along his side.

"Nimileth," he said when she rushed to him. His eyes rolled lazily in his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't hold up my end of the deal."

"Shh, don't speak," Nim said, pulling his blood-drenched hands from his stomach to inspect the wound. "They're dead now. You— you and your friends, you did well."

"They bit me," he said and reached for her, his grip frail. "One of those thelba porui bit me. You can't let them have me when I go. Make sure I'm dead. Make sure I'm really dead."

Eridor dropped a trembling hand to his belt and pulled out one of the vials secured there. It fell from his hands as he lifted it to her, but she picked it up and tucked it into the pocket of her trousers. Nim tried to cast a healing spell, but it was weak. She was weak.

"Nimileth," Eridor said faintly in that rhythm that did not belong to her tongue. "I have a cousin named Nimileth. From Greenshade."

"Do you?"

"It's a common name there." Most of his words slurred together when he spoke. "You have family in Greenshade?" 

"No," Nim said, but for the first time, she wondered.

Despite her healing spells, despite her cantrips, despite driving herself to exhaustion in hopes of weaving stronger magic, by the time Nim dragged Eridor out of the cave, he was dead. Mist rolled over her face as she emerged into the gray of the afternoon, and it dampened her skin and her clothes, still slick with her own blood. With shielded eyes, she glanced up to Magnus and even at its zenith, it was barely visible through the clouds. Dull rays reached down to Nirn, bathing her in pale light, alone and weary. Nim pulled Eridor's body behind her, and when she had gathered enough strength, she turned and set him ablaze.

Nim stood there watching him until the stench of burning flesh overwhelmed her. She covered her nose, and even then she forced herself to stare, to breathe in through her fingers until it filled her lungs. She heaved

What do you care? she asked herself, clutching at her side, retching forth her breakfast. He was a stranger. What do you care?

Trembling and choking, Nim rushed from the cave and ran through the West Weald. Branches ripped at her hair, tore at her cheeks and by the time she was vomited past the forest edge, every part of her was on fire. The spires of Castle Skingrad loomed above the fog, scraping at the sky. Nim sank to her knees and cried.

She thought nothing of the blood on her skin or the ash in her hair. She did not think of the corpses in the cave. Not Eridor and his sense of civic duty, his drive to keep strangers safe in a land he was not from. No, all of it was charcoal now. All of it was gone. 

Above the sky remained a blinding gray and the mist condensed to glittering orbs in her hair. She lowered her gaze to the nearby brush where the robins pulled forth worms from damp soil, and she thought of nothing but the bliss of void.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: In Session

Nim burst into the Arch-mage's lobby, hair stringy with sweat, her breath so thick, so heavy it would have been easier to push iron through her lungs. "Where's Traven?"

Bothiel, who had been standing alone leaning against the counter to sort through the mail, shrieked at once. The letters in her hands went flying through the air, drifting down in a shower of envelopes. "By Y'ffre!" she cried out. "How many times have I told you not to sneak up on me like that?"

“Where’s Traven?” Nim asked again. Her voice trembled through shallow breaths.

“The Council is in session." Face scrunched in confusion, Bothiel looked her over, then her expression shifted to worry. “What’s the matter? You look like you’re about to be ill.”

Without answering, Nim rushed across the room, stepped into the teleporter, and was engulfed in a swirl of purple light. She rose to the Council chambers in less than an eye-blink, her heart still racing, hammering at bone. On the other side of the teleporter, she found all five members of the Council seated around the large circular table. For a long moment, they didn't notice her standing there. And then the teleporter whirred.  

Tar-meena looked up first. Her eyes widened in surprise. “Nimileth?" she said, drawing everyone’s attention to Nim’s sudden intrusion. "You can't be in here while we're meeting."

Nim mustered all of the strength left within her to avoid meeting Raminus’ gaze. She failed miserably.

Raminus' eyes were just as wide, just as perplexed. Across the table, Irlav Jarol stared incredulously. Caranya raised a brow, looked slightly amused, and of the five members of the Council, only the Arch-mage seemed unmoved. Placid, his eyes passed over the dried patches of blood staining her clothes.

“It’s alright, Tar-meena," Arch-mage Traven said. He nodded, smiled, gestured for Nim to approach, which she did only after peeling her gaze away from Raminus. 

Traven sat expectantly with his hands clasped on the table in front of him. His eyes were warm, crinkled at the corners, calm as they always were. Yet the longer Nim met them, the more intense they grew, as if he were working harder to soften their edges, to sand the eagerness that lay within.

“What news from Count Hassildor?” he asked.

Nim cleared her throat. “Arch-mage, Count Hassildor has informed me that Mannimarco is in Cyrodiil.”

There was a gasp from Tar-meena. Then silence. Traven blinked. His small smile withered to a thin line.  "No," he said. "It can't be." 

Janus had not been exaggerating when he spoke of grave news for the guild. Mannimarco had returned to Tamriel, the very same Mannimarco responsible for the death of Vanus Galerion. Reviled necromancer Mannimarco who had unleashed Molag Bal upon Nirn, and now he was back with his Cult of the Black Worm, ready to wreak havoc again.

“Is that possible?” Irlav asked. He turned to the Arch-mage, then to Caranya for assurance.

"Highly unlikely," Caranya said, though she looked just as confused. "Janus Hassildor shared this with you?"

"But why would it be unlikely, Caranya?" Tar-meena asked, wringing her hands. "He's the most powerful necromancer to have his name written down in history. Why shouldn't he be back?"

“Quiet, please,” Traven said and the surrounding conversation faded away. “Nimileth, this is grave news indeed. I had perhaps foolishly believed that following our most recent ban, necromancy had been all but stamped out in Cyrodiil. We've been operating under the assumption that these recent attacks were due to little more than a band of renegade's seeking vengeance.”

Nim scrunched her face. "Little more than renegades? But Mucianus and his reports— how much more proof do you need?"

"Evidently, more," Traven confessed. "And now that we have it, I assure you it will not be disregarded."

"Assure me? And how many more like Mucianus must die now that you know you can't ignore it? What will you ask of me now? Will I be next?"

Tar-meena let out another gasp. Raminus' eyes grew even wider. 

"We have been doing everything that we can," Irlav said crisply. "Do you know how many rumors and leads we gather and dismiss every day? You bring to us news of Mannimarco, and like all other claims it needs further investigation before we throw the guild into a panic. We will approach this new information with the caution and the skepticism that it warrants, and furthermore, I don't believe anyone has requested your input, Warlock Nimileth."

"Excuse me?" Nim nearly choked on her tongue. "The only reason you know about this is because—"

"Because the Arch-mage maintains his connections. The information Count Hassildor passed along was intended for the Council, not for you.  We thank you very much for relaying it."

"I did a hell of a lot more than relay it," Nim snapped. "You don't know what I had to do for it. You don't know what I—"

"Warlock Nimileth." It was Caranya who spoke this time, her tone perfectly pleasant. "I don't believe Irlav asked."

"That's enough," Raminus said. He was firm but not harsh, and still, it was the most edge Nim had ever heard in his voice before. "If Mannimarco has returned then we can assume these necromancer are few among the many he has amassed. These attacks are not and will not be singular events. They are his orders and they will continue. Nimileth has faced these necromancers from the beginning, and her insight is invaluable. We will let her speak."

"Actually, Raminus, we still don't know that Mannimarco has returned at all," Caranya said. "We assume nothing. For all we know it could be a pretender."

"And even so, that doesn't mean they're not dangerous," Tar-meena added. "He is a pretender with the resources to provision an army."

Caranya shriveled her nose and flipped her dark hair over her shoulder. "It's not an army, Tar-meena. Let's choose our words more carefully. Imagine if the Courier caught wind of that. They'll have the citizenry believing we're under siege."

"They've attacked us on our own soil," Tar-meena said, reminding her. "They've killed two of our own at the Wellspring and defeated the battlemages at Nenyond Twyll. Forgive me for not thinking it beyond the realm of possibility."

"Facing Mannimarco and facing someone who claims to be Mannimarco are to very different things. I stand by what I said. Let's not get carried away. Hysteria will do nothing for anyone."

Traven nodded thoughtfully. "All valid points," he said. "Which means we'll need to confirm Janus' reports first. Nimileth, I don't expect he told you how he acquired this information?"

Nim shook her head. "But he did say that Mannimarco is in northern Cyrodiil and that he's only growing in numbers. Respectfully, Arch-mage, I don't think we have the time to waste." Irlav groaned, but she continued on even so. "If not Mannimarco, who else would have such a broad reach? Why would someone like Falcar betray the guild unless he knew the other side offered him just as much power? More even. Power and the freedom to wield it. If Mannimarco is behind this, doesn't it make sense why these attacks have been so bold? Hell, even the Count's own court was infiltrated by—"

"Again, you lead with fear." Irlav scowled, open disdain, no longer even the barest attempt to keep it hidden. "Falcar was an anomaly, and none of us are proud that we let him slip away after the crimes he committed in Cheydinhal. But we must be realistic. We must consider the entirety of the evidence rather than jump to the worst of conclusions."

"I don't believe Falcar was acting alone," Nim said. "Why shouldn't there be others? We don't know how long Mannimarco has been planning this."

Caranya sighed. "And we still don't know that Mannimarco has been planning this at all."

"He would have seeded us long ago," Tar-meena said, ignoring Caranya's eye roll. "We had once feared Mucianus' was a double agent, but what if there are actually sleepers among the ranks? It would be imprudent to ignore the possibility."

Irlav turned his glower toward Tar-meena next. “And who among your colleagues do you accuse of betraying the guild first? What shall we do, round them up? Inspect their quarters?”

"We are losing sight of the issues at hand with all this bickering," Raminus said.

The Arch-mage agreed with a cool nod. "This is not a productive use of our time. All these concerns will be addressed, but we must deal with them one by one."

"But you'll never get anything done like that!" Nim said, nearly shouted. Her face scorched hot, twisted into an uncomfortable shape. “Tar-meena see's it. It's not so crazy a theory. The necromancers at Nenyond Twyll had expected the battlemages to come for Mucianus, remember? How would they have known unless someone told them before?"

"Nim, please," Raminus said. "We can revisit this another time."

"No, no." Caranya waved a finger in the air, then looked to Nim as she opened her file of papers. "I'm afraid I don't remember that, Nimileth. What was this about the necromancers anticipating our battalion? Was that in the report?" She licked the pad of her finger and flipped through the stack of pages in front of her. "These are essential details, Miss Nimileth. Please make sure you have written everything down before submitting your accounts for filing. It is of the utmost importance that we all enter the meetings with the same account of past events."

"I—" Nim stumbled on her tongue. "I didn’t write it? But I explained everything to the Arch-mage. The necromancers had been expecting me. Me! Me specifically! They called me ' Traven's pet. ' They said I was too late to save Mucianus. They knew that I would be coming!"

"Hmm." Caranya frowned. She dipped her quill into a pot of ink then scribbled along the margins of her notes, looking terribly inconvenienced. "Well, that is unsettling news. Now Nimileth, I know you're more of a field specialist, and while your methods may be a bit more manual and unorthodox, I do encourage you to record such observations meticulously. You were, after all, the only one who made it out of that ruin alive, and if something were to happen to you, this information would be lost. Do you see why that would be terribly unfortunate?"

"Are you serious?" Nim blinked at her. "I am telling you about it right now!"

"Nim, there's no need to shout," Raminus said, attempting to soothe her. "Like I said, we'll revisit this at a later—"

"This is insane! All you do is bicker and sit on your hands! Why does no one on this damn Council do anything! For Talos sake, are you all blind or do you just not care?"

"Nim, please—"

"How would the necromancers know the battlemages were coming? How would they know I'd be sent out after them? Mannimarco's agents are in the courts of Cyrodiil, and they’re in this very guild! Why, it wouldn’t surprise me if there was someone in this very room—”

“Nimileth!” Raminus erupted, standing from his seat so swiftly that his chair toppled over behind him.

At once, Nim shriveled. All the eyes upon her had suddenly become needles. She was seeping, deflating, polling out onto the floor. "I'm scared," she said. "That's all."

Raminus' face contorted with shame. Silence like a miasma, how it filled the room to the brim. Nim had lost track of how many breaths she’d taken before another sound pierced her ears.

“What will we do now, Hannibal?” Raminus asked. “Regardless of who is behind these attacks, Nimileth is right. Our window to act grows smaller every day. Mucianus has already provided us with useful details, and perhaps linking his reports to Mannimarco's order will allow us to recover patterns we were unable to see before. Nimileth has offered to review the reports alongside me. If you grant her access—"

“Is that wise, Hannibal?” Irlav interrupted, glancing at Nim apprehensively. “Nimileth has been an indispensable asset to the guild, of course, but she's been with us for less than a year."

"She's been a member for longer than that," Raminus said.

"But at the University for only a few quarters. A Warlock for even less."

"It was the Arch-mage's decision to promote her, and quite frankly, I don't see what it matters if we've already trusted her to act as intermediary with Count Hassildor."

"It just such classified material, Raminus," Caranya said. "I understand Irlav's hesitation."

Raminus turned to Tar-meena next. "I for one don't see a problem with it," she said. “We need all the assistance we can get. I trust her.”

Traven nodded again in sympathy, his best attempt at it at least, which to Nim's chagrin was awfully compelling. "Perhaps we ought to discuss this amongst ourselves first."

“I'll vouch for her loyalty to the guild.” Raminus said. He was still standing when he spoke. Nim wasn't sure she had ever realized he was so tall.

Caranya pressed her fingers to her eyes. "Oh for the love of Julianos, can we move on already? We will find time to talk about Nimileth later."

"She has Count Hassildor's trust," Raminus continued, "and I'd like to remind you all that he does not trust a single one of us in this room besides her." 

“So, tell me what our next steps are," Nim said. "If you’ll let me see these reports, I can start on them immediately—“

“You speak out of turn, Nimileth,” Irlav cut in, wagging a finger in her direction. “There is no ‘ we’ seeing how you are not part of our deliberation. You must trust in the guidance of the Council instead of making demands and rash accusations. When we have need for your services again, we will send for them.”

“But I’ve been a part of this investigation since the beginning."

"And we are ever so grateful for that." Traven stood and walked to Raminus' toppled seat, righting it before he returned to his own. “I must consult with the Council, if you can excuse us. We must determine how best to proceed in light of this news.” He rested his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers in front of him. Nim's heart thumped faster, faster. Her ears felt hot with blood. The Arch-mage turned to her with that poised, ever-steady smile. “Thank you for your information, Nimileth. It may save many lives in the days to come.“

And that was all. For a brief second, Nim thought she was dreaming. The room seemed to warp, to tilt. She stared nonplussed, eyes wide, mouth dry. Her cheeks burned, the flesh stinging as if she'd been slapped.

Taking her dismissal, Nim fled the Council chamber through the teleporter. Through the lobby, she ran past a very confused Bothiel who was still picking letters off the floor. Nim burst out the door and scurried down the stone steps, wanting to heave as she pulled away from the tower. 

Tears stung in her eyes. She pushed them back, forcing down the hard lump in her throat. Behind her, the lobby door flung open again. It crashed against the stone, its hinges rattling as it swung back and forth in its frame.

“Nimileth!" Raminus was calling to her. She looked over her shoulder to see him rushing down the steps " Nimileth, wait!”

Nim quickened her pace, pulling farther away. He couldn't see her like this, not now. When she reached the city isle gate, she motioned for the guards to let her through. The doors could not open fast enough.

"Nimileth!" Raminus reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him. She held herself stiff as a board. “Were you running away from me?” he asked her, bending slightly at the waist and struggling to catch his breath.

“No," Nim said. "I was walking briskly.”

“I didn’t mean to yell at you back there. I’m sorry. I shouldn't have."

Nim kicked at the dirt under her feet, let her shoulders slump. "You weren't really the one yelling."

"Still, I was too emotional. I should have been... not so emotional."

"I expect you think I should have been too?"

Raminus stood up straighter, still huffing but not as loudly. He put a hand to his head, rubbing at his brow. "Nine, Nim, were you really going to accuse someone on the Council of betraying the guild? You can't do that. Surely you know why you can't do that."

"I didn't mean anyone in particular. It's just... well, why does it feel like we're not making any progress?"

"Because we are slow. You saw the way we fought. It is like that all the time, constantly butting heads, moving an inch on only one issue at a time."

"And you're okay with that?"

"No, Nim. Believe it or not, I am trying. We are all trying. And I know you're trying to help too, which is why you cannot throw accusations like that around. What reaction did you expect?” Raminus let out a sigh and reached for her again. "Please, if you really—"

“Don’t,” she said, knocking his arm off her shoulder. “I heard everyone in the Council room, okay. It couldn’t have been any clearer. I'm only wanted to run your errands, and I ought to learn my place. You didn’t need to come out here just to scold me again.”

"That's not why I came out here," Raminus said. "I wanted to see you, to talk to you. I wanted to tell you..." He exhaled, started over. “We don't mean to be difficult. We are, in fact, working to prevent these attacks on our guild. It’s not a simple feat. You must believe that we are doing everything within our means, and I know you mean well. I know you have good ideas, so would it really trouble you to approach the Council with less aggression? You might find that they're more receptive when the confrontation is not so hostile.”

“Hostile?" Nim said, incredulous. Sniffling, she wiped at her nose with the back of her sleeve. "I'm not hostile, I'm frustrated. I laid out my suspicions. I explained them. And like they would ever listen to me, Raminus. I see what I am to the Council. I know why you've chosen to advance me through the ranks. You're tossing a bone to a starving dog, huh, hoping I'll stay when you need something new to kick around."

"That isn't true. You can't possibly believe that's true."

"Oh, worse," she said. "I let myself believe I was actually wanted here for so long."

Nim turned away, toward the now open gate, and that's when she felt a hand gripping her wrist. It squeezed her gently. “I... I like that you're here, Nim.”

She paused. Raminus' hand lingered there for another breath before he released her. Slowly turning, she met his tired eyes, full of hurt and guilt and so brilliantly green in the sunlight, and beneath them, she felt small again. Ashamed.

"About before," he said. "I'm sorry."

Nim didn't know which before he was referring to. Certainly not the one that had been swimming through her head all week. She dropped her gaze to her hands, to the silver ring on her finger. When she squeezed her fist, the bite of it felt good.

"I- I'm frightened," she told him.

"I know. So am I."

"More mages are going to die. What if I can't stop it?"

“It's not really your responsibility to."

"Yes it is," she said. "I have to. I need this, Raminus. I need it. This guild has been the only good thing in my life for so long, and if I lose it I'll—" She swallowed back. the thought only half-formed on her tongue. "You don’t understand what that’s like, to have nothing else to cling to.”

Raminus' opened his mouth. For a moment, he looked as thought he might speak. Nim leaned closer, eager, waiting, but Raminus said nothing, and by now, she thought she would have been more used to the disappointment. 

"I guess I'll see you the next time the Council calls for me," she said. "If they ever do again."

To her surprise, Raminus gestured toward the open gate.  "Come with me," he said, and she followed his lead without question.

They walked a few feet down the bridge. Then another few. Then another few until Raminus stopped looking over his shoulder to see if anybody was watching them. When the gates closed again, he stepped closer, and Nim's heart fluttered only to skip and crash as a grim expression shadowed his face.

“Listen," he said. "I have something for you to do."

Nim's eyes grew wide. "But the Council—"

"The Council can find out afterward. If I go through them, it will take too long. Ever since Deetsan informed us about Falcar's true allegiances, I've been communicating with the local guild halls more frequently. Nothing invasive or overbearing, I just figured it best to have a written record should any concerns arise."

"And has one arose?" 

"Yes. I’ve been in correspondence with a member from Bruma. Volanaro. Do you know him?”

Nim nodded. "I met him when I asked Jeanne for a recommendation. He helped me... erm, acquire it. Him and J'skar. We're friendly."

"Volanaro has expressed concern regarding the safety of Bruma. At first I thought it was only a disagreement with the leadership, but what Volanaro described was much worse. He has reason to believe that there's been an increase in necromancer activity up north.”

Nim’s ears perked immediately. “That would be consistent with what we learned from the Count,” she said. “What kind of activity did he mention?”

“Disturbed grave sites mostly, but there have been rumors of local hunters stumbling across dismembered corpses in the surrounding wilderness. Volanaro seems to think that someone may be watching the guild as well." 

Nim nodded eagerly. "What would you have me do?”

"I felt it would be irresponsible of me to disregard this," Raminus said. "I had planned to visit him next week, but now, with what we've learned from the Count, I'm afraid the Council will require me here. I would appreciate it if you checked in with him. I think there's more to his letters that he's not willing to send by courier. Anything that we can tie back to Mucianus' reports might help us uncover another nest of necromancers, maybe one operating out of the Jeralls. Maybe this could guide us to Mannimarco. It’s the only lead I have to offer you. I wish I knew more.”

"No, it's perfect," Nim said and she leapt at the new instruction. It was exactly what they needed, to be proactive, to pursue any opportunity they had. "Does anyone else on the Council know about his reports?”

“Yes, but..." Raminus looked embarrassed. "Well, they’ve been... deliberating. It got pushed down the list of priorities. They've chosen not to take any action yet.”

“That's alright. I can take care of it." And at least, with Raminus here, with her new lead, she could keep working, keep trying. "I’ll make my way to Bruma in a few days time. By the end of the week. Is that okay? I just have business in Anvil that I’m behind on.”

Nim offered Raminus a smile only to find his expression had soured sharply. He hung his head, shaking it with a muted groan. “I shouldn’t be sending you off on assignments without consulting them,” he said. His voice was steeped in guilt. “If you happen to find yourself in danger, it would be entirely my fault for placing you there.”

“No, I’ll take responsibility for what comes out of my investigation. They don't need to know. I’ll just... I'll say that I was acting alone.”

“Nim, that's not the point. I don’t want you to be acting alone.” Raminus stepped closer, faltered, stepped back. He was doing something strange with his hands, letting them hover above her shoulders but never setting them down. Nim pursed her lips, watched him, perplexed. Eventually he pulled his hands into his pockets and hid them completely from view. “You’re never acting alone," he said and cleared his throat. "I want you to know that I trust you. Even if I can't convince the Council to listen, I promise to be here if you need me. Through hellfire if that is what's required.”

Nim worked her tongue around her mouth. Gods, he made it so difficult for her to move on, and even though she knew his kindness was not exclusive to her, sometimes it was so easy to pretend it was.

“Through Oblivion?” she asked, picking at her fingernails.

Raminus nodded, and when he stepped forward this time he did not immediately pull away.

“Through Oblivion and back, if I must.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Ghosts

It was an average Tirdas evening at the Bloated Float, and like most average Tirdas evenings, Amusei and Methredhel sat nestled in the corner, recounting the details of their weekend excursions over far too many beers. After finding them right where she expected them to be, Nim was welcomed in with open arms, and the trio fell into routine conversation as if she’d never left the Waterfront at all.

Caught up on the local news and assured that Armand was in good health, Nim proceeded to explain (in very vague yet colorful language) her most recent frustrations with the Mages Guild. Methredhel nodded enthusiastically, confirming that yes, Irlav Jarol is indeed a useless netch fart and yes, Caranya does sound like she pleasures herself with an icicle despite never having met either mage before. Still, it felt good to be validated.

By the time Nim had finished detailing her confusing rejection from Raminus, she was feeling her drink and dreading the return to the road. Why had she ever left the Waterfront? She was at home here with these people who loved her, missed her, who had seen her at her lowest and still chose to call her friend. And so what if they didn't know her worst secrets? Did they need to? The ones that they already knew were gritty, bitter enough to swallow that they'd leave most people choking. And yet they had always remained.

“Y'know what you need,” Methredhel slurred, popping off the top of her fourth beer. She turned to Nim and waved her finger, pointing it a mere inch away from her face. 

"Xuth, Dhel." Amusei clucked his tongue. "I know where this is going. Not in public."

But Methredhel leaned in even closer until her finger was pressed flat against the bridge of Nim's nose. "You need a good lay."

Nim choked mid-swallow, sending a spritz of her beer flying across the table to splash both Methredhel and Amusei in the face.

"Eugh!" Amusei hissed a curse in Jel as he shook the beer from his shirt. "I live among swine!"

Nim dabbed at the corner of her lips with her sleeve. “A salacious suggestion," she said to Methredhel. "I shouldn’t have expected any less from you.”

“Oh, and since when have you been so prim and proper, huh? Check it out Amusei. Nim buys a house and suddenly she’s Chancellor fucking Ocato.”

Methredhel snickered at her own joke first, then Amusei. Eventually Nim relented. Soon, they were all laughing heartily, heaving, and it was a long while before any of them regained enough breath to speak again.

"It's not like that, Dhel," Nim said, smiling. "He's just so... so different."

"He's different." Methredhel donned her most grating voice. "Ugh, whatever."

"But he is."

Methredhel fixed Nim with the most serious look she could muster which, given her current state of inebriation, was not very serious at all. “I mean it, Nim. You’ve been on about this man for what, a year? That's unlike you.”

"It’s not been year. Don’t exaggerate.”

“Yeah, how long's it been then? Feel like I’ve been hearing about him since they let you into that university. 'Look at this necklace Raminus gave me! Raminus showed me how to walk on water today! Oooh, don’t you think Raminus has the twinkliest green eyes? Raminus—' ”

Nim dipped her finger into her drink and flicked the droplets at Methredhel. "Piss on a mudcrab. I don't sound like that at all.”

“To be fair,” Amusei began with a dissenting incline of his head, "it’s not a bad impression.”

Wiping at her cheek, Methredhel turned her droopy gaze back to Nim. “Look, you’ve got to get it out of your system. When you’re feeling broken-hearted, go find someone new. A hot bloke. A pretty lass. Go and splash on that charm, give 'em a run for their—“

“Ugh, don’t be silly. I’m not broken-hearted. I’m just- I'm stressed out, that's all.”

“Well, you know what’s a good remedy for stress? Finding a—“

“Methredhel," Nim cut in for a second time. "Not everyone operates on such a visceral plane.”

Methredhel grinned a sly, sloping grin. Pulling on her bottle, she propped her feet upon the table and ignored the glower from the barkeep across the room. “Yes, they do," she said, and for a moment looked as though she might charge a pretty penny for that piece of sagely wisdom. "Anyone saying otherwise is a liar pretending they don’t for the sake of propriety. Bet the world would be a better place if everyone took a roll in the hay. That's my theory."

Nim scrunched her nose. "That's not really a theory."

"And that's exactly what someone who doesn't get laid would say! Too bad Malvulis isn't around anymore, eh? Find another pretty woman then. Though I'll tell you, the men around here are much easier. Go on, test it out, all scientific-like. Report back to me afterwards and tell me I'm wrong. I'll wait.”

Amusei shook his head and tutted. “You know when I’m stressed, I go for a nice long run along Lake Rumare. It's refreshing. Maybe you should try it."

"Aww, that's so wholesome of you," Methredhel said, batting her lashes. "And so remarkably boring."

“All I mean to say is that it clears my head, and there are no bodily fluids involved. Try it, Nim. I bet the mornings along the Gold Coast are nothing but sea breeze and clean air.”

“Aye,” Nim said. “And you’re right. Or maybe I should take up slaughterfish wrangling or something. Something to get my heart pumping.”

Methredhel's face creased with a lazy smirk. “You know what else gets your heart pumping?” 

“Xuth, you’re relentless. Stop that!” Amusei swept Methredhel's boots off the table. He turned to Nim, placed a hand on her back and rubbed a small circle over her shoulder blade. “Or maybe you could stop by more often, and we can ramble for a bit like old times. It helps, no?"

"It does," Nim admitted. "I'll try to visit more regularly. I promise. I just... Gods, I'm all over Cyrodiil these days. It's exhausting."

"And that's why they pay you big coin and grant you these fancy titles. What is it now, Wizard?"

"Warlock," Nim replied and didn't bother explaining that the Mages Guild offered her little to no financial compensation. Wizard, Warlock, Worm-thrall— what did it matter anyway? A change in title only meant that she was still under someone else's thumb. Nim sighed into her drink then looked to Methredhel. "Hey, do I pronounce my name funny to you?"

"What? It's your name. You pronounce it however you like."

"I know but...for a Bosmer?"

"For a Bosmer?" Methredhel scrunched her face in confusion. "My pa went by Fat Rolo, and he was Green Pact and all. Even when he moved here, he drank jagga by the gallon, never wore boots, ate my uncle's leg when he passed or something. It's just a name."

"Yeah,  but it..." Nim gave a lopsided grin. "Never mind. Anyway, I better get going."

Methredhel frowned. "So soon?" 

"I'm trying to reach the Gold Road by sundown."

"Okay. But come back, hey? Don’t forget about us while you’re out there pining after the Arch-mage or whoever.”

"He's not the Arch-mage," Nim began but let herself linger on the image for the hell of it. "I won't."

"And Nim," Methredhel placed her hand over hers, squeezed gently, "we’re all so proud of you. You know that, right? For getting out of here. For following your dreams. I mean it.”

And to most, a couple of compliments from a pair of thieves who lived in shambled houses down on the Waterfront would have carried little weight if any. To Nim, they meant the world. Once, it had been praise that she could say she lived up to. These days, however, Nim could scarcely tell.

As much as Nim hated to admit it, Ocheeva's contract was indeed made for her. With the aid of her invisibility spell, she proceeded through Fort Sutch like a snake in tall grass, nonexistent until the moment she struck. If she squinted, it was quite like the jobs she’d done for Armand, stealing medicine instead of some shiny jewel. Was that truly what she lived for but a year ago? Swapping the medicine bottle for Ocheeva's poison, it seemed well… uninspired. Nim could have sworn this once carried a sharper spark.

Done with her contract, Nim dumped the medicine in the roadside ditch and carried on toward Anvil, unfeeling. She moved across the grasslands like a ghost. Gods, but she was tired. From Cheydinhal to Skingrad, Skingrad to the capital, now all the way west toward home. Nim hadn't expected to be travelling this much, and now her legs were aching. Fresh blisters opened on her ankles, and she could feel the torn skin weaving itself into the wool of her socks. By the time she reached the gates of Anvil, the sting was the only thing reminding her she was awake.

Nim slept the rest of the day away and most of the next day after that. When she finally awoke, it was the dark hours before dawn, and any semblance of a nightly routine that she may have had before was completely and utterly ruined. By midmorning, she was exhausted again.

Fatigue clung to her legs, her head. Her magicka felt like muck in her veins. Still, Nim was determined to force herself out of the house today, and so she brewed a pot of coffee, drank it whole, and made her way down the street to the guild hall.

Nim's apprenticeship with Carahil had become much more of an apprentice-raft; by now, at least one plank was detaching, and instead of an oar, she guided herself around rocky riffles by closing her eyes and thinking positive thoughts. Carahil, for better or worse, didn't question her absence too intently. Perhaps Traven had asked her to be more lenient with Nim's schedule, but more likely Carahil was too busy overseeing her other projects to be preoccupied by someone who's priorities were clearly elsewhere.

Today, however, Nim was determined to focus on nothing but her studies, and Carahil— ever supportive— cleared her schedule to allow time for the two of them to spar. Nim was on the defensive, practicing her wards, Carahil slinging illusion hexes against them. Nim was not particularly excited when she heard the plan. Her mysticism had always been among her weaker schools, and the lack of restful sleep made focusing her willpower all the trickier. Still, she gave it all she could.

They practiced for several hours, a spar then a lesson, each round ending when Carahil had successfully broken through the ward to silence her. After the sixth round, Nim's brain felt like lukewarm porridge. She slumped to the floor, defeated and disappointed by her performance, and even when she coupled her dispelling wards with resistance charms, her mysticism was no match for Carahil’s assault.

“You look dreadful,” Carahil stated bluntly, her candor refreshing if not entirely requested. She handed Nim a restorative potion that smelled strongly of blackberries. Nim tossed it back, and the hyacinth nectar lingered bitterly on her tongue.

"Another round?" Nim asked smacking her lips. Carahil shook her head.

“You’re strength’s not quite here today. I know the Council has been asking extra of you, but you still have a responsibility to your own health. Get better sleep. Next week, same time, same practice.”

“Wards again?" Nim didn't mean for it come out as such a whine, but the panic that rose from the idea of being silenced could only have been suppressed if she had bit her tongue in half. How she dreaded the feeling of a silencing hex, the lead in her veins, her willpower submitting. It was the bane of all mages. Nim couldn't think of a feeling worse.

“You’re a Warlock now, Nimileth," Carahil said. "There’s no point in me teaching you how to become a master illusionist if you can’t defend yourself against a silencing spell.”

“I know. It wasn’t meant as a protest.”

“Good, because I’m not fond of groundless complaints.” Carahil walked to the bookshelf on the far side of the room and returned with a leather-bound tome. She offered it to Nim with a firm nod. “Here. Have you read it?”

Mysticism by Tetronius Lor, the cover read. “Yes, of course.” Most mages had.

“Then read it again. Sleep with it under your pillow if you must. Next week, same time, same practice.” Carahil dismissed herself without another word.

Defeated and drained, Nim left the guild hall, the midday sun tauntingly bright overhead. Anvil was vibrant and bustling, glowing with warmth, and it filled Nim with guilt to feel like such a slug on such a lovely day. With her book tucked under her arm, she made her way to the Anvil Docks in search of a quiet stretch of beach on which to read. This wasn't quite what she had imagined for her relaxing day off and Mysticism by Tetronius Lor was about the last thing on the list of things to help blow off steam. 

Nim passed the buildings that lined the harbor— the tavern, the bait shop, the stands of fresh local catch. Today, the air smelled of clams, briny and rich. Gulls squawked incessantly overhead. Passing the general store, the window display caught her eye— a worn wooden mannequin dressed in a floor length dress of wine-colored velvet, a braided belt of gold fabric resting delicately around its hips.

Nim paused before it, imagined herself in it. Imagined herself drinking and dancing and feeling like not such a slug. Maybe she'd feel better if she tried it on, feel pretty, feel wanted. It wasn't a crime to look nice, as Antoinetta had said. Nor was it a crime to catch someone else's eye. And what had Methredhel said to her just a few days ago? Go on, test it out. Report back to me afterwards.

Nim looked down at the book in her hand, then back to the gown in the window. Whelp, she thought. She'd never been one to turn down a scholarly inquiry.

Mathieu Bellamont was on the last stretch of a rather uneventful trip home to Anvil. It had taken him two days to travel back from his latest meeting with his Speaker in Leyawiin. Alval Uvani was a bore, and he was a rich bore at that which was truly the greatest sin, for he had no excuse to be as tiresome as he was.

Mathieu had tried not to let his lassitude show as the man droned on and on about the purchase of his new winter retreat on the Oleander shores. All this talk of white sand and crystal oceans, of Altmeri whores and sheets of silk— Mathieu swore he'd had conversations of more substance with mudcrabs while five brandies deep, and yet it always fascinated him how little his Speaker could say in so many words.

End me, Mathieu had thought as Alval talked and talked and talked. Or better yet, end him. And yes, Mathieu’d had half a mind to slip Alval some mead right then and there. Just a little trickle of honey into his drink, a swipe along the rim of his goblet, and his Speaker would find himself paralyzed, choking, silent for the rest of his days. Alval really should have been more careful about who he disclosed the nature of his allergies to. Information like that could be dangerous— deadly— in the wrong hands.

Fortunately for Alval (and unfortunately for Mathieu), their meeting had remained anaphylaxis free. Mathieu had never seen his Speaker in such a state, but oh, how he dreamt of it. The hives rising on Alval's arms, tongue swollen in his mouth, skin bluer than on the day of his birth. Mathieu kept the image in his mind all the way back to Anvil. It was not so boring a walk then.

Arriving at the city gate in the later hours of twilight, Mathieu made his way to the Count’s Arms to quench his traveller's thirst. He wouldn't want to bother his mother at an hour like this, for she was an early sleeper, as many of her age were. He'd bring her something from the tavern's menu that he knew she liked, and he'd tell her about his meeting in the morning, over breakfast. She'd be so proud of him. He could already see her smile, weathered and wrinkled but so warm. The Black Hand mentioned the possibility of a Purification, and the Listener himself had listed Mathieu among the candidates to carry it out. Nothing had yet been set in stone, but this was a good sign that he remained above suspicion. The Black Hand was none the wiser. Mother would be so proud of him. So proud.

The Count's Arms was busy, even for Loredas, and the music was better than usual. Wilbur must have hired a new lutist to draw in the evening crowd. Mathieu made for his preferred table along the far wall and sighed when he found it occupied. A young couple sat in conversation; two women, one styled in blonde ringlets, talking loudly and waving her hands through the air as she spoke. The second woman sat across from her demurely. She was nodding along, toying with her hair, looking tense, nervous, nigh regretful. Every now and then the blonde woman paused to leer. Mathieu could see her reaching a hand under the table to graze her companion's thigh, who snapped to attention, laughed with a panicked grin, and drank a mouthful of wine so voluminous it bordered on uncouth.

Mathieu took a seat at the bar and looked back over his shoulder to continue watching the couple, now slightly obscured through the crowd. They seemed strikingly familiar. From where did he recognize them? Craning his neck to get a better view, he watched the second woman tuck a strand of rust-brown hair behind her ear and offer her date a smile so smooth and easy it could have been mistaken for sandpaper.

That was when he recognized her— Nimileth, from the party. Lucien’s new golden child.

In all his time in Anvil, Mathieu wasn't sure he'd seen her before. Or maybe he had in passing, unable to put a name to her face, unaware of the secrets they shared until that night a few weeks ago. But here she sat, hardly a room's length between them, dressed in a sleek maroon gown and with a suitor no less! Was she on contract, he wondered, here in the town in which she lived? Seemed risky. Maybe Lucien was up to his old tricks.

The blonde woman appeared to be reaching the end of a story. She looked to Nimileth expectantly, pleased, a touch triumphant. More fake laughter left Nimileth's lips before she downed the contents of her wine goblet; Mathieu could still remember the echoes of it, what it sounded like when sincere.

Smirking to himself, he watched her. How would her Speaker feel to find her here, scarlet lipped, a stranger’s hand on her thigh, that hand inching higher, that hand that wasn't his...

Nimileth stood from her chair with another strained laugh. Shielding his head, Mathieu hunched over his drink, and out of the corner of his eye, he watched her make her way through the crowd and up to the bar. She ordered a glass of Surille's.

Wilbur popped the cork, asked if she would be paying by glass or bottle. "Bottle," she said with a snort. "As if I haven’t made this order ten times already."

After a moment of deliberation, Mathieu rose from his seat, and like an arrow, he zipped down the bar. “So were you planning to avoid me all night?” 

Nimileth jumped nearly a foot into the air. He sat down on the empty stool beside her and she stared for a long moment, perplexed. Her eyes darted from his to their surroundings. "Mathieu?" she asked, as if testing the name. "Is that really you?"

"In the flesh."

“I thought we weren’t supposed to speak in public.”

"And who's going to know?"

She blinked at him and swallowed, looked nervous again.

Mathieu gave a shrug and sipped from his bottle of beer. “Well, I won't tell if you don't." 

When he smiled, her shoulders fell, and there was relief in her face but so too something softer. It curved on her lips like a fresh blade of grass, bending in the dawn of spring. "Well now," she said. "What are the chances?"

“I forgot that Lucien mentioned you lived here.”

It was a lie, of course. Mathieu knew exactly which house she had moved into when Lucien first described her recruitment to the rest of the Black Hand. No one yet knew of his residence in the Anvil lighthouse, and he very much intended to keep it that way. After the party in Cheydinhal, he realized he'd need to take extra caution to avoid running into her in town, but upon finding her here tonight... well, it seemed too great a stroke of luck to be ignored.

"You're kidding right? Lucien told people that I live here?” 

“In passing.”

"Ugh, of course he did. Why? For people to stop by and say hello? Is that what you're doing?"

“No," Mathieu said. "And it slipped out in passing, truly. He likes to talk, Lucien. Besides, I’m sure you spend little time here being as busy as you are.”

"Eh." She shrugged a shoulder and accepted her goblet of wine. “I try. All my alchemical equipment is set up in my study, and I've got plants here. And cats. Okay, really only one cat, but if others come, I feed them just the same. I fear they'd starve without me." She sipped her wine, made an awkward grimace. "So, uh, what brings you to the Gold Coast?”

“Business as usual.”

“Oh? Anyone I know?”

“I suppose you’ll find out soon enough, won’t you?”

Nimileth dropped her gaze to her wine, and Mathieu watched her nostrils flare. Her stare grew deeper, darker. She shook her head as if to clear it. “You’re dressed like a commoner,” she said, looking back at him. “It’s so strange. You type seem to live in those awful robes.”

“My type?"

"You know. The special ones."

Mathieu waved this off. "I wouldn't go so far as to call us special. And the robes are mostly for show, part of a ritual, if you will. They’re hardly conspicuous when travelling. And what about you in that dress? Are you always so preened?”

"You and my dresses. If you want one so badly, just ask to borrow it."

“Are you expecting someone?”

“Not exactly."

"Oh? How elusive."

"Actually, I'm trying to get away from one at the moment.”

Mathieu made a show of looking her up and down. “That seems counterproductive.”

Nimileth furrowed her brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not judging in any way."

"Judging me for what?"

"You look lovely," he said, at which she chewed her lip and turned away, chagrined. "If you’re seeking attention, I’m sure you’ll receive it.”

“That's not what I'm doing." Mathieu gave her a knowing look. "What? Can’t a girl dress up every now and then?"

"Of course. Of course."

“Fine,” she said and knocked back an undignified amount of wine. “What’s the point in being modest? I came out hoping to partake in the sins of the flesh. There I said it. I'm mortal and have base needs. Go ahead and laugh, har-har." But Mathieu did not laugh, and Nimileth shriveled against the bar. "Do you think terribly poorly of me now?”

“No worse than before. I should let you know, however, that if you're not particularly picky, you’d have much better luck at the Flowing Bowl.”

“I know," she said, then sighed. "I was thinking about going there next if I turned up empty handed here. I had a thing with a girl there a few months back, but the last time...” Mathieu watched with great amusement as her cheeks grew brighter, a warm coral shade against her warm brown complexion. “Well, I’ve had one biter here thus far, and she’s so handsy you’d think she’s part dreugh. I’m not looking to be courted or anything, but a little subtlety would be appreciated.”

“That woman?” Mathieu nodded in the direction of the table by the window. The woman sitting there rapped her fingers impatiently as she looked toward them. Nimileth threw her a sheepish grin and promptly looked away.

“She's sweet," Nimileth said. "But she won't stop talking. It's been half an hour, and I know her entire dating history, her former lovers' dating histories, and the genealogy of her prized Shornhelm Shepard. Also, the way she laughs reminds me of a horse with a cold. It's... distressing."

"You could do a bit better. You're aware of that, right?"

"Ugh, I don't know. She's quite easy on the eyes, just loud. That's all." Nimileth pulled at the amulet around her neck. "I’ve had rotten luck tonight. I really tried. I wonder, am I... am I really so undesirable?" She met Mathieu with a sad frown, terribly sincere. "No, no, don’t answer that. Please don't.”

But Mathieu did, regardless. “I think only a fool would deny you, Nimileth.”

“Hmph," she said, her voice trailing off. "I’m starting to think that might be just what I’m into.”

Wilbur came by, eyeing Nimileth heedfully and refilling her glass without so much as asking. “Perhaps I should take my leave then," Mathieu said, shifting in his seat as if readying to stand. "I wouldn’t want to ruin your chances.“

“Oh, don’t be silly." She placed her hand on his arm, squeezed softly. “Please stay if you have the time. And it’s Nim, by the way. Everyone calls me Nim.”

Mathieu ordered another beer and the two assassins fell into colorful conversation about handsy men, their love for summer weather, and a mutual distrust of pirates. Nim was halfway through telling him a story about a group of women down at the Flowing Bowl who rooked married men out of their hard earned septims when Mathieu’s mind began to wander.

Nim drank her wine, and she looked so ordinary with her lips stained cinnabar red, leaving their imprint on the rim of her goblet. She shook her shoulders to the music, a lilting giggle escaping her whenever he told another stupid joke, and tonight, she could be any woman in any tavern, looking to laugh and drink and be touched. 

Ordinary, Mathieu thought, so painfully ordinary that it was almost admirable, how earnest an effort it was. He stared at the bottle in his hand and turned it in circles, wondered what Lucien would think if he saw them here together, his prized assassin dolled up beside him and looking for someone to take her home.

What would Lucien do, Mathieu thought, if I touched her? If I held her? Would he squirm? Would he sting? Would he feel something like loss?

Mathieu raised his beer to his lips and let the drink crawl down his throat. He returned his gaze to Nim's dark, eager eyes, and she looked so ordinary sitting there, smiling at him, face dusted in powder that she didn't quite have the skill to apply. One cheek was slightly more blushed than the other. A lash sat precariously on the edge of her unblended eyelid. When she blinked again, it fell to rest on her face somewhere she couldn't see.

And she was so ordinary. So much so that it was almost painful for Mathieu to know she would never live the mundane life she was so good at impersonating. “Nim,” he whispered and leaned in closer, sliding one arm to the small of her back and grazing her side with just his fingertips. “Have dinner with me.”

She scoffed playfully. “I wasn't sure you consumed anything solid."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing," she said, looking away, blush darkening on her cheeks. "And here I thought you were only interested in me when Lucien was around.” 

“Don’t be silly. Have dinner with me.”

She squinted at him as if mulling it over. "Well, you're not piss drunk like last time, which is one mark in your favor."

"And was I terrible company even when I was?"

"No," she said, and opened her mouth to say more. Mathieu reached out, brushed her cheek, and swiped the stray lash that had fallen there.

"Eyelash," he said, holding it up for her to see. 

Before he could shake it off, Nim took his hand in hers, holding his finger up before his lips. “Now you can make a wish."

Mathieu peered at the delicate little eyelash on the tip of his index finger and blew a small breath. It traveled through the air, gone in a second, lost forever to the shifting sea of ordinary people.

"What did you wish for?" Nim asked.

Mathieu didn't reply, not because it was in bad practice to share freshly minted wishes but because he hadn't made one. Instead, he had been thinking about Lucien.

What would he say if he saw them together now, simpering, sharing quiet laughter on this uneventful Loredas evening? The thought of the Speaker walking in on their mundane sliver of life sent a chill over Mathieu’s arms, raising the fine, furry hairs that grew there. Fire leapt from Mathieu's stomach, and what would Lucien think if he saw them together now, her waist in his arms as he led her to a table across the room?

The evening bard and his troupe of musicians took a pause from their set, and the tavern filled with inaudible chatter. Nim and Mathieu sat by a window. He picked at his venison and roasted vegetables while she ate, and the two of them made up stories for the townsfolk they spied around the room.

The couple at the nearby table were bickering loudly, their argument indiscernible among the din of the crowd. Nim came to the conclusion that they were quarreling over compulsive shopping habits. “What was he buying?” Mathieu asked.

“Spoons. And now there’s no room in the kitchen for her mother’s antique silver."

Mathieu frowned. "But it’s been in her family for five generations.”

“They should just divorce now. It’s an incompatibility that cannot be overcome.”

"And what about her?" He pointed to a middle-aged woman at the bar. She sat alone, her rouge applied with a heavy hand, her sleeves slipping off her shoulder. 

Nim hummed thoughtfully. "She's looking to have an affair while her sea-fairing husband is out of town."

"Perhaps you should go speak to her," Mathieu suggested, gesturing toward the bar. "Ask for advice. I'm sure she's a few decades more experience than you."

Nim nudged him under the table. "Oh bugger off." 

Mathieu watched as she ate. She waved her fork around while she talked, chewed with her mouth open more often than not. When she'd cut away most of her steak, she picked it up and gnawed the rest off the bone.

“Why are you looking at me like that, hmm?" she said, wiping the gristle from the corner of her mouth. "Something on your mind?"

Mathieu shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing."

“You like me well enough, don't you?”

“Sure,” she grinned.

"How well?"

"What?" After the last bite of her roast, she slumped back in her chair and pushed the plate away. "I hardly know you. I like you as well as I like most strangers I drink with."

Mathieu leaned over and took her hand in his, then she was frozen, silent, eyes wide. Suddenly, Mathieu had become very conscious of every movement occurring around him: Nim biting the inside of her cheek, the lute player testing the tune of his strings, the inside of his mouth sapping of moisture as if he'd just drank a particularly tannic wine.

He forced his voice loose. “Let me take you home tonight,” he said just as the drummer had started up again and drowned the low whisper of his voice. Nim chuckled nervously.

“What did you say?”

“Let me walk you home,” he repeated, hoping she truthfully hadn't heard. "If you're done here, I mean. Or we can stay longer if you want. Should I order us another—"

“No," she replied, more blush climbing to her cheeks. "I- I'm done here. You can walk me home."

Slowly the pair stood up from their seats. In silent agreement, they made for the door.

Mathieu let Nim lead him down the main road to a large manor beside the pond. She walked with her arm wrapped around his and told him the story of Lorgren Benirus, the necromancer who had occupied her house before her. It was admittedly hard to find a way to flirt with her when every sentence out of her mouth involved some description of a corpse, and so he asked questions when he had them, let her keep talking otherwise, and she could say quite a lot when she wanted to, it seemed.

When they neared the cobblestone wall of her front yard, Nim unlatched the gate, and Mathieu grew quiet. He walked her to the bottom of the steps that lead up to the veranda and let her unlink her arm to ascend. Reaching the front door, she paused, turned to face him. He looked up at her calmly, his hands in his pockets, waiting for her to stammer awkwardly and send him away.

“Do you… do you want to come in?” She was pulling at the amulet again, twisting and untwisting the chain around her finger.

Mathieu took a second to consider, to not appear so eager. He proceeded silently up the steps, and Nim took this as her cue to unlock the front door. They stood in the foyer for several breaths, the air thickening in the room, the darkness growing as she closed the door behind them.

Nim led him into the kitchen and flicked an orb of starlight into the air. She leaned back against the dining table, looking tense. “Do you want a drink?“ she asked sheepishly, still pulling at her amulet.

Mathieu smiled. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Her eyes lingered on his through the dimness, and when she gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles bulged. “What about some light? Would you like me to—"

But before she could finish, Mathieu had closed the distance between them and slipped a hand around the back of her head. He pressed his lips to hers, and she gasped, then stilled. Soon she was leaning into him, reaching up to cup his jaw, pulling him to her. It had been so long since he had kissed someone like this, since he had been so close to a woman, and when he pulled away he found himself short of breath.

“Show me to your room." She did.

With his hand in hers, Nim led him through the house to a stairwell cloaked in shadow by the single stream of starlight showering down from her spell. They spiraled up, up, up into the bedroom where moonbeams spilled through parted curtains, and she had taken one step inside when Mathieu closed the door behind them. Feeling bold, he gripped her by the arm, pulled her against him with enough force to throw her off balance, and she stumbled, gracelessly, into his chest.

Mathieu laughed, and her mouth was on him in seconds, tasting him, nipping at him, spilling hot breath against his lips. His stomach clenched with anticipation as she took him by the hands, walking backwards to pull him on top of her as she lay down on the bed. She unlaced his shirt, pushed it down past his shoulders, kissed his bare chest and moaned into his skin. With eyes closed, she moved his hand over her breast, and he slipped it beneath her gown, squeezing a palmful of warm flesh.

Mathieu couldn't remember the last time he had touched a woman this way, the last time he had been touched, the last time he felt wanted. Heat radiated from every inch of her. She was smoldering, burning, and he wanted to grab her like an ember, press her through his fingers, let himself be seared by the life bursting through her skin. 

His stomach turned with too much excitement and too much nothing and too much beer. He wanted to be closer, closer still, so close he felt a rush of helplessness consume him to know they were still bound by flesh. And by Sithis, was she warm where he had been cold. So warm that Mathieu wondered if she had burned away his nerves, because suddenly he felt so terribly numb.

He looked down at her, lipstick smeared, dressed disheveled, her spindly limbs rather long for such a small frame. Brown hair flowed across the blanket beneath her, and he wondered if he was dreaming as he ran his fingers down the length. When was the last time he partook in such a small pleasure? Mathieu could scarcely recall...

But the memory snapped back to him in a crack of lightning, with the shock of a knife thrust through his gut. He remembered. The knife twisted. In his head, a clap of thunder. Like a miasma, the memory flooded him, and the more Nim squirmed and dragged her body against him, the more vivid the memory became. Maria. Maria beneath him, her legs trembling and arms flailing as he pressed his knees into her chest and held her down. Maria. Maria beneath him, her amber eyes bulging, begging him to release the grip around her neck. Purple bruises blooming beneath his fingers. The tendons in his hands popping as he squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.

Nim moaned, but all he could hear was Maria's rattling breath as the blood pooling in her mouth churned to froth and spilled down her cheeks like seafoam. When he looked at the woman beneath him, Mathieu didn’t see Nim. He saw Maria, dark curls matted with blood and her skin livid, distended, the rot creeping in.

“Wait.” Mathieu paused. His breaths had grown shallow as he attempted to return to the stillness of Nim’s bedroom.

“What’s that?” Nim mumbled, her mouth still moving across his chest. She pulled him closer, and suddenly she was too close and too hot, and he was too cold. Every sound she made, every move she made— it was all too much, too much.

“I just have to…“ he started but trailed off into silence. He pulled away from Nim and squeezed his eyes shut. 

Mathieu could feel her rising, the mattress shifting beneath them. She chuckled, the sound brittle. “Am I really so undesirable?” But the laugh caught in her throat when she looked at him. The tears had grown thick in his eyes. “That was a joke,” she said and sat up fully. “Mathieu, are you alright?”

“I’m sorry, Nim. I’m so sorry.” She reached out for his hand, but he flinched away, the warmth of her skin now unbearable. He remembered Maria, cold Maria. Lifeless Maria laying limp in his arms. "I can’t stop thinking about her. When I look at you, I see her. But you’re not Maria. You'll never be, and I can't. I just can’t.”

“It’s fine. Really, it's fine."

Mathieu swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat with his head in his hands. Hot tears fell through his fingers. He was so stupid, so pathetic, so disgusting, so wrong, so wrong, so wrong. Grasping at tufts of his hair, ripping them out at the root, grabbing more and more and more, Mathieu wept. Nim sat there frozen, and he wished he could laugh, say it's nothing, say it's fine, but he could do nothing but shake until his shoulders fell slack and he crumpled against his knees to heave.

“I’m sorry,” he cried out into the darkness, and he swore he saw her there looking at him, Maria taunting him from the shadow, from the void that filled all the empty spaces he'd carved around his life. He screwed his eyes shut, and he tried to breath but only more sobs escaped him. He felt like drowning. Like dying. If only. “I should leave you. I should go.”

“Mathieu.” Nim lurched forward, pulling on his arm, keeping him seated before he could rise from the bed. “You don’t have to go. Stay. Please, just stay.”

He looked at her over his shoulder, met the moonlight bouncing off her face. Her eyes were round and terrified and she quickly looked away, dropping her gaze to the blanket clenched tightly in her fist.

“Can’t I keep you company?" Her voice, a cracked whisper. "Can’t you stay, just for a little while?”

"Nim—"

“I won’t ask anything of you. Just stay, please."

He did, unsure as to why because he was still crying, pathetic, too disgusting to be touched. He rolled on to his side, and he was still crying, couldn’t stop even as Nim held him in her hands. He was cold and wet and the tears clouded his vision so that her face was a collage of fat blurs of brown. She kissed him on the lips. It was small and it was chaste, and then he folded in on himself completely. 

“Shh." Nim wrapped him in her arms, rocking him gently. "It’s okay.”

“Why are you like this, Nimileth? What are you doing, throwing yourself away like this?”

“I just want to feel something warm right now,” she mumbled into his hair. She stroked it, brushed her fingers through it just like Maria used to. Just like Mother once did. “Please," she said. "Aren't you so tired of having no one to hold onto?”

They lay together like coils of rope, frayed at the ends, warped by the tension of their twisting fibers. Mathieu rested his head on her chest, listening to the slow thrum of her heart as she combed her fingers down the nape of his neck and back.

Mathieu pulled at her dress. “All we do is kill and kill and kill. All we know is death. I’m a monster.”

“Shh,” she commanded him. “You’re just a man.”

They lay there as minutes turned to hours and when Mathieu finally stirred to break their embrace, Nim let him without objection. He left no parting words, only the indent of his slender frame in the mattress beside her and the ghost of warmth that lingered there.

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: The Hunt

As usual, Nim awoke alone.

Briefly, she contemplated never rising from bed again before a scratch at the balcony door alerted her to the arrival of the strays. Meowing and hissing, they pawed at the door, eager for the breakfast that lay trapped behind it. Nim rolled over to meet a familiar dark, furry face pressed up on the other side of the bedroom window. Impatient beasts, she thought and shuffled groggily to retrieve the stash of dry kibble she’d picked up from the general store.

After a round of pats and scritches, Nim wandered down to her kitchen. A slinky black cat followed at her heels; she was the most docile of the bunch, and they'd come to be fast friends in the months that Nim had spent feeding her on the balcony. Nim had taken to calling her Bok-Xul , a word Amusei had taught her in his mothertongue. He said in Jel it roughly translated to ‘Bowl of Death,’ which made sense considering he had shouted it (along with a string of expletives) after stumbling into a pothole one drunk night. Bok-Xul responded to it when called, and Nim thought it fitting for a cat with a habit of knocking the food bowl off the balcony and dangerously close to the heads of passersby. 

At the kitchen table, Nim pushed her breakfast around her plate, ate a bite of fruit, a nibble of toast. Mostly, she drank all too much coffee which only served to make her stomach simmer and render the food on her fork unappetizing. The coffee roiled in her belly. The churning swiftly grew painful, and when the eggs had gone cold, and she was nowhere close to done, she gave up and left the scraps for Bok-Xul.

Gathering her half-eaten fruits and broken eggshells, Nim left for her garden, thinking some time in the sun would do her well. She'd pull weeds, stir the mulch bin, work up an appetite for lunch. Upon reaching the foyer, however, she paused. A folded letter sat before the front door.

Nim's heart skipped. Was it from Mathieu? Was it from the Council? Was someone somewhere once again requesting her services? She inched closer to it, spied dark brown splotches on the parchment, and when she picked it up, she knew it could only be one thing— blood.

Slowly, she opened the letter. On the first line, she read her name penned in unfamiliar scrawl.

Nimileth,

I have spent a long time searching for you. You do not know me. My name is Greywyn Blenwyth, and if this name means nothing to you, that means I've done my job well. I am the last of the Crimson Scars, and in short, we are family. I regret that we will never be acquainted.

I'm sure you have questions. I'm not sure even I have all the answers. The past few decades blend together, but know this— in life, I served the Night Lord alongside my brother, Vero. He was your grandfather and is long gone. Now my days on Nirn are numbered. All I have left, I leave as a legacy to you, to the last of our family. My home will be your new haven. The map on the reverse of this note will help you find it. All that lay within is yours to do with as you please. I have but one request in return... further the ways of shadow. Honor Sithis with the darkest of deeds. Make the virtuous pay for their blasphemy with their lifeblood staining your blade.

May Sithis guide you.

Greywyn

Nim re-read the letter once then twice then five more times for good measure. Flipping it over revealed a map of the lower Niben, the words Deepscorn Hollow written above an X-marked spot. There were a few notes scribbled at the sides, directions to a small peninsula southwest of Leyawiin. Nim stared at it as if expecting to recognize the location, and when she didn't, she read the letter again.

Nim felt hollow, scooped out and concave, as empty as the egg-shells in her bowl. She didn’t know anyone named Greywyn. She didn’t know anyone named Vero. She didn't have any family, and she was not part of a legacy . She was an orphan, abandoned, no extension of her blood outside of that which ran red inside her. And now it was running faster. It was becoming hard to breathe. 

"What the fuck?" Nim said, and she felt like spitting. The bubbling in her stomach grew abrasive. Who were the Crimson Scars? Who was Greywyn, and why had he spoken of Sithis?

I should crumple this letter into a ball and burn it, she thought. If what it said was true, if this was her family history, she wasn’t sure she wanted to learn more.

"What the fuck?" she said again, and she'd set this letter aflame, let the fire eat its memory while it died in a gasp of dark ash! "Oh, what the fuck!"

Nim tucked it into her pocket and fled upstairs to pack her bags, bowl of egg-shells still in hand. She thought of Vicente who had been alive for three-hundred years, and he would know about Greywyn and Vero and the Crimson Scars if they held any connection to the Dark Brotherhood. If not him, then who? Someone had to know something.

And do I even want to know? She shoved her cloak into her bag. If this is what you come from, do you want to know?   

Bok-Xul had wandered up after finishing her eggs and purred, arching against Nim's legs. Nim scooped her up. Every part of her ached.. Such a short visit home. Why could she never stay longer? 

Bag packed with potions and provisions, she continued to prepare the house for departure. She locked the doors, leaving all but the smallest crack in the bedroom window open for Bok-Xul, and combed her hair in the small, cracked mirror on her dresser. A weary reflection peered back.

Nim took a hard look at herself. Purple bags hung on her sleepless face. In the corner of one eye was a clump of dark powder she had worn and not washed off the night before. Her stomach grumbled angrily at the sheer amount of nothing inside her. When she tied her hair back, her cheeks looked gaunt, unnaturally sallow.

It was not the only thing that looked different about her today.

Days later, Nim found herself on the Red Ring Road, just north of the capital. The crispness in the air here spoke of the change in seasons, spoke of it with a bite. Summer was now gone, and autumn was unfurling far faster than she'd hoped. It was not long before Nim reached a fork in the road. The Red Ring continued right, wrapping around Lake Rumare, while the path left fed into the Silver Road. Nim's eyes followed its switchbacks wending up beyond the heartlands, toward Bruma.

I should turn, she thought. I should be investigating Volanaro's reports like I'd told Raminus I would. Digging a heel into the dirt, Nim wrapped her cloak tighter around her. If she continued on, she'd reach Cheydinhal tomorrow night...

"Gods damn it," she cursed aloud. Why now had this stupid letter come into her life, and why now did she care? Ever since she'd left Kvatch, she'd assumed that what the headmistress had told her was true— her mother was a whore who'd left her with only a name. And so? Nim had lived with it, the boring tale it was. Other children had parents who had fallen in battle, to terrible illnesses, to roaming bands of goblins or trolls. But Nim? Merely abandoned, one in thousands. What more of her family could be said?

But the letter in her pack offered more. Something richer, darker, unfathomably deep. And was it fate that had brought her to the Dark Brotherhood, to Sithis?

No, Nim told herself, destiny isn't real. And if it is...  if it is, surely the Gods could not be so cruel. 

Nim kept right and slept at the first inn she came to. She had no dreams, simply hit the pillow and woke the next time she opened her eyes. In the light of dawn, she left, had a blessedly uneventful afternoon, and by the time she reached the Blue Road, the burnt orange of Magnus had fully bled into gloaming.

Green forest canopy sprawled above the road, so dense that Nim was forced to don her night-eye. Shielded as she was by all sights beyond the forest edge, she focused on the cobblestone road and kicked at pebbles to occupy her mind. The hours crept toward nightfall. Greywyn's letter pushed against her. Nim re-read it from memory, turning the words over again. Higher she climbed, higher into the Heartlands, higher toward the sanctuary and the secrets that it kept. The closer she drew, the more weight to Greywn's words. The later the hour, the more they pulled at a deep chord of fear.

In her periphery, the trees loomed high and close. Long branches scraped at the roadside. The shrubs shivered, warping in the breeze. In shadow, the forest twisted its mangled limbs, and Nim tried not to watch their strange movements in the wind. By now, she regretted not stopping at the last inn for the night. Trying to distract herself, to remind herself all was fine, she whispered the names of trees as she passed them. Here a boxwood, there a maple. She plucked their leaves, looked them over, said "yes, this is an oak." 

And for a while, it worked. Grounded in the familiar and the sound of her own voice, the trees did not sway so ominously. It wasn't long, however, before she'd worn through the small comfort her game provided, and scrambling to come up with a new one, she picked up a stick and beat back the brush where she felt it staring at her too strongly. 

Next, she tossed up orbs of starlight and bent them into funny shapes, making them dance beside her as she walked. But, when her illusions winked out of existence, not even their afterimage remained, and the road was once more a dark, lonely place,

Alone, Nim began to doubt whether coming to Cheydinhal with that letter was the right choice. Alone, her head swam with uncertainty. Uncertainty in her studies and her guild, in her place within it. Uncertainty regarding her parents, why they'd left her, about whether she had ever been wanted, whether she ever would be. Was it only in the Dark Brotherhood that she could be accepted as she was?

And what if she couldn't belong even there? What if she didn't want to? What if she did? What if the love and acceptance that they'd promised would be ripped from her like it had been from Mathieu?

Nim wished she could run for Cheydinhal. She wished she could run through it, beyond it, but her legs were so heavy and her will too weak to push the shadows from her mind. She focused instead on the road, how it traveled up and up and up and disappeared around the bend. After every turn, more hill, more forest. She was alone in the darkness of the road, that darkness like a mouth. It swallowed her down, and Nim stared ahead as the trees become nameless, formless blurs that melted into the black and into nothing. And in that nothing, her mind at last found peace, or something like it.

Nim was not so distracted, however, that she missed the sudden footfall in the brush behind her. Twigs cracked beyond the edge of the road, and she heard the rustle of trees, their branches snagging on whatever was moving through them. Her ears perked at once, eyes darting, senses at full alert. Letting her detection spell sweep a wide perimeter, she saw the night birds in their perches, a small animal in the leaf litter scurrying quickly away. Nim honed her focus, and she could see a new aura forming at the limits of her range. Something, someone moving through her periphery. A large shape in the shadows, stepping closer, growing larger.

In a blink, Nim cloaked herself with an invisibility spell. Blood surged into her tired legs. Despite how quickly her limbs moved into action, her mind felt a few seconds too slow. All felt mechanical, moved by instinct. Hand on her bow, she dashed for the opposite side of the road and disappeared into the forest, not checking to see if what lurked behind had followed; when she had a moment to deliberate, she assumed it had, and it was not long before she learned that she'd assumed correctly.

Lucien left the Listener's house in good spirits and with a pocketful of promising contracts. His mood and the operation of the sanctuary were intimately linked, inextricable, for a sanctuary without contracts was an animal without fodder, and even the most gentle of beasts gnashed its teeth when starved.

The carriage from Bravil took him to a small hamlet at the mouth of Lake Rumare and from there he walked east, toward Cheydinhal. Lucien travelled under nightfall, resting by day at the roadside inns, and a few days later, he'd made it far enough along the Blue Road that he'd be reaching the city before daylight. It was perfect timing. Only Vicente would be awake. Lucien would enter and leave, evade conversation and pleasantries and hopefully Antoinetta’s awareness. He’d indulged her more than he should have recently, and her tenacity was once again beginning to bore him. 

Lucien mulled over the contracts while he walked. The hit on the trade caravan was best suited for Gogron, an easy decision given all his lack of subtlety. Personally, Lucien thought Vicente gave Gogron too much grief on the matter; not everyone could be a Shadowscale, born and bred for stealth. As long as there were no witnesses, Lucien didn't even mind a blood bath; such a shame it was that so many assassins hadn't the confidence to do anything but avoid them. So much sneaking made for dull accounts when he'd inevitably read the reports. He'd secured the contract on the noble's son specifically for Teinaava, the contract for the Blackwood company mercenary for Telaendril. The rest... well, the rest were rather jejune. Business rivalries, family betrayals, jilted lovers— a dime a dozen. All too plenty in this batch as they were in every other. Lucien would leave it to Vicente to decide how to parse them, and hopefully it would keep him busy for some time. 

Maybe he'll take some on for himself and leave the Sanctuary for once, Lucien thought. The wetwork would do him well. It was not uncommon for Vicente to grow irritable when cooped up for too long. Antsy. Fretful. Prone to sticking his nose where it did not belong. 

And in thinking about Vicente, Lucien's mind glided to Nimileth and the next contract he'd selected for her: a party in the city of Skingrad, the most interesting one of the bunch by far. So interesting, in fact, that Lucien had been tempted to accept it for himself. It wasn't very often that business and pleasure mixed so seamlessly. Maybe she'll enjoy it, he thought with a smirk, knowing full well she would not.

Silent, sulking Nimileth and her senseless reservations— she would hate this contract which was all the more reason for the assignment. He’d coddled her for far too long, giving her the most forgiving marks. Even while dangerous contracts, they were distant, impersonal, meant for targets she wouldn’t have to think twice to kill.   He’d met recruits like her before, knew just how to unlatch them from the teat of their sanctimony. Virtue was not meant to be rent apart anyway but unravelled slowly, savored in its defilement. But Lucien had eased her into their work for long enough, and it was time now to up the ante, see how she bowed under pressure. Would she harden? Would she break?

And could she could kill five people under one roof while remaining above suspicion? Could she kill them after looking into their eyes, convincing them she was no threat? How she fulfilled this contract would forever change her trajectory within their order, and the opportunity to test her could not have arrived with better timing, for most importantly, Lucien needed to know that she could obey.

Grinning silently to himself, he pictured her scowling at Ocheeva, nose scrunched and brows narrowed as she read the contract over. Fueled by his good spirits and the comforting weight of contracts in his pocket, Lucien made good time on the Blue Road. Cheydinhal was less than an hour's trek away, and with the night-eye ring on his finger, he could see the spires of the chapel of Arkay standing like dark fingers, scraping the sky behind the city walls.

The hour was late, the forest choked in darkness, and he hadn't seen anyone on the road since he'd stopped for dinner miles back. Which was why, when he saw someone walking the path ahead, Lucien found himself surprised and a little more awake. The figure was small, especially at a distance, and appeared to be travelling alone. Lucien removed a glove, slipped on his chameleon ring, and out of curiosity, if nothing else, he picked up his pace.

Closer, he drew, hugging the edge of the road, slithering through the brush with the grace of a serpent. It was a woman. A dagger on her belt, bow on her back, skin an undistinguishable dark in the night-eye. Elven ears stuck through a messy bun, and her face was blank, eyes fixed on the road ahead and expression eerily vacant as if following the call of a siren's song. Lucien's breath quickened when he realized who it was. Nimileth? His Nimileth? Sithis truly was too good to him sometimes.

Stalking through the brush with his form faded to darkness, Lucien imagined reaching out toward her. He imagined touching her, doing worse. With a stifled grin, he envisioned the shock seizing her face, turning it ashen, making those too-large eyes grow even larger. All he needed was to cross into the road. Five steps, and he'd be skirting the edge. Five more, and he'd be right behind her. Four, closer. Three, within reach. Two and one and a hand on her shoulder, winding up and around that scrawny little neck.

How easy it would be, he thought, if only she were a contract.  

But something in his step must have alerted her, because he had looked down at the fallen branch beneath his foot for one moment, no more, and then she was gone.

Lucien scanned the road and caught the ripple of trees in the forest edge. Soft footsteps travelled away, crunching in the leaf litter and fading into the shrill call as the wind blew off the mountains. When the whistle passed, the night descended into silence. A taut silence, growing tauter every second. Nimileth travelled away from him, and Lucien pushed forward. He stepped into the road, and no sooner had he done so did a zip break the air.

An arrow flew by him so close he thought it sheared his temple, but reaching up he felt no blood, no loose strands of hair clipped free from his scalp. He blinked at his dry, empty hand in disbelief, uncertain of what had just happened. Oh, that silly girl. She meant to kill him, and when he realized blood surged deliciously from his heart, vision spiraling down a tunnel of red and red and red. 

Quickly, Lucien leapt away, but not quick enough. Another arrow pierced the night, and this time, the impact knocked him to the ground. Cold shock gripped his limbs. He looked down at his body, confirming what he felt. The shaft of an arrow stuck skyward from his left shoulder. Awakened, intoxicated by the blood-rush, Lucien scrambled to his feet and raced for cover behind the trees. Gritting his teeth and steadying himself against the trunk, he snapped the shaft of the arrow and hissed. There was more fight in her than he’d given her credit for. How fortunate for him. He liked them feisty.

Drawing the dagger from his belt, Lucien crouched low. He had underestimated her, and it wasn't without pride that he admitted it. She'd grown so much under his roof. Blossomed like nightshade, like a drop of blood unfurling into water.

The prowler had found her. By the groan released when her arrow struck, Nim guessed it was a man. A marauder, a bandit? Then why was he shrouded? Was it one of Mannimarco’s cultists? She should have stayed on the defensive, but when she thought she had a clear shot, she'd taken it. Her assailant was dexterous, had moved around her attack as though he'd foreseen it. She had run then. He'd been faster.

Tumbling to the ground, Nim clutched at her thigh, feeling hot blood spill through her fingers. It flowed freely from the gash, pain shooting up the back of her leg, searing, burning as a scream died in her throat. 

Through tear-brimmed eyes, she looked around for her attacker and called forth her flames only to find lead where her magicka should have been. She gasped, tried again. Not even a flicker escaped her, and there was no doubt in her mind now— she’d been silenced.

Seconds later, her night-eye faded and the world was plunged into darkness. Nim reached for her belt and drew her dagger. Blindly, she plunged it forward. Something connected with her arm, pushed it away. The dagger missed whatever she'd intended it for, but she felt it slice through something . She heard a rip, felt the resistance as it tore through cloth, and she hoped it had cut through more. 

Nim braced herself for another swing when a hand gripped her wrist, squeezing so tightly, pulling so hard she was sure it would snap in two. " Stop, " said a rough voice in the dark.

Unable to call upon her spells, Nim swung her free hand wildly. It met skin and hair and another hand that batted it away with ease. Nim scratched, felt flesh give beneath her nails. She punched. She kicked. She forced out a shriek, and under the hoarse rasp of her cries, she heard another voice, her assailant shouting, " Stop !" 

But Nim continued screaming. She would not die silenced twice.

Swinging forward again, her fist met the broken shaft of an arrow and with a strained cry, her attacker loosened his grip. Nim scrambled for escape, but her attacker was just as soon upon her again, grabbing hold of her by the waist, flipping her over. A knee pressed into her back. The dagger in her hand was knocked free. Pinned beneath the oppressive weight, without her magic, she was helpless. 

I am going to die.

The man pulled on a fistful of her hair, raising her head off the ground. His breath was labored, heavy, and to her utter shock, he released her only to pet her head gently. “There, there,” he murmured against her ear. 

Nim sunk her fists into the soil and grasped for loam. Fistful by fistful, she dug deeper, searching for a way out, quivering and cowed, a whimper on her lips. If she prayed, would the Gods hear her now?

I am going to die.

“Ah, that's all I wanted to see, Nimileth. Some passion. A good fight. True, unadulterated fear.”

That voice. She knew that voice, recognized it now that it was this close.  “L- Lucien?”

Her assailant lifted his knee off her back and slowly rolled her to face him. She looked up, eyes brimmed with tears, but could see nothing but the hazy moonlight sieving through the trees above. 

A hand reached out to swipe at her sweat-soaked hair. “That’s the most expression I’ve ever seen on your face before.” Nim's mouth fell open. She shook at his touch, heart thumping so fast she thought she'd faint. "Here, for your troubles." 

Lucien reached for his belt, fumbled with something. It sounded like clinking metal. He slipped a ring on her finger, and the blue veil of night-eye fell over her vision once more. An enchantment? Catching her breath, still stunned to silence, she met Lucien’s eyes, and they were soulless pits, so empty they could have been gouged from the socket and remained just as full of life. He smiled at her; those eyes didn't so much as flicker.

Nim tried again to call on a burst of fire and released a choked sob when no magicka stirred awake.  “Finish me then,” she said, wincing through the hot pain in her ribs. “What’s keeping you?”

“You struck me first, dear Sister. I was only acting in self-defense. My intention was never to harm you, only to find you, clear the confusion.”

“You’re fucking kidding.” Lucien only stared, and Nim mustered up enough strength to lunge forward, slapping him across the face. “You son of a bitch!" she snarled. Her hand-print glowed bright on his cheek. "You son of a bitch, I'll kill you!"

She lunged for him again, and Lucien looked shocked for half a moment and no more. With a laugh, he wrestled her arms away. "Oh, Nimileth," he said. "Dear Nimileth. You are eager for a fight today! And here I was under the impression that you found unnecessary bloodshed distasteful.”

Nim drew a rattled breath and slumped back on her haunches. Tears sprung loose as she shook through the comedown of battle. "What is wrong with you? You, fucking bastard! You were following me! How was I supposed to know? How was I—" 

She choked on her words then sputtered, coughing out a clump of dirt laden spit. When she recovered, she wailed as loud as her lungs allowed, trembling violently with the aftershock of fear and rage and near defeat. Nim cradled herself tightly, trying to keep herself still. Lucien only stared, an eyebrow raised in amusement. Upon spying it, Nim reeled back to slap that damn eyebrow off his face.

Lucien swatted her arm away before she could, and Nim settled for crumpling up into a ball. “You could have just told me it was you," she hissed, no energy for fiercer argument. 

“You didn't hear me try? I attempted to calm you."

"No, you didn't."

"I did. Your bloodlust was simply too great."

"Oh, fuck you."

Lucien grinned. His teeth were covered in blood, gums split at some point during their brawl. Nim looked him over. The arrow was still embedded in his shoulder, stopping most of the blood flow, but there was another cut along his ribs. Right side, jagged. So she had cut him with the dagger. Good.  

"I would have heard," she said and now that the shock was wearing off, the searing pain in her thigh flared anew. "You think I wanted any of that? I thought you were trying to kill me. I thought I was going to—"

Mid rebuke, Lucien made to stand, but he staggered backward after only a step. He hit his head on the tree behind him and slid down. He tried again, met the same fate. He stared at his legs in confusion. 

“Did you silence me?” Nim asked. “I can't cast anything.”

"Why can't I stand?" Lucien was still staring at his legs. "Why does it feel like I... Why am I dizzy?"

"Did you silence me?" she asked again. 

Lucien gurgled or perhaps chortled, then spat out a mouthful of blood. “I thought you preferred silence, dear Sister.” His voice had become rougher, lower, lazy, his blinking slower, eyes half-lidded. 

“This isn’t funny, you bastard. You’re poisoned.”

Lucien raised another brow. “I’m what?”

“The arrow in your shoulder, it’s tipped with an energy draining poison. I use them for hunting deer, to keep them from running off when I hit them. Any minute now, you’re going to pass out."

Lucien slumped backward, and Nim took note that drawing in steady breaths seemed to be growing increasingly difficult for him. “That sounds like cheating," he murmured. "Spoils the spirit of the hunt.”

Nim ignored him. She tried to stand, but her leg was still slashed open, and when she put weight on it, stars burst across her vision. “Tell me you know a healing spell," she said. "I am not going to bleed out here because of you." Lucien shrugged indifferently. "Oh, Gods, this isn't real! I'm dreaming! This isn't real! How long will this silence last? Is it a posion?”

"No, it's an enchantment,” he said and Nim’s blood ran cold with fresh fear. “Freshly enchanted."  His eyes crawled lazily to the bloody gash in her trousers, and he stared, watching the blood bleed through her clothing. "And I cut you pretty deeply.”

Nim leaned back against a tree and cut strips of her pants off with her dagger. She tied them around her thigh, grimacing all the while. “We have to get to Cheydinhal,” she said. "Vicente will take care of it. We're not that far, Vicente will—"

"No," Lucien said with a strength Nim didn't think he still possessed. "Not Cheydinhal. Not the sanctuary. The others... they can't see me like this."

"Like that's my fucking problem?" 

"Do you have any potions?"

“You bastard!” Nim cried. She picked her pack up off the ground and threw it at him. He dodged it narrowly. “You smashed me into that tree! Everything is shattered!”

Lucien pushed himself to his knees, readying himself to stand again. “Not. Cheydinhal," he growled. "I live nearby. Just a ways east. I have an infirmary there."

"Get there yourself then."

"Fine. I will, and before I die, I will use my very last breath to let the Black Hand know that this is your arrow in my arm, that you were the one who killed me. They will call the Wrath of Sithis, or better yet, theyll see to your punishment themselves. Oh, dear Nimileth, how they'll make a day of it. A pity I won’t be there to watch."

“If only.” Shakily, Nim stepped forward. She grabbed her short bow off the ground, swung it at Lucien's feet, knocking him onto his back. “I should leave you here,” she seethed, and pressed her boot to his throat. Lucien’s eyes grew wide. A spark flashed within them, and Nim knew what shined back at her was not fear.

Lucien cracked a bloodied grin. “Do it then,” he said darkly. “I dare you.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: Into the Void

They tumbled off the rope ladder, one after the other.

Lucien fell first as his hand slipped from the rung, and Nim, who had been supporting his mostly useless weight, found herself unceremoniously dragged along for the ride. With one foot tangled in the ropes above, she hit the stone floor head-first.

“Oof.” Hissing and cursing, she squinted open her eyes and found cobwebs criss-crossing the ceiling. Disgusting, she thought. Of course he lives like a troll.

Pain rang through her skull. Lazily, her eyes crawled over the latticework of webbing that spanned every corner and half the length of one wall. Beads of moisture clung to them, forming glittering constellations, and in that moment, it felt almost peaceful to lay so still. If she closed her eyes, she might even fall asleep...

“I see Sithis coming,” Lucien mumbled from beside her. His voice was raspy, cracked at its edges, and very abruptly reminded her that he was still alive. What a shame. “Come, Nimileth. Let us welcome the Void.”

Nim cast a cursory glance his way, found him staring up at the now closed wooden hatch they'd entered through. Seeing nothing particularly ominous nor intriguing, she sighed and wrangled her leg out of the rope ladder.

“If you'd like to let those spiders drain you dry, so be it. Me, I'm leaving here with my body full of fluids. Most of them, anyway." And with a groan, she pushed herself to her feet. "Where should I look?" 

Lucien kept his eyes forward. They grew more glazed, more distant by the second.

"Hello?"

From the floor, Lucien laughed calmly, serenely. It remained his only reply.

Poison must be getting to his head, she thought, the barest note of concern, only that which she deemed necessary. I ought to move quickly.

Bracing herself, Nim stumbled forward. Every step, a sharper wince. Dragging her wounded leg behind her, she sifted and searched, rifling through the cupboards for potions. There must be potions, she thought, prayed, and indeed several bottles stocked the shelves of a cabinet. More sat scattered across the nearby tables. Nim picked them up and read the writing on the bottles only to find paralytics, silencers, small vials of various venoms. Another cabinet, another shelf. Uncorking a few of the unmarked bottles, she wafted the fumes up to her nose. The stench of harrada burned in her nostrils. Poisons. Of course, they were poisons.

Turning to scan the room, Nim spied an alchemical work station along the far wall. She considered it quickly. With the pain searing through her leg and her head hazy from exhaustion, brewing from scratch at a time like this was near unfathomable.

Maybe I should just wait for the poison to be metabolized, she thought and glanced toward Lucien, wondered if he was still breathing. His body lay still on the floor. They were both wounded, poisoned, neither in good shape, and even if she could mend their injuries with the little first aid she knew, they'd need to be properly healed to prevent lasting consequences. Nim looked down at her leg. The fabric she had used to bind it was soaked through. Bright blood dripped down her shin. Waiting for the poison to wear off meant losing more, risking more damage to the tissue. It meant being stuck down here in this dungeon for hours, just her and Lucien. The two of them.

Nim reconsidered her options. She turned back to the cupboards and examined the ingredients on hand.

The shelves were stocked with fresh fruits, cured meats, and neatly tied bushels of dried herbs— cooking spices. This was the larder, so she hobbled to his alchemical station next. Fresh heads of redwort sat plucked in a ceramic bowl. Dread swelled in her chest. What if all she found were more toxins, more harrada, more insidious little plants to be leached of poison? What if there was nothing here she could use to heal ?

Nim scrambled toward the cabinet, opened jar after jar. Wormwood and bloodgrass. Fennel seed and tobacco. More nighshade, more redwort, harrada by the bushel. She groaned, felt like shouting, would have kicked something if her leg wasn't so mangled. Was this all Lucien brewed? Poison and more poison? She whipped her head around the room in a blur.

On the drying rack beside the bench hung fly amanita and a sad bouquet of lavender. Two large green stain caps sat in a basket on the floor. If she only had some aloe vera, it would be enough to make a poultice. She could stop their bleeding, nothing potent enough to repair the flesh, but it would give her enough time to dispel her silence before the blood loss—

The silence. 

That vise-like grip on her magicka, that lead stopper in her blood. As hard as Nim tried to not think about it, the silence inside her was so loud. If that bastard hadn't silenced her, if he hadn't been following her... she stared at Lucien from across the room. She'd killed people for less. Perhaps leaving him there to lose consciousness wouldn't be such a bad thing in the end...

But intentionally or not— deserved or not— it was true that she had shot him first. If he died because of her, would she be punished? Even if he had silenced her, even if he had followed her, Nim didn't want to risk the chance of repercussion.

And so, when Nim sniffed out a limp leaf of aloe and Lady’s mantle, she thought she'd weep with joy. Relief coursed through her, bringing her hot blood down to a simmer. They would be fine. They'd make it out of this alive.

Cradling the assortment in the tatters of her shirt, Nim deposited the ingredients on the alchemical bench. She limped her way to the lavatory. In the cupboard were bandages, needles, willowbark, a spool of thread, and aha— a single healing potion. Scoffing in disbelief, Nim drank it herself and found it disappointingly weak. 

After rinsing herself free of blood and debris, she returned to the alchemy bench, eyeing the supine Lucien in her periphery. He was still breathing. Good enough. Into the mortar went her ingredients and a splash of bottled spring water. Mash, mash, mash . It was unusually tiring work, and by the time all was ground into a coarse, sticky paste, her arms were weak and achey. With the healing potion moving through her body, she treated her own wounds first. 

It's this or nothing, she told herself before securing the poultice to her thigh. It wasn't her best work, but it would have to do, and after tending to herself to the best of her abilities, she hobbled her way back over to Lucien.

The Speaker was laying on the floor, same as when she had last checked on him. On his face was a lazy grin that looked far too unconcerned for someone in as sorry a state as he was. Nim kneeled beside him and hesitantly unbuckled his robes, relieved to find plain clothes beneath them. If this was to be the first time she saw a naked man all year, she'd be certain that Dibella had cursed her.

She started at his shoulder, tearing at his shirt inch by inch. By the looks of it, the broken arrow had been lodged into chest muscle, a bit of deltoid. It wasn't all that deep, and he was lucky it was a field point. With the supplies at hand, she could pull it free without risking excessive damage or blood loss, and the fact that he wasn't dead already left her fairly confident that it had missed vital arteries on impact.

"I'm going to pull it free now," she said. "Do you want me to count down?"

Lucien's drowsy stare flitted across her face. “So you are gentle after all." Nim ignored him, inspecting the wound in silence. She freed the fabric stuck there by the dried blood. "I've never met such a lethal healer in all my life," he said. "Such contradiction. Like a blooming nightshade, unfurling her sepals at dusk. Full of poison yet so inviting. That soft scent of sugared nectar masking the—”

Without warning, Nim ripped the arrow from his shoulder. Lucien hissed through his teeth. "I am only capable of so much sympathy," she said. "Please stop talking to me." And before he could reply, she shoved a piece of willow bark into his mouth. He chewed it while she worked.

Nim picked a shard of arrowhead from the oozing hole in his shoulder. She rinsed the wound clean before applying the poultice. Red water pooled around them. All the while Lucien squinted at her through tear-brimmed eyes, turning the bark over between his teeth. With his shoulder wrapped in bandage, she moved down to his torso, to the gash below his ribs where she had sliced him with her dagger. Nim cut through what remained of his shirt and peeled away the fabric that clung to his body. His chest was bood-drenched, covered in dark splotches, some brighter, some slick. She rinsed the blood to reveal the lesion, and once clean, she stared in shock. 

A trail of raised scars crisscrossed Lucien’s chest. There were many. So many. Straight lines. Crooked lines. Lines that curved and wound down the contours of his frame. Absently, she drew her finger down the furrow running along his abdomen. It was deep, and the flesh that lined it was smooth and pale pink, a sign that whatever injury he’d acquired there had been left to heal naturally over time. No restoration magic? Nim was beginning to question whether he possessed any magical aptitude at all.

Bared to her, Nim's eye wandered across his skin, over jagged mementos left from years of combat, maybe decades. For the first time since meeting him, she tried to guess his age. With a quick glance up, she studied him, the shallow wrinkles at his eyes, the sparse wisps of graying hair at his temples. He must have been in his late thirties. Older? Early forties? Was he truly so old? Then what was his excuse for acting like a damn child? Or perhaps life as an assassin had aged him prematurely...

Nim shook her head clear and returned her focus to his injuries. He had lost more blood than she'd initially thought.

“Do you see something you like?” Lucien asked, mumbling, his mouth full of willow bark. On his pale lips was a wicked smile. Nim continued rinsing away.

“Godsblood," she huffed, "even at an hour like this you never shut up. I cannot fathom how Antoinetta is so fond of you. You’re painfully one-dimensional.”

“Antoinetta knows my dimensions like no other in the Sanctuary. I assure you, I contain multitudes.”

The frown on Nim's face turned caustic. “That’s revolting.”

“And I don’t see how everyone is so enamored with you. You’re incredibly high-strung without all your illusion charms.”

"Whatever."

Lucien grunted as she pressed the poultice to his cut. She tried to secure it with a fresh roll of bandage, but wrapping it around him was not an easy task. Try as he might, Lucien could barely lift himself off the ground, so Nim resorted to pushing and prodding, tugging and driving him to all lengths of discomfort. By the time she finished dressing his wound, his smirk had caved completely. A great fissure of a frown had been etched in its wake. It made Nim feel smugly victorious.

"Drink this," she said as she lifted his head and raised a bottle of water to his lips.

"I can hold that myself," he snapped and reached for it. With a trembling hand, he drank. Nim blinked at him, grew pissed. Deciding she had done all she could for his injuries, she stood, walked away, and left him alone on the ground. "Are you coming back?" Lucien called out to her. She ignored him. 

Limping across the room, Nim began once more to search the cupboards, this time for anything she could use to dispel the silence polluting her magicka reserves. "You wouldn't happen to have any ectoplasm lying around would you?" she asked, shaking out a ceramic jar. Several large ogre teeth tumbled out. She sighed.

"There is dried bergamot in the tin to your right,” Lucien croaked out. He was trying to lift himself up to his elbow, and by the strained look on his face, was still in great pain. Nim raised a brow. He raised one back. "You are planning to neutralize the silencing effects, aren't you?"

“Thanks," she said stiffly, reaching for the tin. "What about void salts? You have any of those?"

"No, but if you look in the cabinet with the nightshade, you will find a bowl of lotus seeds."

"Lotus seeds? I've always used those to make poison."

"Crush them first," he said. "Roast them ever so slightly, only until they begin to brown. Any longer and they lose all restorative properties."

"Huh," Nim said and scratched at her head. Perhaps he wasn't so useless after all. Nim gathered the seeds and dumped them on the alchemical bench. "Do you have any grapes?"

"No."

"Raisins?"

"I am aware that a raisin is a grape."

"Well, do you have any wine?”

“And I thought I was a slave to my vices.”

Nim narrowed her eyes but said nothing. Lucien pointed to a shelf beside an empty hearth. "Fire-starter?" she asked after retrieving a bottle.

"Wooden box in the top drawer of the desk."

Returning with all the necessary supplies, Nim perched herself at the alchemy bench and squeezed the wooden box in her hands. She couldn’t remember the last time she had used flint and steel to create fire. It seemed so primitive, made her feel so helpless. She pulled them from the box and stared at them for a long moment, these two relics of old meant to live behind glass. Nim struck them together. Sparks leapt across the metal plate and caught her little pile of wood splinters aflame. When it burned bright enough, she poured the wine into the retort and let it simmer, cooking off the alcohol, reducing it as much as she could.

It would make a weak potion, she knew this already, but hopefully it would be enough to remedy her ailment. She prepared the rest of the ingredients, roasting the lotus seeds in the calcinator as Lucien had explained, crushing the bergamot, mixing them together. When all was prepared, Nim brought the concoction to a boil, turned down the heat, then moved it to the alembic. How long had it been since they entered the fort? How much longer would she have to wait like this? Sinking into her chair, she let her head roll back and breathed out a sigh, deep and weary.

It wasn't long before she heard a grunt across the room. She looked over to Lucien. With one arm and both his legs, he was inching across the floor, dragging himself like a mutated worm that had not quite grasped the rhythm of quadrupedal locomotion. Slowly, he crawled toward a stone pillar and leaned himself against it. When he caught Nim watching him, he opened his mouth but settled instead for silence. It took him a long while to catch his breath.

At least he's moving, Nim thought. Perhaps the numbing effect of the poultice had settled in. Good. Maybe. “How are you doing over there?” she called out.

Lucien's eyes shimmered, full of perspiration. “Like morning sunshine and a breath of spring air."

"Doesn't look like it."

"Oh, doesn't it?" He grinned at her, doing his best to mask annoyance. "How long will this fatigue last, do you imagine?” 

"Dunno."

Lucien's eye twitched. "What do you mean you don't know?"

Nim gave a callous shrug and noted that the color was slowly returning to his face, a promising sign of recovery. A large part of her wished that he would stay quiet for a while longer. "The deer are usually dead before then," she said. "I’ve never tested it on a human before either. I didn't think I'd have a chance too. So thanks. This will be informative."

Lucien's expression hardened, and this time the pique in his voice was less than well concealed. "How fortunate for you."

Nim lit a candlestick with the fire from the bench, raised it to light the sconces around the chamber. She slipped off the night-eye ring and for the first time since their arrival, took in her surroundings.

Musty. Murky . The first words on her tongue. The air in the living chamber was neither cold nor warm. It was, however, mildly humid and her skin felt damp, sticky even where the blood had been cleansed away. Not a single window lay in sight, and the ventilation was so nonexistent, Nim wondered how it was they were breathing. If she sniffed deeply enough, she caught a hint of something metallic— copper and iron, the smell of blood in the air. This was old blood, not theirs but something stale, and she imagined the rust of it gathered in places it did not belong. 

She turned a circle. The furniture around the chamber was sparse, as was the decor. Aside from the bookshelves and ingredient cupboards, only tapestries adorned the wall. Each was marked by the seal of the Black Hand. How quaint. The abode of a truly well-rounded man. In the corner stood a small bed fit for only one person. The sheets were drawn back and wrinkled, and Nim found herself somewhat surprised to see it had been used, lived in, to know that people like Lucien needed rest like mortal men.

Nim sat down again, kicked her legs out, and looked closer at the desk in front of her. She ran her hand across its sleek surface. It was mahogany, Senchal Red, and from overhearing some of Methredhel's conversations with Armand, she knew that it did not come cheap. Glancing about the room again, she noticed most of the bookshelves had been masterfully built from the same rich brown timber. How much must it have cost for such a set? Shame that it looked so out of place in this cobweb-riddled dungeon.

So Lucien lives like this, she thought, far from impressed. 

“You know, I’ve heard things," she said absentmindedly as she peered into the passage beyond the chamber. The dark of the fort bled into the hallway, casting the tunnels in an abyssal black. "Stories about what you do to the people you bring here."

Scraping, shambling sounds crept in from the mouth of the chamber. On the way through the forest, Lucien had told her about the skeletal guardians that roamed the halls of Fort Farragut. He had said they were the same as the guardian of the sanctuary, an enchanted corpse. Charming company. Very fitting for him.

“Then you seem rather calm for someone alone in my presence.” Lucien attempted a smirk. Nim stared at it. Given his current state of dishevelment, it was a rather pathetic, unformiddable thing undeserving of even an eye roll.

He tried to stand with the support of the pillar. Tried and failed. His knees buckled beneath him and he slumped back toward the ground. Beads of sweat collected at his temples. Nim felt a little bad for him. Maybe she should have given him some of that healing potion, then she remembered that he had silenced her, followed her, and suddenly, she didn't feel half as bad anymore.

Lucien, once again, attempted to stand. Nim held her tongue between her teeth. He shuffled around, back pressed against the pillar, taking a shaky step forward and swaying on his feet. 

One step. Two steps. Nim held her breath in anticipation. Lucien wobbled on his legs like a newborn lamb. She was certain he was going to crumple. “Nine," she chided him, "sit down before you hurt yourself. What do you need? I can get it for you.”

Lucien continued forward despite her protest. “I will get what I need."

"If what you need is a face full of stone."

"I am fine."

"No, you're not."

"I am fine," he said again.

“Okay, stumble your way there then," she said. "And I bet they were just exaggerations anyway, those stories. I hear your lips are quite the rumor mill.”

“I bet the stories you’ve heard are not as bad as the ones you haven’t.” A note of pride in his eyes, and suddenly his smirk was not so innocuous anymore.

“Hmph,” Nim said and promptly decided not to invest any more energy in the topic.

Some minutes later, Lucien made his way back to the alchemical desk with an assortment of fruits and dried herbs. He slumped into the chair, and feeling nosy, Nim joined him, eyeing his selection of ingredients. Fennel seeds, a handful of wheat grain, fresh blackberries. The makings of an energy bolstering restorative, something to remedy the effects of the fatigue poison. She passed a clean mortar and pestle his way.

“You could have just asked me to make that for you,” she said, swiping a berry and plopping it into her mouth.

Lucien did not so much as look at her. “I’m perfectly capable.”

“You look like you just ran a mile on one leg."

“And what does that have to do with the price of kwama eggs?”

Nim held her hands up in defense and sat down, waiting for her own potion to finish brewing. She watched Lucien while he worked. He had an... interesting process, made choices most certainly not in line with her own. There were perfectly good peony seeds on the table he could have used, and in her opinion, they would have produced a far more potent solution. And wheat grain with fennel seeds? The combination would beget a slew of negative side effects, the least of which would drain the drinkers magical reserves, but she supposed he didn’t have much need for that anyway.

Lucien, who had since noticed her grimacing in his periphery, quirked a brow. "Yes? I see you staring. Is there something you'd care to share?"

Nim pursed her lips, shook her head. "Nothing."  When he looked away, she swiped another blackberry, then another.

Amateur, she thought, picking at the seeds in her teeth. Capable my left ass cheek .

An uncomfortably long (and surprisingly quiet) passage of time later, Nim and Lucien were freed from the confines of their respective poisons. Nim tested her magicka with a spark of flame. It burst from her fingertips in a sprinkle of orange stars, and a small moan escaped her, pure relief, to feel the magic course through her unalloyed. 

She turned her focus to her thigh at once, removing the poultice and gauze, rinsing the wound beneath clean again. Though her magicka now flowed freely, she was still weak, woozy from the stress of the past few hours, and it took a great deal of both energy and time to focus her mind on weaving the proper healing spell. 

Meanwhile, Lucien sat nearby, slumped against the backrest of his chair. He too looked livelier, his movements not so sluggish, and the color had mostly returned to his face. By now she was convinced that for better or worse, he would make a full recovery from his injuries.

When Nim had finished healing herself, only a thin scar remained. She turned her attention to Lucien next and pointed at the covered wounds on his still-bare chest. "Should I?" she asked

“If that will help you rest easy at night."

"Oh, I'm sure it will. And afterward, I'll try never to think of this night again." Nim scooted her chair closer. She raised her hand, waiting for permission. When Lucien nodded, she unwrapped his bandages, and the poultice fell to the floor with a plop. 

She cleaned his chest for a second time, unsure as to why when he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. He seemed to expect it of her, and she fulfilled the expectation. A healer's instinct, she thought, knowing damn well she wasn't a healer, had never been one in the first place. Even so, she warmed a new spell. 

Nim placed just the tips of her fingers against Lucien's chest, and he hummed at her touch, leaning into it. Nim scrunched her nose and tried not to meet his eyes, but she could feel them, full of candlelight, glowing like embers. They were making it rather difficult to focus.

"You're tickling me," he said. "On purpose."

"Can you not?" 

"What am I doing?" He shifted under her hands, sliding forward in such a way that it spread her palm flat against his chest.

"Lucien, let me work in peace. Stop moving. Stop... staring at me like that."

"I don't know what you're talking about. You're the one touching me."

"You're wriggling like a worm," she gritted out. "It's distracting."

"And you judge me for my deficiencies? What kind of mage needs complete stillness to work a healing spell?"

"The kind of mage who lost a pint of blood! The kind who has spent the past hour mopping up yours!"

Lucien leaned backward in the chair. "If it's such a burden on you, don't bother."

"Just sit still, for Kynareth's sake. That's all."

“I am still," he said. "I'm not rushing you. You may take your time. I'm a patient man. If you need utter silence to—"

Nim let a small jolt of electricity leap from her fingers. Lucien yelped, springing from his seat so quickly she feared he'd faint from the sudden rush of blood to his head. 

“You insolent little child,” he seethed, face red and freshly creased with a scowl.

"Will you sit still now?"

She gestured back to the chair and raised her hand to call her spell. The now slightly smoking Speaker batted them away. "Don't touch me."

"Okay, it was just a little zap. Dramatic much? Or are you really that scared of a little zzzt? ”

“If you do that again—”

"Yeah, yeah."

Lucien sat, eying her warily. Slowly, Nim worked her restoration spell over his wounds. It was a simple mend, stitching flesh back together. Repairing vessels was not as simple as healing skin, but at least there weren't damaged organs. She wasn't sure she’d have the resolve nor reserves within her to force that kind of magicka out of her now.

It took half an hour and many breaks, but Nim managed to heal him. He’d need to rest easy on his wounds for a week. As would she. Using her foot, she swept the discarded bandages into a pile and nodded her head, content.

"Better?" she asked.

"Umph," Lucien said.

“Then I suppose our business together has reached an end."

Lucien passed his hand over the fresh, new skin on his chest. He looked surprised. She wondered if he'd doubted that she'd actually heal him. "So it is. What excitement we’ve had."

"Don't follow me around again, okay? I can't begin to explain to you how strange that is. I thought we had all but moved past this kind of behavior."

"I told you, we were headed in the same direction. You struck me first. Out of malice."

"No, I struck you because you were following me."

"It was a misunderstanding."

"How is you following me a misunderstanding?"

"Because I wasn't following you," Lucien said. "Are you always like this, or is it merely the blood loss? You sound truly paranoid, Nimileth. It's quite unsettling."

"Unsettl—" Nim glared, then turned promptly away. "Whatever."

Huffing, she stretched to the side and by the Nine, was she tired. Though healed, she felt exhausted , and she wondered if Lucien had a point. How much blood had she truly lost? Walking back to Cheydinhal in this state seemed a miserable task, and in that moment, she was content to curl up under a tree and sleep outside just to avoid the trek. She could sleep for a whole day like that. Or ten.

Nim glanced down at what was left of her tattered clothes and frowned. "Can I borrow a shirt?" One leg of her trousers was little more than a gaping hole. "Pants maybe?" she added sheepishly. "It's cold out." Lucien flicked his eyes across her. A twitch at the corner of his lips, there and gone as soon as it had come. Nim sighed. Just staring at him drained her of energy. “I’d rather avoid questions when I get to the sanctuary. Please?” 

Lucien motioned toward the dresser along the far wall.

“Thanks. I promise I’ll return it." 

“Don’t bother,” he said, and she felt his eyes on her back as she scurried away.

Nim opened the drawers and pulled out a dark wool shirt. She dug for pants, settled on something linen that was undoubtedly too long for her legs. They were of surprisingly nice quality, smelled clean, like witch hazel. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she found Lucien still watching her, so she set off for a secluded corner in which to change. 

A large wardrobe stood a good distance away. Nim opened it and tried to squeeze herself inside but managed only to jostle the items on the shelves above her. A book hit her head, and she cursed under her breath before reaching down to pick it up. There at her feet, beside the book, was an object nearly the size of her torso. A large red cloth had been draped over it, loosely hugging its sides. Feeling nosy, Nim lifted a corner of it, and her hands met carved wood, then a knob, then a string. Pulling the cloth back revealed an instrument she had never seen before. Sixteen strings and lacquered wood engraved with vine motifs. Small welkynd insets glimmered on its horns. It looked Ayleid, undeniably Ayleid.

“Is this your lyre?” Nim asked from inside the closet.

At once she heard Lucien’s footsteps stomping toward her. "Don't touch that," he snapped and pried her out of the wardrobe. Nim stepped back as he closed it.

"It looks more like a half-harp. It's huge.”

A scoff ripe with disdain. “The harp and the lyre are very different instruments in both performance and structure. Perhaps I shouldn’t expect you to notice such subtleties given your keen observations."

"Oh?"

"Consider the arrangement of the strings over the bridge; it produces an entirely distinct sound."

“And it's huge," Nim said again.

Lucien stood in front of the wardrobe, guarding it as though it held all his money, his first-born, and the secret to ever-lasting life. "Yes, it is big, Nimileth. It is an Ayleid Heartwood Lyre."

"Ayleid, you say? Where'd you get it then?"

“On contract. It belonged to a collector of rare instruments."

"You took a souvenir for yourself?"

He brushed his hair over his shoulder, gave a small nod. "A bad habit of my youth,” he sniffed. “I'd advise against it."

“Do you know anything about it?" 

At that, Lucien shot her a withering look. "Excuse me?"

"How it was used by the Ayleid? In like... their cultural practices?”

" Do I know how it was used," he said with yet another contemptuous scoff. “The next thing you'll be asking is whether or not I know how to strangle a man."

"Touchy. I was only curious."

“Any musician worth a dime knows the history of their instrument. To play the Heartwood Lyre is an act of worship. Every song crafted on its string was a celebration of Magnus, designed specifically for the acoustics of their temples." Lucien opened the closet door again, and pointed at the lyre. "See the bridge," he said. "It's sloped such that each string produces a different pitch."

Nim nodded along. "Sounds fancy."

"It's priceless," he said, looking vaguely insulted. "And it plays a song like you’ve never heard before.”

“Really? Can you play it for me?” A pause filled the room. Lucien stared at her as if she'd asked him to swallow eels, and by now Nim had grown annoyingly curious about what could make such a psychotic man so sensitive. Trying to look as earnest as her request had been, she picked at her nails and waited patiently. Vicente had said Lucien was a talented musician, and it was a very pretty lyre. Eyebrows raised, Lucien appeared to be thinking, and Nim wondered why such a simple request required such lengthy deliberation. “Or don’t, I guess.”

Wordlessly, Lucien acquiesced. He took the lyre to the edge of his bed, rested it on his thigh, and nestled one corner of it into the crook of his arm. He lifted one hand before the strings, then the other, fingers ghosting over either side as though whispering to them, persuading them into song.

There was no introduction, not another word said. The moment Lucien pulled the lyre into his lap, she seemed to vanish from his world entirely. He plucked slowly at first, producing wispy notes that stretched the room like strands of silk. Nim held her breath, feared exhaling might shatter the gossamer spun by his hands moving so gracefully, with purpose, plucking notes in careful conversation with the strings as the song echoed faintly through the room.

Nim could barely remember the last time she'd heard someone play so elegantly. It must have been in Castle Kvatch, nearly a decade ago, the night of Count Goldwine’s fiftieth birthday. She had snuck into the grand hall just to hear the travelling troupe perform and remembered gazing around the audience, finding that everyone was weeping at the lutist’s music. At the time, Nim couldn't understand why. His song had been so beautiful, so perfect. Then she'd felt her own eyes and pulled back wet fingertips, and when the lutist played on, her throat clenched. Suddenly, she was in tears. Suddenly, she was choking back sobs. Now, Nim scarcely recalled the song, but she remembered how it had moved within her, how it washed away all else but the music, the world momentarily forgotten.

In front of her, Lucien bowed his head and played with such focus that she wondered whether he'd notice if she stood and left the room. She didn't. Fingers dancing, pulling, picking— his hands skipped along the lyre. An unfamiliar routine for an unfamiliar instrument, and try as she might, she couldn't guess to which string they'd travel next. Sitting cross-legged at his feet, she watched the creases grow above his brow, and for once in that godsforsaken night, he wasn't watching her back. 

When his eyes flickered, Nim pulled hers swiftly away and closed them to all but the purple swathes beneath her lids. Around her, the notes rose like dew: soft, barely noticeable upon her skin. They gathered in her hair, in every divot of her chest then spilled, wending down her body to course through the room. Lucien plucked faster. He plucked fiercer, and the song brewed to summer storm, all lightning cracked skies and somber chords. He played on, and the music darkened, striking a harrowing verse that reminded her of winter in Kvatch, deathly grey and the despair so thick, she could drink it right out of the air.

Minutes passed. Nim sat motionless before the melody, feeling mist well in her eyes. And the tune was so lovely, impossibly lovely, that she'd nearly forgotten where she was.

Eventually, the music softened to silence. Nim wiped away the tears that began to roll down her face. The last time they spoke, Lucien had made light of his skill, but he had been right about one thing; his residence did have wonderful acoustics.

Nim tried to offer praise, but her throat clenched, and she couldn't find the proper words to speak. An applause hardly seemed appropriate. The echo of the music still lingered in her skull. Heavy, resoundingly heavy. She feared the moment she'd forget it. Nim looked up, rosy-eyed and lachrymose, and pushed the tears back into her head.

“Such theatrics,” Lucien said. Nim felt her face suffuse with heat. “You look positively wounded.”

“I suppose I am. Shouldn’t good music leave you so?"

Lucien gave a shrug. He didn't look at her. 

The lump in Nim's throat was unyielding. She wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her tattered shirt, and her words didn't tumbled out until she coughed them. “It was lovely," she said. "And it was hopeless and tragic, and it moved me. I can't believe I'm crying over a song.”

“Hopeless? It's a love song, an ode to the composer's wife. I don't think it was meant to be hopeless at all.”

“Where did you learn to play like that?”

Lucien's face wrinkled. “My father insisted upon lessons in my youth. One of the only good things to come from him.” He gave another dismissive shrug and moved from the topic quickly. “Now, will you grace us with your voice? I’ll play the melody if you tell me the song.”

“Oh," Nim said, feeling warm again. “I don’t know. I don’t really sing, not like you play the lyre, and certainly not for people who try to kill me.”

“Yet I played for you. I thought I'd made it clear that it was never my intention to harm you.” Lucien walked to a nearby shelf, returning with cups and a large bottle made of green glass. “Here, as an apology.”

Nim took the bottle and turned it over in her hands. The label was printed in a foreign language. Only the number system was Cyrodiilic and the date marked upon it was some several decades old. She handed the bottle back to him. "I don’t know what this is.”

“It’s Argonian Bloodwine.”

"Ah— oh." Nim looked back to the bottle like it was a long, lost lover returned from the dead. “Well then… a sip, maybe.”

"A sip."

“Is this wise?"

"How do you mean?"

"With what we went through, to be drinking? I can't be the only one who feels like shit."

Lucien smiled. He uncorked it all the same. "You said just a sip."

Nim shifted onto her knees and reached for her necklace, gave it a hard tug and thought of what Vicente had told her not long ago. "What are you playing at now?"

"I beg your pardon?"

“What happened today wasn't some coincidence, was it? What is it that you want from me?"

Lucien began to pour, and his smile was still as broad, still as bold. “Why would I want anything from you? Everything I want, I can acquire on my own. It’s an apology, Nimileth. Banus gave me the name of his supplier in Black Marsh. You said you would like to try it, and here we are, trying it.”

"I'm not a fool you know."

Lucien chuckled, watched as she toyed with her amulet, his eyes settling on the gem at the center. "Yes, I know."

Nim held up a single finger. “A glass,” she said. “One.”

But one glass turned into two, and two turned into three, and soon, there she was, whirling around the room to a tune she had made up on the spot. Lucien had stopped playing his lyre some twenty minutes ago and was now ignoring her pleas for him to provide another rhythm. Reclined on his bed, he nodded along to her song, An Ode to Fruit, an original piece. Or so she claimed.

"And the apple said to the peach, ‘don’t we make the finest pear?

Of all the love I’ve tasted this is the sweetest of affairs.

It won’t be easy on the run, but at least we have this hope.’

But the peach said to the apple, ‘No, my dear we cantaloupe.’"

Nim forgot the next verse, made something up about a wilting head of lettuce and the inevitable loss of youth. When she ran out of ideas for that, she hummed whatever felt right for the moment and threw up orbs of starlight, making them dance with her when Lucien refused to.

"Spoil sport," she had teased him, but truthfully, she didn't care. Not now, with the wine in her head and her feet as light as air, twirling and twirling and so damn giddy she thought she might just float away. Lucien watched her in silence, sipping his wine. Every now and then, she caught his eyes tracing the sway of her limbs, the light that followed like specters on her trail, but when she gazed around the room, her eyes slipped past him. In truth, he was hardly even there. 

She cast more starlight and spun in its brilliant viridescence where all was right and incoherent, all meaning lost to the glow. Earlier that night, she may have brushed death, but now she was alive, and for the first time in a long while, she thought she might touch the edge of freedom. Or something like it. Whatever it was danced inside Nim, wild and unstoppable. A fire fully formed.

But as all thrills do, the buzz crested then crashed. Nim rode it out until she was dizzy. Forcing herself to stillness, she crumpled atop Lucien's bed, and by now it felt as if her veins carried more wine than blood. Perhaps they did. With a content little sigh, she smiled blissfully to herself, eyes fluttering open and closed, and on the other side of her lids, Lucien looked the same as ever. She blinked. There he was. Blink, still there. Blink, always staring, brown eyes sharp in the candles' flame as they guttered lower and lower in the sconces.

Light shed dimly across the room. Nim leaned back and laid herself beside him. She held her grin, watching him watch her as wordlessly he drew closer. And closer he drew indeed.

"Hey," she said. He said nothing back.

When Lucien took her into his arms, Nim rested her head against his chest. He pet her, and she shuddered at his touch but said nothing, just grinned that blissful, languid grin. Buoyed by her newfound mirth, she leaned further into his grasp, and it felt like rocking in calm waters, being carried out to sea. Lucien squeezed her tighter. Her stomach fluttered. When she tried to speak, her mouth was dry.

With one hand, Lucien climbed her side, brushing the curve of her breast, skimming her throat in his ascent. His hands were warm. Unbearably warm. "Hey," she said again. "You're so warm."

"Mhm."

Lucien slipped a hand under her jaw and tilted her face a bit higher. She let her eyes flit over him blithely. This close and this hazy, with the echoes of the lyre song still drifting past her ears, Nim wondered what he saw when he looked at her, if he liked it.

Her stomach fluttered faster now, her mouth full of wool. If she drew closer, how much of his heat could she siphon away? Could she keep it, store it? If so, for how long? Would it bring her back to that spark she had felt when she was dancing, when she had almost torn away and broken free?

Lucien pressed a thumb to her lips, and she parted them just enough to let him slip past her front teeth, then he shifted, hummed. There was an indulgent rhythm to the sound, not quite a chuckle but undeniably pleased. Winding her arms around his neck, Nim pulled herself close enough to feel his rough breath against her face as she tangled her hands in his hair. Grazing and tugging, she drew that sound from him again, then Lucien mumbled something. She missed it, wondered if it had been important. What had he said? What had Vicente said? Hadn't she been warned not to do this? Wasn't it dangerous to be here? Lucien breathed her name against her ear, and whatever it was she was wondering didn't seem so important anymore.

Nim pressed her lips to Lucien's throat, tasted salt and old blood. She felt him groan, the sound rippling across his skin, then he was lifting her, moving her, the space between them wisp thin. Rolling onto his knees, he stretched himself over her, and she was pinned but not crushed, and this new weight felt good, like she was deep, deep underwater, being squeezed from all sides, and maybe she could be compressed to such a small shape that it would be as if she were not here beneath him at all.

She pulled Lucien tighter, sighed against him a little louder, shifted her hips up to meet his, and she could feel him hard against her. Then he was looming, and in the dark, with her eyes half open, she imagined another face peering down instead of his.

Soon Lucien was speaking again. Nim didn't hear it, didn't want to. When he smiled, she shut her eyes completely. His hand climbed her side, creeping under the tatters of her shirt, and though she arched against the touch, filling his palm with her breasts, she imagined they were someone else's, less calloused, more tender. But the hands closing around her were too warm, unbearably warm.

And as suddenly as it had begun, Nim blushed and pulled away. She sat up against the headboard, choking out an embarrassed laugh. “Am I drunk, or is it me?” She licked at her dry lips. “Wow, that um... wow. What time is it? It must be so late.”

Lucien looked down at her expectantly and Nim pretended not to see the outline of the bulge straining against his trousers. She stood shakily to her feet. Stabilizing herself against a pillar, she glanced around the chamber, and it felt unfamiliar now, like she'd woken with no memory in a new house.

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “Thanks for the wine. It was good. If it's all the same to you, I'll be going now.” Without waiting for a reply, Nim hobbled across the room, toward the rope ladder that led up the hatch. Lucien followed after her. She felt him on her trail and was overcome with the urge to walk faster, to sprint, but her legs were too heavy and by the time she grasped the rungs, his hand was already on her shoulder.

“Hasty," he said. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Nim looked anywhere but his eyes. "No."

"Your things?"

"Oh."

Lucien clucked his tongue, grinned like a serpent. "Should I be concerned for you? A few glasses of wine and suddenly, you're helpless. I'll get your bag. Here, have some water."

Lucien walked her to the pantry, and she followed his lead, gracelessly plopping herself down in a nearby chair. "You know, we didn't sound so terrible, you and I," she said, still embarrassed but pretending not to be. In her stomach, the treacherous flutter of excitement was now waning. Or perhaps that was only nausea. She poured herself a cup of water. "My voice, your... uh, your hands.”

“A fine pair.”

“You have to be the apple though. I’m obviously the peach.” When Lucien returned with her pack, Nim took it gingerly. "Thanks. So, um. Guess I'll go now."

"Finish your water," Lucien said and it was not a suggestion. She felt his hand in her hair, brushing the strands from her face. She sipped a little louder, stared up at him unblinking. "You really shouldn’t be walking home like this.”

It took Nim a few seconds to find her voice. “Oh right, I was going to borrow a shirt.” Standing from the chair, she stepped past Lucien toward the dresser. "Forgot where I put them..."

She only made it a few paces before he took hold of her again. Frozen in his grasp, Nim stared at his hand. If she stared long enough, surely it would go away. “In the morning, Nimileth. You should rest now. I'm sure you're tired after everything you've been through.”

“No, I'm not tired. I'm great. Never better. Seems like you’re forgetting I’ve killed men thrice my size." 

"Oh, and is that a warning?"

Gently, she removed his hand. "No."

"Are you scared of me, Nimileth?"

"No," she said again. "I just... I want to sleep in my own bed."

"It's unwise to walk home alone so late, after so much bloodshed and exertion too. There's room for you here. Stay. The sanctuary will be there tomorrow."

And his hand was on her cheek, cradling her gently, but his eyes— hungry things, endless in their appetite. Nim's stomach tightened. Her words wavered on her lips. "I... if I stay, well, people might say things, you know.”

“Who might say what? Nobody knows you’re here.”

“Oh.”

And suddenly the room looked a little darker. From the corner, misshapen shadows stretched their arms, their reach longer. The sweet taste of wine that lingered in her mouth grew acrid at the back of her tongue. 

Lucien brushed another strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re in no state to be alone. What kind of Speaker would I be if I let you wander off and hurt yourself?”

“Well, walk me home then,” she said with a shrug that she hoped looked more casual than it felt. Her heart beat quicker in her chest, but she offered him a poised smile, fluttered her lashes just a little. “It’s what a gentleman would do.”

“And what would you know of gentlemen?”

“Well, for one, I know I’ve walked much farther with more alcohol in my body. Now, are you going to walk me to the sanctuary or not? I don’t claim to know much about gentlemen, but I know not all assassins are as ill-mannered as you. Why I saw Mathieu the other day, and he was kind enough to—“

“Mathieu?” A twitch in Lucien's eyes. He made a sound like a hiss, breathing in sharply through his teeth, grip tightening. "What have you been doing with Mathieu?"  

Once more, Nim pried herself from his grasp, this time not so gently. “Take your hand off of me, and don’t hiss at me again. You’re not a snake or a cat, okay? Whatever imitation you’re attempting is awfully unflattering.”

"You are scared, aren't you?" he scoffed. "How disappointing."

"Oh, fuck you."

Lucien smoothed his hair back along his head, and in a second, that cool expression had returned. "As your Speaker, my only concern is to keep you safe."

"Well, you have a rather strange definition of safety. You know, if you wanted to spend time alone with me, you could have just—” Nim choked on her words. "Oh wow. That is what you wanted, isn't it?"

“Excuse me?”

Lucien's eyes remained fixed on hers, a ravenous black, and only now did she understand his sick, twisted games. The stalking, the lyre, the wine— what a fool she'd been! "I really thought everyone else was overreacting," she said, and Lucien's face twitched again. For a moment, he looked confused. On his lips, just the whisper of a smile. "You really thought this would work, huh?"

And then Nim laughed. Inside her, the tension unwound, flooding through the pinpricks left by her shrill cackles because at the end of the day, Lucien wasn't a shadowy, diabolical spirit. He was only a man. A very creepy, lecherous little man without an ounce of self-awareness. Really, what a pervert!

"Is this what you did with your previous recruits?" she asked him, still laughing. "Did you attack them in the forest, invite them for wine, watch while they sang about fruit? You really think that’s all it takes, huh. Lazy boy." She wagged her finger through the air, struggling for breath, then pat him gently on the cheek. "Better luck next time, hey? Gods, where’s the romance these days?”

Nim turned to grab her pack, then Lucien took a step forward, a large step. Suddenly, he was too close again. "You think you're clever. Special."

Hoarse, his voice as he moved his mouth over her ear. It prickled the hairs on her arms, made her stomach twist in ambivalence. "Step away from me,” Nim said, keeping her voice calm despite the blood rush from her hammering heart. She pushed herself against the wall, and the stone was cold on her back. Lucien's breath smelled of wine, sweet and balmy.

“I've seen the way you look at me." Over his shoulder, she could just make out the shadowed arch of the hallway leading from his chamber into the fort. Could she make it if she sprinted? Did she want to? “You know what I think, Nimileth?" he said, following her gaze. "I think you run because you like being chased.” 

Nim shivered, and with his breath this close and this ragged against her, melting away felt like a natural progression. “Oh, is that it?” With a strangled laugh, she pulled her amulet so hard it bit into flesh. Lucien snaked a hand up her neck, through her hair. He leaned in, and she let him. When he breathed her in again, she whimpered, and she hated it, hated how her insides felt so hot and so tangled, how her head filled with thoughts so very impure. “And here, I thought you didn’t want anything from me.”

"Did I say that? I don't seem to recall."

"You did." Nim raised her hands to his chest but didn't push away, just kept them resting where she could feel the thrum of his heart, and it was a rapid beat, almost as wild as hers.

"Well." Lucien was inches away now. Less than that. "Sometimes I lie." 

Tipping her head back against the wall, Nim slid her eyes shut and let Lucien's hands glide down her body. She could feel him pulling at the waistband of her trousers, dipping beneath them, and she let him. She let him. Why the fuck did she let him?

So this was what she had been warned of, and this was how far she'd let herself fall into his grasp. How foolish to think herself invincible, that the worst of it had passed. Lucien tugged her closer. He was hard again. She could feel it, and she liked it despite how badly she wished she didn't like it, how badly she wished she could open her eyes and wake up anywhere else.

Lucien groaned as she sunk her nails into his chest. The twisting inside her pulled taut. It’s just flesh. Only flesh. He kissed her ear, the side of her jaw, and she knocked her legs together to quell the mutinous pressure mounting between them. The hand on her back slid down to paw at her ass, to lift her up and pull her closer as he ground himself against her thigh. Heat pooled between her legs. She could feel her nipples popping against her shirt, and soon Lucien's thumb was upon one, rubbing a rough circle as Nim whined a stupid, miserable whine. How wanton and pathetic to melt at merely the thought of being wanted.

Fuck. And if it was such a stupid idea, why did it feel so exciting? Slowly, Nim slid her hands up and around Lucien's neck, wondered if after this, he'd grow bored of her as he did all the others. And just this once would it be so bad to let go, to give in? Let me have this. Just once. How bad can it be?

When Nim opened her eyes, she met two dark burrows, boundless in the earth, and gods, this close he was unbearably warm. "So," she began with a swallow. "Ready to tell me what you want?"

“Timid, little Nimileth. If you want to keep fighting, we can.”

Nim stared at him, might as well have been staring over the edge of a cliff, the ground beneath her feet slick with sea spray. Her stomach lurched. In her veins, only fire. Reaching up, she grabbed his face and envisioned him disappearing into a column of flame. She could will it if she wanted. Just a flick of her wrist, and in a tongue of hot fire, he'd be gone. But Nim did not call upon her magicka. She pulled him down to meet her lips, and she pulled him down willingly, and when they touched, she felt as if she were falling.

In a blur, Lucien had her pinned against the wall. He lifted her into his arms, drawing her legs around his waist, and she was kissing him, biting him. She was plunging into the sea. His mouth trailed down her jaw, lips on her neck, teeth nipping hard, and was this her body in his arms, leaning its head back, submitting? And what was that sensation rising in her blood beside the rage, that wicked thrill that flared white-hot as he groaned her name?

"Yes, Nimileth. Just like that."

One hand in his pants. His palm on her breast. There was nothing gentle in Lucien’s touch as he held her. Where she was met with passion, she found also anger and a desperate need to consume. Eager to please, her own performance was beginning to startle her. A minute ago, she’d been ready to burn him to a pile of ash, and now she was pulling on his hair, moaning and mewling, playing the part of a cold, lost kitten.

And was she fighting or was she laughing as she writhed against him, watching through slitted eyes as his pupils blew wide open and wild? Another whirlwind flash, and she heard the shatter of ceramic. Shards of glass clinked across the floor as Lucien slammed her onto the table and hovered above to tear at the final threads of her shirt. Her breasts bared, his hands were upon her, and hers were just as soon upon him, working clumsily at his trousers to free him from restraint, and she was touching him, wanting him, wanting to know that she was wanted, but just as quickly, Lucien grabbed her wrists and pulled them away.

Pinned beneath him, Nim squirmed. Lucien trailed kisses from her breasts down her stomach, the skin there too sensitive, his lips so feverishly hot. He dipped a hand into her smallclothes, and her breath hitched as his fingers curled inside her, forced to grip the edge of the table to balance herself as she bucked into his palm. From above her, Lucien chuckled— throaty sounds, sickeningly pleased— and Nim watched, equal parts terrified and exhilarated as he lowered himself between her thighs to suckle her clit and taste her cunt, her sweat, to savor the sweetness of her body as much as the filth of its betrayal. Nim whined, frightened by these noises that dared escape her and by his fingers, his lips, her body grinding against it all. So much and not enough all at once.

She was falling and she was sinking, and she felt so close to coming undone that when at last Lucien slithered back up to her lips, she felt not relief but a godless frustration. Tasting herself on his tongue, she forced his trousers past his hips, guided him into her and clung to him, reveling in the searing heat of being needed.  

Nim engulfed him in her arms, and he her. They were falling. Together. Falling. And through it all she wondered, how did she find herself beneath him, rutting like a wild animal? How would she hate herself tomorrow when the water had grown cold? When she reached the surface thrashing, would she regret the jump? Would she gasp, cry, lost to the sea only to find that the relief of the plummet had long since ebbed away?

The room fell quiet, quiet save Lucien’s breath. Hot and heavy, they buffeted Nimileth's shoulder while he lay clutching her close, one finger grazing the length of her torso, over her hip, her ribs, all the way up the delicate curve of her neck. If she left now, would he chase her? The thought excited him even while thoroughly spent.

“I’ve never met anything like you." Cheap words at her ear, and it wasn't that he didn't mean them, only that he didn't think much of them as he pulled the thin sheet over their naked bodies. The fabric was cool against his skin as he tucked it around her, sealing them in together, keeping her near. Just in case.

“Really?" Nimileth said dryly. "You must not get out much.”

Lucien nestled into the pillow. His heartbeat slowed against her back. He wrapped his arm around her waist, hands on the damp skin of her breasts, still searching, still hungry. When he slipped one between her legs, she clenched them. “Do you remember the night we met?” he asked.

She stared across the room into the black hallway, blinking lazily, then released a tepid sigh. “How could I forget?”

“You made me chase you all across Cyrodiil. I thought it would never end, that pursuit. Imagine my delight when I found you at last, so small and afraid and alone.”

"I wasn't afraid."

"I could have taken you right there on your own bed, cut you open, painted something beautiful in your blood. I could have watched as Sithis claimed your soul.” He laid a kiss on her neck and breathed her in. She smelled of blood and sex and blackberry soap, freshly-turned earth and innocence that he knew better than to believe. “Sometimes I dream of how it would have happened that night in Anvil. If only the tenets did not bind us.”

“You're so sweet, Lucien," she said, already bored and holding in a yawn. Lucien hated her indifference, how it made the fire leap within his belly, and he wanted to squeeze it out of her, to crush her. It would be all too easy. "You could've done it tonight if you really wanted to. Like you said, I attacked you first.”

“How fortunate for me that the night isn’t over.”

Rising onto his elbow, he lifted her chin, and she met his smirk with a tired, vacant stare. Whatever fire he thought he'd seen in them minutes ago as she clung to him, scratched at him, had been doused and smothered to ash. He hummed, disappointed. When he kissed her, she did not kiss him back.

“I'm told the Night Mother spoke highly of your gift. Finally, I see it in the flesh.”

“You know, I doubt this is what the Night Mother had in mind when she spoke of my talents." She yawned, her voice weary. "But I won’t go down easy if you try again.”

“I know, dear Sister. I know.”

Nimileth burrowed into the pillow and pressed her eyes shut. Lucien pet her gently until she fell asleep, and he smiled to himself, satisfied, for she was his now. His and his alone. She would succeed where Aventina had failed him, bloom as Sithis intended. Gone would be the itching in his fingers and the fire in his loins, the intrusive thoughts and red-ribboned dreams that came on like fever when he dwelled on her for too long. When he thought of her with Mathieu. When he thought of her elsewhere. None of that mattered now. His desires slaked, his plans in motion, Lucien would savor his peace.

But when his lids grew heavy, he saw Nimileth behind them. There in his dreams, a cruel smile on her cruel little mouth, callous eyes looking past him, impossibly fathomless. In his dreams, they were darker than night. When Lucien awoke, he found his bed empty, and had the scent of blood and blackberry not lingered on the pillow beside him, he would have sworn she was only a dream, yet another vision from the Void sent to haunt him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 22: Scorned, Hollow

Vicente rose from the stone slab in his quarters with a stretch. Arms raised, back straight, his muscles pulled taut— it would have been the perfect time for a yawn if yawning was a function his body still performed. Even after three centuries, he had to admit that these early mornings felt somewhat incomplete without one.

His bare feet hit the floor, the tile cool beneath his soles, and with a new zest in his step he walked to the dresser and prepared for the coming day. Meditative trances had become a routine habit ever since he joined the Brotherhood. Despite no longer needing sleep, it was remarkable what a few hours of quiet mindfulness achieved in way of mental clarity. Now, Vicente felt sharp, polished, a gleaming blade freshly coated in oil. So too did he feel a bit peckish, and with this newfound vigor, the bottle of blood awaiting him simply would not do. He licked at his teeth. How they itched for something fresh.

Vicente decided then that he'd take a stroll before sunrise. Maybe he'd visit Lorise, see if she was feeling particularly generous toward him now that she was well rested from her match. Or maybe he'd wander over to the house a few doors down and pay a visit to the nice young man who'd moved in a few weeks ago. A sweet, young fool, so very comfortable in his new home. He kept his windows open while he slept, an unfortunate habit given his bedroom lay on the first floor. 

Skin oiled and fragranced, hair brushed and neatly laid, Vicente was ready and eager to feed. He opened the door only to find Antoinetta leaning against the wall outside. Her eyes sparkled the moment they met his. 

"Vicente," she beamed. "Good morning!"

“Likewise." Vicente nodded his head in greeting, a bit wary. "You’re up early."

“So are you.” 

“I never truly sleep, Sister.”

“Well, yes. I know that. And I was waiting for you actually.”

“Oh, what for? Have you completed your contract already?”

“Mmm, not exactly.”

Vicente shut his door, and Antoinetta flashed another smile, this one a little too broad and bulky for her otherwise delicate face. She rocked back on her heels, hands clasped behind her, and she looked so terribly excited that Vicente wondered if she had slept at all the night before. 

“I was just thinking about my mark," she said, "this old man in Bleaker’s Way. And well... is that really the only job for me?”

Vicente raised a brow. “I’m not following."

"He lives alone, and he raises sheep for a living. I mean, where are the stakes? As far as contracts go, it's so dull."

"Dull," Vicente echoed. "It is a job, the job that you have been assigned. It matters not whether it is dull or pointed or crumbling in rust."

"But there are other assignments, no? Gogron is out there travelling halfway to Summerset and I'm to go to Bleaker's Way ."

"Antoinetta, someone pledged a life to Sithis, and their soul must be delivered. That is how it has always been. I'm sorry that you find the work boring, dear girl, but somebody must do it. Honestly, I thought you liked the work—”

“No, no, no!" Antoinetta waved her hands wildly in front of her. “I love the work! Really, I do! I just... well, can’t I have something more challenging every now and then?" 

Antoinetta," Vicente said again, lowering his forehead into his palm, “we’ve discussed this.”

"I’ve been here for nearly two years now, and I’m still a lowly Slayer! If I don’t challenge myself, I’ll never improve! I know I’m capable of more than frail old men! Please, Vicente! Please, please!”

"Remember what I told you last time?"

"But that was last time," she whined. "I've been working on my craft ever since. I've improved!"

Vicente leveled her a stern look, which she promptly ignored and instead grabbed his hand while she bounced on her toes, her eyes so wide and pleading. "Antoinetta," he said for a third time, and by now she was whipping his arm up and down like a child playing with an ugly, unwanted doll, "there is more to a contract than how strong or weak the mark. He may be old, but that doesn't mean the work is unskilled. You must be dexterous, silent, aware of your surroundings, and it will take much self-restraint and discipline to remain undetected.”

“He’s lame in one leg,” she pouted. “I don’t need to be a Khajiiti acrobat to maneuver about him.”

"You are not listening."

“I've been practicing with Teinaava, and he says that I'm improving! And, and, and..." Antoinetta trailed on, and Vicente tried, quite unsuccessfully, to remove his arm from her grip. "... and he was telling me all about the contract Ocheeva's been sitting on, that noble visiting his mother right here in Cheydinhal. Don’t you think that would be perfect chance to demonstrate how much I've learned?”

“Certainly not,” Vicente replied flatly. “I have it under authority that he was an accomplished Defender of the Fighters Guild in his youth. Too dangerous. Ocheeva will reserve it for someone of a higher rank and experience.” Antoinetta pouted again, and though Vicente was not without sympathy, he knew well the limitations of her skill. Where the safety of his assassins were concerned, he was unyielding. "Do not ask again." 

But Antoinetta maintained her eagerness and so too her clutches as she bounced up and down with that sullen little moue. Dragging her behind him, Vicente walked toward the main hall. “Please, Vicente? Please, please, please with cream and sugar?”

Vicente forced out a sigh, for effect. “My dear girl, with time and training I have no doubt you will surpass all of my expectations. As of now you are simply not ready for an assignment as high risk as this.”

“But I know I can do it!” Her voice was shrill, a squeal loud enough to wake those asleep nearby. Vicente fixed her with a sharp glare, and she continued on a bit quieter. “If only you’d give me the chance to prove myself,” she whispered.

“Prove it by completing your contract and returning to me unharmed.”

"But—"

The well grate rattled across the hall. Vicente heard it long before Antoinetta, who was still babbling on at his side. Someone was returning home, and his nostrils flared instinctively as the scent of old blood wafted down the well. His throat clenched. Sithis, but he was thirsty.

Out of the entrance walked a shadowy, Nimileth-shaped figure. She dropped off the ladder, turned to find him watching, and froze.

"Well now, what a welcome return," Vicente said. "I take it you're back from Fort Sutch?"

Mouth pursed tight and eyes wide, Nim had the look of a startled rabbit. She cleared her throat and eked out a timid smile. "Yes," was all she said. 

She stood in silence for another moment then took a wide side-step and began to inch across the perimeter of the room with all the grace of a crippled mudcrab.

Despite the dim light of the braziers, Vicente could see her clearly with his keen senses. She was breathing rapidly and straining not to, keeping her eyes averted as she awkwardly crept along the walls. The closer she drew, the stronger that copper-rich aroma, and when she was only feet away, Vicente stiffened, because there was something terribly familiar to the scent.

He inspected her intently, largely ignoring Antoinetta who was now tugging at his sleeves and very aware that she was being ignored. Nim was dressed in a shirt twice her size, practically swimming in it, one of fine wool and dark in color. It too looked familiar, smelled of someone else.

There was blood in her hair, rust on rust. It clumped the strands together. Feet away now, it was overwhelming, and it did not smell like her at all. Nothing smelled like her— not the clothes, not the blood, not the sweat on her skin, and when Vicente realized who's scent she was wearing like fetid perfume, his veins hardened to rivers of ice. "Why are you covered in Lucien's blood?"

A rasping sound caught in her throat. "What?" Nim said with a strangled laugh. It eked out as half a choke, and she did not stop inching toward the living quarter door, not for a moment. "No, I just ran into trouble on the road. A highwayman, that's all."

Beside him, Antoinetta had fallen to stunned silence. She looked Nim up and down, her face blank.

"That's his shirt," Vicente said, unthinking.

“What?" Nim swallowed, chuckled again, and the meek grin on her face had become a panicked grimace. She tugged at the collar of her shirt and underneath it, Vicente caught a flash of red: a bite mark, distinctly human, a trail of scratches running over her collarbones and disappearing beneath the fabric. He tensed again. "No, I don't think our Speaker owns anything but a pair of black robes."

But Vicente had seen it, heard it, the fear that flashed within her eyes and the lie on her lips half-spoken. At his side, he clenched and unclenched a fist. “Ah," he said. "My mistake.”

In the washroom, Nim changed into a fresh pair of robes, keenly avoiding the mirror. The salt and dirt on her skin felt like barnacles crusted along a ship's hull, and her hair was stiff, flaking with bits of dried blood, but now that she’d made it to the sanctuary at last, she couldn't wait a moment longer. Clutching Greywyn's letter, she walked down to Vicente's quarters. Her stomach tightened with each step.

Nim raised her fist before the door, returned it to her side, raised it again. He knew. Vicente knew. He had taken one look at her, and he'd seen everything. If she could only explain it, if he only knew the circumstances—

But why should I need to explain anything, she thought and squeezed her letter tighter. The parchment crumpled in her hand. Why should she be ashamed of what she'd done? She had wanted it, hadn’t she? Of course, she had. What other option was there? That she’d let Lucien foul her? That she’d let him defile her? No, there was no other option that Nim was willing to accept, and it was her choice to stay, her decision to drink the wine, and now it had been made. So there.

But Nim couldn’t bring herself to knock. Clutching her letter to her chest, she chewed at her thumb until the skin beneath was raw and stinging. Behind her eyes, she saw Vicente's probing gaze, remembered how severely it had followed her as she’d tried to skirt around him, evade him. If she had nothing to feel shame for, why then was she so terrified as she stood before his door, one fist frozen in midair?

And in the end, she did not knock at all.

"Come in," came the voice from the other side of the door. Nim entered. Inside, Vicente sat at his table, his hands steepled in front of him. "Shut the door, please.”

Nim did so. She walked to him slowly, holding onto Greywyn's letter for dear life. She met his stare but only barely. It took every ounce of strength within her not to look away.

“So, listen," she began, and her voice shook pathetically. "I received this letter at my house the other day, and I don't really know where it came from, but I think you might be the only one who can help me find out." She unfolded the letter, presented it to him. “It’s, well… peculiar. You have to read it to understand—”

"Nimileth." Vicente's face was an immutable mask, hard and cold as steel. Nim blinked at him then looked away. “You know what I’m going to ask you.” 

Nim’s stomach clenched. "Well, you weren’t exactly discreet. And in front of Antoinetta of all people?” She shook her head, let out a breath, then returned her attention to the issue at hand. “But that's beside the point. Look, I really think you should read this letter. I found it a few—”

With alarming speed, Vicente approached her. He turned her head to the side and pushed gently at her collar. When he found what lay beneath, he hissed. “By the Void, what did he do to you?” 

Stunned to silence, it took Nim far longer than it should have before she realized what Vicente was searching for. He rolled up her sleeves, eyes flicking back and forth across the bruises, nostrils flaring as his eyes landed on every livid mark. 

"I told you, I got into a scuffle on the road," she said only after she had regained her bearings. "I'm fine."

“Show me, Nimileth.”

"It's nothing."

"Show me." A long vein bulged along Vicente’s temple, and his once-pale irises glowed bright, a frightening crimson. Nim had never heard such anger in his voice, never seen such blood in his eyes.

“What’s gotten into you all of the sudden?” she said, and though she tried not to, she shriveled just a little.

“He attacked you. I smelled his blood. I saw the scratches, the bruises, the bloody teeth marks in your neck.”

"It was nothing."

Vicente hissed. He squeezed her wrist, and she wondered if it was meant to be a reassuring gesture, but his grip was too tight and his eyes too wild. "You don't have to be frightened, Nimileth, not with me. I know Lucien. I know what he does."

And the worry in his voice, the anger that thinly masked it— it made Nim feel like retching. She sat paralyzed. In her stomach, a mix of fear and simmering shame turning the emptiness there in sharp circles. “Vicente," she said and wrung her hands. She opened her mouth to say something more, to explain, but all that tumbled out was a mealy, “I can’t."

Vicente crouched in front of her, and he was back to rolling up her sleeves. When he found the finger-shaped bruises encircling her bicep, he scowled. His eyes, thin as knife points, flicked back up to hers. "Get up," he said, tugging on her wrist. "We'll show this to Ocheeva. If this isn’t worthy of the Wrath, I don’t know what is. I told him I'm not letting this happen again. Over my dead body am I letting this happen again."

"No!" Nim dug her heels futilely into the stone. "No, Vicente, please don't! Nothing happened!"

But Vicente held firm, and he was pulling her closer to the door. When she tugged and yanked and he still did not release her, Nim did the only thing she could. She reached deep for the dregs of her magicka and drowned herself beneath the blue light of a healing spell. At once, all lingering soreness lifted from her bruises and gone was the sting of the scratches beneath her robes. 

“There,” she said. Vicente stared at her, incredulous. “Now, there’s nothing left to see.”

Vicente’s mouth hung agape. No sound emerged until the confusion in his eyes turned sharply to anger. "What did you do?" he snarled and beat his fist against the table so loudly that Nim jumped. "Why are you trying to protect him? Damn it, Nim, you don’t need to be scared! I told myself that if it ever came to this again, I'd—"

“Nothing happened!” 

"—and by Sithis, I’ll make do on that promise. I'll rip every limb from every socket if that’s what it takes for him to keep his bloody—”

Nim reached for his hand only to be swatted away as Vicente paced the room like a caged animal. “Please," Nim tried again, swallowing a hard lump in her throat. "Can we just talk? Can you sit? I'll tell you everything. I'll tell you—"

Her voice cracked, and she cleared it, but it brought Vicente to a halt. When his eyes snapped to hers, she withered beneath them. Guilt slipped around her neck like a noose. Tighter it pulled, tight enough to form new bruises. Tight enough that she could barely suck down air. She met Vicente's eyes for a heartbeat, and it was a heartbeat too many, for she knew at once that he understood.

“Don’t tell me that it’s true.” His voice had fallen to a whisper. Stepping away, he shook his head, ran his fingers through his hair and pulled most of it loose from the ribbon. “No, you can't be serious. After everything I told you? What in Oblivion were you thinking? You cannot possibly be that stupid.”

“You-you don’t know what happened," Nim squeaked out. "Let me explain it.” But Vicente returned to pacing, and she followed after him, grasping at his shirt. "Vicente, please."

“What can you explain, Nimileth? I smell him on you. You reek .”

She bit her lip until it pained her. "Please."

“And the shirt, the blood. It is his. I knew it, and you lied to me about it. Oh, now I understand.”

“Understand what? You don’t even know what happened!” 

“Exactly how else can I interpret this? I saw the bite mark, Nimileth. I saw the bruises, and then you hid them from me. You covered them for him .” Each sentence spat bitterly. Each an accusation. Vicente rubbed his brow, and when he looked at her again, it was with disgust. "You forget that I've seen this countless times before. New assassins, just like you. Did you know it always begins the same way?"

"It wasn't like that," Nim said desperately. "It isn't like that."

"I suppose it's your life to throw away in the end, but don't lie to me, damn it."

“Just let me finish."

“You don’t know Lucien like I do!" he shouted, and Nim feared he might break something when he slammed another fist against the table. "You don’t know what he’s capable of! I tried to explain it. How Lorise begged me to warn you, but I suppose nothing people say here matters very much to you at all, does it?"

"That isn't fair. I-I knew what I was doing."

"Oh, of course you did,” Vicente scoffed. “And did you think that you were special, smarter? That for you, he’ll be different? What now? We watch as he pares you down like he did Aventina? To think he’s already sunk his talons in so deeply. I can't believe you were foolish enough to fall victim to his—"

"Victim? I am no one’s victim!”

"Yet you lie to me to protect him, and why, if all was so innocent, do you look so mortified now? No, no, no, this is only the beginning. What more will you do for him? What more have you done that you've kept secret?"

"I haven't done anything worth this treatment," Nim snapped. "And I'm not a child who can't look after herself. I know what I did."

"You know nothing, Nimileth," Vicente seethed. "And you cannot imagine what will come next.”

Fists balled at her side, Nim sucked in a sharp breath and held it until it burned. “Fine,” she said. “I'll admit it then. He fucked me. Is that what you want to hear?”

Vicente shot her a look so menacing it seemed something only a dead man could possess. “Words cannot express how disappointed I am to hear this from you.”  The words seeped from his mouth like viscous poison. Lip curled in repugnance. A flash of a pointed fang. The scorn in his voice blistered in her ears, and it had taken the fire right out of her fight. She dropped her eyes back to the ground. "How long have you been having this affair behind everyone’s back?”

“It was the first time. The only time.”

“Did you seek him out?” 

“No, he approached me on the Blue Road as I was returning to Cheydinhal. He’d been following me. I heard him in the woods, and I didn't know who it was, so I attacked him."

"You what?"

"I didn't know it was him!" Nim shouted, and she couldn't stop now that the words were flowing so quickly. “I attacked him and tried to run. Everything got so messy, and by the time I realized it was him, we were both wounded, losing blood, poisoned. He took me to his fort to recover."

Vicente's expression only soured further, or perhaps that was the confusion making a return, warping his scowl into something less discernible. "I don't understand. You attacked him and then...  and then how exactly did one event follow the other?"

Nim wrung her hands. "Why do you need to know all the details?" she mumbled. "This is so humiliating."

"I am only trying to understand."

"After we had recovered, he offered me wine. As an apology. It led to, erm, a moment of weakness.”

"Wine?" Vicente stared at her askance. “Sithis’ balls, Nim. A glass of wine? That’s all it took?”

“Not just any wine. Argonian Bloodwine, okay. You can’t get it outside of Blackmarsh unless you have a direct supplier. And the year on that bottle. Why, it must have cost a small fortune!”

“Oh, no. Not any wine, no. I suppose you fuck anyone in possession of a rare vintage. What a charming little trait. One of many.”

"I don't," Nim said defensively and scrunched her brows, feeling somewhat insulted before she took a moment to consider whether it was true. "But it helps."

“Good Gods, did you learn nothing after the party, or are you being willfully naïve? What did you think his intentions were with you? Do you think Lucien would have had a bottle if he didn't know it was such a pathetic weakness of yours?”

“Pathetic? And you drink blood for Arkay's sake! Well, I had no idea you felt so strongly about my drinking habits.”

“And then what?”

“No! Why should I tell you more when you’ll only insult me?” Nim grabbed her letter off the table and tucked it into her pocket. "You don't want to understand. You're just an overbearing, prying old man looking for something to be mad about!” She turned toward the door, made to leave, but Vicente rushed in front of her, blocking her path. When she gave him a shove, he remained firmly rooted in place. "Move." 

“And then what?”  

Nim could have set the door ablaze, she was so angry. Not at Vicente. Not at Lucien. Not at anyone but herself. And why should she feel so unclean, so wretched? Why should she let anyone else make her feel ashamed?  

"What do you think happened?" she barked. "Yes, I'm pathetic, and I'm weak, and I made it easy for him, didn't I? Let's hope that it will keep him away from now on." Nim reached for the doorknob and was surprised when Vicente didn’t try to keep her from opening it. 

“Nimileth, I didn’t realize..." he began but trailed off, and suddenly, he didn’t look so angry anymore. He sounded pained, looked chastened. Nim felt like her insides were rotting. “This isn't right. I'll speak with him. If he hurt you, I—”

"It was nothing. I've been telling you all along, it was nothing.” She squeezed the doorknob even harder. "I-I knew what I was doing. Be disappointed in me if you must, but don't pity me for godssake.”

“I understand now. Please forgive me, I’ve been terribly cruel."

“Vicente—”

“Go. Shut the door on your way out."

The room lay in silence. Viceente walked away, stood facing the opposite wall. Nim looked at him over her shoulder. “I didn't think it would mean anything. Vicente, I didn’t—”

“Please, I need space to collect my thoughts.”

Nim left his quarters. In her periphery, just barely in view, a blur of blonde hair disappeared around the corner. Footsteps skittered off. A heavy door slammed closed. Sound trailed into echo and then into nothing. Nim stood in the main hall, alone.

Not ten minutes later, Nim heard Antoinetta crying in the washroom and left the sanctuary immediately. 

You are a beast, she told herself as she made her way to the inn across town. There, she paid for a bath, warmed the water with her magic, and disappeared beneath the surface. You are a beast, she reminded herself as she scrubbed her body clean and again when she stood sopping wet before the mirror. The image staring back was a haggard, ugly thing— skin rubbed raw and limbs lanky, all sinew. When was the last time she was properly rested? When was the last time she ate something? Nim could scarcely remember.

Later, she sat in the corner of the tavern room, her only company a pot of tea and the pale light shining through the window at her back. She sipped her tea numbly, her appetite having evaded her yet again. In its place sat the uncomfortable weight of her guilt, sinking like a dense ball of lead. "You can't live like this," Nim whispered to the reflection in her mug. Or very soon there's not going to be anything of you left.

“Hey!” A woman’s voice from beside her. Nim would have jumped from her seat if she weren’t so exhausted. She looked up to find Lorise smiling down, dressed plainly in linen and wrapped in a shawl. On her arm hung a lumpy bag overflowing with greens. 

“Oh, hi.” Nim returned the greeting and though she wanted to smile back, she felt on edge again for no reason. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here," Lorise replied. "What’s your excuse?”

“Just a quick stop before I hit the road."

At once, Lorise's smile dimmed. "You're leaving already?"

"Lots of, um… foraging to do before the end of the growing season." Nim nodded down to the teapot. "Care for any?"

Before Lorise could sit, however, the publican approached and delivered Nim's order of supplies, placing two small sacks on the table. Lorise peered into them unprompted. “Don’t tell me this is your breakfast," she said. "Apples and more apples. What are you, a rabbit?" 

“Eh, no?"

Lorise stood with her hands akimbo, a frown of disapproval twisting across her face. Nim very self-consciously slipped the bags into her pack. "And this is what you eat on the road?" 

"There was cheese in there too,” Nim assured her. “I travel best on a light stomach."

"Absolutely not," Lorise said. "Have a proper breakfast with me before you leave." She raised her grocery bag and shook it gently in the air. "Look, I’ve just restocked my pantry."

“Are you sure?" 

Lorise laughed, bemused. Her eyes sparkled like ice melt in the sun. "I offered, didn't I?"

Feeling as if she had suddenly grown a second set of thumbs, Nim grabbed her things. "Yeah, okay," she said, trying to sound nonchalant and not like she had just given Lorise a chance to rescind her offer. Lorise, on the other hand, looked triumphant, but she always looked triumphant, and Nim wondered if that was a product of good breeding or of a lifetime of accomplishment. "Lead the way."

It was still early morning and the sky was gray with fog, but the town had long since awakened. Vendors stocked their stalls on the edges of the market thoroughfare, and a small crowd had gathered in front of the bakery, where the smell of fresh rye grew thick as they passed. A few more blocks and they reached the residential district on the southwest side of town. It was much quieter here, near the walls and the water, protected from the market rush by rows of houses that lined a twisting, ambling road. 

Lorise led her along the riverside. The houses were larger here, each enclosed by a short cobblestone fence and further shielded by buckthorn hedges. “That one’s mine,” Lorise said, pointing off toward the end of the road. The house stood tall, blanketed in green ivy, bearing the casual elegance that much of Cheydinhal possessed. Unlatching the front gate, Lorise walked Nim through an unruly yard overrun by weeds. Dandelion brushed her ankles, grass grew to knee's height, and behind a patch of wild lavender, a small wooden bench sat tucked beneath the boughs of a willow tree almost entirely consumed by foliage.

It would take a whole week to clear this out, Nim thought, but where the garden was an unkempt wilderness, the inside of Lorise's house was so sparse Nim could hardly imagine anyone living within it. To call it ‘ modest’ said too little. The walls were bare save the sconces and a single mounted blade above the hearth. Everywhere else she turned, she saw only stone and mortar, and in the center of the floor lay a single rug, the foyer otherwise unadorned.

It shouldn’t have been this jarring to see such a large house furnished so simply. Nim knew Lorise had little love for frivolity. Still, she couldn’t help but think the Grand Champion should be living in a much more glamorous estate. There should be marble busts in her likeness, silk tapestries along the walls. Mounted minotaur heads, racks of ornamental swords, boar and bear pelts galore. But the only color in the room lay in a basket of fruit on the dining table. An orange. A pink apple. A yellow pear.

Lorise shut the door behind her and climbed the stairs across the room. Nim turned in circles, shocked by how little there was to look upon. The house was so austere, so plain. On the single shelf cabinet along the far wall sat practical baskets of thread, a whet stone, a bundle of sharpened throwing knives. No trinkets, no personal affections. Nim glanced up at the blade mounted above the hearth: an ebony longsword, the hilt filigreed in gold. It was the only decoration in sight.

Why, Nim wondered, did the house hold the severity of someone who owned next to nothing? Didn't Lorise have more? Couldn't she if she wanted to? And Nim wondered if this was not the house of someone who had once lost everything, who had since decided that nothing would ever be taken from them again.

“How do you like your eggs?” Lorise called from the landing above. 

“Scrambled?” Nim said, her voice pitching to a high note.

“Why do you always sound like you're asking me a question when you reply?”

“Scrambled,” Nim repeated, then cleared her throat. “Say, aren’t all Grand Champions supposed to have a portrait commissioned as part of their reward?” She ascended the stairs and glanced around, hoping to find it. Again, she met only bare wall. 

“Aye. I had one painted. It’s up in the attic somewhere.”

“Not out on display?”

“Would you like a portrait of yourself hanging in your house?”

“No, but I’ve done nothing worthy of a portrait. Perhaps I’d feel differently if I had.”

Lorise kneeled in the kitchen, stoking the fire in a smaller hearth for cooking. “Eh, it’s not a particularly good work. I know I should be grateful, but the portraitist took a few too many creative liberties to my liking. He made my breasts much too large. They looked like sagging watermelons, and I wasn’t even wearing something form fitting! I was in armor, for the sake of Y'ffre.”

"Oh, it can't be that bad." 

"Bad enough that I should have burned it the moment it entered this house. I really should have said something to him, that painter, but what do I know of art?" Lorise paused briefly, as if thinking, and Nim leaned against the wall, fiddled with her sleeve, watched while Lorise cracked eggs into a bowl and wondered if she should offer to help. "Well, I suppose I am an artist too in some ways. Fighting is a form of art, like dance. Or like… painting but with blood instead of pastels.”

It sounded like something Lucien would say, and Nim hummed, feeling awkward and unsure how to respond. "Can I help somehow?" she asked.

"You can stop fidgeting and make yourself at home."

"Maybe I'd be more comfortable if I had something to do." 

"Here." Lorise handed Nim a knife and a lumpy sweet potato. "Peel that if it helps you."

After Lorise had finished cooking, Nim found herself on the balcony with a plate of eggs, fried sweet potato, and a sausage long enough to rival her own intestine. She had stared at it in awe when Lorise served it, didn't say a word of protest despite knowing it posed a challenge. But everything smelled delicious, and as she was a guest in the Grand Champion's house, Nim intended to finish it all.

They ate accompanied in comfortable silence. Nim and Lorise had shared meals in the sanctuary before but usually with Antoinetta or Vicente to buffer the quite between them. Silence with Lorise could be so easy, Nim found, easier than whatever she’d try to fill it with otherwise that she often wondered why she tried so hard at all. With Lorise, there was a gentle weight to the silence. Sincerity in the quiet as if it were a purposeful thing. Nim had only just come to accept it for what it was: a comfort, this feeling of being alone but together.

Lorise blew the steam off her coffee and stared over the balcony. Nim stole yet another glance her way. Lorise sat with her legs crossed, an elbow on the arm rest, her wordless smile as rich as honey. This should have been the image captured for her portrait: Lorise with the rustling willows at her back, hair falling with its carefree grace in a sleek obsidian cascade. 

“I don’t get many visitors,” Lorise said, and Nim was grateful that her eyes were currently fixed away from hers because by now she’d been staring long enough to border on impolite.

“I find that hard to believe. You're trying to tell me you don’t have suitors crawling up the ivy to win your favor?"

Lorise chuckled. “I think your idea of my life is quite different from reality."

"Well, isn't it always?"

“No, I find that most people will tell you exactly who they are. The ones who don't aren't worth being around for very long."

Nim slurped her coffee.

"So, what's new with you?” Lorise leaned forward eagerly. “New contract, right? Who is it this time? Is it that noble visiting his mother in town? Teinaava was telling me about it the other day.”

“I haven’t picked one up actually,” Nim confessed, skewering her last slice of sausage. Her stomach was pressing against her ribs, her breath a little harder to pull down, but by Stendarr had she needed a warm meal. Or several. How stupid she was for not caring for herself properly. Perhaps Vicente had a point. Maybe she did act like a child, for what grown woman treated herself so poorly? “I’ve other business that I’ve grown lax in," she added. "I should see to it before making more commitments.”

“How responsible of you.” A gentle tease, but Lorise didn’t pry any further, and for that Nim was grateful. "Well, see to it quickly. I've heard there's a very special job waiting for you."

Nim raised a brow. "How do you know?”

“Lucien delivered contracts this morning. I overheard him speaking with Ocheeva when I stopped by to pick up my own. He sounded quite insistent that whatever it was be reserved for you. Probably best not to delay."

"Everyone in the sanctuary overhears things but me."

"So open your ears a bit more. I imagine you’ll be making Assassin after this. And then what, I wonder?”

“What do you mean?” Nim asked. “What else?”

Lorise rested her head in her hands, stared at Nim intently. What else? What else could I possibly do that’s worse than this?

A chill slithered down Nim’s spine, sliding across her skin like ice melt. Would she become an Executioner like Vicente and Ocheeva, spend her days pouring over contracts, reading through those dark desires that detailed some poor sod’s untimely demise? Would she be responsible for sending others out to kill in Sithis name, and wasn’t this exactly what Greywyn’s letter said she was made for? She thought of Mathieu, what he’d said in those shuddering whispers while she held him: All we do is kill and kill and kill. All we know is death. 

Nim didn’t want this. She’d been here before, years ago when she’d welcomed that Daedric magic into her life years ago. Mephala's secrets. Her hymns: Lust is love. Lies are truth. Death is life. What did it mean for her soul to be twice-stained by this song, and why couldn't she ever push it away completely? How far would she climb the ranks of the Dark Brotherhood, ascending for no reason other than to avoid the mounting drop? To Silencer , she wondered, and it seemed so easy to wonder. To Speaker?

What else? What else? What else?

Nim thought of Lucien, having to see him, being like him, and began to feel sick. She tried to calm herself with a long breath, but her stomach bulged against her ribs. She felt queasy, out of place on this balcony and in the soft light of morning, in front of Lorise and the calming vista at her back. Casting her eyes to the river, she watched the water ripple under the soft touch of a falling oak leaf, and breathing felt like polluting the very air.

“Is something wrong?” Lorise asked, and Nim realized she must have looked as clammy and uncomfortable as she felt because Lorise’s face had tightened with concern.

"No, sorry. I'm fine."

“You look like you're about to retch.”

“Oh, really no. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all. I had a long night.”

"Oh.” Lorise's expression shifted then, a note of skepticism surfacing in creases that hadn't been there a moment before.

"I haven't been sleeping well," Nim added weakly.

“Why? Is something bothering you?”

"No."

"Is that true, or do you just not want to tell me?"

"I—" Nim thought of the letter in her pocket and the questions which remained unanswered, which she feared might always remain unanswered, because how could she bring herself to face Vicente after he’d looked at her that way? "Actually, yes," Nim said and gave an abashed nod. "There was something I wanted to speak to Vicente about earlier. It didn't go as well as planned.”

Lorise tensed, grimacing, that uneasy look so unnatural on her face. It made Nim inexplicably nervous. "Is it..." Lorise began but stopped herself.

“Is it what?”

"Oh, well…” Tucking her bottom lip beneath her teeth, Lorise gave a strained smile. “It's not really any of my business."

"When has that ever stopped anyone in the sanctuary before?"

"I saw Vicente this morning." In that moment, Nim caught the slightest hint of pity in Lorise’s eyes, dull and scuffed like a brass button lost beneath the floorboards. If Nim hadn't felt nauseated before, she most certainly did now. "He might have mentioned a few things. About you… and Lucien."

“Vicente told you?” The words clogged in Nim’s throat. Her face flushed warm and soon she was burning. “And did he send you to find me? Is that why you ran into me this morning? What else does he want to know that I haven’t told him? I can't believe he—” 

“It wasn't like that, I swear! And don’t be mad at him, please. When I saw him this morning, he was utterly distraught. I had to pry it out of him, really. He isn’t the kind to gossip."

"Pah! I'll believe it when I see it." Nim looked away but not before shooting Lorise a sidelong glance, making no attempt to hide her displeasure. She should have known word would find its way out of Vicente’s quarters the moment it left her lips. “And are you upset with me too? I can’t handle another argument this morning, so I’d rather be on my way if that's what this will come to.”

“I'm not upset," Lorise said, "just—"

"Just what? Disappointed? I think that might be worse."

"I was going to say concerned. "

"Well, there’s no reason to be. Everything’s fine. Shouldn't Vicente have told you that too?" Nim took a loud sip of her now lukewarm coffee and crossed her arms over her distended belly. “He's blowing this whole stupid thing out of proportion, isn’t he?” But Lorise’s shrug was not the reply Nim had wanted. "Are you serious? It was one measly little fuck! Who would have thought that in the Dark Brotherhood of all places, I'd find a bunch of strait-laced prudes."

Lorise frowned, no condemnation, just sympathy as if Nim were a slow child trying and failing to read a picture book. Nim would have rather been scolded again. “I think Vicente's within his right to be concerned. Lucien is a dangerous man.”

“Lorise, I wasn’t born yesterday. We have the same occupation. I know what Lucien is capable of.”

“But you don’t. You didn’t see him with Aventina.”

“Ugh, Vicente already told me about that.”

“Then you know he has a point.”

“Well, I don’t need to hear it again!”

Lorise sighed and pushed her fork around her empty plate. “I’m not trying to pry,” she said softly. “Vicente said you had an argument. It sounded ugly.” 

Nim gave a reluctant nod. “It was.”

“I don’t know exactly what he said to you, but if he was overly harsh, please know he only has your best interest in mind. I'll be the first to admit that he can be too intense sometimes. He feels everything so strongly.”

“A side-effect of vampirism?”

"A side-effect of being Vicente, I think.”

Nim frowned, looking away, and pulled at her amulet. It reminded her of Lucien every time she touched it, and in that moment she wanted nothing more than to throw it into the river. "He looked so disgusted," she said. “Sometimes I feel like I need him to be proud of me, like I just need someone to tell me I’m doing well, and I hate that.”

“He is proud of you,” Lorise assured her. “Really, his anger lies with Lucien. He’s our Speaker for Gods’ sake. He can damn well keep it in his trousers for Sithis. I think Vicenete feels some sort of responsibility, as though he should have stopped it somehow.”

“Gods, it wasn't like that ,” Nim murmured. “I knew what I was doing. What does Vicente think he could have done, place bars on my window like he’s my father? I just hate feeling like he’ll think worse of me for it.”

"Vicente will be fine. He wallows. He broods. It's in his nature.” Lorise's face was even, smooth, but her eyes were just a touch too heavy. She looked a little sad as she reached for Nim's wrist and gave it a tender squeeze. Nim looked elsewhere, to the river, to the streets, but she did not pull away. “But I didn't ask because I'm worried about Vicente. I don’t like how Lucien is with Antoinetta, and I may not have known her for long, but I remember how he was with Aventina."

"I've never even met that woman, and it feels like I'm living in her shadow."

"Sometimes I think you are."

Nim groaned, annoyed. "I’m not Aventina. I don't know what Vicente told you, but it was nothing, okay? Me and Lucien— it happened, and I’m fine. Look, I’ve swept the entire ordeal from my mind already.”

“I worry about you,” Lorise said gently. “There is such thing as being too proud. I know you can take care of yourself, but illusions... well, they're just that, Nim. They don’t make you invincible.”

They held a moment of eye contact, Lorise with her sad, crooked frown and Nim with her scowl that felt both too harsh and not harsh enough. "Vicente told me that Lucien grows bored when the chase is over,” Nim said, scratching idly at her cheek, “like with Antoinetta. So there. He can grow bored now.”

Lorise sighed, shook her head. “Lucien didn’t grow bored with Antoinetta because they slept together. He grew bored of her because she’s suffocating.”

"She's not," Nim insisted. "She's sweet."

"Adoration isn’t enough to keep Lucien’s attention. He wants violence, power, excitement."

"Of course he does,” Nim scoffed. “What a gem."

"I'm serious." Lorise squeezed Nim’s wrist again with alarming strength. "He wants something to sculpt, to shape."

"So he's an artist too then?"

“You’re not listening.” Another sigh. It was Lorise that first pulled away. "You have to be careful, Nim. Lucien’s favor doesn’t come without a price. He will ask for more. Once he’s had a taste, he always asks for more.”

"Well, I gave him more than a taste, that’s for sure," Nim said and let out a very wet, very uncouth snort. 

“Like that, huh?” 

“You can use your imagination.”

“No wonder Antoinetta is so obsessed with him.” 

Antoinetta. Nim downed the rest of her coffee and rolled the gritty residue around on her tongue.  "I feel wretched," she said. "I'm such a beast."

"She's been through it before, Nim. You're not the first. Chances are you won't be the last."

"That doesn't really make it any better."

"Well, I'm sure you won't indulge him if you don't want to."

Nim's stomach fluttered, a pack of leaden moths beating against her insides, squirming, threatening to erupt, because she had wanted to. Some part of her. Some dreadful, lonely part of her had wanted him and had liked it despite the fear and the shame or because of it. 

Nim didn’t respond, couldn’t, and at her silence, Lorise raised a brow. Why did this conversation feel so uncomfortable compared to the ones she had with Methredhel, laughing over brunch, discussing all the meaningless trysts they had back home? Why couldn't it be something light-hearted and full of crass jokes, something without consequence and equally as meaningless as whatever it was she’d shared with Lucien the night before?

"Unless," Lorise said, "you want to indulge him…"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore. I came to Cheydinhal with real problems, and somehow I’ve tangled myself in the most tiring of affairs." Nim rubbed at her eyes as she groaned. "I'm sorry. Listen how I've been complaining when you were only trying to show me kindness. I've barely asked about you this entire time."

"I brought it up, didn't I? I knew something was bothering you. What is it?"

"It’s absurd. You’re going to laugh. Or maybe you won’t believe me.”

"Oh, try me. I've seen a lot in this life."

"Someone delivered a letter to my house,” Nim began to explain, “a very strange letter. I thought Vicente might be able to help me make sense of it. I'm not sure I know anyone else who can."

"Okay, so what's the problem?"

“Well, I’m unsure. I don’t really know what to make of it. The person who wrote it claims to be related to me, and they've left a map to some fortress with no other explanation for where they've been or who they are.”

“Like an inheritance?"

Nim shrugged. 

"An inheritance isn't too abnormal.”

“I’m an orphan,” Nim said, stressing the word and all its meager weight. “I don't have relatives. I don't have family. And that’s not even the strangest part either. The man who wrote it claims to be a follower of Sithis."

Lorise blinked and sat a bit straighter.  "Do you have it with you?”

Nim pulled the letter out of her pocket. She slid it across the table to Lorise, who unfolded it, map side facing up. She scrutinized the drawing, eyes flaring wider and wider until they were near perfect circles. An awkward minute passed before Lorise looked up again, and when she spoke, her voice was hoarse, as if the water in her mouth had turned to dust.

“Where did you get this?" Her face had darkened considerably. Dismay. Disbelief.

Nim found herself grasping for words. “It was left for me. It was… just there."

"It can't be."

"What can't?”

“I’ve been here,” Lorise croaked out. “I’ve seen this map before.”

Nim cocked her head, felt the muscles under her eye twitch and pulse like a dying spider's leg. “You found something like this in your travels?”

"No, I haven't found something like it. I've been here. My father built this place. He gave the same map to me the last night he was alive.”

"Your father was Greywyn?”

“Who?”

“The name of the man who wrote to me. Look on the other side.”

Lorise swallowed dryly and flipped the note over. She read through the message, her lips pursed tight, so tight the skin around them began to lose color. “I don’t understand this,” she murmured. Her eyes flickered back and forth across the page. “I don’t understand this at all. Vero is my father’s name.”

“Your father is Vero Blenwyth? Your father is my grandfather?”

Lorise's face buckled, warped. She stuttered on whatever words had gathered on her tongue then dropped the letter to the table, pushed it away as though it had stung her. “Who is Greywyn? I-I don’t understand any of this. Where did you get this? Who is Greywyn? Who gave this to you?”

“It just showed up," Nim said, throwing her hands up in defeat. "I woke up, and it was there."

"No. No, things like this don't just show up. " But Nim could provide her with no answers and merely shrugged again. "What is this about the 'Crimson Scars'? Who are they? What are they?"

"If Vero is your father, I'd think you would know better than I."

“Well, I don't," Lorise began, then paused, reconsidering. "I just don't know. Or maybe I do and I can't remember? Gods, but it was so long ago! And my father—"  She closed her eyes and turned away, her expression no longer shocked but pained. "He wasn’t a good man," she said. "He was good to us, always good to us, but he had secrets that led us to ruin. He died long before I ever had the chance to learn the truth, but I know that's what killed him. I know that's what tore us apart." 

"How do you mean?"

"My mother used to call him paranoid, always looking over his shoulder, moving us around the province every few years. Whoever he was before he met her, whatever trouble he got into, it followed him wherever he went. Who knows what lies he told her. Sometimes I wonder if she truly believed them or if she felt she was in too deep to ask. We were living in Greenshade when it finally caught up to him. They came in the night, burned down our house. I never learned who. Whoever was searching for him, I guess. My sister and I barely escaped with our lives.” 

Nim fumbled for words, struggling to string together condolences. "I-I'm so sorry," she said weakly, even though she meant it, and Lorise shook her head before Nim could manage anything else.

“I don't think about it anymore, and so what? It explains nothing. It’s been well over two decades since my father's been alive. Everything left of him died in that fire. These Crimson Scars, they're ghosts to me.”

"But he told you about Deepscorn Hollow?”

"He told me numerous times. ‘If anyone comes looking for me ,' he'd say, 'take the box in the cellar and run.' He made my sister and I practice escaping, acted like it was a game when he chased us through the house. We'd laugh and scream and hit him. We loved it." Lorise let out a short chuckle that sounded somewhat wistful, somewhat disgusted. "I think he always knew it would happen eventually."

"What was in the box? The map?"

Lorise gave a resigned nod. "And some gold. He said it would take us somewhere safe if anything ever happened to him. It was supposed to be a place he built with his friends, and if we could reach it, they would help us. My sister and I never made it there together. Like it would have done us any good. We had long been separated when I finally made it to Cyrodiil and sought it out. It was abandoned, flooded, nothing inside but empty rooms and mildew. I think it had been looted some time ago. There was simply nothing left." 

“Nothing," Nim echoed.

“Nothing I needed." Lorise leaned back in her chair and stared skyward. "Bones. Pillaged chests that once might have held something my father intended me to find. I don't know. There was a journal, but I couldn't read much of it, it was so waterlogged. Honestly, until now I’d all but forgotten it existed."

Nim’s heart flickered with a sliver of hope. "You still have it?" 

"I wouldn't get so excited. I’m fairly certain it’s ruined."

"May I see it?"

"I suppose." Lorise stood to retrieve it, and when she returned, she was carrying a leather-bound journal, the cover stained white with old blooms of mold. "See," she said, wagging it in the air. "What did I tell you. It's practically rotted." She flipped the warped cover open and the pages stretched, sealed together by years of water damage. When she turned the next page, it threatened to tear. 

“Wait," Nim said. "Don’t open it. A page will rip.”

“How else will we read it?”

“I don’t suppose we will. Not today at least. With the proper tools and skill, it may be salvageable though.”

“Salvageable? Can you restore something so...” Lorise wagged the book again, nose scrunched. 

“Me? No, but I know someone who can. May I take it with me?”

“It might not even be useful.” But Lorise passed the journal to Nim anyway. "This is strange," she said, and she looked deeply uneasy. "I feel... strange."

"Like you're dreaming?"

"Is that how you feel?"

Truthfully, Nim wasn't sure. Ever since that night with Mathieu, since she'd found Greywyn's letter, since the fight on the Blue Road, since waking up in Lucien’s arms, Nim had felt faraway. She was in her mirror world again, watching something move around in her skin. “Does this mean we're related," she asked Lorise, "that we're kin? By blood?”

"I don't know what in the sixteen hells any of this means." Lorise shook her head. "I have only one sister. It wouldn’t add up. She would have been so young.” And Lorise grimaced as if tasting something foul. “No, it-it couldn't be.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to imagine that’s truly what became of her. The last time we were together we were detained at the border of Cyrodiil. I never made it across. She never made it back. When I finally had enough money to track her down, I was told to look in the West Weald. I searched Skingrad. No sign of her. I searched Kvatch too. Apparently a woman matching her description had been working in a bordello there. By the time I arrived, she was years gone. I haven’t been able to find her since.”

“Oh.” Nim's voice was whisper thin, so small she barely heard it. 

Lorise smiled despite the heaviness behind her eyes. “I told you my life wasn’t always so luxurious.” 

“I was born in Kvatch. The mistress of my orphanage always told me I was the daughter of a whore.”

“Yeah? You and a good portion of the population. You’re hardly a minority.”

“Perhaps there were siblings you didn’t know of?” 

 Lorise could only shrug. “Maybe. My father could have had other children before he met my mother. What do I know of him anyway?”

There was a long pause of silence. The willow branches bent before the breeze, and in the distance, childish laughter ricocheted off the stone of nearby houses. The quiet grew louder amidst the echoes of the idle morning, and it sounded of reopened wounds, the loss seeping freely from them.

“Vicente would know, wouldn’t he?" Nim asked. "About the Crimson Scars? He’s been in the Dark Brotherhood for two centuries. He must have heard of them.”

Lorise looked over the balcony railing to watch as her neighbors returned from the market. A little girl skipped behind her mother, clutching a new book in her spindly arms. “Perhaps he would, and what would that tell you? That they existed? That they killed in Sithis’ name? What else do you hope to learn?”

“Anything,” Nim said with a hunger she'd not expected. “Don’t you want to learn more about your father, what became of him?”

Lorise shook her head. “No. He’s dead. He gave me life and then ten lifetimes of suffering to follow it. Everything I need to know, I've learned already.”

“Oh, I- that was awfully insensitive of me."

“It wasn't."

“I didn’t mean to dredge up your past.” Lorise shrugged. Her gaze was distant, elsewhere. Another pause, and the silence was thicker now then it was before, unwieldy. Feeling unsettled, Nim gathered up her dishes to give her hands something to do. "Thank you again," she said, "for breakfast."

"Oh, don't bother with that. You can't eat only fruit while travelling, I told you."

"There was wedge of cheese in there too."

"Mhm."

Lorise took the plates and disappeared into the house, leaving Nim alone on the balcony with the journal. She picked at a flat coin of lichen, tearing it off the spine, and it crumbled like gypsum between her fingers. With luck, the archivists at the University could restore this journal. She'd seen Tar-meena work with older tomes in worse condition, and that brought her some comfort, but only some. Maybe Lorise was right. Best not to be too hopeful.

"I was thinking..."  Nim looked over her shoulder and found Lorise standing in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. "Maybe we should talk to Vicente." Losrise stared at her feet, kicking at nothing. "You're right. If there was anyone who knew anything about the Crimson Scars, it would probably be him."

"I thought you didn't want to know.”

"I don't, not really, but it would be rather foolish of me to look away if the answers were right in front of me."

"I didn't mean to make you relive anything unpleasant."

"That's not it," Lorise said. "If this letter is true, if by some chance we are related, I should be nothing but grateful. You're the only blood left of my family." 

"Is blood so important?" Nim asked. "I wouldn't know."

"Honestly, I'm not sure I would either. You do look like her though, my sister. Have I ever told you that?”

Nim nodded. “Except the hair.

Lorise smiled then, soft and sincere despite the melancholy still etched around her eyes. “Different shades of red."

"I've always thought my hair more brown than red."

"Maybe." Now it was Lorise who was staring intently at Nim, her gaze eager, hopeful. "She had eyes like yours, same as my mother's, like the forests in Grahtwood, so dark and so lush they look black in passing.”

Nim made an awkward grin. “You might be looking a little too hard now.”

“Maybe,” Lorise said.

Chapter Text

Chapter 23: Closer

Lorise knocked on Vicente's door. It opened just a sliver. Nim watched, her back pressed flush against the wall, holding her breath in anticipation.

"Hi," Lorise said, peeking in. "A word?"

Vicente's response was hushed, barely audible from behind the door. Lorise slipped in, and the door shut behind them. Nim, not having been invited inside, continued to hold up the wall. 

To her relief, Lucien was not loitering about the sanctuary like she had come to expect. She wasn't sure what she'd do if he was. Run? Turn invisible? Preferably they’d walk right past each other as though neither existed, pretend that what happened the night before hadn’t. Merely the thought of speaking with him turned her stomach in coils, and it angered Nim even more that she was thinking about him at all.

Five minutes or perhaps five hours had passed before the door opened again. Lorise gestured for her to enter. Nim did so sheepishly. Apologies were exchanged and so too a few choice words regarding loose lips. Then apologies were amended and choicer words were thrown about, and only after Lorise demanded that the two either hug or spar to make up were they able to discuss the contents of Greywyn's letter.

Apologies remade and reaccepted, Vicente sat across from Nim, one hand holding the letter and the other tucked between Lorise's palms. Even after their scuffle, the air between them remained tense. Nim held her bloodied hands in a bowl of melting frost to cool the sting of her knuckles while Vicente avoided keeping eye contact as he told her all he knew.

“The Crimson Scars were not merely a band of mercenaries," Vicente said, and his face grew grim. "They were once Dark Brotherhood members. Greywyn Blenwyth was their founder. He was convinced that Sithis wanted all of his worshipers to consume the blood that they spilled.”

"That's so gross.”

"Thank you, Nimileth."

Lorise's eyes went wide. “You don’t mean…” 

“I do." Vicente laid the letter flat upon the table and pushed it back toward Nim. “He thought the true children of Sithis were those afflicted with vampirism, and he came to me to present this revelation while I was visiting Arquen’s sanctuary in Hammerfell some five decades ago. I was still a Speaker back then. Perhaps he thought if he could gain my approval, it would lend this crusade of his some credibility.”

"You were a Speaker?" Nim asked, surprised. "I didn’t think those were roles one could step down from."

“I’ve been in the Dark Brotherhood for over two-hundred years. You didn’t think I always held this position, did you?”

“Well, who am I to gauge your fondness for paper-pushing? You’re awfully good at it. A fitting occupation for such a decrepit old man.”

"Stop that," Lorise said and swatted the back of Nim's palm. Nim winced, the skin there still raw. "You already threw punches. Let it go."

"Oh, come on. That was a joke."

Vicente paid it no mind, merely continued on. “Greywyn approached me during my visit. He knew of my condition but remained cautious, speaking in vague terms, and I told him it would be wise to let such ideas go. Vampirism changes you. In many ways, for the worst. Not all can handle the transformation, and I thought Greywn was simply lonely, so I brushed it off as morbid fantasy. We all have them.

"But clearly the idea gnawed away at him in the years that followed. Eventually, Greywyn sought to fulfill his plan, and he began to infect other members of our family, some against their will. His goal was to turn the whole of the Dark Brotherhood into vampires until another member of the Crimson Scars came to the Black Hand to warn us. Together, we made the decision to purify the Dark Brotherhood of all members who had followed Greywyn. We believed that was the end of it.”

Nim wrinkled her nose. “Purify? What a lovely turn of phrase.”

“It’s much more than euphemism. The Purification is an ancient ritual to purge the family of treachery.” 

“You mean kill them? I thought that was against the Tenets.”

“It's not something we take lightly. There had only been one Purification before then, centuries ago in the city of Xith-Izkul."

“Not very thorough considering Greywyn escaped,” Lorise added.

Vicente conceded with a shrug. "Yes, well, it's hard to sort through bodies when everyone has been turned to ash."

“And my father? What of Vero? How was he a part of this? And why did Greywyn give this letter to Nim and not me? I am his daughter." 

“I don’t have an answer for you," Vicente said regretfully. "I do not recall anyone by the name of Vero Audenius.”

“Audenius isn't my family name," Lorise explained. "Hells, Lorise isn't even my birth name. I only took them to better hide my past, some attempt to fit in when I came to Cyrodiil. Perhaps you knew him as Vero Blenwyth? Or maybe... maybe his name was never Vero. He might have changed his name completely to escape pursuers."

"It is possible that he meant they were related in the same way you are my sister and I am your brother. Arquen would be your best chance at finding out. She was Speaker of the sanctuary in Taneth while Greywyn was there." Vicente paused, pulled his lips into a thin line. "Truthfully, it would be unwise to let this information leave this room. As you well know, there is already talk of a traitor among our ranks.”

“I thought that was only rumor,” Nim said. Vicente frowned. “It’s not?”

“Imagine what conclusions the Black Hand may draw if they're aware you two are descendants of someone who escaped a Purification. They may think you’re here seeking vengeance."

Lorise and Nim exchanged a glance. "Aren't you worried that we're traitors?" Lorise asked.

Vicente's face contorted, but the look of shock vanished quickly. "No. By Sithis, no, I'm not. Now, don't say that to anyone else, or they'll flay you alive. I mean it."

Nim didn't know why Lorise had said it. She’d sounded genuine. Perhaps she’d felt some type of shame for what her forebears had done. Was it hereditary, that guilt? It seemed an awful thing to inherit.

Lorise pursed her lips. "But my father wasn't a vampire. I would have known."

"Lorise, you were a child." 

"I would have known."

Vicente squeezed her hand. "All we can do is speculate until we read the journal.”

"And what if we are related to him?" Nim said, pulling her hands out of the bowl of mostly-melted frost to dry them on her trousers. “Does that make us vampires? Halflings? What does that mean?”

“It’s not unheard of for vampires to sire children,” Lorise said to both Vicente and Nim’s surprise. “Agronak gro-Malog, the gladiator from whom I inherited the title of Grand Champion… he was one.”

“A vampire?” Vicente asked, bewildered.

“No, the son of one. His mother told him he was of noble blood, but he never knew his father. He asked me to help him track down his parentage, and together we went to the ruins of his father’s estate. We found him, the Lord of Crowhaven, a vampire living in filth. When Agronak realized this is what he’d come from, it broke him. He believed himself a monster, unnatural, that none of his gifts in battle were truly earned, merely bestowed upon him by the blood of a vicious savage. Fighting him for his title felt like putting down a crippled dog. It was horrible. I wish he’d never known.” 

Lorise rubbed her brow, sighed. “What if that’s why we are what we are,” she continued, “begat from a blood-thirsty killer, one who served Sithis no less? I mean, such a disposition could be passed on, no? What if my father’s own violent nature is the reason why I feel so called to bloodshed, why Nim too has wound up here, killing for a living?”

Nim’s blood ran cold. An assassin wasn’t all she was. An assassin was the least of her identity, and she refused to let this define her, refused to give herself over to some predetermined temper, because if she wanted to stop, to change, she could. “It’s not my nature, Lorise. For better or worse, it was my decision. Didn’t you say that yourself, that we chose this life? No one forced our hand.”

“I don’t know what I said. I don’t know what I believe anymore. I just know that I feel sick, and I hate it. I hate it.”

The conversation over, Nim packed her things, and before shutting the door, she cast a glance backward to see Lorise and Vicente sitting closer. With an arm wrapped around her shoulder, he pulled her to his chest, kissed the top of her head. Nim slipped away, comforted to know that the two of them had each other, but there was something sharper stabbing into her belly, acerbic, a churning that reminded her of a hunger not sated.

"Nimileth, there you are," Ocheeva said when Nim passed her door. "I was beginning to think you were never going to pick up your payment for Fort Sutch." Ocheeva flashed a wide grin, and Nim stumbled on her tongue. "Well, it's nice to know that not all our assassins are fueled by money."

The sum of her reward was six-hundered septims. It felt like too little for a life and too much all at once. "Sorry, it got away from me," Nim said, then turned to leave.

"Not so fast. I have another contract for you." Ocheeva plucked an envelope off her desk. "Our Speaker has very clear instructions that you see to it soon."

"Of course he does."

"And one more thing." Ocheeva gestured toward a parcel wrapped in brown paper sitting in the center of the table. "Lucien left it for you. It's your bonus.”

Another one, Nim thought, staring at it in disbelief. What an obscene gesture . “I don't want it,” she said belatedly and turned to flee the room, leaving the package on the table untouched.

Above the sun swept low into a purple twilight. It marked the dusk of yet another day spent on the road. Frosted wind hissed down from the Jeralls, nipping at any skin it could sink its teeth into. Nim pulled the hood of her cloak tighter to shield all but a sliver of vision and the cold-chafed tip of her nose. When she sniffled, the air hurt to breathe. 

Hard snow crunching beneath her boots, she followed the signage to Bruma, and when she spied the wooden fence of the stables just outside the front gate, she quickened her pace to a steady jog. Excited cries rang through the air. A large mass of dark smoke billowed up from within the city walls. Is today a holiday, she wondered, something Nordic and unfamiliar and not marked on the Imperial calendars. With her luck, there would be a great communal bonfire like there had been when she and Methredhel were visiting Ognar during Saturalia, right in the center of town. 

The closer she drew, the louder the shouts, and whatever festivities were under way seemed to be drawing quite a crowd given the commotion. Nim's mouth watered at the prospect of roast pig and crackling chestnuts, of spiced wine and a mug of hot cider. Something warm that packed a punch strong enough to stave off this biting frost.

Once through the gate, however, Nim realized there was no celebration, no revelry, no festival, and what she mistook were joyous cries were in fact shrieks of horror. An easy mistake. Woodsmoke filled the air, too thick to signal anything but disaster, and from the center of town to the chapel, the streets were flooded with worrying onlookers. Nim’s heart leapt to her throat. She pushed her way through the swells of the crowd, jostled left and right as the sea of people shifted.

"Excuse me," she eked out, but if anyone had heard her, they moved not an inch.

Nim pushed and pushed until she was spat out of the mouth of the crowd. Beyond it, city guards manned a blockade, preventing the townsfolk from straying too close to the source of the fire. That was when Nim saw the burning building wreathed in flame— the mages guild.

“Let me through!” she screamed, squeezing past two burly women who had been clutching each other as they pointed and gasped. "I need to get in there! Let me through!"

Standing to her tiptoes, Nim peered over the guards' shoulders to see a line of people passing buckets of water through the streets. They doused the flames that licked off the edges of the guild hall, not trying to stop it but contain it, to keep it from spreading to the houses nearby. 

Nim whipped around and searched the crowd for Volanaro, J’skar, Selena, Jeanne— where were they? They had to have escaped. Surely they’d been pulled out before the fire had grown so large. But only unfamiliar faces peered back, struck by worry and in the eyes of some, the reflection of the fire, a hypnotic conflagration compelling all who gazed upon it to stare and stare and stare.

Nim lurched forward, toward the guild hall. A gauntleted hand caught her around the arm. 

“Stay back, Citizen!” one of the guards shouted as she attempted to shove her way past. “The fire wardens are working! It's dangerous to get any closer.”

“Please let me though!” Nim cried, pulling on the guard’s arm. “There are people inside! I know them! I have to make sure they're safe!”

The guard stern face did not budge. “There are no people inside. There are things in that building, but there are no people.”

Dread dropped into her stomach like a ball of lead. What did he mean? What did he mean by things ?

Tearing herself free, Nim disappeared under the shroud of her invisibility spell and rushed for the guild hall. She kicked the door open, and it fell to splinters as she barreled through. Fire roared in the stairwells, surging up from the basement, climbing the walls to consume half of the ground floor. There was so little air left to breathe, only smoke and more smoke and more smoke. 

Nim whipped her head around in search of her colleagues, struggling not to cough, and in the center of the room lay a crumpled mass of fabric. She raced to it, turned it over. There lay Selena Orania's mutilated body, twisted at inhuman angles.

Nim sucked down a lungful of ash-laden air and focused on drawing up a warding charm to protect her from the heat of the fire. She searched the lobby for other bodies. In the corner of her eye, something moved through the debris. A groan. A shuffle. She heard it even as the fire growled around her, and with barely a moment to turn around and unsheathe her dagger, two figures lurched toward her through the blaze of the stairwell. At once, Nim wished she had a longer blade.

"Hey!" she shouted. The two figures ambled closer with an unnatural gait, and soon they were too close, reaching for her. Nim staggered back, and now he could see that one was fully decapitated, the other badly burned, one arm hanging useless at its side. Zombies. The necromancers had come for the guild hall, and Nim... Nim had come too late.

Seized in a moment of shock, the undead closed in, and Nim had nowhere to run but back the way she came. But she needed to find Volanaro, to find someone, anyone, to save whatever was left of the guild. Without sparing a second thought, she sent a stream of electricity into the chest of the beheaded zombie, and it fell to the ground with a thump, limbs flailing. 

No sooner had she felled one zombie did the other strike out, landing a blow to her shoulder. It reeled back and struck her again, pushing her to the floor, and Nim smelled her own burning hair, hot pain searing across her upper arm.

Her cloak had caught fire. How and since when were pointless questions when everything in the room was on fire. Rolling across the floor, she beat it out and scrambled for her dagger, reaching it just before the zombie was upon her again.

The zombie hunched over her. Rotted, burnt flesh fell from its body in chunks as she kicked and kicked to keep its grasping hands at bay. She drew back, struck out, piercing it in the neck. Dragging her blade across its throat, the necrotic flesh gave with ease. Hot brown blood dripped out thickly, coating her in its fetid treacle. With a grunt, Nim kicked the zombie off, and it stumbled into a wall but recovered, giving her just enough time to find her feet before it swung out again. With a wild flail, it hit her square in the face, one hand smacking hard against her cheekbone. She shrieked. 

Nim charged another shock spell, and when the zombie lunged this time, she managed to duck away. She sent out another burst of magic, electricity crackling in the air, and it caught the zombie in the shoulder, making it cry out in pain. Or something like pain, if it could even feel. Nim fired the spell again. 

When both zombies lay twice-lifeless on the floor, Nim spared a moment to look at her left arm. There was a gaping hole in her robe, the fabric singed black at the edges. The flesh showing through was bright red, blistered, oozing. It burned hot with pain. Clenching her teeth, she called forth her healing magic but washed herself in only a short wave, just enough to seal the wound. Her magical reserves were embarrassingly small for most mages. She'd need to save some for later.

Nim tried to calm her breathing, but the air was so thick with smoke it only weighed her lungs down and left her gasping. Casting a detection spell, she focused on the auras in the room around her. There were many figures below her feet, more undead she guessed by their shambling movements, and two figures lurking on the floor above. One was pacing to and fro, and the other stood stone still in the corner. Nim shielded herself in another protective ward, and with her dagger at the ready, proceeded cautiously up the stairs.

From the landing, Nim could see that the door to Jeanne’s bedroom was open. The fire had yet to climb inside, and a figure clad in black robes stood waiting, beckoning Nim forward with a wave of her hand.

“What have we here?" the figure said, a woman's voice. "A visitor?" 

Nim's body clenched, the fear visceral. Fueled by adrenaline, she forced herself to climb the stairs. Stepping into the room, she spied Jeanne’s dead body lying prone at the foot of the bed.  “Who are you? What have you done?"

The woman laughed. “Ah, you must be the new pet dog," she said, mocking Nim with a smile of fondness. "Come to fetch your master’s game? What a good little retriever, you are.”

"Where is Mannimarco?”

The smile on the woman's face turned wicked. From the floor, Jeanne’s leg twitched.

“The guest of honor has already left,” the necromancer said. "You're too late to see him, I'm afraid. But he told us you would come rooting around here for your friends. I'm afraid all you'll find are their corpses. Get to them quickly, before the fire does."

"Bitch! You bitch! I'll rip out your throat!" Nim launched herself at the necromancer, but came up short, rolling away just before a shard of ice impaled her through the belly. 

"Death does not scare me!" the woman shouted. "Death is freedom! He will liberate me!"

The necromancer raised her arm, and Nim watched as Jeanne’s corpse spasmed. It arched its back like a cat, sitting to its knees with sharp, jerky movements to reveal sunken, lifeless eyes in the hollow pits of its skull. 

The necromancer’s face curled, devilish delight to see Nim’s awestruck gaze. “Beautiful, isn’t it? This is the work of our king. I’ll offer you up to him. May you serve him better than you did your guild.”

Jeanne’s corpse was beginning to stand now, neck bent at a crooked angle. Nim had to move while the necromancer's magical focus was elsewhere. With a roar, she lunged forward again.

The necromancer swung out an arm defensively, trying to push Nim away. Her grip was icy, cloaked in frost magic, but Nim was too close. She drove her dagger into the necromancer’s belly, sinking it up under her ribs. Nim stabbed again. Again and again. Hot, sticky blood coated her hands and her sleeves. Nim threw the necromancer to the floor, and while the woman lay sputtering, Nim plunged her dagger into her neck, into the base of her throat. Blood sprayed her like warm summer rain.

Jeanne’s body dropped to the floor, lifeless as the necromancer who had been controlling her, but Nim did not stop stabbing, could not. She’d been too late to save her guildmates. She had wasted too much time. Why? What could be more important than this? What was she doing with her life? What was she doing? Nim slumped back on her haunches and coughed. Smoke had been steadily building in her lungs. Wiping the hair from her face, she drew back a hand covered in blood-slaked soot. Where the necromancer's throat had been was now a wet, gaping hole.

Rising to her feet, Nim had all but forgotten about the second aura in the corner and pivoted, dagger at the ready, one hand engulfed in magical current. There was an invisible figure crouched beside the dresser. "Come out," Nim said. "I see you."

When the shroud fell away, she met the bright yellow eyes of a familiar Khajiit. He sat shaking, cowering in fear.

“J’skar!” Nim rushed to him, her voice heavy with relief. One of her fellow mages was still alive. Maybe there were more. Nim dropped to a knee, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him from the corner. "Are you hurt? Come on, we have to get out."

J’skar choked something out, not a cough but a dry sob as he clutched tightly at her robes. 

“Where is Volanaro?” J’skar shook his head, opened his mouth to speak, then heaved again.

“I couldn’t move,” he rasped. “I could hear the screaming, but I just couldn’t move. He killed them all… Mannimarco. He slaughtered them one by one.”

“Then we need to leave now," she urged him, pulling him to his feet. “Come, let’s go.”

Hand in hand, J'skar followed Nim through the guild hall, ducking beneath collapsed rafters and rushing through curling plumes of black smoke. Sweet air rushed into Nim's lungs as she flung the splintered door wide and raced out into the street. Outside, J’skar collapsed to his knees, sucking in mouthful after mouthful of air. Nim bent forward, bracing herself against her thighs, struggling to reclaim her breath.

The guard who had stopped her at blockade rushed toward them. “How many more are inside?” 

“Let it burn,” J'skar replied in a strained whisper. He took a deep breath, eyes bleary with pain. “Just let the whole damn thing burn.”

Nim sat with J'skar on the floor of a small room in Olav’s Tap and Tack, a bowl of stew and a loaf of bread between them. The tavern was exceptionally quiet for a Fredas night, much like the rest of Bruma.

The two mages had bathed and healed themselves of their burns, but the image of their guildmates mutilated bodies— how could it ever be cleansed from memory? J’skar recounted all he could remember as he’d watched the necromancers ravage the guild. A senseless loss, the life of their friends. Vicious. Unredeemable. 

Yet J’skar had overheard something amidst the fire and blood. A name. A place. Echo Cave.

“You need to eat something, J’skar.” Nim pushed the basket of bread toward him. Hesitantly, he ripped off a chunk and placed it in his mouth, stared at the far wall. It was a long time before he chewed.

If what J'skar had overheard was true, if Mannimarco and his followers truly were at Echo Cave, then Nim knew what had to be done. “I’ll kill him,” she whispered, more to herself than to J’sakr. “That’s the only way to stop him.”

J’skar glared at her, eyes of hardened amber. “Don’t be an idiot. Look at what they did to us here on our own soil. And you think you can take them alone at the heart of their order? Do not throw your life away like this. We’ve had enough of our own die in vain.”

“I- I know,” Nim stammered, feeling flushed. “I was just running through my mind out loud. This is the most information we’ve ever had on his whereabouts. If he moves locations, then we’re back to square one. I’m going straight to the University in the morning. You should come with me. The Council should hear this from you first-hand.”

"The Council," J'skar hissed. "When have they ever cared for us?"

"They- they've been trying, J'skar. Everyone has been trying."

"I know that. I know. I'm just so angry."

"You're allowed to be angry."

He nodded, eyes softening, and passed the basket back to Nim. “Eat something,” he said. She did.

They shared a meager meal in brittle silence, neither of them having much of an appetite, not when the scent of charred flesh stained their noses. As much as Nim tried to scrub the odor of smoke and burning blood, the miasma remained, seeping from her very pores. 

“J’skar,” Nim said, clearing her throat. “When we get to the University, you shouldn’t mention Echo Cave."

"What? Why?"

"Just trust me, alright?"

"I just watched my best friend burn to charcoal. You think I don't deserve to know what's happening?"

"I think there is a traitor in the guild." J'skar eyes widened, and Nim shifted closer. Speaking to see words aloud made them terribly real. “A few months back, the Council had planted a mage inside a necromancer lair to gather intelligence on their activities. When he stopped reporting, I was sent in along with a band of battlemages to retrieve him. The necromancers knew we were coming. They knew I was coming. Only the Council would have that knowledge. And today, did you hear what that woman in Jeanne’s room said to me? She knew I’d come to Bruma. Volanaro had suspicions about increased necromancer activity here in the north, right?”

“Of course. He’s my best friend. We worked together on the report he sent to the Council.” J’skar swallowed and raised a cup of water to his mouth with trembling hands. Tears glistened in his eyes. “He was my best friend.”

Nim sighed quietly and pushed down the lump in her throat, feeling quite useless and utterly bereft of ways to comfort. She placed her hand over his and pressed on. “Raminus told me that the Council chose not to investigate after reading through it. He sent me here to check in with Volanaro. That necromancer, she knew I was coming. Somebody told her about the report.”

“You think Raminus Polus is the traitor?”

J’skar’s question left her nonplussed. She never thought to hear Raminus' name and the word traitor in the same sentence. She couldn’t in all her wildest dreams ever conceive of such a thought. “No, Raminus can’t be the traitor,” she said, but the certainty in her voice was not effortless. “Why would he send me here?”

“Because you know too much? Because you survived all the missions the Council had sent you on. Perhaps you were not meant to.”

“You mean—”

“To get rid of you.”

“I- I don’t think he would do that," Nim stuttered. "He’s always voted in favor of proactive measures, actions that keep our members safe. It’s the other Council members who outvote him.”

“And he told you that, didn’t he?” Nim nodded cautiously. “How can you be sure his words are true?”

“Raminus is a terrible liar.”

“So he’s lied to you before?”

Nim felt her mouth go dry. Raminus had lied before, on the very first mission he had ever sent her on. He’d asked her to retrieve a book from Count Hassildor, a book that never existed. Was she only ever an unwitting pawn to him? Had she been a fool to not consider this?

But he had apologized, and he had never broken her trust again. In fact, he was the only Council member willing to take her concerns seriously. Raminus was the only one she trusted. “He isn’t a traitor,” she said more firmly, “and I don’t trust people lightly.”

J’skar watched her coldly. “So Volanaro is murdered, Jeanne is murdered, Selena is murdered, and I am supposed to sit idly while you ignore the possibility of a traitor?” His voice was low, severe as he spoke. “Did the other Council members know you were coming to Bruma too, or was it just Raminus?”

“He could have told them,” she replied quickly. “He doesn’t keep secrets from them very well.”

“So they didn’t know. Raminus sent you on his own?”

J’skar’s eyes hardened. Nim looked away, brows furrowed in frustration, frustration not at him but at herself. Had she really been overlooking something so glaringly obvious this whole time? “I’ve been working with him for a while, J’skar. I know him.”

"Who are you trying to convince, me or yourself?”

“It’s not like that! If we can’t trust him, we have nobody else on our side.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Nim. Who have you lost to the necromancers? How many of your friends have you watched burn before your eyes?”

Nim went motionless as stone. “Don’t turn your anger on me. I’ve not come this far without knowing my share of grief.”

“Then why are you so reluctant to question his motives?” When she didn’t respond, J’skar scoffed and shook his head. “Bah, the University has made you soft or stupid. Think of how you’re going to feel when the necromancers come for the University next.”

“And what did you do when Mannimarco came for your friends? You hid. You disappeared.”

She pointed an accusatory finger at him, the words spilling from her mouth like blood from a fresh cut, but the echo of her voice was so cold and cruel against her ears. J’skar’s face fell as soon as the venom left her. All his anger withered, hopeless despair in its stead, and never before had Nim felt like such a vile creature.

“Forgive me please,” she begged him, squeezing his hand, leaning forward to press her forehead to his knee. “You didn't deserve that. None of it is your fault. No one deserved any of it.”

“It’s true,” J’skar admitted. “I did nothing to save them. The only reason why I’m still alive is because you came. I’ve been cruel to you, Nim. I apologize.” His voice broke beneath the weight of tears, and soon he was sobbing. Nim caught the breath at the back of her throat as she watched the despondence ravage his face. “Please understand that I’ve lost a lot today.”

“I’m so sorry, J’skar, for everything. I should never have said those awful things.”

“Let’s not talk about it then. We'll take our sins to the ground when we die. Until then, we must live with them.” J’skar made for the door. He opened it, looked back at Nim briefly, then turned away in shame. “We'll leave tomorrow before the sun rises. For now, we should sleep.”

Nim found her way to bed, and for the first time months, she offered prayer to Stendarr, a prayer that J’skar be granted mercy tonight, that he find the solace of sleep in this dark hour.

Raminus sat in the lobby, sipping from a cup of stone-flower tea, nose deep in his book. Behind him, the door opened and shut, and he spared a glance over his shoulder to find Nim standing there in the blinding light of day. He smiled when he saw her. The joy he felt did not last for long. 

A man shut the door behind her, and with the sun's glare smothered, Raminus recognized him as J'skar, a mage from Bruma. Then he saw the ash on their robes, the brown blood splattered all over like hard rain on a window pane. 

His cup fell from his hands, shattering to the floor. “Eyes of Magnus, what happened?” Raminus rushed to her,  pulling at the tatters of her robes, stained black with soot. “Are you hurt? Gods, you are a terrible sight. Er, I- I didn’t mean it like that—”

“We need to speak now," Nim cut in urgently. "We need to see the Arch-mage.”

“Did you just get back from Bruma? J’skar, what news from Volanaro?”

They both turned to J'skar. His mouth hung agape, his silence ringing all around them. “Volanaro didn’t make it,” J'skar said. His voice cracked, then he cried.

Raminus stood there stunned, blinking in confusion. "I don't understand."

“J’skar was the only one left," Nim said, reaching for his sleeve.

“What do you mean? Left from what?”

“It’s bad, Raminus. Please, round the Council.”’

Archmage Hannibal Traven sat across from Raminus in the council room, his fingers steepled in front of him, a flat pensive expression on his face that Raminus tried to read. It betrayed too little. 

A guild hall had burnt to ash with most of its members still inside, and news was just now breaking in the Imperial City. Between the time Nimileth had returned and now, Raminus had been working tirelessly to produce a report that was both detailed enough to soothe the angered citizens and vague enough to keep them from panic. More lives gone. More blood on his hands. Losing a guild hall to spontaneous combustion made for egregious optics in a town as magic-wary as Bruma. Chances were low that they'd be receptive of any plans to rebuild in the near future. 

Good, Raminus thought. They shouldn’t rebuild until he knew the Council could protect them.

At the perimeter of the room, Caranya paced back and forth, her hands clasped behind her back. “And you say you saw the King of Worms, Mannimarco himself?” She directed the question to an exhausted J'skar. She had asked it twice already, and by now, the third time around, no longer was she attempting to contain her doubt.

“Yes,” J'sakr replied. “I watched him murder Volanaro. It was as though Mannimarco sucked out his very soul.”

“That is simply not how soul-trapping works,” Caranya said dismissively. “I find this observation questionable."

"Are you serious?" Tar-meena said, a sharp glare.

"Furthermore, how can we be sure that it was Mannimarco himself and not an imposter? Describe him again. You said he looked quite Altmeri and mortal?”

“This is not an interrogation, Caranya.”

"I am asking a question," Caranya said, looking back at Tar-meena with a stare equally razor-edged, "a very important question. If I'm the only one on the Council who isn't afraid to do so, so be it."

“He’s been through enough. Don't take that tone with him. Whether it was Mannimarco or his necromancers acting on his will, it matters little. The fact of the matter is they’ve grown both powerful and bold enough to attack our very homes. Let us waste no more time on the subject of this supposed Mannimarco and move on to what matters: our mages are dying .”

"But Tar-meena, that is precisely the point!" Irlav shouted from across the table. "We still don't know how these necromancers are related to Mannimarco in the first place."

“We still don't know anything about this alleged Mannimarco," Carnaya said, exasperated. "And I only mean to acknowledge the amount of stress J'skar must have been under at that moment. To lose everyone before your own eyes…” She shook her head slowly, sighed sympathetically. “I can’t imagine what that does to one’s sensibilities.”

A knot of frustration twisted in Raminus' belly. Nim and J'skar had recounted their stories twice now, and each time Caranya attempted to discredit yet another detail. By now, it was beginning to feel more pointed than good-natured, scholarly skepticism. 

“The necromancer I ran into confirmed that the King of Worms was there." It was Nim who spoke next. "She said that I was too late to see him.”

"Why would Mannimarco risk coming to Bruma?" Raminus asked.

Irlav turned to J'skar. “He would have known you were there, invisibility spell or not. If he is Mannimarco, I’d bet my left arm that he knows a damned detection spell. Why then would he leave a survivor?”

“I too find it odd,” Raminus agreed. “If he wanted to send a message, wouldn’t destroying an entire guild hall and all of its members be enough?”

“Unless he intended for something to get back to us,” the Arch-mage suggested. “What could it have been, J'skar? Did you happen to overhear Mannimarco as he spoke to his followers?”

“Only that he wanted to watch the guild burn.” J'skar met Nim’s eye briefly. Something passed between them. Raminus could not determine what, but when Nim breathed out, her shoulders slumped, the tension within them dissipating— relief

Irlav too seemed to notice the exchange. “What are you hiding?” He narrowed his eyes at Nim fiercely. “What are you not telling us?”

“No, there is nothing else,” J’skar said.

“Is that true?” Caranya had stopped pacing. She stood with arms crossed over her chest, the look she gave J’skar, full of ice. “If there is any information you’re holding onto, come out with it now. We must use everything at our disposal if we are to prevent the spread of their destruction.”

“Just like the report from Volanaro, right?" And when J’skar spoke, his eyes burned. "It was so valuable to you that you couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger to help him! He sent those a month ago.”

Caranya pursed her lips. “We are imperfect. We make mistakes, but think of the lives that have been lost. None of us want to see that happen again. Now, be out with whatever secrets you’re keeping.”  

“He said he didn’t hear anything else,” Nim snapped. From beside her, Raminus felt her anger. It radiated like heat from a furnace.

“You’re unusually defensive today," Irlav said to her. "What, have you grown tired of throwing around grossly misinformed accusations?”

"Oh, I've got a few more if you're interested."

Traven stood from his seat then, the wooden legs of his chair scraping loudly. “Enough. This session is adjourned. Nimileth, we are ever so grateful that you made it to Bruma and brought J’skar back to us safely. As always, your work within the guild proves invaluable. Had you not been at Bruma, we’d be left to piece the necromancers plot in the dark. I think every Council member would agree that you’ve more than earned promotion to the rank of Wizard.”

"What?"

The surprise had come from more than one voice. Nim and Irlav exchanged equally confused glances. "Arch-mage," Irlav began, "shouldn't we first discuss—"

"The depth of this travesty is far greater than any of us could have expected. We are all in mourning tonight. Please." Traven turned to J'skar. “Allow me to escort you to a private room where you may rest," he said, and Irlav's face turned bright red, his protest fully ignored. ”The rest of you, collect yourselves. We shall discuss our next course of action at dusk.”

The Council filed out through the teleporter. Raminus remained seated until only he and Nim remained. “Are you alright?” he asked, and guilt tore through him like the teeth of a rabid wolf. He should have done more to protect them, to protect her. Why had he delayed so long in following up on Volanaro’s reports?

Nim shook her head, returned to wringing her hands in her lap. “Did you tell the Council that I was going to Bruma?”

“Yes," he said. "Volanaro’s report was classified. I had to inform them that I shared it with you. I told you that I didn’t want you acting alone.”

Nim released an audible sigh, the relief within it palpable. But relief from what? What wasn’t she telling him?

“The necromancers expected me,” she said, her voice trembling. “They addressed me personally when I arrived. Someone on the Council told them of our plans.”

“Nim, you can’t say this again.”

"Please, you must listen to me! You must. First Nenyond Twyll, now Bruma. They’ve always been one step ahead of us. Don’t you see it?”

Raminus swallowed down protest and shifted closer. Nim looked so small and defenseless, slumped down in robes that were always a size too large, but her eyes looked older, harder than he had previously known them to be. Red and raw around the edges like she’d been crying. What horrors had she seen? What danger had he thrown herself into this time? Raminus felt like the most useless fool to grace Nirn.

“Don’t look at me like I’m mad,” she said.

“I’m not. But Nim— Irlav, Caranya, Tar-meena— they're all members in good standing. Each has been with the guild for decades, and Hannibal is the one who banned necromancy. How could it be true? I am at a loss for words.”

Nim blinked up at him, a spark of forlorn hope in her eyes. “You believe me?”

“I'm willing to consider it, but if this is true it means we are all in grave danger."

"Thank you." She reached for his hands, squeezed them. "Thank you."

"I’m sorry that I sent you to Bruma alone."

“No, I should have gone sooner.”

"I should have gone with you. I should have gone long ago."

"But you gave the task to me, and I failed. I failed you. I failed all of them. If I had only left for Bruma sooner—” Her voice broke, and she buried her face into her hands, trembling as if weeping but no sound escaped.

Raminus froze. He hovered a hand at her shoulder, unsure of what to do. Should he touch her, console her? "Nim?" he said, and she collapsed onto the table, releasing a deep, heaving sob. "Nim, I-I'm sorry."

She said something then. Raminus could barely hear her through her cries, and he leaned in closer. “It’s my fault,” she said, muffled through choked tears. "I killed them."

“I’m here,” he whispered. “Talk to me.”

“It’s all my fault that they’re dead. If I had gotten there sooner—“

“If you arrived sooner, you might have been killed yourself. It’s not your fault, don’t say that. No one could have known Mannimarco would be this brazen.”

“I knew!” she wailed. “You told me of Volanaro’s suspicions, and I delayed in going! If only I had—”

“Who knows what difference it would have made? The Council had the report for weeks. We could have gone. I could have gone. I should have. I should have saved them. You can’t possibly take blame for this. J’skar is alive because of you.”

She looked up at him, her eyes a blistering red. Hesitantly, Raminus wrapped an arm around her. "I'm sorry," she said, weeping into his shoulder. He offered her the sleeve of his robe to dab her eyes. “You show me such kindness, Raminus. I don’t deserve any of it. Why? Why are you so kind to me?” 

“How can you deserve anything but?”

“I’ve done such terrible things in this life. True evil.”

“You haven’t.”

“You don't know that, Raminus. You don't know me."

"I do."

Nim clutched at his hand as he wiped away a fresh stream of tears. "Then know that I’m a fraud. I'm a wretch. All I do is kill, and I thought at least here within the guild I could do more, be better. I thought I could make a change, but look at what I've done! I should disappear. Oh, I should just disappear.”

“Don't blame yourself. Please don't," Raminus pleaded with her. “It’s not your responsibility to save them; it's mine. Don’t torture yourself like this. Mannimarco is the monster, and if there is anyone who is guilty of allowing his power to grow, it’s the Council. It’s me who has remained idle while risking the lives of my guildmates.”

“No. No, you are so pure, Raminus. When I look at you, I see the person I want to be. You’re the only one I trust anymore.”

“Then I am sorry for failing you.”

“No,” she sniffled again. “You are the only one who has ever tried to protect me."

"But I- I haven't," he admitted guiltily, and he hated to admit it. "I've been putting you in so much danger."

"Yet you make me feel safe. You try. I feel like everything is going to be okay as long as you’re nearby.”

“Then I’ll stay close." Raminus paused. He’d said it without thinking, and now Nim was staring at him intently, her lips quivering. 

"Do you mean it?"

After a moment's hesitation, he reached out to hold her face, brushing the tears pooling at the corner of her eye. “I’ll stay close," he said, "I'll keep you safe.”

And suddenly Nim was upon him, clutching his face in her trembling hands. A fragile breath blew against the bridge of his nose, then she kissed him. For that moment, Raminus was frozen. In his ears, his heartbeat grew deafening, hammer striking steel, his sternum the anvil, and when he felt her lips, wet and salted with tears, warmth spread down his body like a mouthful of liquor. 

Nim whimpered through a sob, and Raminus found himself pulling her toward him, moved by instinct as she slung an arm around his neck, and she was so close, closer than she’d ever been before as she crushed her mouth to his. Harder, she pressed herself against him. Harder until she was sitting in his lap, leaning into him, a heaviness on her shoulders that he dared not question, a burden he could only pray to relieve.

Hands tangling in hair, her body melting against him— she kissed him as if trying to breath him in, trying to meld them into one. Nim's hair draped around his face, shielding him from the dancing flames of the brazier overhead, and when Raminus closed his eyes, she was the only light that existed in all of Mundus, brilliant and blinding. This close, he could smell her blackberry shampoo and something deeper, richer, like fresh earth after winter's thaw. She shifted. His hand met the bare flesh where her shirt rode up, and he followed the heat of her skin, running a hand up her back and pressing her closer, and maybe they really could become one body if he only held her so tight...

Raminus pulled away for air. He could still taste her tears, and his stomach tightened, heart lurching with ambivalence, because it wasn't right for him to give into such base desires when he should be consoling her, when she needed his pragmatic, grounded support. For Gods' sake he was a Master Wizard, her superior. They couldn't. He couldn't. But all Raminus could do was stare wild-eyed and lost for any word to speak if not her name. 

“Nimileth.” His voice croaked, thin with shock. She shriveled away from him immediately.

“I’m so sorry." Panic swept through her, plain on her face. She drew her hands to her eyes and pressed them hard against her brows, shaking her head frantically as she sucked back tears. “I’m sorry. Gods, I’m a brute. I’m such a terrible fool to do this to you.” 

Raminus watched, petrified, as she gathered her pack. Quickly, she made for the teleporter.

Speak to her, you idiot! What the hell are you doing, watching her leave?  “I’m not mad at you!” he called out and ran for her, gripping her at the wrist. Tell her what she means to you! You idiot, tell her! “Nim, please don’t go, I—”

Suddenly, the teleporter across the room whirred. Nim jumped back from him, pulling her wrist to her chest just as Hannibal Traven appeared before them. The Arch-mage startled, realizing he was not as alone as he thought he might be. “Oh, the two of you are still here,” he said. “You look… awfully flushed.”

Hannibal Traven looked back and forth between them, taking note of their equally mortified expressions. He met them with that ever-enduring smile gracing his wrinkled lips, and Raminus swallowed a mouthful so hard and stale that it was painful. He stole a glance toward Nim. Her face was ashen, sunken into a grimace that suggested she might be sick any minute.  

“Master Wizard,” Traven spoke quietly, “a word alone If I may.”

“Of course, Arch-mage.” You idiot, if you don’t tell her now, you never will. “If I could only finish my conversation with Nimileth first.”

But Nim was already throwing herself into the teleporter. “It’s quite alright, Master Wizard,” she mumbled hoarsely. “I really should go anyway. I need to, um, brew some potions.”

The Arch-mage nodded, stepping down to the tiled floor, and Raminus flinched in hopeless anticipation as he watched Nim disappear. Then, like a phantom before his eyes, she was gone.

Chapter Text

Chapter 24: The Gloaming

Nim stopped at the archives before leaving the university. Tar-meena was nowhere to be seen, as was to be expected. As a Council member, Council duties came first, and Tar-meena, who was also the head curator of the collection, was kept preoccupied with the fallout of Bruma. That evening, only Boderi Farano, the collection manager, sat behind the front desk. Nim approached her cautiously.

Boderi had taught an introductory mysticism course during Nim's first quarter at the University, and the two remained friendly though not very well acquainted. Nim was grateful that when she produced Greywyn's journal, Boderi agreed to restore it with little questioning. I found it in a necromancer's lair, Nim had lied. I thought it would help my research. And for Boderi, that was reason enough. Working for the Council had granted Nim special privileges, so it seemed, and she felt terribly guilty to admit she was abusing them but not guilty enough not to abuse them. 

The carriage took her west, and the verdure of the forest smeared in her periphery. Nim curled up against the window and watched the world rumble past. The Arch-mage had promoted her to the rank of Wizard. Wizard. She repeated the title in her head. Just a year ago, it was an ambition she had confined to her wildest dreams, but now it rattled in her chest like a scrap of rusted tin. All Janus Hassildor had said came flooding back to her. It wasn't anything more than placation, was it? Just a bone tossed her way, something to keep the angry dog sated and muzzled for another day.

Nim drew the curtain. The jostling of the carriage left her feeling sick, and in that bilious sump, she thought of Raminus. Kindly, gentle Raminus who had only been trying to comfort her when what she needed was a reprimand, blame, punishment. She should have gone to Bruma earlier to stop Mannimarco. She should have been there to save her guildmates. But what had she received? Sympathy. Exoneration. It disgusted her to no end.

Nim closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her lips, still thinking of Raminus, the fleeting moment they had shared. Her face burned at the memory of kissing him, touching him; it had been too much, yet still she wanted more. What had possessed her to act so shamelessly? He had told her already that they couldn't be together, and what had she done but throw herself at him despite it. Had the Arch-mage seen the two of them together? Would Raminus be in trouble? Now, Nim could only recall the horror on his face as he pulled away from her, the cracking of his voice, the fear eclipsing his eyes. He had never wanted her like this, and what an unforgivable brute she’d been to beset him with her desire again and again.

She arrived in Skingrad the following morning, Magnus' light spilling a wash of blue across the sky. Nim tipped the driver, gathered her pack, and reread through her contract as she entered the western gates. She had a party to attend the following evening, a party in the affluent side of town. Looking down at her plain linens, Nim quickly realized that she had once again come dreadfully underprepared.

Begrudgingly, she purchased a gown of blue silk and a few tins of pigmented creams. At the alchemy shop, she spent what was left of her gold on a vial of aconite and mandragora. Nim spent the rest of the day at the inn where sleep came to her in brief spells, her dreams plagued by a haze of smoke and the image of a twisted body, eyes clouded in death, all its limbs pointed in the wrong direction. And when she woke, alone, on her lips hung the ghost of a kiss. Stoneflower tea and a gentleness she’d never known before. Warmth that never lasted long enough.

That evening, Nim dressed herself in blue. A light blue, not the blue she felt growing inside her. She brushed her hair, rubbed red powder into her cheeks, and practiced smiling pretty. The reflection in the mirror sat painted in deceit. How ugly a portrait it had become.

The night of the party was accompanied by a cold, blowing rain. Dark grey clouds masked the moons as Nim scurried down the street to Summitmist Manor. By the time she arrived, the hem of her dress was brown with mud, her shoes drenched, her hair a tangle of flyaways. Whelp, she thought, at least it's hard to be suspected of a violent streak while looking like a drowned rat.

A man by the name of Fafnir greeted her at the door. "And you must be Nimileth. Took you long enough to get here."

Nim shivered but managed to nod. "Sorry. It's such a beautiful night out. I got distracted.”

"As cruel as our Mother's embrace." Fafnir quirked a wicked grin. "I'll tell you what I told the other guests. When you enter, I'll lock the door behind you, and it won’t be unlocked until the treasure has been found. Now, I'll tell you what I didn't tell them." Fafnir fished into his pocket and pulled out a brass key. He handed it to Nim, his smile growing larger. "This opens the front door. I'll be back tomorrow for the clean up, and remember, try not to let them suspect you. Now go on. It's time to mingle."

He gave her a fraternal pat on the back then opened the door. Nim cast a quick calming spell over herself, slapped her cheeks, and grinned broadly. As soon as she entered, Fafnir closed the door behind her. Click went the lock, then the party began.

In the foyer, the warmth of a fresh fire and the soft scent of burning pine cloaked Nim like a blanket, offering a false but mollifying sense of security. She took a moment to inspect her surroundings. The manor had looked large from the outside but was somehow even larger within with a ceiling that stood nearly thrice her height. Everywhere she looked, she was met by fur rugs and silk drapes, lavish furniture carved from a rich heartwood. 

By Zenithar, does the Dark Brotherhood really have this much money to spare? It was possibly the nicest house she’d ever been in.

A creak from above. Nim snapped her eyes to the grand staircase where an elderly woman was slowly descending, one hand on the bannister, the other clutching the brooch pinning her shawl to her chest. “Oh there you are!" the woman said, beckoning Nim forward. "The final guest, here at last!"

Nim offered a wordless bow. The woman curtsied.

“I am Matilde Petit. And you?”

“Nimileth, my pleasure.”

Matilde hummed and gave her a subtle look-over. “What a lovely name," she said, and it was not lost on Nim that her smile was as affected as her posh accent. "The rest of us have already traded introductions. They’re upstairs now enjoying dinner. You must forgive us for not waiting.”

"It’s no trouble. The journey took longer than expected.”

“Yes, poor dear. I see you've been caught in the rain. Come. Let us join them.”

Nim followed Matilde up the stairs, ignoring the faint mud prints she left on the steps. And now I have to socialize. Now, I'm wet and cold and miserable, and I have to make myself pleasant company. Lucien had surely overestimated her abilities.

At the dinner table sat four more guests who introduced themselves as Nels, Primo Antonius, Neville, and Dovesi Dran. Nels was drunk. That was about all Nim managed to gather through his thick nordic accent and even thicker slur. Primo was a young man of noble birth, though he didn't have to state as much; He had that way of ending his sentences as though granting a dismissal, and why he was here at a treasure-hunting party, Nim could only attribute to boredom. Neville was a retired Legionnaire, and Dovesi was an elf roughly Nim's age whose family had recently moved from Morrowind. Considered all together, they were five strangers who seemed to share nothing in common. How did they find themselves here, Nim wondered. How did I find myself here? A cold chill climbed her spine

The room turned to her then, waiting on an introduction. "Don't be shy, deary," Matilde said. "What is it that you do?"

"Oh, um..." Nim pushed a slice of lukewarm chicken around her plate. She’d given her alias little thought. Really, she gave everything she did for the Dark Brotherhood little thought and instead tried not to think about it at all. "Well, the funny thing is, I've been hired to slaughter you all."

Across the table, Primo snorted. Neville rolled his eyes. Matilde blinked, then laughed, her hands clasped together in delight. “Oh, a joker!” she cackled. “We so need a bit of humor here!"

"Right." Nim grinned a grin one might find on a startled dog. After some more nervous laughter and Nim’s own internal chiding, she explained that she was an alchemist hoping to cover next month's rent. “The business isn’t doing too well, you see. And my baby, she’s sick.” No one asked her questions after that.

Dinner proceeded uneventfully. She wasn’t sure when the other guests had arrived, but already tensions hung thick in the air. Primo winced whenever Matilde spoke about the noble house of the Petit's as though her voice were a rasp grating directly against his ear drum. He stole glances toward Dovesi when he thought she wasn’t looking. Whenever Matilde looked at Dovesi, it was only to scowl.

When coherent, Nels was loud enough to rival the thunder outside. He laughed often, mostly at his own jokes which sent everyone' eyes rolling save for Dovesi, who indulged him. The only time he stopped smiling was when speaking to Neville, and it was then that his eyes grew hard. The sentiment appeared to be mutual. Nim decided she did not need to know any more.

Dinner over, the guests dispersed into the hunt, searching behind paintings and under couches for the promised stash of gold. Nim loitered about the second floor, assessing each of them. Matilde seemed the weakest of the lot. She was the oldest, the frailest. Neville, given his history of service within the Legion, might prove the toughest to dispatch. Primo too, given his youth. Nim slipped her vials of poison into her sleeve. She would start somewhere in the middle, with Nels.

"Nimileth, was it?" Dovesi had appeared at her side, and Nim nodded, trying not to look out of place. "I'm so glad there's another woman here," she said, then lowered her voice to a whisper. "I thought it was going to be me alone with that wretched hag."

"Matilde?"

"I don't know what I did! Since the moment I showed up, she's been throwing me the most scathing glares. You'd think I killed her cat or something."

"By the look I saw her giving you at dinner, I kind of assumed you had."

“She clears the room whenever I’m in it, won’t touch anything I’ve touched. It’s because I’m Dunmer, no doubt.”

“Or it’s because you’re a reminder of lost youth, and she’s seething uncontrollably about it.”

Dovesi giggled. She had a lovely smile. Nim understood why Primo had been staring at it so intently. "I like your dress," Dovesi said. "Such a a shade flatters your complexion."

"Does it?" Nim looked down, inspecting her clothes in a way she hadn't before. "Well, I like yours too. And your makeup. It makes your eyes look so much brighter."

"Oh, you think so? I made it myself.”

“Really?”

“Kermes,” Dovesi siad. “My mother taught me how to mix it with beeswax to make rouge and lipstain. She made dyes when we lived in Balmora. Sometimes you have to forget that half our red pigments come from crushed bugs otherwise makeup becomes no fun. You said you were an alchemist, right? You probably know all about the pigments we extract from plants."

“Um, no. Mostly, I just dissolve them.” 

Dovesi described at length the flower fields where her mother sourced the woad for indigo, and when she moved onto the acres of yarrow and hollyhock, Nim realized they should really stop talking. The longer they did, the more endeared to Dovesi she became. This was problematic. For reasons.

"Oh, listen to me yak on," Dovesi said. "My mother says I talk too much. She says it makes me sound common. What I don't think my mother realizes is that I am common."

"You're not common," Nim said. "Not at all. You’re lovely."

"Really?" Dovesi blushed, a rose blooming in her gray cheeks. The tips of her ears turned bright purple. "Do you think... do you think Primo would ever think so? He's so handsome, isn't he?"

Nim gave a reluctant shrug. "In that symmetrical type of way, I guess."

"Do you think a man like him would ever look at a girl like me?"

"Well, he was looking at you all throughout dinner."

“Oh, Nimileth, you really think so?"

"I know so. I saw him staring."

Dovesi clasped Nim's hands in hers, her crimson eyes twinkling like rubies. "Well, what should I do? Should I talk to him? Or maybe play hard to get? Or should I... you know ? Or would that be too forward?"

Oh no, Nim thought. She's a hopeless romantic. Why couldn't she have been loathsome?

“I think you should lean into his advances," Nim said after a stiff swallow. Her stomach was beginning to turn. "Talk to him. Get to know him. If he likes you, maybe you can keep in touch after all this is over.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Dovesi giggled and swatted Nim playfully on the arm. “You’ll fill my head with nonsense. It’s like a faerie story isn’t it? The two of us meeting in this house during a mysterious party on a stormy night...”

“Er, yes," Nim said and plastered on a wistful smile. "Wouldn’t that be such a dream?”

“I could make him happy in so many ways. Oh, I’m such a silly girl, aren’t I?”

“Aren't we all." Nim looked around, anywhere but Dovesi’s glittering eyes. Dovesi was still blabbering on, and Nim had to break away, had to put some impersonal distance between them. "Say, why don't I talk to him for you? Men can be so oblivious. I'll let him know the feeling is mutual, make him think approaching you was his idea all along.”

Dovesi’s eyes glowed. “You would? Oh, thank you! You’re a true friend!”

Nim swallowed a hard mouthful and patted the girl on her arm. “Of course,” she smiled reassuringly. “We women need to look out for each other.”

Nim took her leave feeling short of breath, like her stomach was beginning to slip into her legs. She was out of her depths here. Too many people too close to her, and she wasn’t good at killing people. She was good at killing things. Specks in the distance without a name, without a smile. What was Lucien thinking, sending her on this contract? 

He did this to spite me. He intends for me to fail. Well, she’d show him. Straightening her hair, Nim walked into the kitchen and searched the racks against the wall. Nels had been drinking from a bottle of mead, declining the wine everyone else had shared over dinner, and if she couldn't tempt him with wine, she’d find something else more appealing to spike.

Nim headed down into the basement. As soon as she opened the door, she heard a rustling from deeper within. Proceeding down the stairs, she peeked around the corner to find Primo searching through the crates. Absently, her hand wandered down to the dagger strapped to her thigh. She could paralyze him, kill him now without him ever seeing her. A blade to the base of the skull, sever the vessels and nerves bundled there. Nim’s hand began to shake. Inside her, that same queasiness. He wasn’t some rabid animal tearing into flesh— what was she thinking? Too messy. Too much blood and not enough time to properly hide it. Besides, Dovesi would note his absence if no one else did.

Nim balled her fist, released it then stepped forward, acting startled to find him here. “Oh, excuse me!” she called out, a hand on her chest in feigned surprise. “I didn’t think anyone else was down here. Seems you’ve beat us all to the basement.”

Primo cast a glance her way, then stood straight. “I have a pretty good idea where this gold is. It’s as good as mine. As my father says, 'The Antonius always make it out on top.' ”

"So he says." Again, Nim wondered what such a wealthy young man was doing fiddling away his weekend in search of mere spending money. Perhaps being a nobleman’s son truly came with such leisure. She walked to the wine racks across the room. "I'm just going to grab a few drinks and be out of your way."

Primo did not return to searching immediately. Instead, he leaned against the wall and brushed the dust off his fur-lined doublet. “So, here we all are," he said, sounding somewhat disinterested, and yet Nim could see him watching her as she searched the cabinets. Perhaps it was merely the resting tone of his voice, perpetually aloof, a patronizing twang. "It's funny how money can bring such different people together. You’ve met all the guests. What do you think of them?”

Nim looked at him over her shoulder. He seemed to be studying her, as if this question posed some sort of test.

I'm supposed to get them to trust me, she reminded herself. But a man of Primo's station and with a face as tediously attractive as that… well, she hardly trusted him at all . “I’ve not thought of them too much. Really, I’ve only come to know Dovesi and Matilde.”

"Dovesi?" And suddenly Primo sounded much more interested in what she had to say.

"Yes, she’s such a lovely young woman."

"Yes, yes. My thoughts exactly. A natural beauty, such delicate charm."

"And Matilde, well, she claims to be noble-born, but I think there’s as much nobility in her bloodline as there is in my thumb.”

Primo laughed at that. “Trust me, I’ve servants under my employ with more noble blood than her. You have great intuition, my friend. So rare for one of your breeding."

"Uh, what—"

"And Dovesi, she really is quite beautiful, isn't she? Not exactly high-born, but she carries herself with such elegance. I find her utterly captivating. And you said you spoke with her? Did she... well, did she happen to mention me?"

Nim opened a cabinet and rubbed the dust off a bottle of brandy. Perfect. "She did, actually." Primo’s eyes widened. “She’s quite taken by you.”

“I—” Primo stuttered, then paused. “What should I do? Should I approach her? What if I make her uncomfortable?”

“Oh, I don't know. Talk to her. Flatter her. Women like to feel special.”

“My thoughts exactly!" And with that Primo darted up the stairs, having abandoned his search of the basement. 

With a sigh, Nim pulled the poisons out of her sleeve. They would have made such a handsome couple, she thought and poured the contents of the vial into the brandy.

A crash. A shriek.

Shuffling down from the third floor, Nim ran into a very startled Primo and Dovesi, who were standing in the dining room, clutching their goblets of wine.

“What was that scream?” Nim asked.

“I don’t know.” Dovesi looped her arm in Primo's and pulled herself closer to his side. "I have the worst feeling in my stomach right now.”

"I'm sure it was nothing," Primo said.

"Where did it come from?"

“It sounded like the first floor. Let’s go see what happened.”

On the ground floor, Nim found Neville and Matilde standing in the foyer. Matilde's face was pulled tight in shock. Neville’s a stoic, thin-lipped slate.

“What’s the matter?” Primo asked, his voice stiff.

“It’s Nels.” Neville pointed into the sitting room. “He fell from the second-floor landing.”

Dovesi gasped. Nim gasped too. “Oh, Gods, is he alright?" Dovesi asked. "How badly did he hurt himself?”

Neither Neville nor Matilde replied.

Nim walked in the direction that Neville had pointed. There on the floor lay Nels, face down in a puddle of blood. "Is he..." she began, then grimaced and turned away. “Keep Dovesi back. Don’t let her see this.”

At once Dovesi began to cry. Taking her by the shoulders, Primo guided her back upstairs.

"Someone should check that—" Nim cleared her throat. "Someone should confirm that he's... “

"It's okay,” Neville said. “I'll do it."

Nim was certain that he was dead. He’d better be dead. She had administered two poisons, a lethal dose of wolfsbane potent enough to kill a mountain lion and a numbing poison to hide its bitter taste. Of course it had numbed the taste of everything, and so Nel's had drank it swiftly. After offering him the brandy, Nim left him to loiter about the mezzanine, his balance growing increasingly precarious. She hadn’t pushed him. She’d left as soon as he started drinking. She hadn’t pushed him. She’d barely touched him. Then he fell.

The fall was such a distance that Nim hadn’t expected to see so much blood, but Nels had hit his head on the way down. The alcohol couldn’t have helped, neither the poison she’d given him which was known to thin blood. All circumstances accounted for, there was a great amount spilling out of him.

"He's dead," Neville announced when he returned. "By Talos, he's dead."

The solemn silence at the dining table was broken only by Dovesi’s muffled cries. Primo wrapped an arm around her. She wept softly into his kerchief.

“What will we do?” Nim asked, addressing the room. “The authorities ought to be alerted, right?”

Matilde let out a shuddering sigh. “We tried the door already. It’s locked.”

Neville sat with hands steepled in front of him. "And the windows are reinforced. It appears we’re all trapped."

"But how did he fall?” Dovesi whimpered

A tightness grew in Nim’s belly. Neville shook his head.

“It’s the drink,” Matilde said. "That damned bottle came crashing down with him. Mead-swilling savage, he was drinking enough to kill a horse."

Nim chewed the inside of her lip. “He’s dead. There’s no need to insult him."

Matilde sniffed. "We all saw him."

“We should call the search off,” Dovesi suggested.

"What?" and "no," and " well, let's not be hasty, " came the chorus from around the table. 

"Shouldn't the guard collect him? His remains need to be sent to his family.”

"He doesn't have any family," Matilde said. "Didn't you hear his sob story? And why should we give up the chance to find the treasure because one barbarian can’t stomach his liquor? I say we continue. It’s not our fault that this happened.”

Neville scratched his head. A deep furrow had formed between his brows. “Damn it, but it is a lot of money. A life changing amount. Yet I have a terrible feeling about all of this. Six strangers locked in a house, it just doesn’t sit right.”

“Oh Neville, it was only an accident," Matilde assured him. "We all knew he was a drunkard. He was in a stupor ever since he showed up.”

"She's right," Primo said, eyes wide, a little panicked. "There was a— a sickness about him. Yes, a sickness. From the beginning I could sense he was not entirely there. Really, should it be much of a surprise for someone as uncultured and desperate and—"

"Well, hey, I take it we're not all here for fun," Neville cut in. He pointed at Primo, then at Matilde. "That the both of you are angling so hard to stay has me thinking you're just as desperate for that gold as Nels was."

Matilde placed a neatly manicured hand over her chest and let her mouth hang agape. "Why, the Petit’s are a prosperous house! How dare you suggest—"

“What say the rest of you?” Primo looked down at Dovesi, then to Nim. "We'll take a vote."

"How democratic of you," Neville sneered. 

"All in favor of staying, raise their hands."

All except Dovesi were in agreement. “Can we move his body at least?" she asked. "It shouldn’t be out on display like this.”

Neville shifted uneasily. “It would be poor practice to disturb him.”

“But it's not a crime scene,” Matilde protested. “He fell! You and I saw him from the library. Weren’t we all accounted for?”

“It’s true,” Primo said. “I was with Dovesi. We saw Nimileth enter from the bedrooms after Nels had fallen. He must have been alone.”

Nim stifled a sigh of relief. Neville hummed, his lips screwed into a tight bud. “I never thought I’d see the day my greed outweighed my sense of civic duty. We'll place a sheet over him."

"We can't move him?" Primo asked. "The sitting room still needs to be searched."

"Then search around him," Neville said, “and for all of our sakes, let's search fast.”

Dovesi buried her head in her hands. "This is barbaric."

"Truly," Nim muttered, realizing she had been conspicuously silent throughout the exchange. But what could she say? What could she say when her throat had squeezed closed and all but the tinniest noise seemed within reach? "I don't know that I need the money this badly."

No stash of gold was found that night. No stash of gold would ever be found. When all had fallen asleep, Nim slipped into the rooms of every guest and, one by one, slit open their throats.

Matilde thrashed once and only once. Neville attempted to fight before Nim paralyzed him. Hot blood sprayed her in a coarse mist, drenched her deeper than the rain ever could. Dovesi and Primo were last. They lay together, holding each other so closely that they looked like one aura in Nim's detection spell. At least in their final waking moments, they had found solace in each other’s arms. She paralyzed them together, and they died together. Blood soaked the bed, splattered the headboards, and wreathed in so much red, she left them there together, two bodies coiled as one. 

Nim choked down the sour spit in her mouth, and when she climbed down to the first floor and spied Nels beneath the blood-mottled sheet, she vomited at the base of the staircase. She wondered if others found beauty in these scenes, if Sithis granted them such unholy vision. When she killed, why didn't He whisper His praise to her? Why didn’t He grant her joy, pleasure, anything but this hollowness that bored her out, left her impossibly heavy and somehow less of herself.

By the end of the week, Nim had reached Anvil. Half a day of falling in and out of sleep, and she was back on her feet, headed wearily for the guild hall to make her meeting with Carahil.

A mirror-Nim took the reins that afternoon, one who could still walk the world with so much blood on her hands and pretend that everything was fine. The afternoon practice proved a welcome distraction from the mess of Council matters and the larger tangle that had become... well, the rest of her life. 

At least while struggling through her wards, she was focused on something within her control, and though dueling with Carahil always pushed her to her limits, the fatigue that it left her with was the good kind of ache. They spared until Nim's magical reserves had been thoroughly spent, then the two mages sat side by side to review.

“That was a new ward today,” Carahil said, uncorking a restorative and handing it to Nim. “You crafted it yourself?”

Nim worried the inside of her cheek. “Sure did.”

"Strange, it's selectiveness. It seemed tailored to dispel only my silencing hexes."

“I never want to be silenced again,” Nim murmured against the rim of her bottle. “It’s the worst feeling ever.”

“That sentiment is hardly novel, Nim." Carahil clicked her tongue, gave her a sideways look, and it always impressed Nim, how little her mentor needed to say to express such marked disapproval.  "It’s the bane of all mages."

"I know."

"That ward was lazy."

"I know," she said again, "but you have to admit it worked quite well."

"No, it worked quite inefficiently. It was impenetrable to my silencing spells, but a good ward will protect you from more than one hex. This won’t serve you in real combat when you’re unaware what spell your opponent will attack with.”

Nim wilted, sipped her potion. “I know.”

"I don't want to see that ward again. Train smarter. Now, go home and get some rest. I'll see you next week."

Carahil stood and made to leave, and at once, Nim scrambled to her feet, her potion forgotten. "Any word from the University?" she called out, hopeful. "The Arch-mage said he'd write."

Carahil looked at her sufferingly, then sighed. "I do wish the Council would let you focus on your studies."

"We're in the middle of an investigation. They need me."

"Nim, I have a question for you, and I want you to consider it deeply. Does it not concern you that the Council is asking a mage on her apprenticeship for help? Because it certainly concerns me."

Nim stumbled for words, thought of Count Hassildor, his taunts. "Wh-what are you saying? That I can't do the tasks I'm given? I know I've been promoted quickly, but... but so? Or do you think I'm unqualified of my rank?"

"Oh, don't be obtuse. No, that's not what I meant. You are a student, Nimileth. Not a battlemage."

"I'm a Wizard now," Nim said defiantly.

Carahil ignored her, rolling her eyes. "It's the Council's duty to protect you," she said firmly, "not send you off to fight their war."

"But it's our guild. It's our fight."

Carahil raised a brow, looking surprised and then a bit sad. "Is that what they tell you? Or did you come up with that yourself? Look, I know these are unprecedented times. I know it's all quite overwhelming, but don't think I haven't noticed that you’re barely here these days."

Nim let out an incredulous laugh, more of a scoff really. "Carahil, I was at Bruma when it burned. I pulled J'skar out of the fire. I was at Nenyond Twyll, and I was the one caught in the attack at the Wellspring. I- I know I've been distracted, but I've been working with the Council since the beginning. It's not something I can just drop. "

"Don't you see?" But Nim didn't, and Carhil's mouth twitched into a sinuous shape somewhere between a frown and a grimace. "When you came here, studying illusion was all you wanted to do. You still have so much potential as a researcher. You have a real future. Has the Council ever expressed interest in that? Have they ever asked what they could do for you or only what more you’re willing to sacrifice? Ask yourself what you gain from running yourself ragged like this?"

"Carahil—"

"You're so young, Nim. You've been here not even a year. The Council's demands shouldn't be consuming your life. This will burn you out. It always does."

"Carahil, there are lives at stake."

"And they are not yours to save."

"But they are," Nim said, and suddenly her eyes stung. She looked away fast, so fast her vision blurred. "You're so wrong. They are." 

After all she had done, they were the only ones she might still be able to preserve.

“Are you absolutely positive that she is the one you wish to assign to Philida? We’ve failed in this effort three times before. There’s really no more room for error.”

Standing with his back against the wall, Mathieu watched as all eyes in the room turned to Lucien

“I believe there is no one more suited to this task.” Lucien's calm, even temper matched Ungolim's like a mirror. So eerily perfect was the reflection that Mathieu felt a surge of admiration amidst the urge to shudder. “Nimileth offers great promise to the Black Hand, the most potential I’ve seen in an initiate in years."

Banus Alor snorted from across the table. “That’s what you said about your last Silencer, Lachance. I've seen, Nimileth. I like her. I can see why you do to. Still, there is always an alternative motive with you.”

"Aventina's assignment to Philida was under completely different circumstances. We all knew her usefulness had been expended."

"And just what usefulness was that?"

"If we’re done with the innuendo,” Arquen cut in, “I’d like to state that Banus and I already agreed that she's acceptable. May we move on now?"

But Lucien was not ready to stop talking. When was he ever? “Nimileth has never failed a contract nor forfeited a bonus,” he said pridefully, as if he was the one personally responsible for her achievements, Nimileth merely an extension of himself. “She enters and leaves behind no trace, no suspicion that the Dark Brotherhood was ever involved. And she’s a good marksman. I can speak to her skill personally.”

“So is Telaendril,” Ungolim said, “and Nimileth has just now reached the rank of Assassin. Three of our own have been slain by Philida, and they were far more seasoned than her. I still think it should be Mathieu who goes." Ungolim then turned toward him. "What say you?”

Mathieu batted his lashes, grinned. “I go where Sithis wills me.”

Arquen shook her head, sending blonde locks bouncing against her shoulders. “I agree with Lucien. No offense, Mathieu. I know that you’re more than skilled, but should we need Nimileth to perform the Purification as discussed, then allow this to serve as the final test of ability. If she is as talented as Lucien claims, she will take care of Philida, and we can rest assured that she’ll be able to handle something as sensitive as the Sacred Rite. You do trust her with that, don’t you, Lucien?”

“Of course,” Lucien said smoothly. “I’ve been preparing her all this time.”

“Is that what you call it?” Banus smirked, red eyes dancing with mischief in the torchlight. Lucien only stared.

Ungolim sat silently with his hands steepled in front of him. He appeared deep in thought, digesting Arquen’s words. After a long moment, he gestured toward the other Silencers and Speakers. “If anyone has final arguments, lay them out now.” The room held still. “Then Nimileth will be the one to deliver Philida’s soul to the Void. Let us take our leave and thank Alval for his hospitality. Lucien, you may write the contract. Go all with Sithis.”

Lucien nodded, satisfied. For a moment, Mathieu thought he saw the man grin. An optical illusion, for men like Lucien were incapable of genuine mirth.

The room slowly emptied. Mathieu clung to the wall like a spider, watching Lucien chat with Banus until they were the last two left at the table. From what Mathieu knew, Lucien considered Banus a friend, as close a friend as one in their line of work could be, and when Banus took his leave, Lucien stood from the table too. Only then did Mathieu crawl down off the walls.

“Pretty bruise you have there, Brother,” he called out as Lucien reached the base of the stairs. 

Lucien cast a sideways glance Mathieu’s way and popped the collar of his robes. “Please, Bellamont. My eyes are up here.”

“I’ve always admired Antoinetta’s work.”

“Who said anything about Antoinetta?”

Mathieu faltered for but a moment. “Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time before you tested your wares. She does have the softest little mouth, our new Sister. I can see why you’re so fond of her.” 

Lucien's expression withered, all light within snuffed to coals. “Say that again. I’m not sure I heard you clearly.”

“Oh, don’t look so surprised. A woman of her caliber— you didn’t think you were the only one, did you?” Mathieu clicked his tongue. “Sad, you’re not even the first.” 

Something dark and serpentine slithered across Lucien's face. Whatever it was, it was most assuredly not a grin. “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish by airing all your sordid affairs, but I’m terribly bored of them, Mathieu. Come back to me with something more exciting. So long as she serves us dutifully, I care not for what Nimileth does in her spare time. ”

“How generous of you, Brother. You show such growth.” Mathieu gave Lucien’s shoulder a tender squeeze. “It’s good to know that our family is so close, isn’t it?”

Mathieu ascended the stairs. When he reached the door, he looked back over his shoulder, a little simper on his lips to find Lucien beside himself with wrath. His eyes had become two sheets of stone, all life obscured behind them. There he stood, a worm writhing in the sun, and in all his days, Mathieu had never seen a vista so pleasing to the eye.

Chapter Text

Chapter 25: Strictly Business

Days later and still no word from the Council. It was hard for Nim to relax when at any moment she might be summoned away. Begrudgingly, she dressed herself for a day of mundane chores, knowing her time in Anvil was running short. She'd have to return to Cheydinhal soon to collect her pay. Ever since delivering the news of Mannimarco to the Council, she'd been running across the province, too busy to keep up with her usual order of potions, and with her days of thievery behind her, the Dark Brotherhood now supplied her only steady flow of income. Between the money she'd spent on travel and supplies, Nim's purse was feeling terribly light.

Tomorrow, she told herself as she combed her hair. If a letter doesn't arrive today, I'll head back to Cheydinhal.

Much to Nim's surprise a letter did arrive that afternoon. Just after lunch a courier came knocking, bearing a letter from Fathis Aren. Nim tore through the envelope like a child into a birthday gift, eyes aglow and fevered with excitement. She could use a kind word from a familiar, friendly voice right about now.

Nim,

I have stumbled across something here in the Niben of the most peculiar nature and believe it may be of interest to you. Come see me if you wish. If the mystery is not beguiling enough, I bear promises of Tamikas to tempt you.

-Fathis Aren, Bravil Court Wizard, Filthy old Telvanni Wizard

However brief the letter, Nim was elated by the end. An invitation; how her heart soared! She wrote back immediately, letting him know to expect her next week, and with a dab of wax, she sealed the envelope, then ran outside to chase the courier down. Truthfully, Fathis could have invited her to stare at a pile of dirt, and she would have accepted just as eagerly.

In her postscript, she included one small request:

P.S. Too many times I’ve been tempted with wine in the foregoing days. I promised myself that if another man made such a move, I’d turn him to charcoal where he stood. Be a good friend and fetch us something gritty that will make me feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.

The coin purse bulged with gold. Nim could see the outlines of the septims through the burlap. It was the most she had ever been paid for a contract before, and it would be more than enough to keep her afloat for the rest of the month barring emergency, in which case she was a hair's breadth from shit-out-of-luck.

Life on the brink of impoverishment— this was not an entirely new circumstance for Nim to find herself in, and as such, she was not especially concerned. Other people were dead or dismembered or living life as a walking corpse. Meanwhile, she had a house and four limbs, and besides, she had been offered a permanent residence in this hole in the ground. So really, in the grand scheme of things, life was going quite well so long as she didn’t think on it too deeply.

Kicking off her boots, Nim set out to offer greetings to the other assassins. The sanctuary, however, was unusually empty. Ocheeva was working diligently in her quarters, door closed, which meant she was not seeking company. M'raaj-Dar pretended Nim did not exist which was better than actively sneering at her. Even Vicente was out.

Alone, Nim reclined on her bed with a book but quickly found she lacked the focus for reading. She flipped through the pages, content to let her eyes glaze over the words, when a creak of the door lit a flicker of hope inside her. In walked Teinaava and Antoinetta, sloshing a bottle of brandy. They giggled like children between themselves.

At once, Nim's mood brightened considerably. "Hey," she said, sitting up straight. It was good to see someone friendly, to see anyone.

"Nim, you're finally back!" Teinaava walked to the dining table, beckoning for her to follow with a wave. "We're drinking. Come join us. Antoinetta was just telling me about—"

But the door slammed shut, and then Antoinetta was gone. She had fled the room as quickly as she'd entered. Nim stared at the empty space where Antoinetta had once stood. “What did I do?” she asked, knowing full well what she'd done. A tightness formed in her chest and atop it sat the weight of a dozen rocks.

“Oh, Sister," Teinaava sighed. "Don’t play the fool.”

Nim's body grew rigid. Does everyone know? The thought filled her with cold dread.

“Come, have a drink with me. Antoinetta might be sour about it, but I think a congratulations is in order.”

Stendarr on a stick! He acts like it’s a rite of passage! “What?” she said, trying not to choke.

“Your advancement? Ocheeva says you’re an Assassin now.”

Relief came in a thick clump, like a loose hillside after the summer monsoon.  “Oh, my advancement. Right.”

Teinaava looked back at her with a sharp-toothed, bewildered smile. He poured her a glass of brandy, and they drank. “So tell me about Summitmist manor.” In the sanctuary, conversation revolved around contracts and gossip, the usual stuff. Nim wished she was a skilled enough conversationalist to know how to deftly steer away from it, but every time she tried, it veered right back on course.

“And how have you been?" she asked when she had grown tired of discussing her last contract, which had occurred approximately one minute after Teinaava had asked about it.

“Ah, in truth?" He chuckled weakly as he passed his empty tumbler between his palms. "Not so well. Some distressing news has come to pass my ear. I now find myself in a very delicate situation."

"Oh bugger. You’re not in any trouble are you?"

"No more than usual."

"Well, that's good." Nim offered him a smile, feeling warm because the brandy had settled well.

"You don't do that often enough," Teinaava said.

"Do what?"

"Smile."

"Oh." Nim felt a flush creep onto her cheeks, cleared her throat, tried to ignore it. "Umm, the bad news... anything I could do to help?”

"I wouldn't want to trouble you with it."

"It's no trouble. I did offer."

Teinaava grinned. It was thin, but there was a glint in his eyes that shined much brighter. Hope. "Have I told you much about my life as a Shadowscale before I moved to Cheydinhal?" 

Nim shook her head. "Not much."

"When Ocheeva and I trained with the Dark Brotherhood as children, we befriended another initiate. He was a Shadowscale by the name of Scar-Tail, and the three of us were inseparable. When our training was completed, we parted ways, but now... now the unthinkable has happened."

Nim could think of a few things which other people might have thought were unthinkable, almost all of which occurred very frequently within the Dark Brotherhood. In fact, she was quite certain both she and Teinaava had performed a great many of them, so which thoughts could be so unthinkable that not even an assassin could think of them? Such thoughts made Nim shudder and left her brain a little sore.

Across the table, Teinaava poured himself more brandy and clenched the bottle tightly in his taloned fist. "Scar-Tail has fled Black Marsh! He refuses to fulfill his duties as a royal assassin. It is unheard of! Unspeakable!"

"I thought it was unthinkable," Nim said.

“You don't understand, Nim. To reject one’s duty as a Shadowscale is an act of treason, and treason demands punishment." 

"But why did he leave?"

Teinaava shook his head, hard and fast. "It matters not, only that he has betrayed the most sacred of pacts among the Saxhleel."

Betrayal? Nim was familiar with betrayal. She sipped her brandy, slightly disappointed, for betrayal was not so inconceivable a notion whatsoever. "People can just leave the life of an assassin?"  she asked. Was the same true for a member of the Dark Brotherhood? She didn't dare ask, but she wondered.

Teinaava shook his head even harder, then threw back his drink. "No. Only death can release a Shadowscale from their pact. We all made the same vow, to serve as assassins until we return to the root, but he has run here to Cyrodiil, like the coward he is. A former associate has tracked him down, but just as a member of the Dark Brotherhood cannot kill a fellow family member, a Shadowscale is forbidden from slaying another Shadowscale.”

"Ah— oh." Nim had an idea of where this was going. "So you want him... punished."

"He must be punished. It is the honorable thing to do.”

“You can't like... return him to Black Marsh for a trial?"

"Death, Nim!" Teinaava said, his eyes flaring bright with fury. "He has already killed others of my order who have come after him seeking justice and has made himself a greel of our people. He must be fed back into the soil. His cycle must turn again. Only that will restore the vow that he has broken."

"So it's like that then." She poured herself another drink.  "And you would ask me to kill this Scar-Tail for you? One you once loved as a brother?”

Teinaava paused, seemed to find a moment of clarity amidst the bellicosity. When he slouched back in his chair, he softened. "Oh, it must sound monstrous to you," he said, running a hand down his face. "To wish one of your own family dead? It is different when you are ku-vastei. Death is not the end but a new beginning. As I said, it's a delicate matter. I don't expect one outside of the Shadowscales to understand it fully, but as much as it pains me, this is the only way to right such a grievous act of treachery. When he abandoned our kingdom, he destroyed any vestige of our relationship."

"Because he wanted to be free?"

"Because he has severed himself from the natural order. The only honor a renegade Shadowscale can bring to his kingdom is in his death. I understand if you don’t wish to see it through, but if you do..." Teinaava leaned closer. His orange eyes flickered, lashing like the hungry tongue of a candle. "Bring back his heart as proof.”

Nim's eyes widened. She pulled back against her chair, finished her glass of brandy, and decided she would drink no more of it tonight. "How, er, poetic."

"Sleep on it, at least?"

"Yeah, I'll sleep on it."

“Thank you.” Teinaava nodded appreciatively and rested his head in his palm, shifting back to his familiar, high-spirited demeanor. “So tell me more about Summitmist Manor," he said, his tail twitching excitedly behind him. "How did you manage to avoid detection?”

There was so much about this family Nim did not understand. Loyalty— she had once assumed it a straightforward concept, but not here in the Dark Brotherhood. Not apparently. Not anymore.

Bound in blood and by the will of Sithis, she had been told a fellowship could not be any closer. And yet how easy one could turn on another in the name of honor, in the name of duty.

Nim counted guar. With any luck, she might achieve a few hours of rest after so many days spent on the road. She was woefully behind on sleep, yet the night was plagued by long bouts of tossing and turning, and when on occasion, her mind quieted enough to slip into unconsciousness, she jolted awake in seconds. In the end, it felt more like fainting. 

That night, she dreamed she was standing before a collapsed house, sifting through the ruin of its splintered bones. She was searching for something, for what she didn't know, only that it evaded her mind as surely as it did her grasp. All she pulled free were broken beams of wood that smoldered in her hands. Deeper and deeper, she dug through the debris, until at last she touched something soft and wet. 

From the ashes of the house, she pulled forth a heart, blackened in soot and spurting clots of crimson blood. Then all that lay above and below, before and all around her, became entirely wreathed in flame.

Clutching at the sheets, Nim bolted up in bed. Her breath came to her in shallow gasps as she rubbed her sweat-slicked forehead, and in her chest, her heart thrummed wildly.

The bed beside hers was empty, no sign of Antoinetta. Teinaava and M'raaj-Dar were asleep down the row. Still reeling from the nightmare, Nim rolled onto her side, squeezed her eyes shut, and tried once again to fall asleep.  

But behind her eyes, all was painted in blood, engulfed in fire. Sleep came to her no easier.

Nim let out a sigh. Flinging on her robes, she rummaged through her trunk, grabbed the alchemy equipment she stored there, and dragged her ingredient stash out of the living quarters as quietly as she could. Alone in the main hall, she set up her workspace at a corner table and prayed the sleeping draught she intended to brew would prove more potent than her last cup of chamomile tea.

The rhythm of peeling and chopping brought with it a familiar calm, and Nim allowed herself to relax into her work as she stripped the skin off a long, gnarled valerian root. She'd grind it first, then add the lavender, steep it for ten minutes and pass the mixture through an alembic. By the time all was done, it might well be a few hours before dawn. Maybe all this was pointless. Maybe the exhaustion would claim her long before she ever finished, and she'd fall asleep on this table right here. Yet going through these familiar motions made Nim feel a little more solid, grounded, kept her mind from straying to the visions that had plagued her dreams.

With the valerian root peeled, Nim took a break to stretch, still stiff from all her tossing and turning. She raised her arms above her head, arched backward. Her spine crackled along its length. It felt sinfully good.

“Summitmist Manor took a toll on you, didn’t it?" A tremor of shock seized Nim's limbs, and she managed a gasp that was much more a squeal. When she regained control of her legs, she spun around only to find Lucien looming like a shadow along the wall. "I know a sleeping potion when I see one.”

“Son of a Mudcrab." Her voice was still breathy, her breaths still short. "You startled me."

“You’re growing comfortable here. I never thought I’d see the day." 

“I’m supposed to trust family, am I not?"

Lucien stood in his black robes, hands gloved and cowl drawn to shade his already dark features. A brown parcel was tucked under his arm. Nim eyed it warily, and when he offered her a smile, she couldn't see if it reached his eyes.

"Gods," she said and sniffed, "do you always dress like that?"

"Like what?"

"Forget it. It's nothing. And what are you doing here exactly?”

Lucien inclined his head curiously. “This is my sanctuary," he said, and he did not elaborate. Clearly, he believed this answer sufficient.

“I mean, what are you doing here speaking to me?”  

"I expected no warmer welcome from you." With an affected sigh, Lucien let his shoulders slouch. “I happened to speak with Fafnir about your work in Skingrad. He said some of the guests were unrecognizable. He cleaned for two days and still couldn’t get all of the blood out of the floorboards. I could hardly believe it. Careful, little Nimileth leaving a mess behind?"

“It was a large house and quite the party,” she said. “There was a lot to clean.”

“I take it you enjoyed the contract then?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Shame.” Silence thickened between them. Never before had the sanctuary felt so empty, so quiet. All that reached Nim's ears was the bubbling water in the retort, and in the not so distant hall, the ambling rattle of the guardian's bones. “I noticed that the bonus I left for you remains unopened." Lucien walked forward and set the package on the table in front of her. “I would like for you to open it.”

Nim looked back and forth between him and the package, her glare ripe with suspicion. “Keep it,” she said curtly. “I know how your gifts work.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. It was only a bonus for Fort Sutch. Honestly, I thought it would benefit you while working the job at Summitmist Manor.”

"I don't want it."

"You will."

"Well, I'm not opening it, so there."

"Then it will sit on this table and gather dust."

His gaze was flat, his voice neutral. He gestured toward the package, and with a sigh of resignation, Nim peeled a small section of paper away. A small rip, a tiny tear. She peeled back just enough to open a corner of the box and peek inside. Spreading apart the tissue paper within revealed a swathe of dark velvet. The subtle tingle of magicka diffused across her fingers as she pinched what appeared to be a sleeve.

Nim concentrated on the spellwork. Threads of illusion magic had been woven into the seams, and it flowed gently, a familiar thrum. “A charm augmentation?” She arched a brow and fiddled with the brown fur trim at the end of the sleeve. What is this, mink? Sable? Are those the same animal? Nim wasn't sure she'd worn any kind of fur other than wool. “Is this your way of letting me know that you think I’m not personable enough?”

Lucien gave a shrug, smiled a little. “You clearly needed no help from me in Skingrad."

“Maybe I should be offended that you thought I did.”

She looked back to the garment in the box. All she had seen was a sleeve and already she knew she'd never owned anything like it, probably never would. Curious, she peeled the paper another inch...

No, stop it. She didn't need anything from Lucien. She didn't want anything from Lucien, no matter how enchanted or expensive or elegant. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction and pushed the tissue back into place.

“That’s all?” Lucien frowned. He gestured toward the box again. “Go on."

"It's too much," she said. And if this gift was anything like the amulet he had given her, she would undoubtedly be tempted to keep it.

Lucien let out a short laugh. "What are you scared of? Open it."

She paused, staring at him blankly, and eventually lifted the tissue paper. Underneath lay a gown of black velvet and burgundy brocade, the detailing embroidered in gold thread. It was an outfit made for nobility. Not simply beautiful. Opulent.

Iron of Zenithar, how much money does this man have? Nim bit the tip of her tongue. Smooth, supple fabric between her fingers and the tingle of magicka everywhere it met her skin— it was all too much in every dimension, and she resented the sudden rush of joy that overcame her at the thought of slipping it on.

“Where'd you get such nice taste in women's wear?” she asked, hoping to sound dismissive, but her voice was a bit unsteady. She cleared her throat. “Would have saved me a pretty penny in Skingrad. I had to buy my own. Honestly, it’s a good thing I didn’t wear it on the contract. Blood is nearly impossible to get out of velvet.”

“I take time to find what suits you, Nimileth. I understand you better than you think.”

Despite her best attempts, Nim couldn't keep her eyes from roaming greedily over the gown, and now Lucien looked pleased. She hated that. “That makes one of us,” she said and refolded the dress, tucking it back into the box so she didn’t have to stare at it any longer. “It- it really is lovely.”

Lucien's smiled deepened, and the echo of her words tasted of defeat. Idiot, Nim. Why did you say that? 

“I think deeply of you.” He took a step closer, reached for her, and when his fingers grazed her cheek, Nim jerked away.

Clutching the box to her chest, she shielded herself from him. “That makes one of us,” she said again, this time icy, stiff.

Avoiding his eyes, Nim rocked back on her heels. On the table, the water in the retort was well past a simmer. It roiled angrily. Beads of condensation climbed the sides. Steam wisped upwards, disappeared.

"Look at me," Lucien said, and it rang like a command. Nim glanced up and immediately wished she hadn't. His gaze smoldered, brown eyes like bark, like logs of oak in the hearth ready to burst with so much heat. It reminded her of the burning house in her dream.

“Is there anything else, Speaker," she said, "or can I get back to what I was doing?”

"I thought perhaps we could talk.”

“About my contract?”

“No, Nimileth. About you. About us."

"Oh."

"It's come to my attention that—"

“Whatever it is, I’d rather we keep our conversation to strictly business. Unless it’s about my contract, I’m afraid I have nothing to say.”

At her sudden interruption, Lucien's eyes flashed, quick as lightning. A spark of anger , Nim wondered, or amusement?

“Strictly business,” he repeated, and the fire in his eyes crackled curiously. “How professional of you. I find it strange how I’m the only one to receive such cold, official treatment when you’ve already shown me how hot-blooded you can be.”

“Yes, how strange indeed.”

“That sharp tongue of yours will lead to trouble, Nimileth. It would be wise of you to blunt it.”

“Is that an order?”

“Dear girl, if it was an order, by morning I’d have the Wrath of Sithis upon you.”

“Ah. Well, if it’s not an order...”

“Nevertheless, you seem to forget that I am your Speaker. I find such a lapse in memory concerning. Disrespect begets disobedience. I have ways of managing both. Do not tempt me.”

“Oh, that’s right!" Nim cried out, cracking a wide, humorless grin as she clasped her hands together. "You’re my superior! Forgive me, I’m afraid our recent encounter muddied the waters a bit. I didn’t realize that attacking your subordinates and taking them to bed was just your way of asserting authority.”

Lucien blinked, his face otherwise still, and for a moment Nim felt smug, victorious. It lasted no longer than that one fleeting second when a smile crawled its way across his face. There it rested in silence, like a beast in tall grass. "Oh, Nimileth," he said, and it was almost a purr, that slow languorous drawl of his voice. "You make it so easy sometimes."

Nim slouched where she stood. "Ugh, please. I’m really not up for this. I'm just trying to get some sleep.”

“Perhaps I could help you then."

“Perhaps you didn’t hear what I said before. The idea of entertaining a conversation with you is the furthest thing from my mind.”

“We needn’t speak if that’s what you wish."

"Then... what would we do?"

The smile on Lucien's face grew wolfish. Nim felt smaller, furrier, like prey. "What an innocent little lamb, you are. Did you have a career in acting too?" She glared, stammered incomprehensibly, then huffed and turned away. Setting her package on the table, she occupied her now empty hands with a vial, corking and uncorking it again and again. "If you're looking for a long night's rest, I know of remedies," Lucien said, sidling up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders as he leaned closer. "If you do so desire them, you need only ask.” 

Nim could feel him at her back, the heat of him, the pull of him like the inhospitable, molten core of Nirn. She turned through the offer for a moment too long, and her robes suddenly felt very constricting. "I’d first watch stalagmites grow.”

A laugh. Maybe a scoff, low and muted, like he didn't quite believe her. “Tell me then," he said, taking a seat at the table. "What troubles you?”

“What?” 

“It's best to air these things before they fester."

Nim scrunched her brows. "Huh?"

"It's a question, Nimileth. You are expected to answer. That is how conversation works, if you never learned.”

"I like this act less than when you were leering at me. Pretending like you have any compassion, it doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not pretending." Lucien pulled off his hood then off came the gloves. He shook his hair loose, running a hand through the length of it. Nim looked pointedly away. "You’re an assassin under my roof, and you need a clear mind to do your work. Despite how aggressive and ill-behaved you’ve been with me, I care for you in my way." 

"I'm not aggressive," she said. "And I don't believe you truly care."

"I do. As I care for all my assassins.”

"What a strange way of showing it."

“You are the one who chooses to be ungrateful. Sit." Lucien gestured toward the chair next to him. "I have time. Let us talk."

Nim stared at the chair for a long while, hoping it might at any moment sprout legs and run away. "If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep working on my alchemy.”

Lucien inclined his head toward the table. “I don’t mind. Continue as you please.” 

"Are you serious?"

"And do you own this chair now? May I not sit in my own sanctuary?"

Persistent as a fly on a carcass, she thought, grumbling as she plopped herself down. Surely the night can get no worse.

Chopping and grinding, Nim immersed herself in a smaller world, one entirely within her control. Through the mouth of the retort, the bubbling water sang a melody to which her hands had danced to countless times before. Her movements were fluid, careful, precise, measured through each step of the routine. It brought her peace, this rhythm. With Lucien silent beside her, she had almost forgotten he was there.

But Lucien was not a man who liked to be ignored. Abruptly, her peace came to an end. “I’ve never seen you in such tranquility."

Nim wasn't certain how long had passed, only that it was not long enough for him to be talking again. “Well, then please don’t ruin it for me," she said.

“Do you like this work?”

“Alchemy?" Lucien nodded. "Yes,” she said, her voice clipped. “I wouldn't be an alchemist if I didn't find joy in the work.”

"And it calms you when you're troubled?"

"I guess so. It's familiar. I like working with my hands."

“It’s rather pedestrian," Lucien said as if it meant something and slouched backward. “How much catharsis can you achieve by grinding away at seeds?"

"I don't know. It just makes me not think of things."

"Interesting," he said, sounding rather bored.