User:LoreleiTheGreen/Why, Sister

-By LoreleiTheGreen
There it is. The leather-bound book sat upon a dark wooden table, just visible amongst the shadows of the dimly lit room. An ice-cold shiver coursed through me as my eyes fell upon the lifeless body of a half-naked woman lying limp on top of a cabinet, carelessly throw up there like unwanted clutter. Covering my nose as the foul stench of rotten meat and mouldy furniture wafted in my direction, I advanced forward and grabbed the book. I tried to ignore the disembodied head of some poor soul on the desk to my right, flicking through the aged pages adorned with cursive writing. As the light caught on the scribbled words scrawled across the paper, they glistened a bloody red. My stomach churned. However, seeing what I had to pass in order to obtain this cursed book, I was hardly surprised. For some time, I stood there in the dark and gloomy room, scanning the pages for anything that could be of use. I will prove Lucien innocent. I found it. It wasn’t much, but it was most certainly enough to convince the Black Hand that Lachance was not to blame. Stuffing the book into my bag, I began making my way out of the lighthouse basement, barely noticing the rotting flesh and fly-infested food as a smile of triumph spread across my face.

Once outside, I sucked in a deep breath, relishing in the fresh, clean air of the Anvil docks. Gulls squawked above, circling the ships that were docked in the harbour, swaying gently as the waves rose and fell. A feeling of hope flooded my mind as I started down the path to the city, shoving the great gate open and giving the guards a friendly wave. They didn’t suspect anything. As a matter of fact, no one ever suspected anything. I didn’t look like a killer. If a stranger were to meet me for the first time, they would look upon my youthful, feminine face, my wavy auburn locks and simple attire consisting of a blouse and corset and see nothing more than an average citizen of Cyrodiil. In their eyes, I was just like them. I made no attempt to hide my face, for that would only raise suspicion. I looked so innocent. Even I would never suspect myself of being what I was. An assassin. Granted, not a very good one, for what sort of assassin dislikes killing? The people around me smiled a greeting, or regarded me with an upturned nose, but none acknowledged me as a killer. Most likely, I had probably killed someone they knew, and yet I would never be the first person they’d suspect.

I chose to ignore my killings, for thinking too long about the people whose throats I’d sliced, or whose heads I’d impaled with an arrow brought about an empty feeling of regret and a conflicted state of mind. Perhaps it was worse to pretend I hadn’t killed a soul, but it allowed me to sleep and keep a clear head, and in times like this I needed that most. Besides, someone wanted them dead enough to perform the Black Sacrament, therefore they deserved it, right?

However, despite my greatest efforts, there was one thing I regretted above all else. Something unforgivable, the sort of thing I knew I’d have to live with until the day I died. Something that haunted me like a shadow everywhere I went.

I had killed my family.

Not my biological family. My adopted family, the Dark Brotherhood. The other assassins took me in and treated me as one of their own. We became close, like siblings. They were the first people to treat me as such since I left my home in Valenwood. They trusted me, and I’d stabbed them all in the back. Literally. The echoing voice of Vicente’s last words drummed in my mind constantly, never allowing me a minute of peace.

“Why sister?”

Why sister indeed. It was on Lucien’s orders that I had betrayed them all. At the time it seemed like I was doing the right thing, but now I know it was all in vain. Lucien had claimed it was to prevent the traitor from doing any more harm to the Dark Brotherhood. He was sure the traitor was in the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. He was wrong. Their deaths had been for nothing.

At first I was livid. I would lie awake at night running through all the different ways I could kill him. I could have slit his throat while he slept, but I always thought he deserved something more torturous and dragged-out. I wanted him to suffer, as they did. Perhaps I could have strung him up and left him to starve, ropes pulling on his weakening arms like the sensation of slowly being torn apart.

But then I saw his eyes. They were dull, and seemed to portray a slight hint of, if I may be so bold, sorrow. He put on this act, ordering me around and pretending not to care about the incident in the sanctuary, but deep down I knew it troubled him too. Lucien and Vicente had been close, and he had recruited the other members himself, just as he had done with me. I realised that Lucien was merely a tool in this as well, and that the Black Hand, the elite group that lead the Dark Brotherhood from the shadows, were responsible as a whole. Even if Lucien had protested the purge, nothing would have changed. Orders are orders, and I imagine he tells himself that everyday, just as I do.

My hatred for Lucien was short-lived. Eventually it occurred to me that he was all I had left of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. Our memories of our fellow brothers and sisters were all that remained of them. So I did not slit his throat or hang him up like dirty laundry, instead I got to work, carrying out his orders to the letter, distracting myself from what I had done.

Now, Lucien was in danger, and I felt partly responsible, as I was the one who had murdered and slain even more members of the Dark Brotherhood, all under the false pretences that they were contracts. The orders Lucien left me had been switched out, and I could feel myself faltering as the knowledge that the purge of the sanctuary had been for nothing hit me hard. They had all been innocent, and the traitor was still alive, and had me doing his bidding.

Anvil seemed bigger than usual as my short legs carried me towards the main gate, desperate to reach Lucien before anyone else could. Quick as possible, I mounted my white mare and snatched the reins up, kicking my heels back to break her into a gallop as we made our way up the hillside, bound for Bruma.

I was fortunate to be so skilled in riding, and I had my days as a child in Valenwood to thank for that. As a young Bosmer I would ride the winding tracks of the forest, galloping through clusters of trees as tall as towers and undergrowth so thick you could scarcely see the ground, for it was also covered in a dense carpet of fallen leaves that had built up over years.

As I raced towards the city of Bruma in the cold north however, there was no leafy bed to soak up the thunderous sound of horses hooves, no towering trees to cover me. Dusty’s hooves clashed against the stone of the road like a metal drum, and being surrounded by grasslands, there was no cover. The sky was bleak and grey, and had that dark look about it as if any moment now the clouds would burst and a downpour would be sent to soak me through to the bone.

Surely enough, it did.

The rain drenched my thin clothes, the cold tearing at my skin like knives. Dusty was becoming tired, and her ears were pinned back in discontent. I offered her a reassuring pat on the neck, and I could feel her skin was just as cold as mine.

Cyrodiil was most unlike Valenwood. I had come here to seek work, but apparently that was not as easy as I had thought. Eventually I landed a simple job in the Imperial City, serving in an inn. The pay was rough though, and I spent many a night on the streets, or in the inn’s storage cupboard when I could get away with it.

One day I made a stupid mistake. Baan Dar would have choked on his own laughter. I decided to try and acquire breakfast one morning, as I had gone without food for two days now. However, with only enough coins to buy a single apple, I made the rather idiotic decision to obtain a proper full meal by a less honourable method. My attempt to steal a freshly baked plate of ham, cheese, bread and grapes ended in my arrest and some time in a cold, dark and grizzly jail cell in the Imperial Prison.

With the rain clearing up, I allowed Dusty and myself a moments rest, sheltering under the trees in the forest near Chorrol. I offered the mare an apple from my knapsack, and sat down to enjoy a wedge of cheese as I waited for the skies to stop leaking. After a short rest, I hopped back into Dusty’s saddle and we continued our journey to Bruma, admiring the picturesque view of the White-Gold tower standing tall in the centre of the Imperial City as we passed.

I found my mind drifting to Lucien again, and how he had come to recruit me all those months ago. I’d killed an innocent. I’m not proud of it, but they mocked and insulted me, and when you’re tired and starving, tempers fly. That night, I awoke to a hooded figure standing at the end of my bed, and initially I was ready to grab the nearest object and throw it at the perverted intruder who dared to stand at a woman’s bedside while she slept, but then he announced his business. Lucien offered me a place in the Dark Brotherhood, and after living alone, barely making it by for almost a year, it seemed like a blessing.

The sun was setting behind the mountains now, and Bruma was only a short ride away. As Dusty carried me up the slopes and through the snow, I sighed relief. Lucien was close, hiding out in a small farmhouse called Applewatch, just down the road behind the city of Bruma. We passed the city and rode down the frosty track, my icy breath appearing a bright orange as the setting sun’s ember rays cast down over the white valley.

I felt an adrenaline rush as the old wooden building came into view.

Leaving Dusty by the gate, I took a deep breath and approached the door, hoping Lucien wouldn’t notice my joy for he would only make some stupid remark about it, no doubt. I sighed and pushed the door open, glad for it to all finally be over.

“Lucien, I found-“

No.

It couldn’t be.

My entire body froze, my mind went numb and I ceased to breathe as I took in what lay in front of my eyes.

The horrific scene sent chills through every inch of me, my heart faltered and my mouth hang agape as if I were about to say something, but I could think of no words to say.

There hung a body, suspended from the ceiling. Naked. Mauled, mutilated and mangled. But I knew it was him. I felt my stomach churn and my head go fuzzy, and before I knew it I was on my knees, retching and spluttering.

“Ah, here she is.” Came the voice of a woman, and through my blurred vision I recognised the tanned, golden skin of an Altmer, and the black robe of a Speaker, the same rank that Lucien holds.

Held, I should say. Other Speakers stood around the body, all cloaked in black get-ups.

I fumbled for my knapsack, my hands shaking.

“It is alright, assassin. The traitor is dead. Lucien Lachance has been brought to justice.” Spoke the woman again, although her words seemed empty and drummed around my head like meaningless gibberish.

“H-He was... he was innocent.” I croaked, clutching my bag to my chest as I tried to steady my hands and undo the latch, though it was futile.

“Innocent?” She larked. “Fear not child, he had you carry out his orders, and so no blame will befall you. You are free from that traitors clutches now.”

I stared ahead at Lucien’s lifeless body, my vision clouded with frustrated tears.

“You need not worry. As Lucien’s Silencer, you will now take his place as a Speaker. Our work here is done, now we must commune with the Night Mother, for the Listener is dead.”

Before I was given the chance to respond, I was handed the black robes and told to get ready to leave for Bravil. I sat there holding the robes for what seemed like an eternity, for I knew them to be Lucien’s. I felt sick, for the robes were still warm.

“Y-you’re wrong, it wasn’t him!” I rasped, reaching again for my knapsack.

Another Speaker approached, speaking hurriedly.

“But we have all the evidence we needed. It was Lucien that had you carry out all those orders, it was he who had you murder the Listener himself! There is no need to discuss it further. The traitor has been stopped, and now there is other business that we must attend to.” I glanced at the mans face, a withered looking Breton with dark, malicious eyes. “So, get yourself ready.” He proceeded to lead the other Speaker away, and the four of them conversed at the other end of the house. I begrudgingly donned the robes and pulled the oversized hood over my head, averting my gaze from Lucien’s corpse.

“I’m sorry.” I whispered, my breath shaky. Had I arrived here quicker, Lucien would still be alive. He would still be here with me, and he would not have had to endure whatever torture these people subjected him to. Guilt swept over me as I remembered the time where I would have smiled to see him like this, back when I wanted nothing more than to see him suffer. But that was before, now it only made me sick, and devastated. He was all that I had left, and now he too was gone. For the first time in many months I was truly alone, again.

“Ready to leave?” Asked the Altmer, looking at me with a smile that most would have deemed pleasant, but to me it was an expression that reeked of lies and evil.

“Ready.” I mumbled. Turning my head, I took one last look at the body, still hanging from the ceiling like a deer ready for dressing. You could barely tell it was him, that once handsome face with strong, dark features was damaged beyond recognition. They didn’t just kill him. They destroyed him, and they enjoyed doing it.

As I stood there, Lucien’s old robes weighing down my shoulders, engulfing me, I heaved a gentle sigh and closed my eyes, for I could feel my tear ducts beginning to fill. Old and familiar faces came to mind, Ocheeva’s scaly skin and reptilian eyes, accompanied by a smile that was friendly, despite baring many sharp, pointed teeth, Antoinetta Marie a young Breton barely older than myself, full of life and optimism, Ungolim, a brutish and rather obnoxious Orc, but a man that always laughed.

Vicente.

Vicente Valtieri, the man who had welcomed me into the sanctuary and helped me get back on my feet. A man who, despite being a vampire, a creature considered evil and savage by nature, showed me more kindness that anyone else had in all the time I had been in Cyrodiil.

Then the dark and brooding face of a man whose eyes seemed to glisten with passion, deep brown irises that were warm and inviting, but also sent shivers down my spine. His long black hair, tied back in a ponytail, and his strong jawline, rough with light stubble, fresh in my mind as if he stood here now. He held an apple in hand, its bright, crimson-red skin reflecting in his eyes.

“Sithis will forgive any murder...” Lucien’s words echoed through my mind, his rich, resonant voice so clear it were as if he were standing beside me.

I took a deep breath, and the other Speaker’s began to gather at the front door to the farmhouse, preparing to leave.

“Perhaps Sithis will forgive me, but I never will.” I mumbled, pulling the knapsack over my shoulder as I turned away from what remained of Lachance.

And as I stood there, waiting to depart for Bravil, where we would commune with the Night Mother, and the traitor would later be revealed and brought to justice, and I would find myself in a position most unexpected as the new Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, one question seemed to drum inside my mind.

“Why, Sister?”