Chapter Text
1st day of Second Seed, 3E 432 (15 months prior to the Oblivion Crisis)
Dark clouds rolled ominously over Leyawiin at dusk, a contrast to the sunshine of the day wherein he had observed his target on the shores of Topal Bay. It was the season of The Shadow, an ironic fact not overlooked by the hooded figure gazing up at the 2nd storey window of the Three Sisters’ Inn. Lucien Lachance, Speaker for the Cheydinhal branch of the Dark Brotherhood, did not know what reception he would receive from the woman he had been sent to recruit. He had been sent word from Ungolim, the Bosmeri Listener, of the Night Mother’s latest hopeful draftee. While this was nothing unusual, the description Ungolim provided suffused him with bittersweet nostalgia.
Distinctive Altmer. Female. 5’3”-5’5”. ~20-30 years of age by human standards. Pale skin. Silver hair. Amber eyes. Appears unarmed. Possible mage? Last noted as staying at the Three Sisters’ Inn in Leyawiin.
The description hurled his memory back to the previous year…
18th day of Sun’s Dusk, 3E 431
It had been an unusually cold autumn, with a dusting of snow coating the high roofs of Cheydinhal. Not that Lucien was surprised, it was just his luck. He had finally managed to take a week off from his duties and plan a vacation of sorts. In his plans, he had envisioned a picturesque hike through the Valus Mountains; a medley of russet tones assaulting his oculi and crunching underfoot. Well, there may still be crunching underfoot he hoped, anything would be preferable to squelching through snowmelt. Morrowind was where Lucian was headed, a destination of sharp tongues and ears; strange creatures and cuisine. Generally, it was not safe for Brotherhood members to venture to Morrowind on account of their rivalry with the Morag Tong. But, what type of holiday would it be without a dash of danger? He had only visited once before, nearly a decade ago, to visit a guild associate. His last visit had not been overly pleasant. The Tribunal had been in turbulence, the Morag Tong actively hunted Brotherhood members and he’d found out he was allergic to scrib jelly. Surely this trip couldn’t be any worse.
After ensuring everything was neatly arranged with Ocheeva and Vicente in the Cheydinhal sanctuary, Lucian slung his saddlebags over Shadowmere and they set off towards the border in the east. The trip was uneventful, it seemed as if the sudden drop in temperature had forced any would-be highwaymen into finding shelter. Along the way, Lucien gathered fungi and herbs. There was something relaxing about a man and his horse, out on holiday, gathering alchemical reagents. Not that assassinating in the name of Sithis and the Night Mother didn’t make for a rewarding profession, but the increasing guild politics grated on his nerves. The trip was arduous, and he often dismounted and led Shadowmere, but the gruelling exercise was a welcome respite for his turbulent mind. For the first night, they camped amongst the roots of a large tree, which provided a modicum of respite from the biting winds.
19th day of Sun’s Dusk, 3E 431
On the second afternoon, the duo saw the large border gate dividing Cyrodiil and Morrowind in the distance. Lucian had changed from his usual, shady black robes into plain, dark leathers more suited to a wandering sellsword. At the gates, the House Hlaalu guard stood to attention, a question evident in the raising of his eyebrows, “Are you here for business or pleasure, outlander?”
“Why not both?” Lucian replied, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards. This seemed to appease the guard, who stepped aside to let him pass once the visitor forms were filled out and the tourism levy was paid. 35 gold seemed a little steep, given the drab landscape that presented itself to him once he’d crossed the border, but it was supposedly for a worthy cause. Small print at the bottom of the visitor form claimed that the levy went towards conservation efforts, notably that of the wild silt strider and their habitats. Despite his detached attitude towards the sentient races of Tamriel, Lucien had a soft-spot for animals, which was evident in his affection for Shadowmere. Slinging himself up into the saddle, Lucian guided Shadowmere down the craggy mountainside. At times, he was forced to pull his cloak up to his mouth to filter out the ash that swirled in a lazy, intermittent fashion. They made a leisurely pace along roads flowing towards the south-east, following merchants and farmers as the landscape flattened. Day soon turned to dusk and they found themselves at the walls of Iliath Temple, an estate that once was a shrine to Azura. Lucien knew Dunmer were often wary of strangers, but he found that the Ashlanders took this to another level entirely. He’d had to rely heavily on his silver tongue to gain entry to the estate and once inside, he could not, for all he was worth, find any lodgings. Well, for himself at least. Shadowmere was welcomed and fawned upon at the stables. He should have expected that a race renowned for Daedra worship would fawn over the mare. Sighing to himself, he joined her in the stall, content with the fresh hay and shelter.
20th day of Sun’s Dusk, 3E 431
The ringing of steel on steel jolted Lucien awake, pieces of straw still clinging to his long, dark, unbound hair. Ignoring the ache in his side from where he’d slept with his weapon belt still attached and bothering only to shrug on his leather jerkin, he stumbled out of the stable and into the raw light of morning. Two warriors in circled each other in the open plaza; one an Ordinator, garbed in elaborate golden armour; the other, an unknown, attired entirely in chitin. A small crowd gathered around the duellers, yelling encouragement into the atmosphere already infused with the scent of ozone, sweat and freshly baked bread. Hand hovering over the shortsword on his left-hip, Lucien scanned the area for any signs of unrest or danger. His eyes alighted on the young stable hand who’d curried Shadowmere the previous evening. The youth was leaning casually against his pitchfork watching the duel, when Lucien roughly grabbed his elbow, “Quick lad, tell me, is trouble brewing or are duels always this common in the morning here?”
“Huh?” came the response, as the stable hand turned his head towards Lucien, “I thought the Warrior’s Festival was common all over Tamriel?” When Lucien made no move to release his elbow, he turned his head back towards the crowd and continued with excitement in his voice, “It happens on the 20th day of Sun’s Dusk every year! Many of the larger towns get travellers come from far and wide to buy weapons that are sold a fraction of their usual price.”
Lucien released the youth and relaxed, “Ahh, of course, my apologies. It seems the passage of time eluded me momentarily.” Noting how the young labourer gazed admiringly at the warriors, Lucien decided to be generous, “Say, how would you like to make a few extra gold, lad? Perhaps buy yourself a discounted weapon today?” Faster than the blink of an eye, the youth’s head snapped back towards Lucien. Grinning, Lucien continued, “Feed and saddle my mare, and show me the way to the closest city, and you’ll earn an easy 15 gold. How’s that sound?”
“Yes, sir” the youth hastily bowed and ran into the stable to begin the preparations.
Less than half an hour later, Lucien and Shadowmere were on the road south to Kragenmoor. Nudging Shadowmere into a canter, they flew through the agrarian landscape, only occasionally having to dodge nix-hounds and guar. The closer they got, the busier the roads became. Before Messer was even at its zenith, the spires of Kragenmoor were visible in the distance. Hlaalu guards with their yellow sashes and prominent scale emblems, were identifiable to Lucien because of their strong ties to the Empire. They guarded the walls and gates, however, guards with grey sashes and emblems Lucien did not recognise, also patrolled. There was a large stable outside the walls where Shadowmere took quite a liking to the apples on offer, and Lucien took a liking to the standards of care. Blending in with the crowd, he easily passed into the city, not that the guards seemed to mind who entered. Blacksmiths and vendors lined the streets, surrounded by arrays of weapons, and interested buyers. Lucien mingled amongst the stalls, finding the weapons well-made and well-priced. A new bow, quiver, enchanted longsword and a brace of ebony daggers soon found their way onto his person. Feeling sapped from haggling, sticky from the oppressive heat of too many bodies and too many volcanoes, Lucien made his way towards the large inn on the eastern side of town. An enigmatic sign hung above the door identified the inn as The Hissing Guar. Lucien briefly prayed under his breath, “Please, Dread Father. Please let there be a bed. Let me return to your employ well-rested.” Although he’d only slept rough for 3 nights, he hadn’t envisioned the entirety of his vacation sharing that fate. He moved to push open the door to the inn but was forced to leap backwards to avoid a Nord flying over the threshold; a Nord resplendent with vomit flying from his mouth towards the stunned Imperial. With a grimace, he made to step over the man who was now prostrate and imploring for Talos’ help. But no sooner had he lifted his foot and shifted his weight did he see what had caused the Nord to come flying at him in the first place. A pair of scorching red eyes halted him in his tracks. The volcanic eyes belonged to a scowling Dunmeri woman wielding an impressive broom, no doubt the proprietor. “If you dare to set foot in here, may what you’ve just witnessed serve as a warning. If you even think to cause trouble in my inn, no prayers to any Aedra or Daedra will spare you my wrath, Imperial! Understood?”
Allowing his foot to continue its forward momentum, Lucien turned his most beguiling smile upon the woman, “Fear not. I come seeking refreshment and respite only. Your fellow townsfolk drive a hard bargain out in the market, and I only wish to avail myself of your hospitality, not to cause any hostility.” He followed the stern woman to bar, unaware of a keen set of amber eyes following the course of his smooth gait.
“What’s your poison?” asked the innkeeper, as she began furiously wiping tankards. At least the cleaning cloth looked fresh.
Settling himself on a stool, Lucien continued flashing his beguiling smile, “A bed, a simple meal and perhaps a tub of water to bathe in? My purse isn’t empty yet, don’t worry.”
Slamming a freshly wiped tankard down, the innkeeper cast a fresh glare at him, “No rooms for outlanders,” her face softened slightly before adding, “however, we do have saltrice topped with grab meat, guar egg on bread or ash yams with scrib jelly on the menu today, take your pick.”
Lucien’s throat constricted at the mere mention of scrib jelly and he supressed a groan. “Please, good lady, I’ve been travelling for days in your fair land without a proper bed; a simple tourist on holiday. I mean no harm to you or your business and I certainly have no inclination to behave as the Nord you evicted just before,” holding up his coin purse, he continued, “and I’ll pay you twice, no, triple, your usual rate!”
The chiming on coins appeared to have no effect, “I said, no outlanders. You think you can come here, in your fancy clothes, with your fancy words, a purse full of freshly minted coins in your first and before I know it, you’ll have some poor Dunmeri girl up in your bed, belly full of your seed, and Azura knows what else, and nothing to show for it before you kick her to the curb!” The venom in her voice nearly had Lucien toppling backwards off his stool.
“Please, I meant no disrespe—” his continued attempt at persuasion was cut short by a warm presence at his elbow. He began to swivel around and pull his arm away but ceased when he felt a sharp fingernail begin to dig between his ribs.
“Forgive my s’wit of a husband, madam. This is his first time in Morrowind and he’s completely forgotten his manners. I think the all the beatings he’s received in duels today have dulled his wits more than usual,” said the elf at his side, pausing to coo at him affectionately, “Please, would you be so kind as to accommodate us for the night? You can even send up extra pillows and I’ll smother him if he does so much as snores.”
The innkeeper snorted at the beaming Altmer’s proclamations, “Your husband, is he? Thought you Altmer ones were strict about who you take to your beds?”
“How could I resist those dark, dashing looks?” the elf giggled, “I didn’t see him walk in, I was just so shocked about what that large, blonde barbarian was saying. My sweetheart was out in the market, hopefully getting me a present. You see, we’re here for our 5th wedding anniversary!” she beamed, holding up her left hand, displaying a sizeable diamond carat on a silver band, “I told him he simply had to see Mournhold when the trees are changing! We even have a gondola trip on the River Odai booked for next week! It’s so romantic. He proposed to me in Alinor during a crui—”
The innkeeper held up her hands in surrender, and Lucien had to admit, he was pleased, the fervour with which the Altmer was discussing their ‘marriage’ had him unnerved.
“Okay, okay. Fine! Spare me the details of your marital bed, I beg. The room is 40 gold and you can have a tub for bathing, but you’ll have to heat your own water.”
The elf threw her arms around Lucien and pressed a kiss to his cheek, which, oddly enough, seemed to be as high as she could reach even though he was sitting. Then, through some unknown agreement, they smoothly and simultaneously produced 20 gold each and set the piles on the counter.
“The room is up the stairs and at the end of the corridor. I’ll have my boy bring up a tub. Any grief and you’re both out. Now please, leave me in peace.”
Grabbing the key off the innkeeper and Lucien with her other hand, the unusually small elf began dragging him up the stairs. She bounced ahead of him, her small hand feeling like ice in his own. It provided him with his first opportunity to study his saviour. Silver hair cascaded down her spine in waves, interrupted only by a small braid on the right-hand side. The hand holding his was delicate, with pale skin that only displayed a slight golden hue. With each step, fresh notes of bergamot and lavender assaulted him, causing a worrying tingle to wash over his body. He couldn’t restrain his eyes the higher they climbed up the staircase; her hair ended mid-waist, but his eyes kept roving lower. Lucien tried to brush off his mounting interest. Yes, it had been a while since he’d been with a woman, but he had to keep his wits about him; he knew nothing about her. On the other hand, it wasn’t every day a woman led him up the stairs to their fictional marriage bed.
As soon as Lucien had entered the room and shut the door behind him, he found himself pressed up against it as the elf in front of him spun suddenly around. Amber, her eyes are beautiful, soft rounds of amber, was his first thought. Closely followed by, not soft amber, hard fossilised sap, as the prior visage of a happy, spoilt wife melted from her face as she glowered up at him. “Firstly, some house rules: You can have the bed if I get a pillow and the first bath. No funny business or I’ll carve a hilarious grin into your cheeks, and it would be a such shame to mar such features. All I want is a good night’s rest before I leave this forsaken expanse and I imagine, from your failed attempts downstairs, you’re quite weary yourself. Secondly, do be a dear and let the servant with the tub in while I’m gone, I won’t be long.”
And with that, Lucien was left staring dumbfounded as she spun back around and swiftly sidled out of the only window before he could even ask her name.