Chapter Text
A cold shiver runs down Martin’s spine. He’s being followed.
He tries to play it cool, maybe buy himself enough time to get back into a busy main road before whoever’s behind him can pick him off. He gradually picks up the pace, first a brisk walk, then a trot-bordering-on-a-jog, but just when he can see a busy, well-lit thoroughfare just up ahead and he’s a split second away from sprinting into it—
“You!” Someone has him by the arm and yanks him back into the shade of the alleyway.
Martin shrieks, but then a gloved hand is over his mouth.
“What do you know about these assassins?”
Martin bites the hand through its thick glove, and whoever’s behind him yelps and pulls away. Before he can get grabbed again, Martin is able to turn on his heel and back off into a proper defensive stance. “Get away from me! I’m not one of them!”
The handsy stranger looks about ready to lunge, but then catches himself and hangs back. He’s clad in a set of tight leather armor dyed such a rich black it shimmers purple, but he doesn’t look so eager for a fight. “Obviously. You’re much quicker on your feet… and bolder, too.”
“Are you… tracking them?” Martin loses some of the tension in his body as he sees he’s not about to be skinned alive just yet.
“Of course. And it would appear you are, as well.” He laughs. “Most people don’t walk so deliberately through these little side-streets. If I didn’t know any better, I’d be worried you were law enforcement. But you don’t look the part.”
Martin glances down self-consciously at his modest priest robe. He’s glad this little altercation didn’t actually turn bloody; his getup isn’t designed for that at all. He huffs and looks back up. “Yours doesn’t look like guard’s armor either, you know.”
“Hardly relevant. What matters is that I intend to track these lousy skeevers directly into their nest. You would be wise to get out of my way.”
“I’m here on behalf of the Emperor. I’m not about to give up any leads.”
“The Emperor sent you? One single priest? …You are a priest, right?” He laughs. “If that’s the best he has to offer, perhaps I should pay him a friendly visit sometime…”
“Oh, be quiet. It’s not officially sanctioned, by any means.”
“Incognito on both sides, are you? Devious. I’m intrigued.”
“I…” Martin is about to spin some ridiculous yarn, but stops himself once he realizes what he’s doing. “I know I shouldn’t give you any of the details. But I am getting desperate. This group we’re tracking— this organization, whatever you want to call it— is looking for me. If I don’t find them soon enough, they’re going to find me first.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Really? Is that all you have to say?”
“What else do you want from me? Heartfelt condolences? Just because we have a common enemy doesn’t mean your problems are automatically my problems. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” The stranger turns to make his exit, but Martin seizes his wrist.
“But my success could be your success, too. Please, lend me a hand.”
“Hmmm. Depends on how much you’re paying.”
“Do I look like I have the means to throw gold at every shady-looking man who gives me the time of day?”
“No, you don’t. So I’ll be on my way.”
Martin doesn’t let go of his wrist; if anything, he squeezes it tighter. “Either you leave here with me, or with the guards.”
“The guards? Oh, you wouldn’t dare.”
“Would you like to test me?”
“I don’t know; would you like to meet the business-end of my dagger?”
“Please, just help me on this one little search! You may very well be my only chance.”
“Am I?”
“Yes!”
“Tragic. I don’t offer my services to anyone who isn’t paying up front. Now, unhand me.” With his free hand, he reaches for the dagger sheathed on his belt.
Martin grimaces and sighs, but lets him go. “Fine. Say hello to my dead body if you see it later.”
“With pleasure.” And with that, he casts Chameleon and vanishes.
Martin mutters something to himself about whether or not this disguise is worth the complete lack of authority.
Turns out the merchant that Martin had talked to earlier had heard right… and so were the three subsequent Cheydinhal citizens he’d crossed paths with. Sure, asking in plain sight about whether anyone had seen an assassin with a very specific description is probably not the most subtle method, but it’s getting results, and that’s what Martin cares about.
He ends up being pointed out the west gate and then north along the looming city wall. He feels very, very exposed… and not just from the brisk wind rushing past. He isn’t sure whether to stay in plain sight of the guards, or sidle up against some shrubs for makeshift cover.
Just up ahead, past the Knights of the Thorn lodge, the colossal talon of a collapsed Gate to Oblivion juts out of the hillside, though its black-and-red color has faded a bit from the sunlight and the encroaching lichen growth. Most of the surrounding black rubble has been hauled off and repurposed— they have good ore in the Deadlands, apparently— but, as per his Champion’s request, a quaint little decorative garden now surrounds what’s left of the jagged Daedric stonework. Skinny red sprigs of bloodgrass peek up between the green ferns.
Then that same shiver from earlier races over his back and all down his arms, and Martin turns just in time to see someone lunging at him.
It happens in slow motion.
As he turns, he thinks, Gods damn it, twice in one day?
Someone’s just a few yards away. They run with heavy steps that thud against the grass— one, two.
Martin’s hand flies to his hip but finds no dagger. Damn! Pickpocketed and sent out to die!
Whoever it is ahead of him, they’re pulling out their own knife.
Martin takes a half-step back, turning his body, bracing himself to cast a spell that he can’t afford to miss.
A shimmer in the air to the left, like ripples on the surface of a pond, and then his assailant slams hard onto the swaying grass, almost skidding a little, pinned under a figure of deep violet-black. The knife is flung aside and disappears into a patch of milk thistle.
Martin can only stand there dumbly, keeping a proper fighting stance but otherwise a bystander in whatever’s suddenly going on here.
It’s a familiar sight, but thankfully Martin’s not on the bad end of it this time: the man in the violet-black armor has the would-be assassin grappled beneath him, and he’s pressing the flat side of his glossy ebony dagger firmly against the poor sap’s bobbing trachea. “Who sent you?!” His voice is a rough snarl, like a hard swipe of sandpaper.
Whoever’s underneath him is struggling and swatting, gritting their teeth, clearly refusing to answer.
“I won’t ask again. Who sent you?”
Martin cautiously draws closer to survey the action, hesitant to get between two dueling killers, and he can see his attacker wince with their mouth shut tight in clear defiance.
It’s the last thing they do. A burst of deep red wells up below their chin, flowing easily onto the grass, and they go slack.
Perhaps against his better instincts, Martin takes another step or two. “…Why did you do that?”
“They weren’t giving me any answers. I warned them. They knew the risks.”
“No, no, I mean… You saved my life.”
The man stands up, shaking the fresh blood from his gloved hand as casually as dishwater. “Mere coincidence. You had their full attention, so it was the perfect opportunity to surprise them.”
Martin’s about to snap at him, but instead he heaves a slow, deep breath. “Thank you.”
By the look on his face, the mysterious stranger was expecting the snarky reply instead. He blinks. Maybe he isn’t used to kindness? “Then, you’re welcome, I suppose.”
Martin moves to reach out for a handshake, almost startling the stranger in the process. “May we have a proper introduction?”
The man glances down at Martin’s outstretched hand, otherwise unmoving.
“Really, I don’t mind the blood.”
It’s the coldest, most awkward handshake either of them have ever had.
“Would you be so kind as to tell me your name? Even if you do plan to just disappear again after this.”
“Lucien.”
“That’s a nice name. Lucien… Lux, light. Maybe it suits you, in a funny way.” Martin laughs awkwardly and brushes off the front of his robe. “I’m Martin.”
“Ah, like the dainty little bird.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s one way to remember it…”
Lucien eyes him up and down. “What is it that you do for a living, Martin?”
Even though it’s a bold-faced lie, the words come refreshingly easy to him, and it feels almost nostalgic:
“I’m a priest.”
Lucien slips into the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn under the cover of his Chameleon spell, and as he ghosts up the stairs to Brother Martin’s rented room, he has to admit: it’s a bit strange how he’s only ever done this to the unconscious and unaware. Maybe he should get out more.
He knocks once.
Martin opens the door before Lucien ends his Chameleon spell… and just about jumps out of his boots at the sight of Lucien suddenly manifesting out of thin air. “Don’t do that!”
“Shh! Do you want to wake up the entire floor?”
“No, no, I suppose not. Please, come in.” He steps away from the door and beckons Lucien inside.
The room looks very cozy and lived-in, despite Martin having only been in it for a few days at best. He must have brought a good amount of supplies into town with him, but unfortunately, it’s mostly clothing and other clutter— not much in the way of weaponry or other means of self-defense.
Martin’s priest robe is folded haphazardly and set aside on a chair; he’s wearing some rather unassuming linens in its stead. The front of his tunic unlaced and its low neckline is neatly framing a tarnished bronze amulet of Akatosh.
Lucien stands uselessly in the front door for a second or two longer than he’d meant to before stepping in. That priest robe really didn’t do him justice, he thinks…
Martin sits stiffly at the dining table near the door. “I’m glad you could make it.”
“As am I.”
“Is that wine you’re carrying?”
Lucien lifts up the bottle in his free hand; it’s still sealed and labeled proudly, if vaguely, as something called Sparkling Honeydew. “I figured a little celebration would be in order. At least on your part. It’s not every day that you almost get murdered.”
“That’s very sweet of you.” Martin smiles graciously. “So, have you made your decision?”
“About whether or not I'll be helping you?” Lucien stands at the table where Martin is sitting and pours two glasses of the honeydew something-or-other.
Martin nods eagerly.
“Mmm. Well, that’s another reason I brought this wine.” He hands over a glass to Martin, careful not to spill any. “You might need to be inebriated to hear what I’m about to propose.”
“I don’t think I like the sound of that.”
“Then we can discuss the details later. But to be clear, I do want to help you.”
Martin has a hesitant, slightly worried smile. “I’m almost beginning to reconsider whether I want you to help me . All I know about you so far is that you know your way around a jugular, and you’re not above bribery.”
Lucien laughs, seating himself catty-corner to Martin. “I think that’s an accurate picture, for the most part. You must understand I do have a compassionate side.”
“Don’t tell me: you were compassionate by not killing me when you had the chance.”
“Precisely. I’m also being compassionate by fulfilling your request for my help. I’m happy to be of service.”
Martin takes a sip from his drink. Whatever this stuff is, it’s cloying and syrupy, but fizzy like champagne, and it has a distinct alcoholic burn. “Alright. I’m glad to hear it. But… why?”
“Well…” Lucien makes a show of settling into a more comfortable pose to stall for time. “You’ve no doubt surmised that I am not the most upstanding member of society.”
“Go on.”
“I have a… personal, but not strictly moral, issue with these saboteurs you’ve been tailing. They’ve been cutting into my business, into my profits. Here.” Lucien pulls something from his belt— the same dagger he’d put to good use just earlier, still in its sheath— and hands it over to Martin, who takes it carefully. “To prove I have no ill intent, and to avoid frightening you, I’m giving you my weapon.”
“You were right. I really, really don’t like the sound of this.” Martin takes another swig of his drink and sets it aside so he can unsheathe the ebony dagger and admire the way it catches the dim candlelight. It’s a gorgeous ore to smith anything from— almost dark as pitch, but with the slightest iridescent gleam to it, like a black pearl. That’s to say nothing of the intricate gold inlay adorning the hilt and running up the blade’s edges, which glitters even against the bright shine of the polished ebony.
And yet… there’s something sinister about this specimen. Martin’s only ever seen a few examples of ebony smithing, owing to how scarcely he’s mingled with the types who can afford to own it, but he’s noted that the golden accents are traditionally delicate, arcing floral motifs in a facsimile of Ayleid design. The patterns of this blade’s filigree seem similar at first glance, but as Martin holds it closer, he begins to see truly ghoulish visions in it: howling faces, grasping hands, and writhing snakes that slither through the eye sockets of skulls of every shape and size. There’s some horrible enchantment in this blade that’s slowly beginning to prickle at the skin of his fingertips and raise the hair on the back of his neck. Martin gasps and drops it on the table with an impossibly heavy thud. He looks up at Lucien.
Still lounging casually at the opposite corner, Lucien has been watching the scene in total silence. He raises his glass in a mock toast, smiling and tilting his head.
Martin can barely choke out the words. “Dark Brotherhood.
“You shouldn’t be so surprised. I thought that a priest such as yourself would be able to spot someone of my ilk from the other end of the city.”
“I’m… I’ve been… I’ve never actually met a member of the Brotherhood.” Martin clenches and opens his hands a few times, leaning away from the tabletop, trying to shake off the sickly tingling of the dagger’s corrupting magic like how one gets feeling back into their limbs. “You’re not, uh, sociable creatures.”
“No, we certainly aren’t.” Lucien makes a nudging gesture towards the dagger. “That, which you’ve so carelessly dropped, is a Blade of Woe. It is a sacred instrument with which we send souls to the Dread Father, Sithis.”
Martin glances down at where the blade is lying just in front of his chest. It almost seems to be whispering, though the voices sound much, much further away. Could any lost souls still be lingering in that shiny ebony…?
“We kill to serve the Dread Father, and to answer prayers to the Night Mother. You must understand: we fill a particular niche within society. We receive contracts from outside sources and we fulfill them to the letter. We do not make any plots ourselves. There is no collateral damage. Nothing is ever stolen and no innocents are harmed, only they who were already fated to die at the hands of whoever performed the Black Sacrament. Perhaps that does not justify our existence, nor our business, to one such as you, but if nothing else, you must understand the distinction between the Dark Brotherhood and any common cutthroat.”
Martin keep staring at that hideous blade and gulping down the Sparkling Honeydew, hoping the alcohol might dull the terror. He supposes it should be a comfort that Lucien so clearly disarmed himself, but… gods, what an awful weapon! He can’t look away!
“These saboteurs, however; this organization we’ve both been bumping up against… They follow no such code. They kill indiscriminately and openly, after which they ransack whatever they can find to pay for the next catastrophe. They have been a persistent thorn in my side and I will stop at nothing to see them exterminated for their transgressions. And, Martin…”
Martin looks up with the wild eyes and shallow breathing of a cornered animal. He’s shaking badly enough that he would be spilling his drink if he hadn’t finished it already.
“I swear to you that you will have complete immunity from any Brotherhood blade so long as you are working with me. And you may have me swear that oath in any way you so choose.”
After a few deep, deliberate breaths, Martin’s finally able to steel himself enough to reply. “That’s… hardly fair. I feel like I’m being blackmailed.”
“I cannot speak for my Brothers and Sisters, but I assure you I have no grand designs on you or your soul regardless of whether you accept my help. Nor am I urging you to come to an immediate decision.”
“I might need to think about it…”
“Entirely understandable.” Lucien holds out his hand.
Martin hesitantly reaches for the blade to hand it back.
“No, no. You may hold onto that as long as you wish, if it gives you any comfort about my allegiances. I ask only for your empty glass.”
“Oh.” Martin lets him refill it with the sugary booze. “Thank you.”
“Now… May I ask about your own motives? After all, I am now the unarmed one between us.” There’s a slight tease of humor to his tone, which seems almost out of place.
Damn. Martin doesn’t remember what he has and hasn’t told this man. He knows it’s probably best to just lie by omission instead of crafting an entirely fictional narrative, if just for his own sake; he doesn’t trust his nerves to keep his story straight under pressure later on. “I’m a priest of Akatosh; I’ve spent years working in and around the Cathedral of Akatosh in Kvatch.” He idly brings his free hand up to the amulet around his neck and rubs his thumb against the flat back of the carved dragon totem. “I’ve lived almost my whole life around Kvatch, so I haven’t seen most of the rest of Cyrodiil. But I…” Oh, how to phrase it? “I was in Kvatch when the first Oblivion Gate opened there, and the Daedra all but leveled the city. I became something of an expert in fighting them, out of necessity.”
Was that a pang of sympathy that just flashed across Lucien’s face? Can he even feel emotions like that, or are his only two moods ‘aloof’ and ‘bloodthirsty’?
“I’ve tried to dedicate myself as best I can to protecting Cyrodiil from Daedric threats. But I have a limited skillset, and very little formal training outside of what I learned on my feet during the Crisis. Which is why I need your help.”
“I’m flattered. Now, you mentioned Daedra… How are you so sure that our adversaries have any Daedric affiliation?”
“I don’t know. Call it a hunch. I guess if I knew for sure, I might be a little too intimidated to go after them on my own.”
“So your curiosity has gotten the better of you.”
“Yes, exactly. I want to help any way I can. And I think you know as well as I do that the city guards can’t be relied on to quash any genuine threats, which is why I’m operating somewhat outside of the law.”
“I remember you told me you weren’t on official business.”
“They consider me too important to risk at the front lines, which is exactly where I want to be. So… here I am.”
“Fascinating.” Lucien leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, holding the rim of his glass with his fingertips. “Absolutely fascinating. I so rarely see such a fire in an otherwise perfectly ordinary civilian, much less a man of the cloth. Most priests of the Divines simply limit their vengeance to passionate speeches and do little else beyond that, but, yes, here you are, getting your hands dirty when you could be safely observing from the Palace.” His eyes are sparkling with a peculiar wonder. “You mentioned training during the Crisis. Would you mind telling me what you know?”
“Well, not only am I more of a mage than a fighter, but I’ve also never been one for destruction magic, so I was very new to everything. I didn’t have much time for anything but the bare minimum… how to stand and hold your weapon so you don’t accidentally break your own bones trying to land a hit. Beyond that, I just had to get the hang of where the weak points are on different kinds of Daedra.”
“If nothing else I suppose it’s commendable you’ve survived any encounters with Daedra. Certainly more than I expected from a priest.”
Martin blushes a little. “Oh, you know, I’m just a product of my environment. I had to learn fast or die.”
“You deserve more credit than that. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been so intrigued about coming back and speaking with you. And, speaking of which… My proposal.”
“Go ahead. I don’t think you can say anything else to shock me at this point.”
“You’re not going to like the sound of it at all. But I can promise you it’s not just some impulsive whim. You see, I took notice of the way that individual outside the city wall hounded you. Yes, you were exposed, but so were they. Immediately I knew that you are a very high priority for this group—that one was putting themselves at an incredible risk to attack you.”
“I tried to warn you!”
“Forgive me if I had mistaken it for hyperbole. What do they want with you?”
Martin steels himself to lie for real this time and tries his best to commit it to memory so he doesn’t slip up later. “I’ve become a… very close advisor to the Emperor. If I’m gone, that weakens the royal cabinet to infiltration. A high-ranking priest is a prime target, especially if there’s a Daedric influence working to sever that connection to the Divines.” He fidgets in place. “And you saw how I’ve been weaseling out of their grip. I think at this point they’re just infuriated with me, and they hunt me out of spite.”
“This organization wants your head on a pike, and it seems they’ll stop at nothing to get it done. I’d like to use that to our advantage. I believe we can exploit this.”
“I… don’t think I follow. They want me dead, which is… good, somehow?”
“You have a remarkable knack for luring out would-be assassins. Myself included, if you will. I’m suggesting we let them pick up on our trail, just enough to draw them out for the attack, and then we strike when they’re expecting an easy kill.”
“Lucien! You want to use me as live bait!”
“That’s one way to phrase it, yes.”
Martin’s expression is inscrutable— a strange blend of worry, panic, embarrassment, and perhaps even excitement. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. He hums nervously in thought, flexing his hands, drumming on the table… all while looking down and away.
“As I said earlier, you do not need to decide right this moment. If you would prefer, I’ll take my leave for tonight so that you may sleep on your options.”
“I think that would be best.”
Lucien pushes his chair away and stands. “Then I’ll give you the space to think. I shall return in the morning. If you would like to go through with this, I’d ask that you begin packing your things, as we would be leaving Cheydinhal very soon— likely by this time tomorrow.” He starts for the door.
“Wait! Don’t you want your knife back?”
“No, no; my offer stands. Hold onto it until you have made your choice, and even longer if you desire.” He gives a coy smile. “Anything to show my sincerity.”
“Thank you, Lucien. I’ll… see you tomorrow morning, either way.”
“Sleep well, Brother Martin.” The air shimmers, and he’s gone.
The Blade of Woe seems a little less frightening now that it’s just a single lonely weapon left behind on a plain dining table. Martin picks it up again.
Strange. It’s like it was reacting to Lucien’s presence, and with him gone, the blade feels almost inert.
Martin’s heart is still racing, though.