Chapter Text
9:20 Dragon
She had ceased struggling an hour ago. There was little hope of getting herself out of this trap, her hands bound tightly behind her back, her ankle most likely broken, and a blindfold wrapped tightly around her eyes.
That being said, she had willingly walked into the trap, willingly made what seemed to be a panicked flight back with only a few of her remaining retinue to her family's holdings back in the Free Marches. Willingly let her captors think her servants abandoned her out of terror
And by falling into their trap, she had placed her own, one which they'd tripped most beautifully.
Because while she, the Countess Dowager Livonia Falkreath was most likely about to die, the true Countess, slumbering in the arms of her protector, would be far, FAR away. And Maker willing, she'd beyond the reach of this vendetta.
The carriage stopped, and arms roughly grabbed her. She heard words whispered by her captors, hard to make out, not that she could make out what was said. The language was clearly Antivan, not the regular Trade. She shuddered at the touch, not because she was afraid, more like she was repulsed. To think they'd stooped this far…
She heard a set of heavy wooden doors open, felt the warm air blast in her face, the sound of footsteps on fine marble. But instead of the perfumed scent of flowers that all noble houses seemed to be doused in, there was only a single fragrance: Steamed Ginger.
"Ah, is that who I think it is?" The delighted voice froze the blood in her veins. So this was it. She was before the victor of this age long vendetta, started long before she had married into the Falkreaths, long before her husband's great grand sire had even been born.
"It is, your Grace." An unfamiliar voice of a middle aged woman, heavily Antivan came from her right. "We caught her near the border, along with a few bodyguards who were more than happy to abandon what they knew was a lost cause when they saw us."
Good, they had fallen for it. Her heart soared.
"But…" the imperious woman's voice broke through that euphoria. "Where was the child?"
"There was no child. And trust us, I had my best trackers on her trail for three days. There was no possible way she could have hidden her while fleeing from us."
"Hmmmph. We shall see…" there was the sound of fine porcelain clinking. "Take off the blindfold, I will lead the questioning."
She was nearly blinded by the sudden brightness, but she did her best to not to show any weakness, and she needed to know where she was, and who and how many people were her captors. Escape was quite improbable, but she had learned in these past three years to be observant about everything. It had kept her alive up to this point.
She was in a manor, well furnished, the fine marble floor the shade of weathered bone. Art and sculptures from several ages covered the walls. And in the middle of this room was an upholstered couch, an intricately carved side table next to it, with a single cup of steaming tea upon it. A woman, clad in dark leather, stood beside it, and she could feel at least two others behind her.
And sitting there on that couch imperiously, was that woman that Livonia had never met, but knew at sight.
"Duchess Penelope Karppinen…" she looked at the duchess's attendant, "I never thought you'd stoop to using Crows for our rivalry."
The Duchess stood up, perhaps in a way to intimidate her, or perhaps as a defensive instinct. "I won't apologise for the decision I've taken. We are at war, countess-"
"Countess Dowager," she corrected.
Karppinen ignored her, and continued. "We must take every advantage we can to defeat our enemies. What would you have me do? Follow the antiquated rules of engagement and drag out this affair for another generation?" Unconsciously, her hand went to her swollen belly, as if to protect the life within. "As the final living member of my house, I must take EVERY step to secure a future for my child." She looked down at Livonia, and there was something like pity on her face.
"My dear, you could have avoided all of this, but you decided to weld yourself to this doomed family." Her face hardened again, "Now save yourself the emotional agony, accept the inevitable, and tell us where your daughter is."
Still, she would not bend, "You've already killed her father, and you will kill me, what point is there to killing her?" Her daughter was innocent of everything save for carrying the Falkreath name, surely the Duchess would understand that!
Her plea fell on deaf ears. "At least your daughter was held by her father, for however short of time, mine will never know theirs, thanks to your husband's actions."
"And I could say the same for your father, who murdered my father-in-law and his sister."
The Duchess parried her accusation, glancing at the woman at her side, "hence why I have taken these steps. This wound has been festering for far too long, causing lasting injury to our house. It's time to cauterize the rot."
There was a sudden noise to the side, as a couple of servants carried something large, covered in rough canvas. Immediately, they saw what they had walked into, and halted. The duchess acted as if they had merely walked into a couple of noblewoman gossiping over tea instead of an interrogation. "Ah! Take it into the trophy room! I've already had a place cleared out for it." The men nodded, and awkwardly continued moving it, and as they did so, part of the canvas slipped, revealing a face.
It took all of her willpower to not cry out, recognizing that handsome man, his silver hair that she loved framing his face. Their wedding portrait, painted during those halcyon days a mere three years ago, before he had inherited his title from his grandmother and the massacres resumed. Now, he was dead, no doubt interred in the Grand Necropolis, his death so sudden, she hadn't even been able to partake of the rituals, to bestow upon him his grave gold, to take the Widow's Portion.
Her only consolation was, Maker willing, she would join him soon. But still, she must try to save the one thing more precious than the coffers of the Royal Family.
"You've won, Penelope." She hoped using her name in a familiar manner would placate her. "Your family is triumphant, while mine lies in ruins. What more do you want?"
The Duchess pulled herself to her full height, her gaze full of fire and rage. "I want every. single. one. of. you. wiped. out. Only the blood of Falkenraths will cleanse this vendetta. If I were to spare your child, she would undoubtedly seek vengeance. Not today, not tomorrow, but eventually. And who would pay the price for my weakness?" She clutched at her belly, the answer readily apparent. "So I ask again… where is your child?"
Livonia gave out a bitter laugh. "You honestly think I would betray my daughter? Your victory must have made you delusional. I. Will. Tell. You. Nothing."
The Duchess nodded. "I would expect nothing less from a mother." There was understanding in that voice, empathy, and pride. "But…" she turned to the Crow, "I cannot accept that answer. You WILL reveal her hiding place, and Caterina here has ways of… persuading you."
The Crow stepped forward, her naked blade glimmering in the torch light.
Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as Livonia considered her life. It had been good, albeit short. She remembered her life in the moorlands outside Ostwick, riding her little pony. She remembered meeting the man that would be her husband, the way they danced at the midsummer ball. She remembered the way he draped her with gold at the wedding ceremony, the way his eyes lit up as he held his daughter for the first time. She did not regret any of her past choices. As she knew she would not regret this final choice.
She knew that despite her devotion to her daughter's safety, she was still human, and under the skilled blades and exquisitely torturous poison of an Antivan Crow, even she might break.
She took a deep breath, spoke a few words commending her soul to the Maker, and as the woman approached, she made her move. She was a Trevelyan after all, even if only distantly related to the main line, but they had all been taught the quickest way to kill, the precise angle for a blade to lodge in the heart.
The severe looking woman, and her compatriots had no doubt expected her to pull back in terror and had braced themselves for her sudden movement backwards. What they did not expect was her launching herself forward at her. Out of instinct, the Crow held up her dagger in a defensive pose, assuming that her attacker would be deterred by its deathly sharpness.
What she didn't expect was that Livonia was hoping for that reaction, as the blade pierced through her clothing, past skin and muscle….
And straight into her heart.
There was a sharp pain, but it was ethereally beautiful, especially accompanied by the rarely seen look of shock on the Crow's face. Dimly, she felt hands yanking her back, felt the warmth of her own blood spilling out of her chest, and felt the cold numbness hitting her limbs.
She heard the echoing sound of blood dripping on the marble floor, a stain that would never be washed out. She heard the sound of feet running towards her. And most deliciously of all, she heard the Great and Powerful Duchess of Cumberland's wails and shrieks.
"NO! SHE CANNOT DIE! NOT YET! NOT UNTIL I GET MY ANSWER FROM HER!"
She saw… nothing. Just an endless void of immeasurable darkness. She really ought to be frightened. She wasn't Nevarran, she hadn't quite understood the culture of death as they did. She remembered the day before the second happiest day of her life, her soon to be husband had taken her to his family crypt. She was a bit hesitant, seeing all these monuments to death, and how he fearlessly strode in to perform the ancient custom of introducing his betrothed to his family, and to seek their blessing. His father and mother, (the latter dying from childbirth, the former from the blades of the Karppinens). His aunt, who was not much younger than she was when she died. His Grandfather, his tomb still carefully tended to by the elderly Countess.
There were dozens of relatives who needed an introduction, and her mind swirled under the weight of names and how they were related. And that's when she realized that this custom wasn't that different from back home, where every relation, no matter how distant, must be called upon to announce the marriage. The only difference was that the dead were included with the living, treated as equals.
"You see, Livvie?" He had used that affectionate term with her, an honour she bestowed solely upon him, "Here, with the dead, I am not alone. I have my family with me… Though the Karpinnen's may have taken away most of my living family, they are still with me."
She took comfort in that, as her senses failed her one by one. No longer could she smell the ginger in the air, taste the blood in her mouth, feel the cool marble underneath her. Even the screams of the Duchess, furious that she had been outwitted and would never find the child, were muted.
And even though she could not see it, she sensed that, even as she slipped into death, she was smiling.