Elder Scroll series 1. In the wrong pockets

It was a funny thing. She'd just been granted the title of Grey Fox, earned her place in history for stealing an Elder Scroll, sneaked under the noses of hundreds and hundreds of people none the wiser, and picked the pockets of just about every guard in the Imperial City just to say she had. All of these things under her belt, and she still got caught with her hand in his pocket.

He had seemed a simple enough target; a tall Imperial in dark robes, hood drawn, surely a mage. She spotted him while skulking the Waterfront; she was just about to turn in for the night when footsteps appeared right in her line of vision, along with the faintest sniff of some familiar lost perfume, leather and nightshade, home and comfort. She'd thought to ignore it as she was quite a bit tipsy, but then he appeared out of nowhere, hood obscuring his features as he recast a chameleon spell with a muttered phrase and flick of the wrist. She was hooked.

He didn't see her coming at all. Not that he seemed all that rich. It wasn't about the money, anyways. It was the challenge, the rush of being so intimately close to a person without them ever noticing, It was about lifting prized possessions from their person with skill, replacing the weight if it was heavy, and then later greeting that person on the street like a long lost friend. Sometimes it was a close call, but she was a master of stealth, and there wasn't an alley she couldn't disappear in. So it was surprising indeed when she found her wrists in a bone crushing grip above her head, back shoved against dilapidated walls, a dagger pressed to her throat. The faintest of cuts marred her neck, a trickle of blood rolling lazily down white skin. She shuddered, struggling as carefully as she could, but it did little as the man used his body to hold the squirming thief still.

"You are not the first to attempt such a thing, thief. Hmm, what was it I did last time? Ah, yes." The dagger moved up higher, pressing ever closer to her left eye before she began struggling in earnest. The jostling and shaking continued until her hood fell off, and she glared up at the now still man until she too froze, a faint gasp catching in her throat.

"L-Lucien...?" her voice was a tremor, faint even from his intimate position, but it didn't matter. She was there. She was alive.

She was pissed.

This is my first time posting any sort of story, aside from first person summaries of my D&D group's adventures. Please be kind! Any advice would be appreciated.


	2. A Stranger's Reunion

Thank you for the follows and review!

And I suppose I should have put this on my first chapter, but here it goes now: I do not nor will I ever own the Elder Scrolls or Lucien Lachance. All original characters are my intellectual property.

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It was almost comical, seeing the extreme change in emotions cross her features. Anger, pain, heartache, hope, happiness, relief? And all in such rapid succession. He lowered his blade, sheathing it without ever breaking contact with her body, never even breaking eye contact. Those pale blue, nearly white orbs had haunted him for years, that last look of desire she ever spared keeping him awake much more than he'd dare admit. Never had he imagined she'd be there again, eyes the same, face the same save several hair-thin scars, skin the same cream and roses it had always been, and her hair dark and rich mahogany. And apparently, the same temper she'd always had.

"Get your damn hands off me!" she practically hissed, pulling as hard as she could in an effort to force her release. He didn't loosen his grip, however, instead taking a wrist in each hand and thrusting them down by her side. This had the desired effect of her silence, but it was over when she slammed her forehead into his face, the force breaking his nose with a sickening and very satisfying crunch. Freed at last, she pulled her dagger, silvered, bejeweled and very obviously enchanted, from its sheath. In that brief time Lucien drew his blade as well, murmured a phrase, and disappeared. This should have scared the woman, but instead she began to laugh.

"Do you truly think that will help Lucien?" She stood still, not turning her head from side to side, not twitching. Instead that manic grin spread across her face once more. The echo of his laughter lingered in her ears.

"You don't have to boast to me, Elisif. Your eyesight is not so clever." That voice, the deep, dark timbre of it, threatened to bring her undone, memories of times long past dredged up with the merest shudder of breath from him (and how long had she sat imprisoned, imagining his voice, be it in joy or rage that he used it), but she focused. This had been too long in the making for a bit of sentimentality to get in the way.

In an attempt to humor her mark turned assassin, Elisif turned slowly, eyes skimming the ground, but Lucien was much too light of step to leave a trail in this grass, and she knew his step was almost silent, the lapping of the nearby bay covering what remained. With a shrug, Elisif stood with her legs shoulder-width apart, knees loose, arms at her side, and eyes closed, elegant face pointed to the heavens. The smile was gone. Ready to be done with this, Lucien came from behind, prepared to slice through her delicious throat-

With a twist of her torso Elisif brought the assassin down. On the ground he was, quite visible with her hands clamped to his wrists, beating one against the rocky ground until he dropped his dagger, his hand now battered and pathetic. Though slim of frame, she held him down with her weight and a quickly cast spell that increased his burden. Her legs were stretched out against his in hopes of preventing escape.

"Perhaps I couldn't see you, my love, but when have you not smelled like home to me?" she whispered, the crazed smile creeping back onto her face. "Now, how would you like me to finish this, Lucien?" Those lips that once haunted him years ago pressed lightly against the tip of his throbbing nose, eliciting a hiss from her prisoner. In her carelessness and relentless teasing, she let the spell dissapate, and Lucien slammed her on the hard ground, forcing a grunt from her chest as he clamored on top of her instead, blood steadily dripping from his nose and oozing from his injured sword hand onto her creamy skin. He easily took her small hands in one of his, holding her still with his superior strength, no spells needed, and the smile on her face faded.

"Fine, dear Lucien." she murmured, and tilted her head back, offering her neck to him. "I told you once before, if the last thing I felt was to be a murderous death, I'd have the hands I love deliver the blow." She peered back up at him, seeing his own enjoyment of the situation, her helplessness and acknowledgement of such. She had been so sure he would want to draw it out, but he brought the dagger up to her throat, the hands of a seasoned killer preparing for the fatal slice.

"Anything else, Elisif, or are you ready for the Void?" his face was pure ecstasy, the prelude to the calm of the kill, the dreadful and terminal thud of the dying heart slipping into blissful silence. He wanted to commence, but hadn't he been brought up with impeccable manners? He waited for her response patiently.

There were no tears, no trembling lips, and no fearful glances. She was calm and collected, and when she spoke, it was not what he had expected. "The Void ought to make ready for me, I think. One question though, and I hope you will answer honestly."

"Quickly then." he murmured, and she looked him dead in the eyes, no trace of mad humor left.

"Why did you become the betrayer, Lucien? In my youth and stupidity I thought we were- Even the perfect dark and silence of the Void wouldn't have kept us from knowing the other inside and out. Who else could say they understood one another so well?" His reaction was surprise, incredulity, and doubt.

"Don't spit your venom, snake." he growled, and to another it would have been menacing, to any other he had faced it would have spelled immediate death, but to her, it was nothing. "I had every reason to hunt you down for what you did, but I was young and foolish, a romantic who _knew_ you were an innocent, that you would never feed information to our enemies. I thought you'd fled to a life in the light, that you'd ran from me. And now I'm doing what I should have done back then, your happy life be damned." Still, his hands were not so certain, his body not so forceful, and Elisif took advantage, wresting her hands free and knocking the dagger from his grip. He did not move to stop her.

"Did you think I ran away, spent my life on the beaches of the Summerset Isles?" she laughed mirthlessly and sat up, taking a reluctant hand in hers, bathing his broken skin in healing magick and later doing the same for his nose. Gingerly the blood was wiped from the assassin's face, and then an awful silence followed. He was toying again with the dagger, and she was watching him do it until finally she couldn't stand anymore.

"Come on then. I have a house nearby. We can clean up and discuss this like two ordinary citizens instead of bloodthirsty psychopaths. It sounds as though we may have been mistaken all these years." but she saw him shake his head. His gloved hand delicately brushed against her now thoroughly filthy face, dark eyes meeting pale ones. She watched him warily before guiding her hand to rest atop his own, but no sooner was the contact made than it was lost, his disarming and gentle touch turning into a vice grip on her neck. Her hands chased his, but she might as well have been trying to dismantle the White-Gold Tower for all the good it did.

The Speaker leaned close, smirking as her vision blurred. "Unless you plan to become a murderer for our Dread Father, hope that we do not meet again, Elli. I am not the fool boy you knew." With one final squeeze Lucien let her go, going invisible immediately and leaving Elisif to choke and cough and gasp by the waters of the Rumare.

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Thanks for reading! Sorry if there is any OOC stuff.


	3. Hunger

Shadowmere's hooves pounded hard and fast against the reliable Imperial roads. Her master set a breakneck pace, one that would have had any normal horse frothing at the mouth and stumbling off the road in a short time. This was no ordinary horse, however, as any could see by looking at her. Dark as the Void, eyes the color of blood, and a saddle emblazoned with the Black Hand. Above all this she carried an intelligence that far surpassed her fellow equines. No, the speed was nothing for this timeless creature.

This overly clever horse could sense her master's distress. More appropriately, she could smell the anger rolling off of him like so many waves against a ruined shore. A need for vengeance that could not be sated. Perhaps his contract in the Imperial City had not gone well? But then, she'd not heard of her master being unable to perform before, so there was no reason to start now.

Whatever the reason, whatever the rage, Shadowmere obeyed without resistance, carrying Lucien ever closer to Fort Farragut.

It was after several hours of riding that Lucien decided to slow his pace and follow a trail of smoke to its source. A camp of bandits slept around a dying fire, only one keeping watch in the still night. Shadowmere was left to graze beneath a hemlock tree as the many-blooded assassin crept in the shadows.

Several shabby tents were pitched around a cheery fire, the watchman, a Redguard in fur armor, warming his hands without a thought to the dangers that lurked beyond the ring of light. He breathed his last exactly twelve seconds later, blood gushing in lovely rivulets against rocky soil.

His first victim dead, the usual peace did not fall upon the Speaker. Instead a deeper, more persistent rage settled in his chest, a lust for violence that was damn near unquenchable. With a smirk, Lachance threw the redguard corpse into the flames, setting the fire to sparking and popping, starting the bandits into consciousness.

All deaths were not equal, as Lucien so often thought. He often favored killing up close, so intimate a position to see the light fade from his victims' eyes, to breathe in their final gasp of air. The pulse of arterial bleeds fading away into a faint ooze as the heart gave out was a particular favorite of his. The best part, however, was watching the person accept the Void. Yes, one was never quite as honest as when they were about to die, and in that way Lucien had met and learned of countless personalities, hundreds of faces offered to his beloved Father and Mother.

This night was hardly different. He had a need to fulfill, and through the blood and fear of these miscreants he gained said fulfillment, stalking the men as they pulled blades from their belts. There were only three left after the initial kill, and the lot of them started to pit against one another before it was all said and done. Most of the time Lucien would have sat back and enjoyed the show, but not this night. This night all souls were his to claim.

The first two were given brilliant red smiles as soon as they wandered away from the light of the fire, leaving the final one, a tall, youthful Breton, alone and terrified. The Breton braced himself against a nearby tree, determined not to be taken unawares like his companions. He would face death as an equal, or so he thought. Lucien grinned at that thought, for he knew the truth: Death has no equal.

"Come out then, coward." the Breton yelled, barely managing to keep the tremor from his voice. He fingered the handle of his axe nervously, his palms slick with sweat. "Fight like a man."

Suddenly Lucien appeared before the Breton, a smile more pure than any the boy had ever seen gracing his killer's face. His chest was pressed against the youth's, his hands gripping the pitiful rusty axe and tossing it aside. It was his blade that pierced the young man's belly, and later it was that same blade that stabbed him in the chest, when the wait had become too much to handle. Stomach wounds had always been too tedious a thing for the Speaker, who always preferred clean kills.

The pulse of that doomed heart was a song that lulled Lucien to peace as he walked bloodstained and content back to Shadowmere, greeting her with a kind word before mounting and departing at a much more reasonable pace. No foul thoughts polluted his mind, though one thing did linger on, a curiosity more than anything.

Why, after all these years, did she keep that damned blade?


	4. Dreams Like Poison

_"Lucien," she murmured, her hands tracing his hardened body as it moved with grace and deliberation against hers. HIs mouth turned up in a smirk against the skin of her neck before he saw fit to nip at it, elliciting another blessed moan from her lips. _

_ The room was darkened, their old home in the Elven Gardens District, and Lucien had just gotten back from a contract, his assassin leathers peeled off in haste and discarded on the floor. He smelled of the sea, of Anvil, and she tasted the salt on his skin, could smell it in his long hair. Any coherent thoughts she might have had after that were banished as her beloved assassin traced a teasing path down her body, his mouth teasing her nipples, the curves of her breasts, as he went. She writhed and whimpered under his lips and hands and tongue as he traced over the curve of her hip, deftly avoiding where she most wanted him. _

_ A loud and embarrassing gasp escaped her throat as his mouth finally settled at her core, hot tongue flicking out to taste her, fingers joining in on the fun after a while. Gods, how long had it been? She was getting so close so fast, raising her hips to meet the thrust of his fingers, the flick of his tongue. The pressure build higher and higher and hotter until she shuddered, climaxing around his digits, crying out weakly at the force of her pleasure. He didn't stop right away, tongue still insistent, fingers still delving, forcing her to ride out her orgasm until sobs broke from her and he knew she could take no more._

_ His face was satisfied and wet when he loomed over her again, capturing her mouth in a fervent kiss, forcing her to taste herself and groaning when she made a show of enjoying it. His body was a fever against her, and Elisif moved a hand down, coaxing his member ever closer to her entrance. Lucien needed no such encouragement, seating his hips against hers and thrusting roughly into her painfully tight and thoroughly soaked heat. His mouth consumed her scream, his hands holding hers at her sides as he thrust steadily, working up a punishing pace, one that her body had been craving for far too long. Try as he might to keep her from participating, she still met his thrust as best she could, grinding up against him. _

_ She could feel it; so close, so very close to completion, only needing just a little more. Her lover seemed to notice this, releasing her hands and pressing one of his own to her throat, squeezing just enough to send a panic through her, just enough to topple her over the edge. There were no screams, for she could not with his interference. She sucked in air like a drowning man just pulled from the water, and her lover tightened his grip, choking her in earnest. _

_ Her head pounded as she struggled, her thin hand clawing at his, but it might have been a child swatting at him for all the good it did. As her vision dimmed, she looked into his eyes, barely visible in the candlelight, but there it was: the emotionless gaze of a trained assassin. Not _her_ Lucien's eyes, but the calculating stare of the Brotherhood's finest. The Speaker. Slowly her eyes closed, a weariness overtaking her, the horror of suffocation drifting away into the nothingness of sure death-_

Her eyes whipped open as she sat straight up in bed, only to slam shut once more as the light from the windows pierced her vision, covering her eyes with her hands and slumping back into the pillows. Someone stirred in the room.

"Pull the curtains." Elisif rasped, her throat raw and throbbing. The person in the room obeyed instantly, silently darkening the room and awaiting her orders.

The room smelled of herbs and old parchment, the bedding too lavish and soft to be her waterfront shack; the room was far too silent. Her voice carried in the vaulted ceilings. A large, warm hand took one of hers and held it comfortingly, and she reluctantly opened her eyes and groaned.

"Glad to see you're awake, Arch-mage." Raminus spoke easily, passing a chalice of mulled wine in her direction.

After she drained the glass she frowned and cleared her throat. "How did I end up here?" she glanced down, suddenly curious. "Did you undress me?"

"How dare you, Elli!" Raminus mocked, "You know I got someone else to do that. Had to be done though, you were filthy!

"Anyways, some patrolling guards found you on the banks of the Rumare, down at the Waterfront, unconscious and covered in blood. Once they recognized you, they rushed straight here. Do you _have_ to get attacked like this in the middle of the night? I was having the most wonderful dream of bare-breasted Bosmer women feeding me grapes." As Raminus chuckled a bit at himself, a plush feather pillow slammed into his face. "Alright, alright."

Raminus watched his longtime friend and fellow mage, traced the planes of her face. So close. They'd been so close before. Fellow students with the same tutor (how many times had he set her hair on fire?). She had practically been an open book for him to read, so trusting and happy. Not so now. No, now she was guarded, careful. Cold.

Yet she seemed to trust him well enough. Her hand came up to rest on his face, so close to her own, and she leaned her forehead in against his, a weary grin on her face.

"What would I do without you, my friend?" she whispered hoarsely, and he did not return her smile.

"Wake up in the Imperial Prison, most likely."

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Sorry for the lack of update. My burlesque troupe had a show this past weekend, and it's been hectic preparing. This week has just been FUBAR. I hope this story hasn't been terrible! I've got a direction I'm planning to go in, and I hope you all will like it.


	5. Doin' Time

_Fire. Everything was devoured by flame and smoke. The stench of burning flesh perfumed the air, the cries of tortured victims rang through thick smoke clouds. The heat, the fear, the trauma was overwhelming. It seeped into her skin, burned into her eyes. She could taste it on her tongue, feel it running down her throat and congealing in her lungs. From the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes it lingered, devouring and burning until nothing else remained._

_ Hopelessness. Eternal terror._

_ Oblivion._

Elisif gasped, choking as the cool night air hit the back of her dry throat. It had been weeks since her run in with the Brotherhood bastard, and nearly every night since then found her plagued by dreams. Always the same, or very nearly. Always the fire and the stench. Horrors she had never dreamed before. Several times she even saw a face in the fire, a familiar specter wreathed in red and orange. So familiar...

She had plenty of time for pondering that dream, for she found herself in a very tedious situation the day before. Sure, there had been many close calls in her time rising through the ranks of the Thieves Guild, but never had Elisif landed herself in prison. It had been surprisingly short, the booking procedures, and now she lay on a prison cot, stripped of her possessions and dressed in rags and wrist irons. It was enough to make anyone have nightmares.

Strangely, something about the place almost comforted her, despite the screams of beaten or half mad prisoners. Strong Imperial walls and all that jargon, perhaps. She managed to sleep the day away, awakening to a dinner of water and moldy bread. She had no appetite to speak of but drank the water quickly. Being caught was bad enough, but being caught at something so simple and stupid was worse. A rookie's mistake, and now she sat in the prison, waiting out her sentence.

It had happened easily enough. Elisif had been betting at the Arena, and her luck had been terrible. No one from the yellow team had survived that day, and she had of course chosen all yellow. Raminus thought it extremely funny as he had bet straight blue, but she thought to have the final laugh, slipping a hand in his robes and deftly stealing his much heavier coin purse. He didn't notice, not immediately, and by the time he did Elli planted the evidence on someone else, a thuggish looking sailor who happened to slam into her master wizard companion. This caused a chain reaction which the arch mage was still not completely clear on but that ended in two women with their dresses on fire, a drunken brawl between a group of sailors, Raminus getting a black eye, and Elisif being caught as the perpetrator. Apparently a guard had witnessed her handiwork. Of course she had enough money to buy her way out, but after all the crimes were lumped up it turned out to be quite expensive. After her gambling losses, she'd rather just wait it out for a few days in jail rather than spend more coin. Plus, hearing Raminus say anything at all about her sticky fingers was enough to keep her happily in jail.

She turned her attention to the dark elf in the other cell; he'd been going on and on about this, that, or the other for some time. At first she paid him no mind, but since he still managed to find things to talk about, she spoke with him in return. Valen Dreth was his name. Imprisoned for years, but due to get out in less than a three seasons. She stood at the bars while he blathered on.

"Do you know _why_ I was imprisoned, pretty little sneak thief?" Dreth asked with a smirk, flashing dingy yellow teeth.

"I have a feeling you're about to reveal the big secret."

"Yes." Valen answered, pacing his little cell, "I-I killed a few guards, you see. Six! Six guards. And do you know why?" Elisif made a show of leaning forward, pressing her forehead against the bars while he lowered his voice, "I stole an Elder Scroll." At this the thief raised a dubious brow.

"You did what?" She said doubtfully, and Dreth beamed.

"Yes!" he answered, "I'm the Grey Fox, you see." He held out his arms through the bars, showing off his skin, "It's because of my skin." Elisif laughed heartily at this, plopping down on the filthy stone floor.

"Oh, I'm sure, Dreth! And that's why the Grey Fox has been around for such a long time, I take it? Dark elves do live a remarkably long time after all." Valen Dreth glared at that.

"You know, one of the guards owes me a favor." he said suggestively. "I could get him to bring you over here, into my cell. What do you say? Get to bed your master before it all ends?" at her less-than-humored expression he continued, "Oh yes, little thief. They told you the time of your sentence, sure, but the truth is...you're going to die in here. You're going to die!" Elisif rolled her eyes at him as he began to cackle like a madman.

The echo of clanking armor and loud footfalls echoed throughout the Bastion, silencing the dark elf across the aisle. He looked somewhat frightened and bitter at first, then turned to Elisif, grinning his yellowest grin.

"Do you hear that?" he spoke low, "The guards are coming. For you! They'll beat the sarcasm out of you, and you'll be begging to be in a cell with your Guild Master." Right up to her cell they walked, three soldiers dressed in Akiviri armor and bearing katanas. Elisif hardly paid them any mind, instead focusing her pale gaze on the man they were so obviously protecting.

Tall, noble, white haired Uriel Septim. The emperor, come to her own cell at the Bastion. Very nearly the face from her nightmares, were he a little younger.

"Move back prisoner!" one of them yelled, and she did as she was told, shuffling to the back of the cell in her bare feet and iron cuffs. She could hear the female telling them Emperor something about his children, how they were only attacked.

"No, they are dead. I know it." The old Septim said with certainty as the door to her cell swung open.

The Blades and the Emperor swept into the little cell, a young male Redguard watching her carefully as the woman felt along the walls for something. Elisif made no move, but watched her emperor with concern. He seemed to notice this.

"You...I've seen you. Let me see your face." Uriel spoke, and as it was from her Emperor she did not dare to disobey, immediately coming to his side. "You are the one from my dreams...then the stars were right, and this is the day. Gods give me strength."

"Dreams, my lord?" she spoke, "I know dreams as well. Dreams I dare not utter to one such as you." The emperor raised a brow at that.

"Perhaps the gods have placed you here so that we may meet." he said thoughtfully, "Tell me, child. What of your dreams?"

"Fire and smoke and death. And in the middle of it all I see a face, so like you, yet different as well. It has haunted me for weeks now." Elisif answered, bowing her head to show proper respect, but the Emperor placed a hand under her chin and raised her gaze to his, appraising her now steady stare.

"Sire, what is happening?" Elisif dared ask.

"Assassins attacked my sons, and I'm next. My Blades are leading me out of the city along a secret escape route. By chance, the entrance to that escape route leads through your cell." As he spoke Captain Renault found what she had been searching for, and the wall slid back in on itself, revealing a passage wrought with neglect.

"What you have done to find yourself here does not matter. It is not what you will be remembered for." The emperor said. _Gods I hope not_, she thought. _Raminus would never let me hear the end of that._ Yet the man before her had meant it as a comfort.

"Thank you." she murmured quietly, watching as the Blades ushered the Emperor on. "But wait, Sire!" she glanced at the passage and at him as he peered back questioningly. "What should I do?" And at this the man smiled a little, the smile of a father comforting a small child just waking from a nightmare.

"You will find your own path, as we all must do. We will meet again before the end, Elisif." The Blades would not abide anymore delays, hurrying the Emperor down the passage and around the corner.

A man as wise as he need not be alone with just his guards on the hour of his despair, possibly even the hour of his death. And how redeeming a tale that would be, to tell Raminus that she saved the Emperor! Surely any anger he still over her botched prank would fall away at news like that.

With a grin she turned, waving goodbye to Valen Dreth who now stared wide eyed and slack jawed. The passage was dark, but she would find her way.

Only a passing thought flitted through her mind as she walked, yet it mattered little in the end. When had she told him her name?


	6. Things to do, bastards to find

Raminus watched with exasperation as the arch-mage, his "dear" friend, bustled about her room, tossing all manner of potions, food, coin, and other sundries on the plush bed. A servant entered bearing a pitcher of water and pouring it into a washbasin. She left just as quickly, and Elisif started stripping off the ragged top, leaving her breastband in place for her blushing companion's sake.

"Raminus, why haven't you healed that black eye already?" she asked while scrubbing the grime of the dungeons from her face.

"To remind me not to go out gambling with a sore loser." he answered, "Elli, what happened? You weren't due out for another week, at least."

"Oh, you know. They let me out early on good behavior." she joked, now swabbing at the dirt that covered her chest and shoulders. Her lighthearted answer did not seem to satisfy him.

"Very funny, Elli! They'd have at least given your shoes back." he gestured to her mudcaked feet.

Elisif shrugged and paid her friend no mind, her own thoughts troubling and not good for company of any kind. As she scrubbed her arms and under her grimy nails, the events of the night previous played through her head. The Emperor, dead on her watch? How could she tell anyone that she had been unable to stop a lunatic from assassinating the emperor of all Tamriel? Sure, she had killed the bastard afterwards, but his blood did nothing to revive the fallen Septim, last of his line. Or very nearly.

He had spoken to her as though she were important. Sure, she had money and influence, but not in the Bastion, and not to the extent that the ruler of all the provinces would notice.

"'Close shut the marble jaws of Oblivion.'" Elisif murmured, her frantic scrubbing coming to a stop.

"What's that?" Raminus replied, and she held up the sponge to him.

"Scrub my back?" she asked, and the wizard groaned but did it all the same, cleansing her scarred flesh delicately. "Thank you, Raminus. You must know that I didn't intend for things to go the way they did at the Arena. I apologize for that." she turned and lifted a hand, placing it over his blackened eye and soothing the bruise away with her restoration magick. Healing was no forte of hers by any means, but he was well enough after that.

It was after her feet were knocked clean of mud that she reached into her pocket and showed him the Amulet of Kings. If she had pulled out a poisonous snake and flung it around his neck, she doubted that he could have looked any more surprised. With shock in his face he bolted the door and pulled her close.

"Elli?! What have you done? Our Emperor lies dead this very day; he's barely cold yet. I-...no, I don't want to know how you got it. Just...what are you going to do with it?" his voice was barely a whisper, but she heard his disbelief and fear just fine.

"I'm taking it to the Blades. And I didn't _steal_ it Raminus, if that's what you're thinking." She then proceeded to tell him of the night previous. It took far longer than expected, and by that time she was fully armored and packed, silvered dagger at her side and magicka potions on her belt. Raminus sat on the bed looking stunned.

"Elli, what is it you intend to do? Where are you going?"

"Apparently I'm going to close shut the marble jaws of Oblivion." She answered brightly, then grinned. "Right. Gotta find myself a royal bastard and save the world. Take care of things while I'm gone?"


	7. Fire is for fools

_I've got a flask inside my pocket we can share it on the train_

_If you promise to stay conscious I will try and do the same_

_We might die from medication, but we sure killed all the pain_

_But what was normal in the evening, by the morning seems insane._-Bright Eyes "Lua"

There had been many times in her life, especially in the past year or so, that Elisif had just jumped right into the situation at hand. Rash, some would say; foolish, would say the rest. Joining the Mages Guild and defeating Mannimarco was at the top of the list, up until this.

She'd always been horrified of necromancers; the thought of someone making foul use of her body after her soul had vacated the premises...she wouldn't have that. How many times had she stood frozen in some ruin or cave, unable to continue? Forcing the thoughts, the horrors, the suspicions from her mind was the only way she'd been able to tread forward, facing the perversion of magick head on and cutting through the abominations. It had felt like a great triumph, facing her fears in this, and in that moment of victory she had thought that no terror would paralyze her anymore. For what, truly, can be worse than reanimating the dead?

Standing here, surrounded by the charred and smoking dead of Kvatch, the arch-mage had her answer.

The skies had been red and black, filled with lightning far before the gate had been visible. Dread built in the pit of her belly, but she pushed it back. The Emperor of Tamriel himself said she was destined to do this, after all. Who was she to refuse _him_? "Close shut the marble jaws of Oblivion." Sounded rather poetic, that, and not nearly as ominous as it could have been.

Guards had stood at the barricades, weary and battered, yet resolute to hold the line or die trying. They had thought her insane, running straight for the gaping, fiery maw that loomed ahead, yet none of them tried to stop her, either. Utter destruction stood before them, an open door that all manner of creatures could come through unless someone found a way to stop it.

An atrocious roaring filled her head, the sound of the all consuming flame, and as soon as her feet touched solid ground on the other side, her skin was bathed in blistering heat. Her nose was assaulted by an overwhelming aroma of sulphur, and the unmistakeable odor of putrifaction married unhappily with burning flesh. Lava crackled and hummed in pits all around, gore hung from spires and jutting bits of rock. Carcasses of both horses and men littered the paths, and she swore she heard hissing and scratching in every direction.

_Too much. Too much, too much, too much! Far, far worse than anything else. Give me reanimated corpses any day. Damnedable scratching. Gods, daedra, anything._ She was crippled, paralyzed, breath coming out in pathetic little puffs, choking on the billowing smoke and reeking air. It seeped into her skin, burned into her eyes. She could taste it on her tongue, feel it running down her throat and congealing in her lungs. From the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes it lingered, devouring and burning until nothing else remained.

The Deadlands.

"Shit." she groaned, snapping out of it rather forcefully as the clank of armor rang out through the thick crackle and hum of the surrounding area. Two male humanoids with inky black skin and detestable armor, so like the landscape itself, were charging straight for her. The fear was terrible yes, and so was the stench, but she was rational, after all. Hadn't she been trained for things such as this?

All the negativity was pushed to the back of her mind, suppressed for later observation, and she drew her dagger, backing up a respectable distance and summoning forth enough energy for a potent lightning spell. The two before her were paralyzed momentarily, granting her the time to slash at one of them a few times with the dagger. Ice crystals formed at the wounds, turning out to be quite the injury for creatures constantly bombarded with flame and heat.

This continued for several minutes, the three of them locked in combat, exchanging blow for blow, spell for spell. It was not long, however, before she grew tired. They were both close to death, but her stamina was nearing its breaking point. One of them had been disarmed, and this one seized Elisif by the throat, thrusting her against a boulder and squeezing her neck. This was not the choking she had received from Lucien nearly a month earlier; this was no warning from a bitter soul. This was strength bent on destruction, pure and simple. Her vision began to grow dark, and the other dremora drew his sword up, ready to strike the fatal blow.

"By the gods!" a man's voice cried, and the ring of blade against armor echoed on the stone of the battlefield. The dremora immediately threw Elisif to the ground with a sickening thud before turning to slam a fist into the mystery man. Her vision cleared slightly, revealing to her a blurry version of events, and a Kvatch soldier that seemed to exist in two places at once before converging into the single man.

They two beastly creatures were focused on the soldier now, and so intent was their rage that they did not notice the sneak-thief that slit their throats fast and desperately. Her mage's robes were filthy and bloodstained, and she took one look at the older soldier before collapsing between the two corpses, just happy herself to be alive.

"It's fortunate that you came along when you did, friend." Elisif mumbled to the soldier, and he looked down at her, completely terrified.

"And thank the Nine that you came along! I thought I'd never see another friendly face." the soldier replied. He launched immediately into a long-winded and cumbersome tale of his group, now lying strewn across a bridge. Only one remained, locked in some tower, most likely being tortured. He was quite intent on leaving the Deadlands, seeming only to await her words as a courtesy. She was fairly sure that if she requested his help he would downright refuse, and in truth she worked better alone.

"Leave, Ilend Vonius, and defend the barricade with Salvian. You've done enough here." she hated the tremor that lingered in her voice, but the soldier didn't seem to notice her hesitance, thanking her profusely before running full out through the portal.

Elisif did a quick inventory of her person as she tried to calm herself and decide a course of action. One look at her robes was enough to make the poor woman laugh. Robes? Who thought robes was a good idea for this venture? Never mind that they boosted her magick resistance. Other than that, she wore two rings, one that boosted her already prominent sneaking capabilities, and another which helped regenerate magicka much faster. Soft suede shoes adorned her feet; these had been a suggestion from the old Grey Fox, who offered her the soul gem neccessary to imbue said shoes with enchantments of speed. Her satchel contained seven healing potions, four magicka potions, one potion of of fortitude, and a wedge of cheese. _Cheese?_

After tossing the now thoroughly melted and stinky cheese wedge from her pack, Elisif stood, stretched, and looked around. She knew her course. Never did she proclaim to be a great fighter, but she could definitely keep quiet and to the shadows. She'd deal with the terror some other time, after Martin was safe.

It turned out that keeping quiet and to the shadows was much harder than anticipated out in the open fields of Oblivion. There were constant dangers from turrets, and even the plants were intent on attacking her, whipping out and grasping at her ankles while other branches lashed her in the face. Twice she had been caught by dremora mages during these plant difficulties, and twice she had been roasted by fire and lightning spells.

By the time she reached the principle spire in the area, her robes were a burnt beyond recognition. Magick could not be spared to mend them, and so she did the only thing she could. Daedric armor was foul by nature, and this stuff stank of dremora dead, but it was a great deal safer than running around half naked. The gloves would not fit (her hands were too petite), and the boots were surprisingly unnecessary. She attempted to lift one of the dremora weapons, a mace, but she knew there was no swinging such a weapon in her state.

Finally, out of mana, out of potions, and out of energy, Elisif made her slow ascent through the tower. There were shadows in earnest there, enough darkness to sooth her frazzled nerves and allow her to speed up a bit in her stealth, though the clanking daedric armor was no help in that arena.

Dremora, scamps, traps, and flame marked her path, but still she bore on. She even found a Kvatch soldier locked in a trap, but he was, most unfortunately, unable to be freed. This seemed to signal the end of a nightmarish journey, and one more level found her at the top.

Long stretches of what appeared to be flesh and sinew made up the walkways at the top of the tower. Bone framed the doorways, and the whole room seemed almost to reverberate, as though a great beating heart hammered out a melody in that place. Before her stood a fountain from which blood spurted, and in that moment she looked at it, examining the wretched thing. Whose blood, or was it blood at all? It called out, whispering, begging to be used. Offering healing and comfort in a damned place, sure to be sweeter than any wine to grace her tongue. _Come, come, come._ Why was she not drink of it? It would be so simple...

Elisif turned from the blood fount with much more difficulty than expected, and forced her shaking legs through the archway, into the carnal upper sanctum. Dremora mages lurked on the second level, but they didn't seem to notice her, pacing as they did and glaring at whatever was in their line of vision. Each of her footfalls was virtually silent against the flesh-like ramps, the softest horrifying little squish that made her so sure it was actually muscle and no illusion. Up and up she went, blessedly undetected by anything in the room, until finally making it to the top.

A great stone hummed with energy, bathed in a beam of fire that shot through the ceiling and into the sanguine sky. It sang to her, just as the blood fountain did, urging her forward, and Elisif knew that this was what must be removed. She knew, too, that it would hurt, but there was no help for it. Her magicka was depleted, and she could summon nothing to protect her from the languishing heat.

Steeling herself against what she was about to do, Elisif stepped forward, hands reaching out towards the fire. Her breath was coming fast and harsh, her limbs were shaking uncontrollably, but still she edged nearer. Closer and closer to the edge. Her pale eyes took in the orb for a moment, fascinating as it was. So smooth and sinister and dark. Perfectly shaped...

The guttural language of the dremora bellowed behind her, and she looked over her shoulder to see two of them charging at her. Without another thought she jumped forward, grasping the orb in both hands as it sizzled against her skin, ruining her elegant hands, yet still she clung to it, especially when the creatures at her back began to scream in pain. Slowly the area around her began to demolish, and blackness overtook the Deadlands as well as herself.

_ "Oh, I don't know Lucien. It's a rather grim subject, don't you think?" Elisif murmured lazily, her hands sliding over her assassin's toned torso. It was after he had returned from Skyrim, after he gave her the dagger, and they were finally sated after a long separation._

_ "You ask that of someone in my line of work?"Lucien replied with a laugh, and it was the smile of youth that graced his face, the look of someone who did not have an extra decade of worries gracing his brow. This was _her_ Lucien, before everything else. The lover of her innocence and naivety so unlike himself. His bare arm brought her close. "One with as much experience in the matter as me is bound to wonder such things. I've already decided how I'd rather go. So you tell me: fire, or ice? To be devoured, or waste away?" _

_ His fiery mouth nipped at her neck just below her ear, pressing hot, wet kisses there and sending shivers down her spine._

_ "If fire is like this, then how could I ever choose ice as my end?" she said, and Lucien smiled against her skin. "Let me be devoured in flame any day, I think." And with that their words ceased, swirling on into the passion of young, foolish lovers._

Cold water splashed against her face as Elisif sputtered awake, clinging to the humming ebony orb from Oblivion. Salvian stared down at her in surprise, empty bucket in hand.

"You did it! You actually did it." and off he went, going on and on about how this was a turning point. The troops were sufficiently rallied, thanks to her apparently. She tried rising from the ground, finally making it after she cast the sigil stone aside, yet she did not listen to those around her. Their words were as ash to her ears. All that she could think of, all that she had seen...it all amounted to a realization of her youthful stupidity.

_Give me ice any day, Lucien. Fire is for fools._

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I hope you guys enjoyed this! I have a direction, I promise! The next chapter will be Lucien-centric, I think. Let me know what you think!

Also, I took some liberties with the timeline and conversations with minor NPCs. Hope that doesn't offend.

Elder Scrolls, Oblivion, etc is not mine; I do not claim to own it. Thanks everyone!


	8. Anvil is for Lovers

I do not nor will I ever own the Elder Scrolls. This story is just for the lulz.

Hope you guys enjoy this! I feel like Lucien Lachance is mostly seen through Dark Brotherhood mission walkthroughs in fanfiction, which is fine! Sometimes though ya have to think of the things that characters do that they are passionate about. Well, I started doing that, and a chapter cropped up as a result. Well, actually much more than a chapter, but I"m at a loss on how to incorporate the other ideas I have right at this moment. Anyways! Enjoy, and drop me a review if ya want.

* * *

Sweat beaded on his brow as Lucien Lachance stirred a thick, sickly sweet concoction to perfection. The poisons had been distilled for hours on end, and the resulting cocktail was a most potent basting fluid for food, particularly apples. There was something about poisoned apples that never lost their charm. A lost romance perhaps, with the luscious red gleam of the skin beckoning all who witness to take a bite. With the Empire being so widespread, apples were almost always available, but he found that when they were in season in Cyrodiil itself they made the most luscious of treats. Such was the case with these beauties.

A cheery stack of red apples dispelled the gloom of Lucien's home, but only barely. Alchemy had always been a favorite pastime of his, and his mood was far improved because of it. The control of the alchemist over all elements of the recipes, as well as the gratification of watching potions mend broken flesh or poisons ravage an enemy, well, it was a heady thing. A quick plunge into the poison was all the apples needed, and then they were ready to go. Undetectable, elegant, and very quick.

The trip to Anvil was arduous due to rain, but Shadowmere was swift and her rider stubborn to a fault. With only one night's rest the pair arrived at the seaside city. It had also been a favorite of Lucien's for a long time. Anvil is for lovers, or so they say. The party he was to attend would not be for several hours, and so the assassin waited with ease, taking in the salt air and reminiscing.

**15 years ago**

_ The night air of Anvil hung heavy and humid, a briny, relaxing and warm scent that comforted the shaded assassin as he moved with grace and precision to his goal. The man with whom he had conversed, a Bellamont, had paid quite a bit of money to have his wife dispatched, and the Brotherhood was only too happy to comply. _

_ It was too easy, slipping into the house, treading silently through halls and opening doors without a hitch. When had it gotten so easy? No matter, he had neared his prey, could taste the coming carnage on his tongue. A familiar tingle settled in his gut, a cold joy that preceded the kill, and he smiled._

_ Something unexpected; the mother was sitting in her room, speaking to a boy of maybe twelve summers, telling him to go to sleep, that she'd be there in the morning, and not to worry. How wrong she was. That cold smirk spread across his features as the details of the contract presented itself. The father had desired the son witness his mother's death, "witness the whore's beheading." How convenient that they were ensconced together. It would be easy, but first, a little noise to break the ice. _

_ The slamming of glass against the wall startled the two, and the mother told her child in the softest of whispers to get under the bed and not to make a noise. This, followed by the clumsy shuffling of a child under the bed was his cue. Showtime._

_ "Please, take what you want, just leave us be!" the woman screeched, hands in front of her in defense. Her eyes widened as she took in the teenage assassin, his face so beautiful, so surprising in a sneak, as well as the formidable blade that came singing into the night, a melody of polished steel sliding against the scabbard. The assassin's grin stayed in place, and he stared as if deciding how best to devour her flesh. The frenzy was beginning, and how he longed to be sated. The hunger was overpowering, and it would be fed._

_ He hefted his short-sword as he neared the woman, placing a booted foot against her chest, forcing her flat against the headboard of the bed and swinging, slicing through flesh and sinew with one calculated her head toppled to the floor, a certain peace entered him, a satisfaction he felt from nothing else. He had honored his Father and Mother and knew them to be pleased. Anvil faded in the distance as he rode the high of the kill, still tasting blood in the air and smelling the leavings of fear, and the seductive silence that only death possessed pressing on his ears. The comfort of the Void was sweet indeed. _

**Present Day**

The party was going full swing. A small, intimate thing with several of Anvil's elite businessmen all piled together in one house. The table was set with a roast pig in the middle, and roasted apples all around. So beautiful and tempting, and the smell rolling off of it all was indeed to die for.

At the great table there sat one man who was a bit unknown to the others, though he came very highly recommended: A merchant who sailed between Cyrodiil and the Summerset Isles, trading commodities, including these succulent apples. He had instructed the servants in their preparation.

"A very rare blend of spices, poached until just tender." the man said, "Best if eaten right away. The delicate flavors tend to become muddled after too long." If anyone suspected him of foul play, they certainly didn't let on. Indeed the man was quite the charmer with the other guests, a voice like honey and a beautiful face that might as well have "trust me" written across it. Well kept, cleanly dressed, neatly brushed hair pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Who wouldn't listen to this man's advice on anything, much less consumption of a meal? Certainly the women paid him plenty of attention, and several of the men as well.

The merchant smirked slyly at the lady that clung to his arm, lifting a piece of apple to her plum red lips, watching with a sensual interest as she took the bit of fruit into her mouth. The noises she made about it were indecent, but soon her racket joined the chorus of groans and choking gasps. The whole room seemed to be hunched over in pain, sweat welling up from pores and skin quickly turning sallow. The woman on his arm abruptly let go, her eyes staring up at Lucien in horror, lips moving in a silent plea for help that would never come.

Not long after that Lucien Lachance watched the last guest fall. It had been a thing of beauty, choreographed to near perfection, save one guest who he later had to track down and discreetly slay in the basement. The whole house lay silent as the Void.

With a smile Lucien finished pulling his robes back on over the dress clothes. It had been far too long since he had completed a contract on his own. Apples, poison, and salt air; yes, Anvil was still definitely a place for lovers.


	9. Breaking the News

When first Martin saw the Hero of Kvatch, the soot, blood, and ill fitting armor made it difficult to tell if it was a man or a woman. The Hero's long hair was smoking, breaking off in sections where the fire had licked at it, but they seemed not to notice until the redguard guardswoman pointed it out. Without a word, the Hero took out a silvered dagger, seized the entire length of ruined hair and sliced straight through, cutting it to just above the shoulders. They stored the hair, so long even in its charred state, in their pack. The way they moved, even in the daedric armor certainly pulled from a dremora corpse, made the priest sure she was a woman. Anyone would be able to tell _that_ part eventually; the fact she was curved in all the right places underneath that foul chest-plate, that was the natural skill that develops when one spends their youth whoring.

She had appeared like the wind, or like rain, so sudden to free them from the Gate. Apparently she had been in there for several hours, searching for a way to close it from the inside. The blisters and burns that covered the palms of her hands were witness to the hardships she bore, yet she said not a word except to receive several potions, storming into the chapel and helping liberate the city of Kvatch from its troubles. She was a perpetual motion machine, forever moving from one activity to another, propelling on and on until the city was cleansed of the daedric threat.

Finally the mystery woman turned and looked the Priest directly in the eye, a look of determination, and strangely enough, recognition on her face. Stiffly she walked over to him, the armor of Kvatch slung over her forearm. Her face was covered in blood and soot, making her pained pale eyes seem even more piercing, and then her filthy visage creased into a rather agonized smile, exposing white, straight teeth hidden behind full, albeit cracked and bleeding lips.

"You're a priest, I take it?" she spoke, then without waiting for an answer from him, she began to strip off her armor, setting the horrendous stuff aside before peeling off the stained linen shirt underneath and presenting her back to him. "Perhaps you could put some of your restoration magick to work? I find myself thoroughly burned, and healing has never been my strong suit." Martin swallowed thickly, having just gotten an eyeful of naked chest, rather full naked chest at that. How it heaved against the tight breast-band as she breathed-

"Certainly." Martin replied stiffly, moving to her back and gently placing hands on either side of the sizable burns, working his magick into the wounds, burning away his mana until not a memory of the burn remained. Without a word she pulled the linen shirt back on and began to slide the Kvatch armor into place. "Don't you need your other wounds treated as well?" he asked, for all over her were cuts, gashes, blisters, and burns, but she shook her head.

"They'll keep for now. You need your strength." she answered as she finished buckling the armor. Martin nodded, watching with a raised brow as his savior walked to the altar, cupping water in her hands to drink, then beginning to cleanse her face.

"Thank you for closing the gate, traveler. We are in your debt." his voice was forced when he spoke. How long had it been since they in the chapel had any hope for relief?

"I needed a priest, that's all." she answered over her shoulder, continuing to drip water all over the chapel floor as she cleaned her hands and nails. "I was told I could find you here, and I had to close the gate to get to you, sweet Brother."

"Why? Do you need some divine inspiration? For I find myself running low on that these days." The woman snorted as she listened to him speak. "Why would the gods allow this to happen? Were the prayers of all those burned in the fires not fervent enough? Why us and not them? This kind of destruction...I'm having trouble understanding the kindness and mercy of the gods." Suddenly he was horrified by his own words.

"I-I'm sorry." Martin murmured, "The horrors you have seen today, and I act a spoiled child." And at that the woman turned around, and he knew her as though from a dream long forgotten.

"Oh, Martin." she said with humor in her voice, placing a now healed, wet hand to his cheek. The broken skin of her face was whole once more as well, the consecrated water of the altar doing its work. "Has there ever been a time when we've come together that you've not had a crisis of faith? I'm not sure I'd feel comfortable if we spoke for very long without a spiritual tragedy on hand."

"Elli..." Martin said disbelievingly, "It's been years. Why did you come?"

"I wasn't lying when I said I need a priest. It's only that I had a particular man in mind. When they told me the name Martin, I had no idea that it would be _you_. Honestly, you're nearly the last person I would have expected to join the priesthood. All that restraint!" she leaned forward, a strange grin lighting up her eyes as she whispered, "Not to mention all that celibacy. Quite a lifestyle change, eh?"

"So you came all the way here to ask about _that_?" Martin grumbled.

"Surprisingly, no. I'm here for you. Only you. The Emperor told me to find you." Martin raised a weary brow at this, wondering if perhaps she was delirious.

"The Emperor?" Martin said incredulously, and silence reigned supreme for several moments as Elisif lowered her weary body into a pew.

"So I take it you _didn't_ know about being a royal bastard, then?" Elisif cajoled, "Why else do you think the daedra parked a gate right in front of Kvatch? It's not exactly the heart of civilization or anything." If she thought that this would clear up the confusion or horror for Martin, she had been sadly mistaken.

"Are you saying that those daedra were here for me? The whole city, all those people, destroyed for _me_? Tell me you're joking..." he said faintly, and she turned somber once more.

"I'm sorry, Martin. It's no joke. I was with the Emperor when he died. You're the only living heir, and I've been tasked with getting you to safety." There was silence in the chapel, broken only by the groaning of the wounded and weary. After a while, she spoke again.

"Whenever you're ready, Martin Septim."


	10. Intimidation?

No one would ever have asked, and Lucien most definitely never would have answered, but the question remained. Why? Why was he even pondering it? With each step he told himself that his reason for it was finishing what he had started, but if her throat were before him at that very moment, would he proceed to cutting it?

The ride back from Anvil had been wrought with such questions. Long rides always brought long thoughts to his mind, and Elisif was a ponderous subject indeed. If what she had told him was true, then all these years, he had wronged her. In and of itself, wronging an individual was of no consequence to him; often he had slaughtered just to paint the surrounding landscape. This was different.

He entered through to Talos Plaza District, stabling Shadowmere at the entrance. No one paid him any notice, yet still he cast a chameleon spell, his silent tread insuring that guards did not detect him. It would not do for the Thieves Guild to warn her of his coming.

Rumors flew surrounding his Elisif. Some whispered that she and Raminus Polus had a lovers' quarrel that landed her in jail. Still others say she had fled the Imperial City to fight daedra, dying in the planes of Oblivion. Lips murmured soft words about the Arch-Mage and the Thieves Guild being pitted against one another, while others say that the lady had murdered the Emperor himself. At this one Lucien had to laugh. If she had murdered _anyone_, he'd be one of the first to know.

Since more or less all of the rumors involved Raminus Polus, the Speaker had to assume that she was at the Guild of Mages. The thought of seeing Raminus made the assassin groan inwardly. He remembered him from years before, the young man who had studied with the same mage as Elisif, always at her side, always underfoot. When Lucien had again come into Elisif's life, finding her a woman full grown and not the young awkward girl he'd tucked away in the City, Raminus had been an ardent admirer of hers. Still the boy was no fool, and once Lucien had shown his face (and really, Elisif had never had eyes for another besides him in those days), he had made himself scarce.

Raminus the Man was much different from Raminus the Boy, yet still he knew it to be him. The rich brown hair he had once possessed was gradually turning grey, and his eyes that seemed so bright and nervous around Elli had calmed, growing careworn and wary. Still, he looked fit and able, and his prowess with magick was well known by all. In truth the man ran the Guild, with Elisif merely being a figurehead.

As much as he looked like the foolish boy, Raminus was much more shrewd in his older years. His eyes observed as much as they read, and he was nearly always seen with a book in hand. So Lucien should not have been surprised when the flash of the floor runes drew the mage's attention. The assassin merely kept going, ready to slash the mage's throat if it came to it. He would talk with Elisif, and damn any who wished to intrude.

The top of the mage's tower revealed that she was not there, just as she had not been at the Thieves Guild. Yet, as he turned to leave, Raminus Polus stood in his way, right on top of the floor runes. He stared in Lucien's direction, and it was almost as if he made eye contact with the invisible man.

"Come out, sneak." Raminus demanded, looking around, and Lucien felt a strange relief that the mage could not actually see him. He kept his silence, deciding to wait the younger man out, yet before long Polus muttered a phrase and promptly dispelled the chameleon charm from Lucien. His reaction was swift, a dagger to his throat, before Raminus could think to draw his.

"Where is she, fool?" Lucien ground out, and at that Raminus darkened, his hands resting on the assassins chest in an almost feminine way. The mage was looking up at him, seemingly helpless. "Didn't know you fancied the company of men, Raminus Polus." he leaned closer to the man's face, taunting him. "Sorry to say I'm not interested in your flesh, unless it is to flay it from your bones."

Raminus did not respond, merely peering st him innocently as he sent a powerful electric shock through Lachance's chest from each hand, knocking the man back against the far wall. He crumpled to the ground, hood knocked back to reveal hs face; to his credit, the mage did not seem surprised.

For the unfortunate and slightly smoking Speaker, the world was in a haze, and no sooner had the fog left him than he was lifted up and shoved into a wardrobe, the doors secured. He could hear the fool Raminus talking to someone, another mage, maybe a servant. They chatted for far too long, and the mage's voice was much too low for him to make out anything. Nevertheless he pressed an ear to the thick wooden door, but he could scarce make out anything at all.

So intent was Lucien that he didn't catch his balance when Raminus opened the wardrobe doors, and the usually graceful assassin tumbled out onto the floor. The Master-Wizard looked down at his foe with a raised brow, backing away when Lucien's dagger swiped at his legs.

"You've come to the wrong place, assassin." Raminus spoke softly, watching with some humor as Lucien stood with care, "If the gods be good, you will not see her again, and if the gods are very good, you will see her only once: when she plunges a knife into your chest.

"Leave, Lucien Lachance, and know as you do that the Guild of Mages has shown you two mercies today."

"Two?" the Speaker growled out, running a hand over his own shoulder and casting a bit of healing magick there. Raminus leered at him.

"The first is your freedom from this place, a kindness no one else here would have shown you. The second...the second is the only bit of information I have. Kvatch has stopped burning, and word is that she put the fires to rest before going north."

"You would direct me there, knowing what I will do to her?" Lucien mocked, but Raminus scoffed in return.

"Perhaps you'll kill her, but more likely you're as desperate to have her as a man with his first woman. She's a comely one, and I know she is skilled in _many_ different ways." He only glared as Lucien stood wide eyed and angry, then beckoned to the floor runes. "After you, assassin."


	11. When nothing of importance happened

**So sorry for the delay in writing! I've been super busy with work and d&d stuff. I promise to update more, so don't give up on me! 3 Also, this chapter gave me grief, and I'm not completely satisfied with it. That being said, if you find yourself hating it, never fear! The next chapter will be better, action packed even. **

**The Elder Scrolls and all NPCs belong to Bethesda. I make no money from writing. **

Elisif hated the cold.

The Imperial City had been cold enough in the winter, but that season was short. Her fireplace was always well stoked and blankets piled high on the bed. Of course, she also had _him_ to warm her bed and chase away the chill. Even when she had been taken, stolen away for all those years against her will, it had never been particularly cold in Morrowind. This, however...this was terrible.

She glanced down at the dagger he had given her, all encrusted with rubies at the hilt, inlaid with silver and enchanted with ice magick. This piece had been formed in Skyrim at a legendary forge, or so he had told her. It certainly was a fine weapon, as well as the only possession she still had from her youth. How it had stayed safely near her, tucked away in the vaults of her captors, she never knew, but it didn't matter. It was made for the cold, and she could almost imagine that it would sing in this frigid air were she ever to use it.

With a huff the Hero of Kvatch turned from the parapets of Cloud Ruler Temple, trudging back inside and settling down on an empty bedroll. She placed her gear in a chest at the head of the bedroll, cleaning the Akiviri katana as she placed it inside. A handsome weapon to be sure, and one she could use when a dagger simply wasn't enough. It was only that treasured little blade she kept out, stuck under her pillow as it had been for years. She smiled a little while thinking about it as she drifted off to sleep.

_ It had been a solid month that he'd been in Skyrim. That frozen province was everything an assassin could sink his teeth into: hard, unforgiving, merciless. Legendary forges, frozen cities, dwemer ruins filled to the gills with deadly mechanations protecting vast treasure, all of it wrapped in a jagged and cold landscape. _

_ The time had arrived wherein he was on the last leg of this series of contracts. Riften was his final destination. A woman wanted her husband and his various mistresses killed, their heads placed in the Chapel of Mara as a symbol to all women who had been betrayed by lovers. The whole thing was poetic in a way. _

_ Getting rid of the heads was very easy, and after considering the night sky and knowing that departure back home in the middle of the night was inconvenient if not downright foolhardy, Lucien Lachance turned to head towards the nearest inn. No sooner had he turned, however, than a young man bumped into him, shoving roughly against his shoulder. _

_ He noticed immediately, of course; those trained in the arts of stealth surely know when someone is trying to be discreet, trying to hide their slight of hand. This dark haired young Nord was fast and quiet, but he had nothing on the seasoned Dark Brother. The Nord thought he had fooled the man, even turned to apologize before heading towards the city graveyard, and Lucien let him believe it. The Nordling walked off leisurely, unassumingly, and Lucien followed, truly stealthy and predatory. _

_ The thief nearly made it to his destination, a somewhat sunken crypt, when leather clad hands siezed him. The hooded assassin smirked at the suddenly frightened Nord, shoved him against the stone wall and kept him pinned with the weight on his body. One arm was pressed roughly against the thief's neck, constricting the airflow, consticting his speech, while the other hand worked with a dagger._

_ "Such intriguing eyes. Yes. A fair exchange, I think." The grin that met the now terrified and struggling thief was one of pure joy, elation and cruelty._

_ It was many moments later, when the moons rode higher into the sky, when the assassin rode his mount at breakneck speed back to Cyrodiil, that the thief Gormir was found, a sobbing, hysterical mess clutching a fine leather coinpurse, blood puddled around the beautiful hazel eyes that once graced his now permanently marred face._

Elisif woke with a start, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and looking around the room. Without a word she dressed quietly, arming herself with the katana and dagger and tossing a cloak over her shoulders. Though the room was filled with the snores of exhausted Blades, the rest of the complex was quiet and still. The courtyard was dark, several braziers being the only points of brightness on the moonless night. No one questioned her as she walked across the battlements, peering out into the frozen wilderness with a growing dread.

The Blades on duty more or less acted as though she did not exist, and only when she spoke first was she acknowledged at all. It was almost a shock to hear her own voice ask to be allowed through the gate.

"We will not unlock the place until morning. If you go out now, you will be on your own for several hours. Are you sure that's wise?" the Redguard questioned, and to that Elisif only shrugged and walked through the doors.

"I'll be at the Tap and Tack if anyone has need of me." The guards shook their heads and watched her sashay into the darkness.

It had been a long walk from the temple to the gates of Bruma. Bandits and wolves prowled the night, and her dagger indeed sang in the cold air, slicing through sinew and tendons as though they were butter. Still, the weary woman could not even entertain the notion of sleep when her mind turned so savagely.

The town of Bruma slept, but the taproom was full of business. Her first fence in the Theives Guild would knock back drinks there every night, but instead of talking to the world-weary man as was her custom, she slipped past him, ordering a pint and sipping it by the fire. Her hands were regaining feeling very slowly, but it was better than being stuck in the Temple on the hilltop.

Gradually the Hero's eyes became heavy, and she stood and stretched, nodding to Ongar as she went to purchase a room for the night. Even with her hood drawn the man recognized her, but instead of his usual discretion, her guildmate greeted her loudly.

"Greetings my friend!" Ongar answered, uncharacteristically energetic as he clapped Elisif on the back roughly, "Is it true what I heard? That you closed the Oblivion Gate at Kvatch?" at her hesitant nod he laughed, "You're a damn hero, Elisif!" The great nord man embraced her heartily, whispering that if she needed to fence and goods to come by later, then released her with a boisterous farewell.

After that little incident, anonymity was impossible. Everyone was buying drinks for the Hero of Kvatch, and when her hood was knocked off and a pair of fellow mages recognized her, they started congratulating her on making Arch-Mage. Another hour passed wherein alcohol was forced on the poor woman until eventually she had to stand and stagger over to Olav, requesting a room for the night and sashaying down the hall to collapse drunkenly on the bed.

Unfortunately for her, anonymity was not an option in Bruma, thanks to Ongar the World Weary Gossipmonger. Before passing out Elisif made the vague promise to herself that if this managed to get her in trouble, Ongar's would be the first ass she would kick. With that thought she drifted into blessedly dreamless sleep, completely unaware of the eyes that had watched her with barely veiled interest in the taproom.


	12. My bad!

I'm sorry to everyone who has followed this story! I have painted myself into a corner, I think. This story is going on hiatus, perhaps permanently. Either that or it will receive a major overhaul. Thanks for reading, and I promise to post something again soon.


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