Chapter Text
“Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, bring your child unto me … For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear…” The knife drives into the effigy again, the flesh it finds making a sickening wet noise. She shudders a little, the sight of the mutilated flesh making her stomach turn. She closes her eyes, fighting her nausea for a moment. She couldn’t give up, no. Too much effort, too much preparation. She opens her eyes again, pulling the dagger out with a disgusting, wet noise. “Sweet Mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear.” She murmurs again, the blade sinking in once more.
She had been at it for several hours already, her fervent prayer growing exhausted. She repeats the prayer, and sinks the blade in once more, sitting back to stare at the mutilated parts in front of her. Going through the trouble of procuring these, and finding a secure location to perform it was an incredible amount of trouble, and if it didn’t work, she was screwed. And doing it all underneath her father’s nose? An incredible feat. She stands, looking down at the effigy, a frown tugging at her lips. She needed this to work. Desperately. How it worked, she did not know, but it seemed like it didn’t.
“Fuck.” She mumbles, holding her head in her hands. She needed to leave soon, to return so her father didn’t suspect anything. She sighs, picking her head back up and collecting her personal effects, the silence of the room loud in her ears. She blows out the candles she’s lit for the circle, the candles scattered to light the room still just enough to see by. The effect of the lights on the upturned, dusty furniture has her tense, every jumping shadow looking like a person instead of a broken bed frame, or collapsed table.
It’s because of that that her eyes nearly pass over the person that had joined her in the destroyed room, watching her with interest from their position atop an upturned wardrobe. She stops in place, and the two stare at each other. The other’s mask covers their face, but she’s almost certain it’s a man, the hood not quite covering some wildly curly hair and barely hiding his dark, dark eyes, that look almost purple in the flickering light. He waves to her, looking as casual as can be.
“H-hi.” She starts, internally cursing herself for the false start. She straightens her back and raises her chin. “Did She send you?” There’s a small pause, and slowly, they nod. Her shoulders set. “I need you to kill someone for me.” The assassin remains silent, though she senses he’s amused. “My father.” He tilts his head, studying her. “He goes by Scratch, and he runs the East Empire Company office out here in Windhelm.” He doesn’t acknowledge her words, but she knows that he’s listening, his gaze intense. His silence is unnerving, and her resolve wavers some. “He’s not … he’s not who everyone seems to think he is.” She tells him, and she senses she has their full attention. “He hurts me. My mother. My sister. And I’m doing something about it.” She opens her bag, pulling out a sack of coins. It’s enough, but only just. She’d stolen most of it, her father’s coin paying for his own demise. “This … should be enough. I hope. If … if not, there are … things I can do, maybe, if you …” He holds up a hand, silencing her. Her lips press into a hard line, but she holds the bag out. The assassin drops from the top of the wardrobe, landing without a sound. His hand wraps around hers, turning her palm up, and drops the bag back into it before closing her fingers around it. She watches him in wide-eyed silence, and his eyes meet hers briefly before he nods solemnly, and pulls away. He’s out of the room before she can react. “Wait!” She calls, following him out into the main room of the abandoned home. “Does that mean-” He’s gone. Without a trace. “Did … he take it?” She asks herself, feeling lost.
She wanders home after that, drawing her cloak tight around herself, hiding her face from the guards out at this hour. She’s spent enough time sneaking around to know where the guards stood, and how to stand just out of sight. It’s not as if it’s illegal for her to be out at this hour, no - being a high elf made her suspicious in this city, and if a guard stops her, her father will know. The Dark Brotherhood may work fast, but perhaps not fast enough to save her from her father’s wrath, should he find out. She’d rather not test her limits.
She presses against the wall of the alley as a guard passes by, and slips behind her and into her house, unlocking the door and shutting it silently. She breathes a soft sigh of partial relief, relocking the door and slipping further into the house.
The upstairs is silent, telling her that her father is unaware of her absence and subsequent return, and her sister’s door is open, showing her laying quietly in her bed, fast asleep. Even from here, she can see the bruise on her cheek, deep black and painful looking. Her lips press together, and she knows - she made the right decision.
Her sleep that night is thin, half expecting to hear her mother’s cry upon discovering her father’s body. Her body is tight, wound up in anticipation, but nothing happens. Daylight streams in through her window, and she hears her parents rise, and still no gasp of revelation comes. She sits up, her feet curling as they touch the freezing stone beneath her. In the main room, she hears her mother’s soft voice, and her father snapping back at her as she is surely stoking the fire in the main room
She dresses promptly, not wanting to face her father’s wrath for her slowness. It’s always freezing in the northern part of Skyrim, necessitating layers … and more layers. She tugs her boots on, and stands, closing her door firmly behind her as she steps out into the main room. Her mother meets her eye from across the room as she carefully begins lunch preparation. Behind her, her father is straightening his robes, looking on with his usual air of dissatisfaction.
“Damara. Taking your time this morning?” He asks, his sneer barely hidden. She wonders if it makes him feel good to nitpick her for things like that.
“Sorry…” She murmurs, dipping her head slightly. Her eyes remain on him, though. She doesn’t dare smile at all, but her heart beats a little faster at the thought of the man from the Dark Brotherhood, hoping that despite his refusal of her payment, he still accepted her contract. She’d never, never heard of a contract being refused, not in any book she’d secreted away, not in any rumors. If he’d come, it meant the Night Mother had heard her, had sent him, the contract should already be underway … so she thought.
She sits next to her mother at the table, her hand resting on her arm. Her mother gives her a tight smile.
“Loramia, I’ll be going now. Try to make sure something gets done around here.” Her father announces loudly. “Understand, Damara? Try to make yourself useful. For once.”
“Yes father.” She murmurs again, avoiding his eye as he leaves.
The door slams shut behind him, and the fire quakes momentarily from its brief exposure to the wind and snow outside.
“Grim weather today…” Her mother remarks softly. “Very … foreboding.” Damara watches the door, a smile playing on her lips.
“I’m not so sure. I have a good feeling about today.” She says, and her mother resumes her work, slicing chicken into neat little cubes.
“Do you now?” She asks, amusement in her voice. “Well I’d better take advantage of your mood and ask for as many favors as possible before you turn sour.” She slides the bowl of leeks to her. “Why don’t you start with cutting these up?”
It feels like time is crawling. Any moment, it has to happen. A guard, knocking on their door, telling them the grim news. Any moment. It doesn’t happen. Time crawls on, and no one comes. They throw the dumplings into the brick oven, and chores begin. The seconds feel like hours.
“Damara.” Her mother says, pulling her from her thoughts, scowling down at the pair of stockings she’s mending. It takes her a moment to come back to reality, and she blinks at her. “These are done … I know you’re itching to get out. Would you mind bringing your father his lunch?” She sets her work aside, standing.
“I … yes, sure.” She says, walking over. Her mother carefully packs them into a basket, covering them with cloth.
“Be careful, alright? He’s in a mood today.” She says. “Oh, and here. Run to the market for me on your way back, will you?” She picks the shopping list up off the table and tucks it into the basket.
“I will. Thanks.” She says, her anticipation only growing.
She heads out, pulling her cloak tight around herself as she heads out. The wind blows hard as she leaves, and she clenches her teeth together. Most people pay her no mind, though Nords usually have something to say, residual prejudice from the war. Fortunately, her mind is too occupied to really focus on the side eyes she receives.
It’s quiet today, the wind blowing hard and howling, and she huffs, her breath forming a cloud in the wind. She glances around, only to find herself alone as she walks the path down towards the docks. She hesitates for a moment, considering, but really - what was the harm?
She adjusts her basket in one arm, and holds out her other, the simple spell easy to cast. A small ball of fire appears in her hand, hovering just above her fingers and flickering gently. She holds it as close as she dares, letting the flame warm her as she walks.
It’s quiet as she walks to the heavy door in the city wall, but as she pushes it open, she can hear the commotion of the dock workers. They’re always yelling to each other, shouting, gasping, crying - Crying?
Damara hesitates in place for a moment, listening to the people around the corner, and her eyes widen as she slowly realizes - it happened.
She drops her spell but manages to hold onto her basket as she hurries and rounds the corner, seeing the small crowd around the East Empire Company’s office door, people in panic and shock, and she can only stare.
“Damara!” Someone says, and suddenly eyes are on her, and she has to fight the bubbling smile that threatens to form on her face.
“What’s the matter? Is everything okay?” She asks, laying her fake confusion on thick. There are guards pushing the crowd away from the door, and then there’s one leading her away from the scene as well.
“Come now, please, you shouldn’t … you shouldn’t have to see that.” The man says, voice muffled behind his helmet. Her frustration mounts, but she wants to see it, has to see it.
“What’s wrong? Is it my father?” She asks, fighting the urge to look around him, to try and catch a glimpse.
“I’m sorry. It is. He’s been … your father’s been murdered.” The guard says solemnly.
“I have to see him!” She insists, “I have to! I don’t believe it!” She fights against the guard’s hold, and despite his protests, she breaks free, running into the crowd, the basket dropped on the ground and forgotten.
She pushes past all of the clamouring people, and dodges the guards trying to catch her, pushing the door open and stumbling in. The guards shout, tell her to stop, that it isn’t something she should have to see, but she disagrees. Immensely so, once she actually does see it.
The first thing she can see is the word “MONSTER”, carved into his chest. Rivulets of blood drip from the letters and stain his skin, and his clothing where it has not been ripped away to make room for the word. Once she can focus on anything else, she realizes his face has been sliced up, as well, making him barely recognizable. The fatal wound is certainly the gaping cut across his neck, nearly decapitating him, still oozing blood, dripping down and pooling on the floor beneath him, staining the wood and dripping through the cracks.
She’s just standing there, so the guards easily grab her again and haul her out, and she realizes she should be crying, maybe, but it’s all she can do not to laugh. She hopes it hurt, hopes he was terrified. She almost wished she was there to see it.
“It’s okay. He’s in a better place.” The guard says, and she realizes she’s making a choked sort of noise, trying to keep her laughter down. She clears her throat, and tries to summon up tears. None come. To hell with it. She screws her face up a little, letting out a fake sob, and buries her face in the guard’s armour. “We’ll find who did this, don’t you worry.” He says. “Everything will be okay, now.” Her fingers grip a little harder against the guard as she tries to hide her face, disguising her laughter as sobs.