Chapter Text
Listener, your next contract will take you far from Skyrim. There is a ship waiting in Solitude, and it will transport you to the Grey Havens in a land called Middle-earth. Find the inn in the town called Bree. Your target will be there in forty-five days. Hail Sithis!
When I step off the ship, my knees buckle. I land in a crouch, my palms smacking the spray-slick dock. A month is the longest time I’ve ever spent at sea, and my balance is shot. Thankfully, there’s no one around to see my less-than-impressive entrance. Not that I’m self-conscious, I just prefer not to have people gawking at me everywhere I go. There was a time when I couldn't avoid unwanted attention; being gifted the soul of a dragon whilst still in the womb made me somewhat of a novelty in Skyrim. The only other things going on back home are a civil war, crippling poverty, and alarmingly regular dragon attacks. I had hoped my arrival in Middle-earth would be free of ogling. So far, so good.
The small port is clean, well-maintained, and empty besides a couple of fishing boats and the ship that brought me from Solitude. The mid-morning sun warms my shoulders and sparkles off the dark grey water. A cool breeze swirls my hair around my face, carrying the stink of brine and fish through the harbour—an improvement on the lungfuls of ash I’m accustomed to breathing.
I rise from my crouch, shaking out my stiff legs and reaching my arms above my head. The day is blessedly calm—a huge relief after the treacherous crossing. Even with my limited experience at sea, I know what I just endured was not a normal storm. I was ordered to stay belowdecks so I never got a good look at what was going on, which was perhaps for the best. I’ve never been one for prayers, but there were nights when I came close. When I was convinced the next wave would smash the ship to smithereens and catapult me into the heart of whatever fathomless chaos clawed at the ship.
Arda is certainly a long way from Tamriel. A brand new place where no one knows me. I am no longer the Dragonborn. I never have to hear the word uttered aloud, and can pretend that part of me is dead.
Pity that part makes up so much of the whole.
Tucking the short, pale strands of my hair behind my ears, I turn to retrieve my pack from the dock. As I straighten, I realise the harbour isn’t as unoccupied as I thought.
A couple of children stroll along the boards towards me, wrapped up in conversation. Besides a few brief interactions with the ship’s crew, I haven’t spoken to another living soul in weeks. Most of them made a point of giving me a wide berth, and the bo'sun mouthed frantic prayers each time our paths crossed. Though I rolled my eyes at their superstition, it still stung. Trapped inside that floating wooden box, I couldn’t escape their hostility. It permeated the air, the walls, the boards beneath my feet. Whispers filtered through the cracks in the boards as I lay stretched out on the narrow cot in my cabin. Strange. Quiet. Intense.
From Dragonborn to thief to assassin, my career has never called for people skills. At some point, things like small talk and common interests fell by the wayside in favour of more violent exchanges. The company I keep these days is either undead, extremely dead, or just plain obnoxious. A change of scenery is long overdue—if only to get a break from Cicero's grating laugh and constant babbling to himself in the third person.
Something nudges my shoulder. I whirl to find Shadowmere beside me. His coat gleams a deep, almost purplish brown in the sun, his mane and tail a few shades darker. Though unusual, his colouring doesn’t suggest he is anything other than a common horse. The only thing unnatural about him is his eyes; they glow like hellfire, red and demonic, no matter what form he takes.
“How many times have I asked you not to do that?”
Shadowmere snorts, tossing his head in a surprisingly equine display of amusement.
I sigh and reach up to rub the spot between his ears. “I missed you too.”
When we first met, Shadowmere wasn’t shy about revealing his true form straight away: a devil-horse made of black mist and nightmares. Even referring to an immortal manifestation of the Void as 'him' feels odd and diminishing, and comes more out of habit than anything. If it weren’t for Astrid’s assurance that he was a good friend, I would have refused to go near him. I’m certain that was his intention, and I annoyed him by not taking the hint. We eventually got over our mutual dislike and have travelled together for over a year now. There’s no one I would rather have as a companion, but I envy his ability to travel across oceans and worlds without the need for draughty, dubiously watertight vessels.
He nudges me again, half playful, half grudgingly affectionate, his breath cool on my face. Then he stiffens and jerks his head to stare down the dock.
The two children have stopped a few feet away from us. One of them points at the ship, massive and hulking in the small harbour. “Where did that come from?”
The other stares at Shadowmere, eyes huge. “Look there! Have you ever seen such a beast?”
“Is that an Elf? Why are they covered in scars?”
Annoyed by their shameless stares, I pull my hood over my head. I already miss the assassin’s garb I left back in Dawnstar; the cowl covered my head and most of my face, cloaking me in anonymity. These new clothes were waiting on my bed the night before I was due to leave for Solitude: a simple linen shirt and trousers, itchy but neatly stitched and sturdy, and a heavy travelling cloak. I kept my favourite pair of boots, made of supple leather that has moulded to my feet. This outfit certainly draws less attention than the Dark Brotherhood uniform.
The ship departs soon after depositing me on the dock. It shrinks to a tiny dark smudge on the horizon and then vanishes.
Though it holds many memories and experiences I would rather forget, Skyrim is the only home I have ever known. I know its roads as well as the veins spidering across the backs of my hands. Its caves and forests sheltered me through wintry nights and summer days. Everyone I’ve ever loved and lost is buried in the shadow of those mountains.
Standing on this dock, I feel like I have finally left those ghosts behind.
But I won’t be here long. As soon as this task is complete, I will continue to answer the calls of desperate souls who pray to the Night Mother. The weight of my duties as Listener anchors me to the Night Mother, the Dark Brotherhood, and Skyrim, but the miles of ocean have eased the burden a little.
Darkness rises when silence dies.
I shudder, pushing away the memory of the Night Mother’s voice scraping the inside of my skull, of her corpse’s rictus grin inches from my face, and set my jaw. My target will arrive at the inn in less than two weeks. There’s no time to waste.
A crowd of children has gathered on the dock behind me. Murmurs permeate the air, and one or two fingers jab in my direction. Their presence hovers at the edge of my awareness like a persistent insect as I hoist my pack onto my shoulders and sling my bow and quiver across my back. I touch the dagger at my hip, and their buzzing intensifies. Hooking my fingers through Shadowmere’s bridle for appearance's sake, I turn away from the water. There are so many people that I can’t track a wide enough circle around them. Their eyes follow my every step, searing into my back.
“’Ere!” one of them calls. “Who are you? What’s your business?”
I stop, accidentally jerking Shadowmere’s head. He glares at me, but I barely register his annoyance and turn to face my audience.
They aren’t children at all. Their curly heads are about level with my waist, but crow’s feet line their eyes and streaks of grey hair gleam in the sun. Their curiosity morphs into reproach as we stare at each other for several heartbeats. Shifting my gaze to the dock, I notice that every one of them is barefoot.
I debate ignoring the question and walking away. These creatures appear harmless, and not one of them has taken a step towards me. A couple of them try to slot themselves behind their neighbours to avoid my stare. My mouth twitches up.
“My name is Sif.” My voice is scratchy from disuse, which seems to add to the effect. The creatures shuffle their large, hairy feet, desperately trying to avoid looking at me. “I’m here to fulfil a contract, and I’m running late.”
The one who spoke looks as though he’s about to argue, his cheeks flushing red. I lift my head, and his mouth clamps shut. He makes a choked sound, distracting the others enough for me to slip past. I try not to smile as I continue walking. They mentioned Elves, but judging from their wide eyes, they’ve never seen one like me before. I’ve been told I’m quite a formidable sight when I want to be. The cat-like green eyes and jagged, angry scars on my forehead and cheek combine etherealness and menace in a way that most people don’t know what to do with.
This coming from someone who decided the way I look was a reason to make me his wife.
A sliver of ice pierces my chest as his face surfaces in my mind. His kind brown eyes sparkle with mischief, his lips forming my favourite crooked smile that always meant trouble. I grit my teeth, shoving the image down.
That’s another ghost I’ll gladly leave behind for a while.
Though the strange creatures in the harbour were intriguing, the voyage ate up thirty-two of my forty-three days, and I still have to make it to Bree. I can almost feel the Night Mother’s unseeing stare on my back as Shadowmere and I make our way out of the harbour and join the road leading east.
Some days it’s easier to think that becoming the Listener was my decision, but I can’t ignore the truth. The Night Mother named me, and that was the end.
After Alduin was gone and the prophecy fulfilled, I wandered around without purpose until I found the Thieves’ Guild. It wasn't exactly the stuff legends are made of, but it made me feel alive and put my talents to good use. And along with it came something I had never experienced before: a group of people who didn't baulk at the sight of me, and who weren't afraid of what I could do. A family.
But it wasn’t to last. My peace with the world shattered like an expensive vase over my head in the space of a single afternoon. What started as a thrill ended with a body cradled in my arms, his blood soaking through the front of my shirt as I screamed.
During the journey between worlds, I had a lot of time to remember and nowhere to hide. I sat for days or weeks or a lifetime whilst the nightmares burrowed beneath my skin and festered.
We continue along the road at a steady pace. The watery sun warms my skin and showcases the sprawling grasslands and forests. Though the landscape is reminiscent of Skyrim, the colours are more vivid, the air cleaner. I soon give up counting the shades of green and focus on breathing the floral and pine-scented air until my head is blissfully vacant.
Around noon, we stop at a stream to drink. The water sparkles in my hands, clear as glass. Cool freshness lingers on my tongue in place of the usual grit and metal. I splash another handful on my face, closing my eyes as droplets trickle down my neck. Shadowmere wades through the shallows, ears pricked, tail swishing. He lifts his head to look at me, needing no words to make his question clear.
What are you looking at?
The laugh feels foreign and pleasant in my throat as I kick off my boots to dip my toes in the water. Leaning back on my hands, I watch the clouds amble across the sky like sheep in a pale blue field. For the first time in weeks, I can pretend my problems belong to someone else, someone far away in a land across the sea.
Shadowmere wanders up the bank to stand over me, always alert. I reach up to pat his shoulder, inhaling the vague scent of sulfur. “I think I’m going to like it here.”
When it grows dark, I set up camp inside a small cave. Shadowmere stands watch at the entrance, a horse-shaped demon with eyes like glowing embers, though I doubt anything will trouble us tonight. Unable and unwilling to sleep, I spend the darkest hours studying the map that came with my instructions and clothes. My fingers linger over the names inked on the yellowed parchment: Gondor, Rohan, Mordor—all much further south than the little dot labelled ‘Bree’. Middle-earth is huge and begging to be explored, but I doubt the Night Mother will allow any time for sightseeing.
As I gaze out at the hills and trees outlined in silver moonlight, a pang goes through my chest. The whole reason I accepted this contract instead of giving it to a recruit was to get away from Skyrim. Now I'm here, and the freedom I crave is dangling cruelly in front of my nose, just out of reach.
Sighing, I roll up the map and draw my favourite dagger, the Blade of Woe. It glints in the moonlight, the same way as on the night it came into my possession four months ago.
When I returned to the Sanctuary, soldiers were already swarming over it like termites. Reeling from the failed mission, I was too slow to process what I saw. One man spotted me, and as he charged, his uniform caught the glow of the spreading flames. Penitus Oculatus. I swept an arrow from my quiver and halted his advance, easy as a breath, and the pieces finally clicked into place.
I found Festus Krex pinned to a tree by a dozen arrows. He and I never saw eye to eye, but he didn’t deserve to die like that, as though they had used him for target practice.
As I stumbled through the burning Sanctuary, men emerged from the smoke and flames on all sides. I killed them easily, with barely a thought. The only thing that mattered was finding Astrid and the others and getting them out.
I tripped on something lying in my path and looked down. Veezara’s yellow lizard eyes stared unseeingly at the ceiling, blue blood leaking from a hole in his chest. A few steps further, and there was Gabriella, a broken marionette silhouetted against devouring flames.
Arnbjorn was still alive. His grief and rage echoed off the stone walls as he lunged at three of the soldiers in wolf-form, claws swiping, jaws snapping. I reached him just as the first blade sliced across his flank, and a second drove into his belly. With his dying howl still echoing off the stone, his killers lay crumpled at my feet.
By the time I found Nazir, the smoke was so thick I could barely see. The souls of four dozen dragons roared within me, rattling my bones and threatening to break me apart. Even their tremendous power was useless. There was nothing to be done, and no time left.
Listener, I am your only salvation. Come. Embrace me.
Her voice tugged on something inside my abdomen. I battled my way through the flames and soldiers, into the room that housed the Night Mother’s coffin.
Crash. Flames billowed at my back. The roaring fire drowned Nazir’s panicked voice as it devoured the wreckage, creating a flaming barrier between me and my way out. The Night Mother grinned at me through the smoke. Her coffin door stood open, inviting me in. It slammed shut behind me, sealing me inside with the dusty corpse.
Another crash. Something shattered against the coffin, the sound strangely muffled by the inferno.
The Night Mother’s hollow eyes stared through the darkness as the Sanctuary collapsed around us.
Sleep.
I fought against her, but the Night Mother’s will was too strong. She dragged me under, and everything went dark.
I came to as the coffin lurched, bumping over rough ground. It took a moment for the fog to clear, and I realised my lungs were no longer filled with smoke. Cool air filtered in, permeating the staleness inside the coffin. I shook my head, blinking to clear the last of the daze, and reached for the door. Sealed tight.
“Hurry, Nazir! I’m telling you, she’s in there!”
Babette. Alive. Her girlish voice untainted by smoke.
“I’m going as fast as I can, you stupid she-devil.” Each word punctuated by a grunt as Nazir dragged the coffin a little further. “I don’t see you helping.”
“I’m not exactly built for manual labour.”
Their bickering was such a relief that I almost laughed. I shoved against the door with my shoulder, but it wouldn’t budge. I glanced at the Night Mother. The silence stretched taut between us like a bowstring just before it snaps.
The coffin ground to a halt. “There!”
“Can you get it open?”
As Nazir scrabbled at the lock, the Night Mother’s dry voice echoed inside my skull.
You must speak with Astrid. Here, in the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary.
Astrid. Astrid was alive. I didn’t stop to think about what that meant or why it sounded like an order. I just had to get to her.
Nazir and Babette jumped as I staggered out of the iron tomb. Nazir put his hands out as if to catch me. The news about Astrid tumbled out me in a rush. The two of them jogged after me as I ran back into the smouldering remnants of the Sanctuary.
Astrid lay on the floor surrounded by candles and the ruins of everything she had built, reduced to a hunk of raw flesh. The enchanted dagger lay an inch from her blackened fingers.
The stink of charred meat filled my nose as I dropped to my knees. “Astrid…”
She shushed me, her voice a brittle whisper. “I’m sorry. So very sorry. The Penitus Oculatus... Maro… He said that by giving you to them, he would leave the Dark Brotherhood alone. Forever. By Sithis, I was such a fool. All of this is my fault. You are the best of us, and I nearly killed you. As I’ve killed everyone else.”
I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. I stared down at her hand, inches from my knee, but couldn't bring myself to take it.
“I deserve whatever fate the Dread Lord has in store. I betrayed you, and now Maro has betrayed me.” She closed her eyes, coughing as her lungs fought to expel the smoke. “I just wanted things to stay the way they were. Before Cicero, before the Night Mother… before you. I thought I could save us. I was wrong.” She opened her eyes again, and I focused on the familiar blue irises rather than her ruined face. “But you’re alive! So there’s a chance to start over, rebuild. That’s why I did… this.” Her eyes flicked towards the candles, at her own scorched body. “Don’t you see? I prayed to the Night Mother! I am the Black Sacrament.”
My nails cut into my palms. The pieces slotted together in my head, and I realised why the Night Mother had sent me back to get her. But I didn’t want to believe it. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you were right.” Her voice was stronger now. “And to prove my sincerity, I have prayed for a contract. You lead this Family now. I give you the Blade of Woe so that you can see it through. You must kill me.”
The order was so direct that for a moment I could only stare at her. Then I glanced down at the Blade of Woe. Its soft red light beckoned me, but I forced myself to look back at Astrid. She had tried to have me killed. That would have been more than enough reason to leave her festering in the dirt.
But I couldn’t hate her. Not after everything she had done for me and everything she had suffered. Neither could I leave Nazir and Babette to struggle on without me. Listener, I had to lead the Dark Brotherhood. Astrid had fought against fate with everything she had, and she had lost.
A tear splashed onto the soot-streaked stone as I picked up the Blade of Woe and used it to cut Astrid's throat.
I study the dagger in my hand, tracing the veins of glowing red spidering along the curved blade. I lift my head to see the stars staring down at me, cold and unfamiliar.
“You were right,” I say, not because I think she can hear me, but because I need to say it out loud. “This is all your fault. You gave me no choice.”
Astrid took me in when I had nothing left. She gave me a new purpose and a family that, while it would never replace the one I lost, made the hole in my heart ache a little less. And maybe that makes what she did unforgivable, but it’s also the reason I have to keep my promise.
I have to keep the Dark Brotherhood alive. The Night Mother promised an eternity of suffering at Sithis’s hand if I abandoned my duty. At least this way, my misery might bring someone else peace.
Did I not choose this life? Did I not kill at Astrid's behest the very night we met? I can try to place the blame on her, but this is my doing. The monster scratched at my door, and I let it in.
However intrigued I am by this land, my presence here can mean only one thing.
Soon, someone will feel the Blade’s metal kiss at their throat, and it will be the last sensation they ever experience.