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Babette knew many things: the soft, singing of blood through veins, accompanied by the heart; the catch and sigh of a person in a deep, truly dreamless sleep, and the cold, to its most ruthless degree, that halted what flowed in her veins; her tiny body pulled into torpor. These were things that a vampire knew. A knowledge stitched together an endless stretch of nights; eternity opening itself up to her like skin peeling from a corpse left in the woods, spilt nectar thick and syrupy and unctuous. It delighted as much as it repulsed. And if her appetite did not have her take it, the forest and its animals would, and the cycle would go on. Another corpse would replace that one in time, and so, in a strange sense, she liked to think she shared a secret with these pines of Falkreath, perhaps a sense of companionship: she knew what fed their roots.
But they knew day. They knew sunlight, captured it, soaking it up until only a scatter reached the blackened hungry soil beneath. All the while, she had forgotten, and this became a new source of hunger for her. Days in the Sanctuary spent, watching, listening with the keenness only a vampire could have. They were barely worth remembering altogether, but the small talks chafed; simple words gnawed: ‘I need to get there by morning market. Can I take the horse?’, or sometimes, in the middle of the day, ‘Do you feel like getting some fresh air?’ They knew it, all of them, the simple living pleasure of day.
Some of her kind could call the sun imposing and cruel, something harmful to be avoided— for what was the worst enemy but something borne out of a place of love and light? That was the sun to vampires, not always the all-consuming, all-destroying rays, and to her especially, it was this and more. The sun was not a glowing orb of light, but another mystery for her to sink her claws into and shred open.
For in her alchemist’s mind, where there was heat, then there must be something to suppress it. Where there was fire and destruction, something existed to quench it. Something. She parsed through her notes kept in perfect rank and file. It was not a petty pleasure, she told herself. This was a matter of practicality. Several times over the course of her long, unnatural life, there were instances where she was cast into the sunlight and scorched, her cover ruined. It was not unlikely that this event would happen again. Worse yet, murmurings from further east spoke of a reformed Dawnguard. Normally, she wouldn’t consider them a threat, but a vampire hunter would not spare a second thought in slaying her, even if she wore the form of a child.
“Are you… sure about this?” Nazir asked softly when Babette confided this in him.
“As I am sure of anything.” She held up the list to him. “These are the things I need help acquiring, seeing as you’ll be in that particular area soon…”
He looked over the scrawled list of reagents. His brow furrowed at the last one. “This is quite the assortment of reagents… especially the last one.”
“Do you think you can do it?” She inclined her head, and the look swiped the doubt from his face.
“Of course,” he assured her, taking the list, and tucking it into his sleeve. Babette pursed her lips, watching him go. He had barely questioned her request. She almost wished he had, to take some of the guilt off her conscience, but then he stopped on his walk past the Sanctuary’s black pond, where Veezara was crouched, pruning the nightshade plants. Nazir murmured something low to him, too low for Babette to hear. Perhaps intentional.
The Shadowscale glanced in the direction of her lab, where he thought she was, and turned back to Nazir and nodded.
Another two months would go by before she saw either of them again, with Astrid calling for Babette from within the main cavern of their Sanctuary. There she would find Nazir and Veezara, worse for wear, their armor shredded, but nonetheless between them, the crystalline vial containing the Miserine Pearl, a root so delicate that fine Shimmerene lace paled in comparison… But it was extremely well-guarded, tucked away and hidden by the Alik’r warriors. Reaching the oasis where the pale roots grew was a feat within itself; acquiring one was another matter.
She reasoned with it that night while Veezara and Nazir rested in their quarters, their wounds treated by her and her alone. A small thing to do when asking them of such a difficult task, with no promise of reward at the end, yet they had done it anyway. What a strange thing, she paused, even for their little Family. It was no surprise that Astrid had met her with a level stare upon learning of the Miserine Pearl. Any Sanctuary leader would be suspicious when one member held more sway over their Sanctuary than them. After all, they could be a Family, by the old Tenets, but not family. Astrid knew this as well as Babette did— it was the foundation behind why they abandoned the Old Ways, and had no intentions of ever returning.
And so, Babette had gladly accepted the Miserine Pearl and met Astrid’s level stare with her own. They would not speak of this incident for another two years. Elixir still brewing away behind them, Astrid would get deep in her cups, but bring a bottle of fresh blood to entice Babette into drinking with her. One night in particular, Astrid drank an entire bottle of wine, then opened another. “I got a letter from Solitude.” She slid the folded parchment across the table to her. Babette took it, then immediately shredded it in her claws. “I know,” said Astrid.
“I thought it was destroyed?”
“Me too, but apparently, this ‘Cicero’ had all of the right channels to find us. But I don’t trust it. Not for a second.”
“You think he might be one of that Maro’s agents?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have anyone I can send that the Ocaltus don’t know about.”
“Except me.”
“Except you.” Astrid licked the wine from her lips, the sanguine on them reminded Babette pleasantly of the blood on her own, but Astrid’s usually sharp blue eyes glossed over. Drinking in the moment, Babette took in how her blonde hair also had streaks of silver running through it, and along her face, the lines had become more and more pronounced. If Babette had a beating heart, she imagined it would clench at the sight. Time in the life of a vampire was almost meaningless, and its passage was too easy to forget. How many years had it been now? How many years did they still have left before Astrid was gone?
Because when Festus, Gabriela, or her wanted to hole away in their laboratories and studies for the rest of time, Astrid was the one who handed them contracts and dragged them out. When they wanted to fight, she put it down. If they needed support on a mission, she sent them back-up. For under her leadership, there would never be a Purification, that was her solemn promise to them, and such a weighty oath bound them to her. For there would never be another like her.
But with the Night Mother and her Keeper’s potential arrival, though unlikely as it was, unsettled them both. Would this mark a return of the Old Ways, of meaningless Purifications, of tyrannical Black Hands, of incompetent Listeners?
Babette steepled her fingers. But Astrid would die, and when she did, their Sanctuary would crumble without her leadership holding it in place. Unless of course, there was another pin holding it all in place once again, and the halls of her mind, vast, filled to the brim with countless experiences and memories, conjured the door to another Sanctuary, one not unlike this one, bound up underneath a single black banner. Stability, at a bitter price.
Astrid perked up when the elixir behind them bubbled and spat away. “What does it do?” she asked loosely.
“Nothing, at the moment, but one day…” Even she, embittered by the centuries, couldn’t keep the wistfulness out of her small, child’s voice.
But when that one day arrived, it arrived with the Oculatus, and she was running, chased by a man with a sword. She had tried hiding, but he had grabbed her by the hair, and dragged her out, throwing her into the fire. Her throat was raw from the screaming. Her skin blistered and burned and cracked. Fire chased her down the tunnels of their Sanctuary, supports crackling, falling away, as the old stones finally caved in. She ripped off the burning sleeve of her dress and left it behind. Shouts of angry, incensed soldiers clattered around her. They were searching for her; they would find her, or the rocks would bury her alive. A shadow turned the corner.
“There you are.” Same red-faced soldier found her again, his blade wet with blood, and suddenly, she couldn’t remember where Veezara was. The Sanctuary walls and ceiling shuddered with a low, resounding groan of crumbling supports and stones soon to crash.
“Are you going to die down here with me?” she asked in a child’s voice. The murderous look in the soldier’s eyes cleared for an instant, long enough for him to miss Nazir turning the corner as well. He had no time; Nazir ran him through. “What are you doing?” she asked, horrified that he was still here.
“Well, I went through all this trouble.” He produced a vial of a silvery liquid from his sleeve: the elixir. “I’d hate to see all this work go to waste.” As if the Sanctuary wasn’t collapsing around them, as if they both weren’t about to meet Sithis himself. A deafening boom sounded through the Sanctuary; the cloud of dust reached them too. The ground yawned to swallow them both.
“You…” She took it. The glass was frigid even to her dead hands.
“Drink that and follow me.” Holding onto Nazir’s sleeve, she followed him, the elixir sliding down her throat like quicksilver. A chill settled over her. She couldn’t feel her burns anymore as they approached the fissure in the Sanctuary walls. Afternoon light poured through the gap golden and warm.
She let go of his sleeve. “I don’t know if it will work.”
“Doubting your skills now, Babette? I thought you said you were the best—”
“Get me out of here, Nazir.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hoisting her onto his back, Nazir climbed through the fissure in the Sanctuary walls. Babette clenched her jaw in anticipation. Maybe, the elixir was purely a numbing agent and she had misinterpreted the ancient text, and maybe her skin was sloughing off onto Nazir’s dark red tunic. But as the afternoon rays washed over her skin, it did not blister, nor burn.
And for the first time in centuries, standing in the middle of a field, the light welcomed her with, not a scorch, but a brush of warmth, as she felt the sun on her face.