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The Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary was pitiful.
Fomoli didn’t know what else he was expecting when Mirabelle revealed the hidden passage, tucked behind some rock faces out in the middle of nowhere. At least the door was somewhat intimidating, thrumming with crimson magic and engraved with a hooded figure. It gave the essence of being sent off to his own death. As soon as he and his savior stepped inside, however, he was met with nothing more than a dreary cave that had been dressed up to seem important.
His eyes had to readjust from the pale light of the Gold Coast’s morning to the shadow-draped cavern. It was humid and damp, with every step sounding a small splash, as if he were still in Woodhearth, walking barefoot in the road after a storm. Hoping to be kidnapped or, better yet, put out of his misery.
Clusters of flickering candles and gently swinging chandeliers lit it up just enough for one to see their surroundings, to see the sudden drop-offs into uninhabited sections of the winding cave system. The deeper they went, the more domestic everything became. Stalactites of deep rock and uneven walls became smooth stone, sturdy pillars, and vaulted ceilings with intricate archways and tiled floors.
Shadowy figures on the sidelines tracked their movements with masked faces and glinting daggers sheathed. Fomoli decided to avert his attention to the throbbing pain and stiffness in his hands. He raised them, and in the deep blue light he saw his skin stained red up to his elbows. The red cracked as he bent his fingers. Dull aches plagued scattered spots on his head and arms, pulsing hot with every beat of his heart.
Holding himself together by a weathered thread of dignity, Fomoli continued through the den of killers. Should they go through with taking revenge on him, he would be sure to say his thanks.
The Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary was full of lunatics.
He was brought to the Matron upon arrival. Mirabelle was there with him, holding onto his shoulder gently, keeping him rooted before the woman whose name he’d only just learned to be Astara. She carried herself with a strict face and a straight form. Her short silver hair was parted a quarter way across her head with the shorter side tucked behind a round ear, her pale face streaked with a scar that ran right through her left eye.
Mirabelle did most of the talking, filling her in on the events in Woodhearth. What he’d done, and how she found him. Astara’s eyes turned to him, and she crouched down to meet him face to face.
“Is it true?” she asked lowly, her expression expertly trained.
Fomoli’s body became a bright line of tension. His nerves bundled up at the base of his throat and he took a step backward, bracing to flee. Mirabelle caught his arm and cooed soft things to him, little words that meant nothing in his brain, but somehow they still managed to calm him.
“Flighty thing, aren’t you,” she mumbled, rising back to her feet. “Good. We like quick feet in this family. From this day forth, you are one of us now. This Sanctuary shall serve as a safe haven, a place where you and your Brothers and Sisters can relax and mingle between your duties. In time, you will come to consider it a new home.”
Fomoli didn’t know if it was her proud declaration or the exhaustion setting in, but he made a displeased expression, his lips drawing into a pout. Maybe being granted the chance to live was his true punishment.
The Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary had lots of hidden crannies.
He’d discovered this when Mirabelle introduced him to the living quarters. He walked around and investigated, but he never touched the soft bed he was given, nor the folded set of Brotherhood armor sitting on his nightstand. After a few minutes of observing his new surroundings, Mirabelle gently guided him over to meet a pale Argonian named Green-Venom-Tongue. He was tall, hooded, cradling a notepad close to his chest.
“Before anything, we need to establish a record of you, dear. He won’t hurt you,” she soothed, her voice low and effortlessly syrupy.
Fomoli remained wary as the Argonian circled him, mumbling measurements and other piffle to himself as his pen scratched frantically in his notebook. His tail swept heavily behind him as he worked, occasionally quirking or wagging with interest.
The chaos began when the Argonian began to close in on the young Bosmer while saying something about a wellness exam. Mirabelle let it happen. Fomoli hunched over, looking through his scraggly bangs as the Argonian drew closer. “No touching,” he gritted out, his eyes honing in on the Argonian’s hands.
“Oh settle down, we need to make sure you’re in good health. Can’t be sure if all of that blood is yours..”
Alarm bells sounded in his head.
The Argonian continued to press further, crowding into his space. Fomoli backed away until he couldn’t anymore, and he was cornered against a dresser. Fomoli could only keep his eyes trained on the Argonian’s hand, inching closer with an intent he couldn’t place.
He was going to be infected again.
Back in that house.
By those hands.
Never again!
The Argonian reeled back with a pained yelp, releasing his notebook and feather pen in favor of grasping his fingers. Panic flared in Fomoli’s chest, his hearing going out, and he shoved past multiple bodies with the tang of blood on his teeth.
His stinging feet brought him to the first place he found, and that was a little alcove high in the cave wall outside the living quarters, the small space barred away by jagged rock and ashen stalagmites. Adrenaline fueled a leap he wouldn’t dare do while sober, and he managed to climb the wall with its shallow ledges.
He reached the tiny hollow within seconds. Once secure and sure that he wasn’t followed into his new sanctuary, he turned around to find Mirabelle standing at the bottom. “What on Nirn has gotten into you!” Mirabelle cried out, exasperated. She was breathless, doubled over on her knees. She’d probably tailed him after he bolted.
Finding his voice, he shouted, “NO TOUCHING! I’LL KILL YOU!” He couldn’t think, just feel. His chest was heavy with a burn that crossed pain and deep, lingering sorrow. He sucked in a sharp breath and pounded the heel of his fist down on the rock below him, causing little bits to chip off and tumble down towards Mirabelle. She continued to look up at him from her spot on the floor, her brows creased and hands stained lightly with Argonian blood.
He wouldn’t break again. He needed to wait.
After about ten minutes of attempting for a compromise and bearing no fruit, Mirabelle eventually gave up.
“..Fine, have it your way,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, “Just.. be careful coming down, all right? I’ll be around if you need to talk.”
Fomoli remained silent and shifted further back into the hollow.
The Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary wasn’t all bad.
He spent the entire night holed up in that wall, curled into himself to stave off the cold. Nobody had bothered him since the incident with the nosy Argonian, and he took this time alone to shatter once more. He cried until his throat burned and his nose clogged, emotions tearing into his sternum and twisting, like the sharp blade of the knife he’d used, the one he’d dropped after Mirabelle found him.
After a brief period of fitful sleep, the gnawing tightness of hunger made him crawl out of the alcove and scale down the cave wall. It was wet with condensation, and one wrong step sent him slipping downward and slicing open the sole of his foot. With a yelp, he stumbled, and he went tumbling the rest of the way to the ground.
The fresh wound at the bottom of his foot affected his gait in a way that made him limp. By some miracle, he’d managed to drag himself all the way to the dining room across the caverns without bumping into anyone. The moment he spied movement across the way, he ducked behind cover and waited out their passing.
This method was working well at first, but like many good things, the serenity of solitude didn’t last long. Someone had found him as he approached the open kitchen - a lean Dunmer cloaked in silvers and deep crimsons. A hood and face mask obscured all of his features save for a pair of sharp red eyes.
“My, my. You’d think for a wood elf you’d be a bit lighter on your feet,” he quipped, his voice sweet and sultry, and admittedly, it did terrible things to Fomoli’s stomach.
He pointedly turned away, immediately regretting this small journey. “It’s a scratch,” he groused.
The Dunmer only hummed, raising a hand to tap a knuckle to his chin. Those piercing eyes surveyed him for longer than necessary. “Just a scratch, you say..” he drawled, “If it’s really nothing dire, how about you have a seat and let me have a look at it, hm?”
Fomoli couldn’t run in his current state, fatigue and starvation gnawing away at his bones. He felt like a feral street cat in a house of well trained pets, not knowing how to interact with anyone, only hissing and swatting at whoever came close. Now, sleep deprived with an injured foot and an empty stomach, he was forced to relent. The Dunmer let out a little chuckle and led him over to the dining table.
Fomoli plopped down into a chair and did his best to still the trembling in his limbs. The Dunmer knelt before him and retrieved a small roll of gauze from his person, proceeding to wrap up his foot with a seasoned swiftness.
“There we are, all fixed up.” The Dunmer stood to his full height. “Now that you’re not tracking blood everywhere and ruining my appetite, what should I call you, Brother?”
Fomoli continued to avoid his gaze. “..Fomoli.”
“Well met. Elam Drals, contractor. Shall I make us some breakfast?”
The Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary had become something like a new home.
It didn’t come easy, though. It took him weeks to adjust to the environment, learning the ins and outs, adapting to the different personalities of its inhabitants.
Mirabelle introduced him to the other members of their motley crew of assassins. He’d begun hanging around Kor and Hildegarde the most, seeing as he and Hildegarde shared a particular social anxiety that others found awkward or frightening. Kor had managed to warm him up to physical touch, starting at head pats and working up the ladder to hugs.
This “motley crew of assassins” was a patchwork family. Each person had made their individual imprint on him.
Mirabelle loved to spill gossip, stirring up chaos and rumors wherever she went. She worked with Fomoli on keeping a conversation alive.
And Cimbar was great at cooking. He and Fomoli spent a lot of time in the kitchen preparing different recipes.
Tanek showed him the ropes of stealthy combat and how to properly dual wield daggers. They trained hard on the weekends when Tanek wasn’t out on a contract. Speaking of which, Fomoli was given his first contract a little after his first month of being an official member. Someone in Kvatch wanted a few priests dead and Elam had deemed him ready to put his skills to the test. So off to Kvatch he went, at nearly seventeen, to complete his first contract.
As he made his way back to the sanctuary for his reward the following night, he craned his head up to watch the stars. The clean, open air was nothing like that of his homeland. In Valenwood, the forests were so dense that a glimpse at the night sky was considered rare. He had to admit, he was a bit out of his element.
He wanted to return someday. He couldn’t bear the thought of doing this forever, in a place full of humans and dull architecture and too proper traditions. He longed for the wilds, where he could thrive with nature and revel without being seen as a barbaric outlander.
For now, however, honing his skills with the new people in his life sounded sufficient. Doing what he could to forget the past, or at least push it as far back into his mind as he was able. He still thought of Firuin on a daily basis, of how he must have been heartbroken and confused upon finding him gone, leaving nothing but a bloody mess.
Not to mention the rumors. That knot of conflict had never really unwound inside him. There were many of these knots that were still pulled tight within his heart, refusing to budge no matter how much he tugged at them. If anything, they only drew tighter around themselves, worsening his anxiety, building his walls just a little bit higher each time. It was like picking at a scab that had yet to fully heal.
In time, he would unravel them all.