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maniacal-butterfly · 5 years ago

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Tumblr messed up the ask so..

Thank you so much for this prompt!! :D (I know these are supposed to be short but… it became 1500 words by accident. This is a prompt from this list.)

12- Candles (with Meven)

The room was dark and cramped – barely the size of a closet – with no natural light to speak of. But it was secure and the entrance was hidden from the uninitiated. The sweet scent of the nightshades permeated the air but did little to cover the coppery smell accompanying it. The heart of the alit might not have been warm anymore, but it was fresh, and he had hunted it himself. Meven knelt in front of the small altar dedicated to Mephala, the thrill of the forbidden running through his veins, and lit the eight candles placed around it. The flames bathed the room in a warm glow but it was the stark shadows projected on the walls that he revelled in. He was young, scarcely in his teens, and, he’d admit once he was older, both extremely stupid and lucky. Nobody loyal to the Tribunal ever found his little hideout. Nobody and Nothing, thankfully, ever answered his prayers. Still, even decades later, he’d remember this candle lit altar, his tucked-away secret corner that was safe from family expectations, with fondness and nostalgia.

He hadn’t anticipated finding a job on his first night in this Inn. That evening had been to get a feel of the city, drop an ear into the local gossip, learn about the tensions between notorious families… all while playing on his lute and getting paid to entertain. The usual when he arrived anywhere. But no. It seemed that the animosity toward one member of the community had reached its peak. It was a banker whose interest rates and methods of collecting his due had people from all social status loudly calling for his blood. Waiting to claim that target would have been a waste of time and a potentially foolish loss of revenue. And so, to Meven that evening, there had been only the matter of finding the highest bidder. Later, in the dead of night, he entered the man’s bedroom through a window. The banker, still working, bent over contracts and mumbling to himself, never heard him approach. Nor did he see the blade that efficiently cut his throat. And if Meven happened to topple a candle on top of the pile of loan agreements in an effort to make the death look like an accident, well, it was a coincidence. Let it burn.

In the underbelly of unwitting Cheydinhal some of the deadliest assassins in Cyrodiil… were just having a good time. As surprising as it may be for a group of what were technically sociopaths, the members of the Dark Brotherhood knew how to spend excellent non-murderous evenings. A roast sat on the table, already half eaten, and bottles of ale – as well as other almost alchemical drinks – were joyously served. Only the topic of their raucous discussion would tip an interloper that these weren’t your run of the mill revellers. Indeed, they were partaking in their favourite activity: sharing stories about their best contracts. Some facts might get stretched a just little during those sessions. A few guards added here, a miraculous escape achieved there. The tales would grow more extravagant as the night grew older and the drinks were passed around. Meven had, as always, joined in the storytelling with gusto and even provided music to accompany the festivities. Here, despite his guilt at leaving Martin to accomplish his duty as an assassin, he was happy. As he watched the smiling and laughing faces of his family awash in the glow of the dancing candles, he felt at home. He allowed himself to fully enjoy the party. The following day, it would be back to serious business: he was to meet Lucien in Fort Farragut.

Deep in thoughts, he was staring unseeingly at the candle next to him. Maybe, just maybe, this could be a bad idea. There had to be easier, safer, ways to get a daedric artefact. He could go to one on the shrines dotting Cyrodiil and if he prayed hard enough… He interrupted his own thought with a sigh, making the flame flicker. Praying had never worked, it wouldn’t start now. This could be his only chance… “Well? Have you made up your mind? I’ve other duties to which I must attend.” Meven turned his head to look at the source of the voice again. Sitting on the other side of the desk was a seemingly extremely bored Breton…? Daedra? Being? Whatever Haskill actually was didn’t change the highly uninterested expression he was sporting. “I’ll do it.” As he watched in wonder at the room dissolving in a myriad of butterflies, the Dunmer allowed himself some optimism. He had seen what the Shivering Isles could do to unwary visitors but… he had been warned, and he would be mindful. Certainly things would turn out alright? And he could use some distraction after… He viciously slammed that thought and any memory of his pleading Family back in the small mind-box from which they shouldn’t have escaped. Right. Time to go explore this Realm, get what he needed, and then head back to Martin. Meven stood up and started his walk towards Passwall, leaving behind the desk and the lone candle merrily flickering in the breeze.

It was snowing outside. The heavy fall of thick snowflakes muffling any sounds from outside in the already silent night. Meven couldn’t sleep. The stillness of it all coupled with the soft noises of the Blades asleep not far from him only exacerbated the now permanent clamour in the back of his mind. He had tried tossing and turning, glaring at the ceiling, counting Grummites jumping over fences… Nothing had helped and sleep eluded him. Recognising a lost battle when he saw one, the Dunmer left his bed and dragged himself toward the common areas, rubbing his eyes in frustration and exhaustion as he went. Maybe a cup of tea would help. Or knocking himself out with the kettle would. That was always an option. He froze upon arriving in the main hall, surveying the scene in front of him. Brow resting on one hand Martin was pouring over some thick arcane tomes and scribbling rapid notes on a parchment. The tableau would almost have been calming if it hadn’t been for the tense set in Martin’s shoulder and the obvious dark circles under the man’s eyes. As he was now, Meven could even see the effect the Xarxes had on his sanity. It was time for an intervention then. He relaxed his stance and walked toward the desk. Then, without further ado, he closed the book Martin has been studying. “You need sleep.” Startled, the Imperial blearily looked up at him. "I’m close to understanding the complete gate-opening ritual. The final section is almost within my grasp.” Letting out an amused snort Meven tugged on his arm to urge him to stand up. “What you’re close to is passing out. Don’t deny it: you can barely focus on my pretty face.” With a sigh Martin let himself be pulled away from his work. He knew better than to argue with the stubborn Mer. He leaned into Meven slightly as they moved away from the desk, and patted his cheek gently. “Your face is right there my Dear, and such a marvel it is, as always.” And the Dunmer did not turn his head to hide his blush. Assassins turned Daedric Princes did not blush at nonsensical compliments for Void’s sake. He helped the Imperial to his room, stayed long enough to be certain the man would indeed get some sleep, and then turned to leave – he had a kettle waiting for him after all. He hadn’t expected to barely take a step before being stopped, a hand loosely grabbing his wrist. He looked back and was met with Martin’s earnest gaze “Stay?” Ah. Well who was he to refuse his Emperor’s command. They settled comfortably in the bed, and he blew out the candle on the side table. There in the dark, curled against Martin, he vowed once again to do everything in his power to protect the man he loved.

The room was well lit and spacious – to be expected for a temple – and natural light flooded through the now repaired windows. It was anything but secret and worshippers could be seen milling around during the day. On this night, the heavy scent of incense floated in the air, almost cloying to his nose, and it did nothing more but enhance the holy atmosphere accompanying it. The statue might not be warm anymore, but the sacrifice was fresh enough, and he could still feel his heart breaking. Meven (was it even fully him anymore?) knelt in front of the altar dedicated to Akatosh, the loss of the man he loved running cold in his veins, and looked at the candles placed around it. The flames were reflected on the body (the corpse!) of the golden dragon but it was the massive judgmental shadow that he cowered from. He felt old, though barely in his late forties, and, he could presently admit, had been both extremely stupid and unlucky. Nobody had been supposed to die – neither his Brotherhood family nor Martin. Worst of all, Someone and Something had answered his desperation after a moment of weakness. And so, the Isles awaited. Decades later, in flickering moments of awareness, he’d remember burning his hands on the statue for a last goodbye and gushing out all the candles as he left, blanketing the room in silent darkness.

#HoK #oblivion #TES #The Elder Scrolls #the elder scrolls oblivion #Elder Scrolls #elder scrolls oblivion #martin septim #shivering isles #dark brotherhood #Haskill #meven #meven beleth #tiefighter #ask #prompt #my writing #my OCs

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