Chapter 9: Shadowy Reunions

“Does something about this feel off to you?” the half-Altmer mage asked as he steered his mount closer to his companion. “I have a nagging suspicion our client isn’t telling us everything.”

Looking back over his shoulder briefly, his Breton compatriot replied, “I agree on both counts. He appears far too nervous about being on this road.”

Rolan glanced over at his friend’s face as the other mage turned to look at the rider trailing behind them. He was a thoroughly unimposing Redguard, claiming the name Samus Reim, and just arrived from Hammerfell. Several days ago he approached them asking for escort to the Imperial City. They accepted the offer for several reasons.

Firstly, Attlan made the point this would likely be the last time they could earn extra finances before entering the Arcane University. With the rules of the University neither of the pair thought they would find further opportunities for profit. And, much as Rolan hated to admit it, he did enjoy the comforts their additional income provided them.

Second, Rolan hoped their minor adventure would pull Attlan out of his strange behavior. For the last several months his friend seemed completely out of sorts. It all began the day after they returned Maeva’s heirloom mace. Attlan did not speak to him for most of the day and for the rest of the week his half-Altmer friend seemed to be avoiding contact. When confronted he evaded Rolan’s questions and fought to change the subject, denying any guilt. Something in Attlan’s eyes bothered Rolan, however, and though he did let the subject pass outwardly, it still plagued his thoughts.

Finally, it gave them reason to break away from his mother’s insistent clutches. Repairs to the roof, neglected tidying up of her alchemy laboratory, and a lengthy – and thoroughly guilt-inducing – speech about how his long absence affected his relationship with his younger brothers all ensured they remained. When one excuse failed, she always seemed to have another waiting in line. Although Rolan loved her deeply and was glad how easily his whole family came to accept Attlan as a surrogate member, they both knew it was time to move on. If they were to make the start of the new semester, then their time in Anvil needed to come to an end. And it seemed the Nine answered his prayers when Samus appeared at their doorstep.

According to the Redguard their reputation as mages-for-hire reached his ears soon after touching shore. Claiming to be a merchant of some repute in his homeland the dark skinned man offered a generous sum if they agreed to provide him safe passage to the Imperial City. He gave them no reason as to why he required their protection, but implied he carried precious cargo which may entice bandits.

Both were skeptical at his story, but when he produced a large coinpurse heavy with gold, neither of them could resist the temptation. Later that night Attlan surprised Rolan when he tallied the payment to nearly equal their current fortune.

So there they were, three of them traveling by moonlight – at Samus’ insistence – a day’s worth of riding behind them and still three more ahead. Laden with supplies, since their client also insisted they not stop at Kvatch or Skingrad on their way, the trio meandered on with eyes intent on the road ahead. Before leaving, Rolan made a point of removing the bracer under his robes restricting his Conjuration abilities. Off to their right, hidden in the shadows, Raji kept pace with them. His link to the Clannfear kept him apprised of anything her heightened senses might detect.

They held no torches so Attlan, acting as a guide, wore the Hunter’s Ring he acquired during their excursion into Sercen many years ago. Rolan’s enchanted cowl chased the night’s shadows away as the hidden details of the land came forth in a bluish gaze. The lack of true color bothered him, but he coped. In addition they carried the Chameleon enchanted rings they negotiated from the crazy exile Ancotar. Swords at their hips and staves in hand neither of them cared to take any chances as Samus’ trepidation put them both on edge.

When a lone rider came charging towards them at top speed, they all caught their breath. His hand tightened around the staff and he reflexively began preparing several defensive spells in his mind. As the rider loomed closer, he narrowed his eyes and tensed for an attack.

When Rolan recognized the rider as the local Black Horse courier, however, they relaxed. Still, the encounter proved troubling and did little to lessen the tension.

“Maybe you should take up the rear,” Attlan whispered. “Something still doesn’t feel right.”

Nodding in agreement, Rolan held up his reigns and slowed his pace until Samus passed by. After allowing some distance he stepped back into line. Raji remained parallel to him at all times.

Nearly an hour passed without incident, then, suddenly, he nearly shuddered off his saddle as Raji’s senses went on high alert. Like a cold wave sweeping over him he felt his companion’s fear, excitement, and rage ripple through his emotions. Gulping down hard, he fought to regain control – something which proved strangely difficult as of late.

Using a technique taught by his father Rolan relayed his companion’s warning to Attlan telepathically. Immediately the half-Altmer mage panned his head back and forth, searching for any sign of danger, but found nothing.

Just as he was about to question Raji, Rolan felt a tingling in the pit of his stomach as every hair on his body stood on end. His breathing increased along with his heartbeat and sweat started to drip down his back sending a chill down his spine. Licking his lips he found his mouth dry as a bone and strained not to cough as cobwebs seemed to drift down his throat. A sense of resentment and anger assaulted him.

A quick mental sweep confirmed it did not originate through the link with the Clannfear.

What was it, then? What could affect him so?

A feeling… a voice?

Distant, but distinctly familiar. Something from his past.

Ninendava flashed into his mind.

So engulfed in his thoughts, Rolan never remembered drawing his sword, but when he looked down he realized his hand held it at the ready. Up ahead, Attlan held his much the same. Samus continued to look back and forth at the both of them.

Summoning up a spell, Rolan called upon the spells of Mysticism and cast a spell to detect the presence of living souls. His skill still lacked severely in the school, however, and his sight only extended for a few yards in all directions.

Still, the presence persisted.

There was something out there, he just could not see it!

He closed his eyes and focused on the sensation, trying to discern its location. After several tense minutes he popped open his eyes and turned his head to the left. Crouching atop a rock, blending in almost perfectly with the foliage was a figure… holding a dagger raised high.

With speed fueled by adrenaline, Rolan raised his staff and fired off a blast of Frost. The spell missed its mark as the hooded figure dodged backward and tumbled off into the boulders. It was gone before the discarded dagger clattered against the rocks.

Impossible reflexes…

“Raji, stay with Samus!” he shouted after urging his mount off the road. The horse balked at his command to trample through the dark brush lining the roadway, but he regained control and steered it back towards his intended trail.

They plowed through, trampling the small underbrush and tearing a path into the shadowy beyond. As he approached the source of the presence it receded, maintaining a constant distance from him. Thundering through the wilderness beside him, Attlan pulled in close.

Trees and large shrubbery shot past them as they pounded on. Several times Rolan found himself angling his horse away from large rock formations dotting the landscape. The source of the presence seemed to intentionally use the jutting stones as an attempt at evasion. Clever indeed.

Without a word, Rolan pointed his shortsword forward, indicating the direction of their quarry. Nodding in understanding the half-Altmer mage steered his horse away and whispered an enchantment. Seconds later Rolan watched as his companion zipped ahead at an almost impossible speed. Soon after, flashes of lightning and crackles of thunder echoed through the night.

Digging his heels in, Rolan whispered an enchantment of his own and struggled to control his mount as their speed nearly tripled in the blink of an eye. It took him less than a minute to catch up to his friend.

He almost did not believe his eyes when he saw a figure clad in black leather armor running several yards alongside Attlan and his horse. Two tendrils of black cloth – a scarf of some sort? – trailed behind the runner. It amazed him to see the figure keeping pace with Attlan’s magically enhanced steed.

As he closed on them, Rolan could feel the presence growing stronger. When he held his stride at only a few yards behind the figure a whispering voice sounded in his head. Angry and spiteful, the voice shouted all manner of obscenities at him in a Daedric tongue. Frustrated, Rolan still could not discern what the voice was.

Following his friend’s lead, Rolan fired off several blasts of frost at the runner, aiming for the figure’s legs. He did not intend to kill the person, merely slow them down or stop them altogether. There were several questions he intended to ask.

With impossibly nimble legs, the runner dodged every blast either by leaping high or dodging sideways. The armor had to be enchanted but he could not sense its magicka in the slightest. Even at his distance and his elevated adrenaline levels some trace of it should show to his magically attuned senses, but each mental probe proved fruitless. It was then Rolan recalled hearing his mother speak of methods to mask enchantments, much like the bracer he normally wore to dull his Conjuring abilities, but she said the art lay lost to the ages long ago. Could the runner’s armor be that old? Or did they have resources the Guild did not?

Attlan caught his attention with a wave of his hand. As they continued to thunder across the dark black of the night Rolan’s enchanted vision caught sight of Attlan’s gestures. His friend pointed at the runner then swept one hand low and up high in a straight line. Rolan understood the other mage’s meaning immediately.

Heart pounding and sweat continuing to slide down, he refocused his thoughts and chanted another spell of frost. Unlike the others however, he had no intention of striking his target with this spell, merely the area around them. Attlan’s skills in area-effect spells were, for once, lacking in this area, but luckily Rolan’s own were quite adept… well, as far as frost anyhow.

The magicka rising in him, Rolan felt the sense of euphoria as the spell came to fruition immediately before he released it in the direction of the runner. Just as before, the figure leapt forward, intending to avoid the spell, but they both heard a woman’s scream pierce the night air when the area around her exploded in freezing icicles.

Legs severely impaired by the shock of the sudden cold, the runner collapsed and continued to tumble forward, momentum carrying her for several yards. When the figure finally did stop, Rolan pulled his mount up close and leapt off the saddle with sword drawn and staff at the ready. Before he even neared the body, however, Attlan unleashed a blast of lightning at her. The force of the spell threw the woman even further ahead of him and flipped her over so she lay face up.

Turning in anger, Rolan shouted, “That is enough! They are no threat to anyone now!”

Obviously frustrated Attlan nonetheless kept quiet, but he leveled his staff at the unconscious person and maintained a good distance.

Rolan looked back down at the body and found two daggers lying several feet to either side. The runner’s momentum or Attlan’s spell must have sent them flying as well. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the woman – for this close up there was no doubt that the runner was a woman – still breathed life.

Her armor was strange, unlike any other leather armor he’d seen prior. The black dye held no imperfections and he couldn’t help but wonder how one even went about dyeing leather. Even more bizarre the shadows themselves seemed to cling to its material and almost seemed to caress her limp form. Strapped across her chest were several throwing knives, which he quickly removed and tossed aside.

It was surprising how little she stirred as he continued his inspection.

The Daedric voice in his head had not stopped its endless string of curses and shouts of rage even after the woman fell and Rolan was determined to find the source of the voice. Initially he thought her to be a Daedra of some kind, but now he realized it unlikely. Pulling back her hood revealed the face of a slightly gaunt young Breton woman… or girl perhaps. Looking at her size and figure he surmised she was no older than perhaps sixteen or seventeen at most.

He searched every pocket or concealed fold in her armor still trying to find the source. Finally, when he turned her body over with an unceremonious flop did Rolan find what he sought.

An intricately designed dagger lay tucked in the small of her back, partly wrapped in now ripped cloth, glowing dully in the dark, and with swirling mists of flames dancing within the blade. When he saw it, the voice in his head shouted with renewed rage.

Gingerly, Rolan found his fingers moving toward the handle and, before he even realized, he drew the blade from its place under her belt. Breathing heavily he brought the weapon up closer to his eyes. Immediately he knew what he beheld.

Roaring wrathful words the voice resounded in his mind. He felt the dagger pushing against him, as if trying to attack him through his touch, but the special bonds of his bloodline kept the sinister force out of his body and contained. The smell of sulfur shot through his nostrils, heat welled in the palm of his hand, and the very air around him seemed to glow an eerie crimson.

With disgust, he whispered an ancient spell known only to his family and threw the dagger behind him. The voice in his head fell further and further away till he heard it no more.

“Damn you, Mehrunes,” he mumbled, “why now after so long?”

He heard Attlan’s footsteps behind him but did not realize his friend’s intentions until it was too late. Screaming in pain, the half-Altmer mage dropped to his knees as Rolan turned to see him holding the discarded blade in his hand.

Running to his friend, Rolan desperately fumbled with Attlan’s fingers, trying to dislodge the dagger from his grasp. But whatever demonic magic attacked his friend held his hands tight to it.

Spitting out another curse to the Daedric Prince of Destruction, Rolan grabbed hold of Attlan’s wrist and chanted once more. He directed the spell into his friend’s body and felt relief when he realized the attack receded slowly but surely. Only a moment later it fell to the ground blade-first. Even though it dropped from only a few feet where Attlan held it the blade dug deep into the hard-packed earth, sending a tremor through the soil.

Rolan heard a distant rumbling laugh whispering in his mind.

“Is that what I think it is?” Attlan gasped.

“Mehrunes’ Razor,” Rolan confirmed.

“How in Oblivion did a Dark Brotherhood assassin get a hold of it?!” Attlan asked, still shaken and bewildered.

“Assassin?”

The half-Altmer nodded towards the unconscious woman, “She has the stink of death all around her and wears the armor of the Dark Brotherhood. Someone probably contracted her to kill Samus.”

“I believe she came for me,” Rolan said as he shook his head.

“You?” Attlan asked incredulously. “Why you?”

“Because of my family.”

His friend’s intent stare caused Rolan to look away.

“I think it’s time you shared your family’s dirty little secret, Rolan,” Attlan said in a strange voice. “Haven’t I earned that by now?”

Glad as he was to have his friend speaking to him in such familiar terms once more, Rolan wished Attlan had not chosen this particular conversation. Still, he did have a point. In the nearly seven years they knew each other, his friend always respected Rolan’s secret, never pressing the issue till now. After all they experienced together, Rolan admitted the other mage deserved as much.

The assassin made both of them turn as she let out a pain-filled moan. Rolan stepped forward towards the woman and saw her begin to stir.

“Rope!” he shouted over his shoulder.

Nearly an hour later the small quartet nestled near a small fire. After returning with the assassin’s bound body, Samus became hysterical to the point of lunging for Rolan’s sword. He insisted they kill the woman immediately but Rolan maintained they needed to relay her to the proper authorities in Anvil. Attlan sided with the Redguard initially, but quickly grew irritated at the man’s assertive nature. When he threatened to withhold their payment, the half-Altmer mage put the man to sleep with a powerful spell.

Now with two limp bodies to deal with, the mages decided to spend the night in the wild and return to Anvil at first light. After a vehement urging Attlan no longer cast any spells without his express approval Rolan suggested they find a patrolling Legion soldier to help them, but Attlan was intent on continuing their conversation. With all the righteousness drained from him, a dejected Rolan succumbed.

With Samus’ snoring as an accompanying musical support, Rolan began his explanation.

“Several hundred years ago Thain Ulfson, one of my ancestors, became obsessed with Daedric lore. The stories he heard growing up were conflicted and disjointed, each race and religious sect having their own versions of just what exactly the Princes were. Eventually he came to study the ways of magicka, in an attempt to better understand them. However, when he sought the knowledge of the Daedric cults, his instructors always waylaid his studies. He became frustrated with their interference and left the Guild to seek the knowledge on his own.

“In time he found ancient texts – from various sources – containing instructions on summoning the Daedric Princes to the realm of Mundus,” Rolan paused and let the information sink in.

“He was going to summon a Daedric Prince?” Attlan’s eyes were wide.

“All the Princes,” Rolan corrected.

“Was he insane?”

Rolan could not help but smile at the question before answering, “According to my father, by that point his obsession had long ago overruled all sense of reason.”

“So, yes?”

Rolan shrugged.

“The details are sketchy from this point on, but the general consensus seems to be that he discovered yet another spell to summon a being possibly more powerful than the Princes,” Rolan continued before falling silent again. His brow knotted and he looked away from his friend then. He knew that by telling Attlan the next portion of the story he would be betraying the promise he made long ago to his father.

“What was he going to summon?” Attlan prompted.

“Lorkhan,” Rolan whispered.

Attlan’s eyes went wide at the muttered words.

“Lorkhan?” the half-Altmer mage whispered with awe. “The Trickster? Now I know he was insane. To think a mortal could ever-“

“He succeeded,” Rolan interrupted.

It was Attlan’s turn to fall silent.

“Lorkhan was a mere shadow of his original self, and perhaps that is why Thain was successful,” Rolan sighed. “His success only drove him further into madness however and he thought he could actually bind the fallen Lorkhan to his will. But Lorkhan was not weak, and he turned the spell back upon Thain, thus binding him instead.

“Something else happened in that moment as well… somehow, someway Thain touched a portion of that divine essence and from that point on his connection to Oblivion and its creatures surpassed that of any mortal – that mystical connection to the otherworldly plane forever amplified. His mortal blood was… tainted… or fused with the divine power of Lorkhan. All generations from then on have shared in this curse, although it is rare for the women of my family to possess the talent for summoning, we are all gifted in the use of magicka. But it is my very blood that allows me to call upon the denizens of Oblivion – without giving my loyalty to any Prince – for days on end with little to no effort. We are even gifted with the ability to cast spells of Daedric design.”

Attlan nodded, “I thought that spell to bind the Razor seemed strange. The magicka didn’t… taste right.”

Rolan nodded, “It is one of the few spells my father allowed me to learn.”

His friend mulled over the information for a while before asking, “So, what happened to Lorkhan? He couldn’t have been too happy with Thain. I’m surprised your ancestor lived at all.”

“In his already weakened state, he was injured just enough during the exchange that he could not fully complete the binding, and Thain was able to escape with his life. Soon after, Thain abandoned his research and used all his skills to mask himself and his lineage from Lorkhan’s eyes. Still, even now we live in constant fear that Lorkhan will seek us out and exact his revenge.”

“Even after hundreds of years?”

Rolan shrugged, “What is time to an immortal?”

The crackling fire made the only sounds for some time as the two mages remained deep in thought. To his right, Samus’ snoring stopped at some point during their discussion, but Rolan could not recall exactly when. Looking to his left, the young mage noticed the assassin woman staring at him with wide and amazed eyes.

When did she awaken?

Squinting his eyes, straining to see through the dim campfire light Rolan looked at the woman as if for the first time. Something seemed familiar about her. He could not discern what, but something began to itch in the back of his mind. Buried in his thoughts there was some memory trying to slither its way to the surface…

Attlan’s voice pulled him from his reverie and Rolan put the woman out of his mind. Tied up as she was, what threat could she prove?

“I know telling me this couldn’t have been easy for you,” his friend lamented. “And I think it’s time I shared my own secret with you.”

At that moment, all thoughts of the familiar-seeming, skinny Breton girl vanished from Rolan’s mind.

“You’ve always known that I have an affinity for what you call ‘The Dark Arts,’” Attlan began.

He nodded.

“Do you remember our excursion into Sercen?” his friend asked.

Again, Rolan nodded.

Indeed how could he forget that night? It was the first time he ever found himself facing mortal opponents – with conscious minds and actual blood flowing through their veins. It was the first time he ever took a sentient life. It was also the day he acquired the enchanted elven shortsword at his hip.

Though there were many moments and reasons to remember that night, Rolan also recalled one other strange event.

“Hafalla,” he whispered. The name of the Dunmer woman he killed that night. In all these years, Rolan never forgot that name or the gravity of his actions. But Attlan never did explain just how he knew the mer’s name, only that she told him… after her death.

Even the dead can speak, his friend told him following their encounter with the bandits. Not many of the living world can be bothered with listening, though.

Attlan’s eyebrows rose slightly when he heard the name spoken.

“You do remember her, then?” his friend whispered back.

“She was the first… real person I ever killed,” his voice thick with emotion, Rolan confirmed.

“She would have killed us both, if we’d given her the chance,” Attlan asserted, and not for the first time.

Swallowing hard and blinking back tears, Rolan nodded, “I know, I know. The Nine only know how many lives she took before we stumbled upon her and her compatriots.”

“But I never really explained just how I was able to learn her name,” Attlan said, steering the conversation back on track.

“No, you did not.”

Swallowing hard, his friend pressed on, “The dead… speak to me. I don’t know how or why, but ever since I was a child the souls of the dead, even the long deceased have been drawn to me.”

“But why?”

Attlan shrugged and stretched out on the narrow mat he used for bedding. Lying sideways, Rolan was still able to see the half-Altmer’s face. Shadows from the still crackling fire danced along his friend’s features, giving him a macabre appearance and darkening his normally handsome features.

“Sometimes they just want to be heard, by someone, anyone willing to listen. Others plead and beg for help, for some release because they can’t find their way into the afterlife… if there is such a thing,” Attlan sighed.

After a moment, he went on, “My… talent was something the Nords in my hometown feared and resented. They said my soul was black and that my entire existence was an abomination. My father and mother tried to isolate me from the locals as much as possible. Inevitably I rebelled and ventured away from our farm. I felt myself being pulled toward the nearby cemetery. When the neighboring boys found me wandering there alone, they beat me within an inch of my life. I don’t remember how I did it, but drowned in fear as I was, somehow I tapped into the souls of the dead lying there.

“When I woke all the boys were gone, and there was a reanimated corpse standing over me. It tried to speak to me, but couldn’t. The mind and soul that lived inside it moved on long ago, and it was my will alone that gave it life again. I ran away from it, terrified with what I’d done, but wherever I went it always found me. No matter how many times I tried to hide, inevitably I found it stumbling in my direction. Eventually my mother discovered it and used her magic to destroy it. She never did tell my father, but the rumors in the village spread quickly,” Attlan sighed and looked up to the stars above.

“My mother died a few years later,” he continued eventually. “We all knew she would eventually. My father told me in time that her pregnancy was a difficult one and giving birth to me nearly killed her. And her body never quite recovered.”

“Did she teach you to use magic?” Rolan asked quietly.

His friend nodded, but kept his eyes trained to the stars, “After the incident, she said it was important for me to understand magic. Though I never met them people told me her family is skilled in the mystical arts and my father also thought it was important for me to pursue that part of my heritage after she died. So when I told him I was ready to travel to Cyrodiil to study at the Arcane University, he supported me fully.”

“When did he die?” Rolan surprised himself by asking.

Attlan turned to him then, astonished.

Rolan explained, “On the road to Skingrad you mentioned there is nothing left for you back home.”

“Do you remember everything I say?” his friend asked with a crooked grin.

“It is an easy day to remember,” Rolan chuckled, “considering you managed to rob a thief right in front of his own eyes.”

Attlan chuckled along with him, grinning wide, “Oh, I’d almost forgotten about that. But he deserved it, for interrupting my spectacular performance.”

Rolan rolled his eyes at the memory.

The two friends remained quiet for some time, allowing a comfortable silence to fall upon them. A cool breeze blew, stirring the flames of the fire just a bit before dying down. Even the night was willing to allow them this moment it seemed, and Rolan could not help but feel grateful.

He was also glad that even now, knowing Attlan’s dark talents, he still regarded the other man as his friend. There were no uneasy judgments in his mind and no moral quandaries. When he looked over the fire to the other mage, he saw what he had always seen… his friend. And with both their secrets revealed, there were no more barriers between them. Finally they could let go their fears and allow their friendship to continue.

When Attlan finally did speak again, his tone was much lighter, as if all previous discussion were forgotten, “Do you remember Ninendava?”

“Yes,” Rolan answered with only a hint of disgruntlement.

“What happened to you that night?”

“Pardon?”

Attlan looked over to him once more before reiterating, “The look you had on your face back on the road was the same as that night. I remember when we left the ruins, you fell. But first you stared off into the North, like you were looking for something.”

Rolan nodded, remembering the incident. After thinking for a moment he answered, “There must have been a Daedric shrine nearby.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Whenever there is a strong Daedric presence, such as with the Razor, I am affected by it,” he explained. “There must have been a particularly powerful energy in the North somewhere nearby. I felt as if a voice were calling me, almost beckoning me to it.”

“Do all the Daedric Princes hate you so much? When I touched the Razor I could almost hear it screaming your name in rage.”

Rolan shook his head, “Only some of them do. Whatever Lorkhan did to Thain, that remnant of him remains in my blood, and many of the Daedra have never been particularly partial to him.”

“Nor have the Aedra, if memory serves,” Attlan said.

“Technically Lorkhan is one of the Aedra,” Rolan replied, “but without their direct intervention he normally is not associated with the Nine.”

“He’s Aedra?”

“Aedra and Daedra are mortal-made distinctions given to those who took part in creation and those who did not, respectively,” Rolan lectured. “The Aedra – or the original Eight as we know them – lent a part of themselves into the making of the realm we know as reality. Lorkhan gave a piece of himself as well, but was left broken after. Some speculate it was done intentionally by the Eight as retribution for tricking them into making Nirn.”

“So that’s why he’s called The Trickster?” Attlan’s question was mostly rhetorical. “That’s more than most people know about Lorkhan.”

Rolan shrugged, “Throughout the centuries my family has sought to understand him and his role in the universe. Considering we are eternally linked to him, it only seemed prudent.”

“Hm, true,” Attlan agreed. “So were you being controlled by a Daedric Prince when you gave away that damned tiara that we found there?”

Rolan’s sigh carried the weight of the world upon it, “Will you never absolve me of that?!”

“Absolution is for the worthy,” his friend sneered. “Any man who gives away priceless artifacts to undeserving peasants is unworthy by definition.”

Chuckling through Attlan’s entire proclamation, Rolan quickly began to reply, “That girl-“

He stopped himself immediately as realization dawned on him like a blazing sun. The girl! The Breton child he gave the tiara to! Could it be?!

Quickly he turned, intending to inspect the bound assassin woman once more. When his eyes fell upon where she lay only minutes before, however, he saw only the loosened ropes staring back at him.

“She’s gone!” he gasped.

“What?” Attlan asked, obviously confused at the sudden change in tone.

Rolan jumped to his feet and cast a spell to chase away the shadows from his eyes, “The assassin is gone!”

“What?!” Attlan exclaimed as he rose and came to stand alongside Rolan.

Both men drew their swords and stood back-to-back as they scanned the darkness for any sign of the woman. Attlan called out to Samus, trying to rouse the man from his sleep with no success. Grumbling with unending annoyance at the Redguard he knelt down to shake him.

“By the Nine,” the half-Altmer whispered.

“What?” Rolan asked without turning.

“He’s dead,” Attlan gasped.

“What?”

“Stabbed in the side,” Attlan elaborated. “He must have bled into his lungs, suffocating in his sleep. But how did she?”

“Where is she?”

Again Attlan stood with his back pressed against Rolan’s. Together, they moved around the small camp searching for over an hour and looking for any sign of tracks.

Not surprisingly, they found none.

“Damn, she’s good,” his friend declared with a shake of his head.

“I suppose Samus was her intended victim after all,” Rolan lamented. He crouched down beside the deceased Redguard and closed his opened eyes. It was a small act of compassion, and the only apology he had to give.

“Apparently,” Attlan agreed, “but did she plan this? Those ropes should have been impossible to undo, and she didn’t even cut through them.”

“We were only a hair’s breadth away,” Rolan realized. “She could have killed all three of us with little effort.”

“There was no point,” Attlan said, his voice sardonic. “We were no threat.”

Rolan barked out a bitter laugh at the idea but found no argument to discount Attlan’s theory. Why should she kill them? If her contract was only for Samus then she would receive no additional payment for their lives.

Despite all that, the thought bothering him the most lay in wondering about her identity. Could she truly be the young child he met so long ago in Bruma? The timing seemed about right, but her small stature made him wonder.

“So what should we do now?” Attlan asked.

Rolan shrugged and sighed loudly, “I am exhausted. Samus is dead now and there is nothing more to be done except deliver him to the Anvil authorities in the morning. We should rest.”

“You’re not worried she might come back to finish her work?”

“It is as you said,” he shrugged again, “her contract is complete so there is no need to risk herself any further.”

Attlan pursed his lips, but nodded in agreement before asking, “Can’t we just leave him here?”

“Attlan,” Rolan grumbled.

With a disgruntled sigh, his friend waved off the on-coming lecture, “Fine, fine. So much for our reputation.”

“What?”

“Well,” his friend continued, “we can take on a cluster of bandits, fight ourselves out of a horde of ogres, and wade through a mountain of goblins but a skinny Breton-girl assassin makes us look like a couple of boars humping a rock.”

“Interesting imagery.”

“I’m gifted that way,” Attlan shrugged, grinning once more.

Dejected and disheartened the two mages set about wrapping Samus’ body in a pair of blankets. When they were satisfied the scent of his body was contained they dropped on their mats and quickly found sleep.

Rolan’s dreams were filled with disturbing images of burning forests and a skull-faced figure of ash stalking about him. At some point in the night he awoke with a start and looked up at the twin moons high in the sky. On the other side of the now waning fire Attlan slept peacefully, his soft snores filling the otherwise quiet air.

Realizing there was no danger, Rolan lay back down and tucked his arms behind his head. Intent on getting some sleep that night, he ran though a meditation technique to control his breathing and relax his jittering nerves.

After his second deep breath, he felt the blade touch his throat. His first instinct was to shout out to his friend, but a cloth covered his mouth suddenly and a foul odor filled his lungs. He immediately recognized the effects of the paralyzing poison as the muscles in his body constricted, making any speech or movement impossible.

Eyes going wide, he kept his body remained perfectly still.

Without a sound, the figure of a woman clad in black drifted into view. Saying nothing, she settled herself over him and leaned down low so her face was only inches from his own. Next she whispered a familiar spell, but put very little power behind it. Her features became more distinct as the area around them began to glow dimly.

Once again maintaining her eerie silence, she removed her hand – along with the saturated cloth – from his mouth before reaching up to pull off her cowl and lower the scarf covering the lower half of her face. Then, to his shock, she slowly brushed the short dangling hair back from her forehead, revealing a distinctly designed piece of jewelry.

Rolan’s eyes locked onto the tiara, and he knew without a doubt who she was.

His eyes drifted down into hers, and he could not stop the look of remorse that swept into his eyes.

Oh, poor, dear child, he thought.

What course of events brought her to this? What horrors did she suffer to lead her down such a dark path? Did she regret it at all? Could he have helped her off this road to ruin?

He wanted so badly to know. Amazingly, in that moment, he found himself forgiving her for killing Samus.

“Ulfson,” she whispered

Rolan thought he saw tears forming in her eyes.

Again she surprised him by touching her fingertips to his skin. Little by little she ran her touch across his whole face with a slightly desperate look. It was almost as if she wanted to commit every curve, wrinkle, and fold to memory by absorbing it through tactile contact. Rolan held no protests.

“Please,” she begged suddenly, “tell me your name.”

Her fingers tingled as tiny tendrils of magicka slipped through his cheek and down to his throat. The effects of the poison faded just enough for him to whisper a single word before closing in once more.

“Rolan.”

A smile swept across her gaunt features, lighting her face up brighter than any star. She actually laughed as the tears swept down her face and dripped onto him.

“Rolan Ulfson,” she whispered with all the reverence one would give to the Nine as she continued to smile. “I know your name.”

He tried to ask for her name in return, but still could not move even to speak.

But she saw the silent plea in his eyes and answered, “Arissa Ros-… Arissa Lachance.”

Rolan noticed as she struggled with her family name. She seemed as if she were about to say another name initially. The smile also faded from her face.

Finally, Arissa removed the dagger from his throat. Saying nothing more, she leaned down and pressed her lips against his in a soft lingering kiss before standing to dash off into the shadows.

Seconds later the effects of the poison wore off, and Rolan bound up to his feet, looking for any trace of the poor girl. An idea sprung to mind and he raced off towards where Mehrunes Razor lay embedded in the earth. When he arrived at the site, however, the Razor was gone and there were no tracks to follow.

Sighing with disappointment, the Breton mage ran a troubled hand through his hair and turned back towards the camp.

“Arissa Lachance,” he whispered to himself. “I will not forget you.”

Author's Note: I'm so very sorry this update took so long, but life does not adhere to any schedule I'd like it to. Contrary to what I said last time, this is not the final chapter. In fact, the next chapter will conclude this portion of Rolan and Attlan's story. Then, hopefully, I can work more on my Knights of the Nine idea... and, of course, Sister of Shadows.

There's a lot of references to previous chapters here, most of which should become clear if you go back and look for them. On the whole "family secret" thing... well... depending on your knowledge of Elder Scrolls lore it may not play as well for some as others. Needless to say, on the surface, it should hold up to scrutiny but if you actually took the time to research and dig deep enough, it might not retain quite the same flavor.

As always reviews and critiques are encouraged.