Seeing as every time I set out to write a story set in Tamriel I end up doing something that threatens to tear the structure of the nation apart, I though that perhaps I should maybe right something where that didn't happen. Then I thought, Oh sod it.

Son of Sorrow

Prologue

It is said that Mephala is without mercy, compassion or kindness. It is said that she relishes in the death of every living thing, and takes great joy in the despair of others.

This is not true.

Or at least, it isn’t fully true.

When the Ayleid people were destroyed, Mephala had revelled in the genocide that had ensued. Yet when the exterminations carried out by the newly formed ended and the elves were eventually accepted by society again, Mephala was angered, yet she knew that she could do nothing without angering the other Daedric princes.

So Mephala waited.

And then, after the Ayleid had been driven out, and replaced by the high elves, Mephala discovered that, contrary to imperial beliefs, one member of the Ayleid royal family lived. Barely out of infanthood, the young boy had been adopted by a pair of highly born High Elves. In a brutal attack on the house, Mephala sent her daedric minions to retrieve the child. When the watch arrived, the family had been slaughtered and the house burned to the ground.

So Mephala cared for and bought up the child the best she could, her blackened heart showing some semblance of mercy. She trained the child, enhanced and strengthened his body and skills through magic where training alone would not suffice. She sent him on missions, to hunt down and kill the most important members of society to wreak havoc and fear upon the world.

Mephala’s chosen assassin is able to strike in any place at any time, able to infiltrate any stronghold and eliminate the target with deadly speed.

He is the perfect assassin, the perfect killer.

He is the Son of Sorrow.

Marius took a deep swig of the brandy, allowing the strong alcohol to warm his cold body, before passing it to Gegran. The redguard accepted the flask gratefully, glad that he could finally warm himself after the long cold night shift at Anvil Castle.

“That’s good stuff,” he said. “Why didn’t you get it earlier?”

“Make it better when we have it,” Marius replied. “Come on, the night shift isn’t that bad. It’s a bit cold and boring but there are worse jobs we could be doing.”

Gegran had to agree. At least with the watch he could get good pay, three hot meals every day and a bed to sleep in.

There was a clink behind them, causing both watchmen to spin around.

The wall was empty.

Gegran laughed.

“Look at us,” he said. “Jumping at shadows. It was probably a rat.”

“Maybe we should go and take a look,” Marius said, looking nervous. “If someone got in on our watch the captain would have our hides.”

Gegran shrugged and drew his sword.

“If it makes you happy.”

The two men advanced towards the only entranceway to the castle on the roof, a thick wooden door. Gegran rattled the handle.

“Nothing here,” he said, sounding rather smug. “I told it would be…”

He was cut out by a whoosh and chink noise, then a scream.

Gegran span to see what the noise was and saw Marius clutching a stump where his arm had been. Dark red blood dribbled through his fingers. Gegran rushed over to his companion in a panic, but was stopped half way through by something speeding past him unnaturally fast. He slowed, suddenly unable to feel his legs, and he collapsed to his knees. He glanced down to see that somebody had somehow sliced a cut across his stomach, and blood was pouring freely through the cut in his chainmail.

Gegran collapsed forwards, his eyes wide with shock, unable to breath. A wracking cough caused his body to convulse, and blood dripped from his mouth as his eyes glazed.

Without ever seeing his killer, Gegran died.

Marius screamed as he saw his friend die. He frantically looked to the shadows in an attempt to locate the mysterious attacker, desperately trying to ignore the pain in his arm.

“Behind you,” someone whispered in his ears. Marius span, to see only empty wall.

“Missed me, I’m afraid,” came the same voice. Marius twisted to see a face, the lower half of it covered with a bandanna. It was that of a young man with scruffy blond hair that stuck out at all angles, and piercing blue eyes. Marius stared into them and couldn’t see any hint of mercy or remorse in them.

“Who are you?” he murmured, tears running down his face.

“Poor little thing,” his attacker crooned. “Why does it cry?”

He gently ran his hand along the side of Marius’ head.

“Is it sad?” he continued. “Is it hurt?”

“Get off me,” Marius cried, his vision beginning to blur. “Get off me, you madman.”

“I’m not mad,” the other man said, his tone offended. “Just very, very cruel. And you’re not. So that’s why we’re in this position now. Perhaps if you’d have been a bit crueller, a bit more ruthless, you might not be here right now, but could be sleeping safely now. It’s all your fault that you’re here now, and it’s my fault I’m here where I am. Because I am cruel, and so I’ll always be better than you.”

Marius tried to struggle away, but found his limbs leaden and heavy.

“You’re dying,” his attacker said. “Does it hurt? I’m glad I’ll never find out. You can’t kill me. No-one can. And you know what, it hurts to die, apparently. Please, tell me if it hurts.”

Marius could only nod.

“Good.”

Marius felt his keys be taken from him, and as his vision darkened he saw a figure walk away from him and unlock the door, all the while whistling a jaunty drinking song.

Alone and cold on the rooftop of the castle, Marius died.

Hmm...interesting. I'll keep an eye on this one...

Thanks bbq, I appreciate you reading it and commenting on it.

And now for some more!

Part 1

“Stop him! Stop him!”

The Son of Sorrow laughed aloud as six guards came rushing towards him, their weapons and shields raised. He continued his reckless charge towards them, his own short, curved sword drawn.

He leapt forwards, his blade dancing before him. He cart wheeled and rolled around their blades, and with six slashes he was through the men, leaving them to scream and clutch their wounds. He had cut them so that they could not be healed, so that they would die slowly so they would make a perfect offering to his mother.

Another guard saw him and turned to run, but the Son of Sorrow simply planted his blade in the man’s back, centimetres from the heart, and left him to choke on his own blood.

Guards leapt aside, yet the Son gifted them with a light kiss of his blade whenever he could, leaving them to bleed and die, or live on with horrendous, marring wounds.

“Close the doors you idiots,” somebody yelled, and the Son glanced to see a captain in shining silver plate armour ordering guards around. He couldn’t let that happen, and so he darted towards the man, his sword raised.

Surprisingly enough, it was blocked.

The captain swung his claymore in an attempt to kill him, but the son blocked it easily, before jumping away.

“Very good captain!” he shouted above the din. “Very good indeed.”

He dashed towards the door, decapitated the guard who was desperately trying to lock it, and burst through into the courtyard, to be confronted by a dozen archers.

A dozen arrows sped towards him, but with preternatural speed his blade stopped the arrows, spinning and weaving through the air to stop the course of each shaft.

The archers were momentarily stunned by the deadly speed of the man, and in that second he was upon them, each strike with his blade fatal. As more men sprinted into the courtyard from various directions, the Son assessed the situation.

He decided there were too many, and so with an acrobatic leap, went for a window sill. Using it as a perch, he jumped from there to the top of the wall, then dropped into the streets below.

From his perch on the rooftops, the Son observed the watch attempting to stop him, and couldn’t help but laugh. What fools they were! They couldn’t catch him. And even if they could, who would want to.

The Son stayed to watch the sight a little longer, occasionally allowing a watchman to see him just to increase the confusion. But eventually, the Son decided that enough was enough and made his way over the city walls and into the world outside. His mission was accomplished, and as he opened the portal into his mother’s realm, he couldn’t help but smile.

#

“Twenty men dead and thirty wounded,” Heironymous Lex grumbled. “Twenty! Who in Oblivion’s name was this man anyway?”


“Some kind of elf sir,” said Carrio, his second in command. “Judging by his skin tone, I’d say an Altmer.”

“So we’re dealing with some kind of psychotic Elf assassin who can block a dozen arrows with his sword,” Lex said. “Think he could be Dark Brotherhood?”

“No chance sir,” Carrio answered. “The counts are untouchables. They can’t send an agent after them.”

“What exactly is an untouchable?” Lex asked. “You never did explain.”

“People too important to die,” Carrio said. “The counts and countesses, High Chancellor Ocato, important guild leaders and of course, until a few years ago, at least, the Emperor.”

“I see,” Lex said. “So that means that whoever it was, they weren’t part of the Dark Brotherhood. Who would stand to benefit if the count and countess died though?”

“The countesses’ brother would be the only man I could think of, sir,” Carrio said. “If they died without an heir then he would be the next candidate.”

“Well then,” Lex said. “Let’s pay them a little house call.”

Very interesting... I like it. Then again I like most assassin stuff. Can't wait for the next update!

Thanks Seerauna, there'll be more coming soon.

And the promised update, with Daedric prince(esses), plots and a small glimpse of tommorow!

Part 2

The cold pervaded everywhere, creating frost on the rocks and freezing the cobwebs into crystalline strands that hummed in the biting wind. Daedra scuttled about on their business, atronachs, dremora and even a few of the mighty daedroths all made their way through the realm of Mephala, each following their own agenda.

And throughout this quiet, sneaking bustle, a lone figure with striking blonde hair and piercing blue eyes walked. The daedra avoided him, feared him even. The Son of Sorrow was dangerous, and none dared challenge him. To do so would be to invoke the ire of their mistress, and none wished to do so. And to even annoy the Son would invoke a slow, painful death at his hands. They all knew how to kill, to turn it into a form of perverse art. But he had turned it into more than just art-he had turned it into a craft in its own right, made every killing a fatal masterpiece of death.

The wind whipped at the Son’s cloak, furiously trying to steal it, but he held tightly onto it, denying it the freedom to fly free of his body. He drew his bandanna over his face and above his nose in an effort to stave off a little more of the cold, but it didn’t help much. The wind, pervasive and cunning as ever, still slipped past the poor defence the thin cloth offered.

The Son reached the entrance to cave covered with a ragged cloth, which struggled to free itself of its mooring in the rock. He pushed it aside, and entered his home.

It was small and spartan, with only a bedroll and chest for his few possessions. A fire was already burning in the centre of the cave, the smoke floating lazily to the ceiling, only to be snapped up by the greedy wind. He collapsed heavily on his bed, breathing deeply. Though he showed no outward signs of it, the attack on the castle had exhausted him.

“Mother,” he called softly. “I’m home.”

The smoke from the fire responded to this, twisting and coiling to form the shape of a figure, before defining itself clearly. Dark hair coiled down past her shoulders, and she wore a black dress and cloak. Her skin was pale and face gaunt, her eyes and lips an unnatural red colour.

She was one of the most dangerous creatures in existence.

She was Mephala, the daedric princess of murder.

“Mother,” the Son said happily. “So nice to see you.”

He embraced her.

“Lovely to see my darling Ainis again,” she purred in his ear. “Was the murder successful?”

“Both the count and his wife are dead,” Ainis said, breaking away from the embrace. “And many of their guards. The entire town is in a state of panic.”

“Good,” Mephala said. “You have done very well, my son.”

“Thank you mother,” Ainis replied. “I kill only for you.”

“I know, my son, I know,” Mephala replied. “And speaking of which, I have another job that I wish you to carry out.”

“Already?” Anis asked. “I’ve only just returned though. Escaping the castle was difficult. I need rest.”

For a moment Mephala railed at the insubordination for a moment, her smile suddenly turning into a snarl for the tiniest perceptible moment, before almost instantaneously returning to its former expression. Most people would not have noticed it, but Ainis did, having been trained to carefully observe anyone to look for weakness. For a moment, he felt a pang of fear. Mephala’s punishments were painful and terrifyingly imaginative.

“I need you to do a bit of work for me before you can rest,” Mephala said. “The count’s death has already sent shockwaves through the town, but the people seem to be rallying around an old priest.”

Time in the realm of Mephala was mutable. A day in Tamriel could pass in seconds, and vice versa. The realm could travel backwards and forwards in time, allowing Ainis to strike anywhere at any time. One time he had even been to the far future of Tamriel, where massive cities spanned the world, the old magics had all but died and the people of the realm had already travelled to stars millions upon millions of miles away. It had been bewildering to see the world so changed, but nonetheless, Ainis had completed his assignment there.

“Who is this priest?” Ainis asked.

“None other than the retired Lord Commander of the Knights of the Nine,” Mephala answered. “The old Imperial Champion of the Oblivion Crisis. He retired to restore Dibella’s chapel at Anvil. To have such a hero assassinated would completely destroy any chance of order in the town. The place would be writhing in its own terror for months to come.”

Ainis smiled. The Imperial Champion would indeed be a glorious target.

“He’ll be dead soon,” he answered. “Very soon.”

Lex investigates the crime and Ainis takes his (not-so) inner psychopath for a spin.

Part 3

“I can see your logic captain, but there is a fatal flaw in your reasoning,” Silion Carro said. “Why, of all times, would I have my brother and his wife assassinated now?”

“What do you mean?” Lex asked, suspicion layered upon his voice.

“My brother’s appearance from nowhere a short while ago has caused the eyes of the entire town, if not the entire province, to be upon them. For me to get them killed at the moment would be more than just stupidity-it would be madness.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Carrio said. “Thank you for your time sir. Shall we leave captain?”

Lex nodded and stood, walking to the door and stepping through after one of Silion’s many servants to open. Once the pair of men were in the sunny streets of the town, Lex sighed.

“What’s wrong sir,” Carrio asked.

“I don’t trust him,” Lex said. “Get Gogan to keep an eye on him. I don’t want him to so much as sneeze without me knowing.”

“Good idea sir,” Carrio said. “What about this assassin? Shall I see about him?”

“Of course,” Lex answered. “Try and see if you can find anything about this person. Dig through all of the reports, look for any pictures or descriptions.”

“Any idea where I could start?” Carrio asked.

“Start with the Tinion Arrien case,” Lex answered. “It seems too similar to be coincidence.”

“What was that?” Carrio asked.

“One of my first cases as a member of the watch,” Lex said, as the pair of them walked towards the town’s castle. “It was in the Imperial City. Tinion Arrien, an important community leader and priest, was killed along with his wife and servants. Thirteen deaths, all similar to these one-wounds that kill as slowly as possible. And the assassin wasn’t subtle, we had over a dozen witnesses to the crime, and the description is the same as the one we have here.”

“How long ago was that?” Carrio said.

“A good twenty years ago,” Lex answered.

“But the description of this man said that he couldn’t have been more than twenty years old,” Carrio pointed out. “That would be impossible.”

“I know,” Lex said. “But it seems to be our only lead. Just look it up will you? We need to get this person.”

“Yes sir,” Carrio said. “I’ll get looking as soon as we get back.”

#

The rain thundered down on the town, one of the sudden storms that blew in from sea from time to time. Water drummed on roofs and windows, pattered on roof tiles, dripped from guttering. The only people out were those who had to be out, night watchmen sheltering under gutters and shivering in the cold wind. Occasionally lightning crackled across the sky, followed by a roll of thunder. It was not a nice night to be outside on.

But somebody was.

Slipping and sliding through the dark like a living shadow, Ainis, the Son of Sorrow, approached the chapel of Dibella, the start of the famous events that lead to the founding of the Knights of the Nine. Rain poured on him in sheets, but he ignored it. The realm of Mephala was far colder, and he had far more important things to deal with than the rain.

The chapel, more of a church, rose over the town, it’s spire sharing the skyline with shape of the castle. The diamond of the nine was mounted over the top of the spire, the beaten brass shining brightly whenever lightning struck nearby. A figure slipped through the gate around the small fence, and pushed open one of the wooden doors.

Denya murmured a quiet prayer for those who had to suffer the elements whilst she lit the candles on the altar, letting each candle burn brightly before moving the taper onto the next. She was distracted from her duties by the sound of one the doors shutting.

She turned to see who had come in to see that the area by the doors was empty. Perhaps it had just slammed in the wind. But then she remembered that she had checked and double checked the latched earlier that evening.

“Is anybody there?” she called out cautiously, holding the taper before her like weapon.

“Hello miss,” Ainis said cheerfully, appearing right next to her. Denya squeaked in surprise, and jumped at his sudden arrival.

“Sorry,” she said. “You made me jump. Can I help you?”

“I was just passing through,” Ainis said casually. “I thought I might perhaps look at the legendary chapel of Dibella.”

“You chose a fine night to do so,” Denya said said nervously. The story was a blatant lie, and she knew that the visitor knew it. “If you’re looking for a place to stay, I’m afraid that we don’t have any room for the night. There are several good inns throughout the city however.”

“I wasn’t wanting to stay here, don’t worry,” Ainis said. “I just wanted to see the retired Lord Commander.”

“You mean Father Veran?” Denya said. “I’m afraid he’s sleeping at the moment. His condition seems to be worsening.”

“Condition?” Ainis asked.

“You know,” Denya replied. “The curse. The one that weakens him daily.”

“Oh,” Ainis said. “That condition.”

“Look,” Denya said sharply, beginning to become more perturbed by her rather odd visitor. “What do you want exactly? And you can remove that bandanna, there isn’t a draft in here you know.”

“Why would I want to remove my bandanna,” Ainis answered, his tone suddenly offended. “What could I possibly want to do that for?”

Denya realised she had hit a nerve.

“I suppose you want to see what’s under there now, don’t you?” Ainis continued. “Well, you can see. Just because I like your eyes.”

Denya was puzzled by that remark, but saw that the stranger was undoing his bandanna. He let it drop, and her eyes widened in shock.

The lower half of Ainis’ face was heavily burnt and scarred, necrotic tissue clinging to bone. His top lip had been removed, forcing his teeth show in a permanent snarl. The skin around his chin blackened and charred, badly burnt.

“You still want to see it?” Ainis asked, bitterness clear on his voice. “Shall I keep it off, because I’m indoors now? Shall I take it off the sake of etiquette? Or shall I put it back on?”

Denya backed away, horrified by the monstrous vision of all of Ainis’ face.

“What do you want?” he asked. “It’s your choice.”

“Put it back on,” Denya whispered. “Please.”

“They all ask that,” Ainis muttered as he retied the bandanna. “Always.”

Suddenly, he was next to her, and holding her arm in a vice-like grip.

“I did you a favour,” he hissed. “Because I liked your eyes. But your eyes, however much I like them, have seen too much.”

He slammed his hand of Denya’s mouth.

“I always demand a price for my favours,” he continued. “So I’ll take your pretty little eyes for it.”

He tore a strip of her sleeve off and tied it over her mouth, and drew a dagger from his bandoleer. Denya tried to wriggle away from the mad elf, but his grip was relentless. Tears ran down her cheeks as she jerked her head away from the blade.

“Don’t struggle,” Ainis said softly. “It’ll only make it worse. Be sensible about this please. If you’re calm and don’t move, it’ll be over quickly.”

Denya tried to call out, scream for help, but it was muffled by the gag. Then the blade slid underneath her eyeball, and with a swift movement, Ainis cut the optical nerve and popped the soft, squishy sphere out of her socket. For a brief moment, Denya struggled again, desperately trying to escape, but shock suddenly overcame her and she lapsed into unconsciousness.

In a deft movement, Ainis took the other eyeball and held his grisly trophies up to the light.

“On second thoughts,” he said to no-one in particular. “I don’t think they’re actually that pretty. Ah well.”

He placed the two eyeballs on the altar and crushed them under the palms of his hands. He glanced at the unconscious Denya, blood gently dribbling from the voids where her eyes had been.

“I’ll be back for you later,” Ainis quietly told her, before making his way to the undercroft.

And here's part four!

Part 4

Carrio lit another candle as he shuffled through the various reports from the last few years. The watches all around the Empire kept good records, and copies were sent to every important watch office in the realm. Documents describing crimes hundreds of years old could be found by the intrepid researcher, but Carrio was more concerned with more recent crimes.

He had discovered several crimes comparable to the recent one committed, around the Empire in the archives, all of them involving a similar looking killer, a blonde haired high elf in a bandanna. All of the attacks had been brutal, swift and unsubtle, the killer obviously attempting to cause as much death as possible. Every target had been somebody important, with huge amounts of collateral damage done and nearly every death in the households being one that would have been slow. People had seen the killer, over a hundred witness descriptions of him had been given of him over the years, yet he had somehow escaped justice.

Carrio sighed in frustration and jammed the rolled up scroll back into a shelf so hard that it rocked. In a sudden panic, he grabbed it firmly to stop it from falling, but not before several scrolls, books and parchments had been knocked off.

Bending down to pick them up, Carrio absently mindedly rolled open a scroll to see what the crime was.

It could have been fate.

It could have been pure, dumb luck.

It could have been divine intervention.

Perhaps it was all three.

Carrio read the scroll, reread it, checked and double checked the date. The other documents forgotten, Carrio sprinted upstairs to find the captain, clutching the scroll in his hand.

#

“Look at this sir,” Carrio said, pointing at the sketch. “That’s our man, right there.”

“That’s impossible,” Lex muttered. “This is completely and utterly impossible.”

“Yet it’s there sir,” Carrio pointed out. “Somehow our killer was at large three hundred years ago. The description’s the same, the sketch is identical and the nature of the attack is exactly the same as any of these other ones.”

Lex read the description of the crime, poring over the words of the report from over three hundred years ago.

The criminal is a High Elf of a young age, it read. With straw blonde hair, blue eyes and with a black bandanna covering the lower half of his face. Witness reports describe him as wearing black clothing, with bandoleers of knives, but it seems his favoured weapon seems to be a short sword of elven design.

So far, of the eleven attacks commited, there has been only one survivor, a severely wounded and extremely traumatised young Dunmer maidservant. In an interview, the girl described the attacker as talking to her and seeming to gloat about the deaths of everyone in the household. She said that he called himself the Son of Sorrow, after the legendary assassin who was raised by the Daedric prince Mephala. Though I would dismiss this as ludicrousness, as the Son of Sorrow is simply used as a bogeyman to keep their children in line, the recent brutality and swiftness of these attacks has been enough to convince me that this “Son of Sorrow” may be either an extremely dangerous, possibly rogue, member of the Morag tong or perhaps the legendary assassin himself. If this is the case, then I feel that the resources of Chorrol’s watch are inadequate for this crime, but at the same time I also think that however many men we use to catch this criminal, we may not have enough watchmen in the entire Empire to catch this man.

“I don’t understand this,” Lex said. “How can a criminal who is three hundred years old still be young enough to assassinate a count, his wife and half of a castle’s garrison? I know Elves are longer lived than most, but they have to die sometime.”

“What do you suggest, sir?” Carrio asked.

“I’ve no idea,” Lex said. “I’ve tried to fight immortal criminals of legend before, and look how much hunting the Gray Fox humiliated me. It got me posted to here, when I was so close to getting him. That man has power, but he never wanted to kill me. If this person sees fit to come after me, then what chance do I have?”

“So what do we do?”

“We don’t have a choice, Carrio. We’ll have to call off the case.”

“What? But you never give up sir. That’s why they call you the Bloodhound sir-when you get a scent you don’t stop following.”

“I’m finding it hard to see the difference between the hunter and the hunted. I don’t want to put any more lives in danger. We have no leads, only a few descriptions and a criminal who’s committed crimes centuries ago. What chance do we have?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

The pair were interrupted from their reverie by a young watchman sprinting down the stairs.

“Sir,” he said, hastily saluting. “There’s been another attack!”

“Where?” Lex asked.

“It was the chapel sir,” the watchman said. “One priest missing and one murdered. The wounds on him seem similar to those inflicted on the count.”

“Could it be him,” Carrio asked.

“Could be,” Lex said. “Alright lad, we’re on our way.”

Look, I don't want to sound bitter or anything, but I've posted up three parts and had no comments whatsoever, which is quite annoying as this is probably the best thing I've ever written. I've plunged my muse into depths of literature which it has never explored, and it has surfaced with the stuff that I personally think that a comment or two would be nice. I konw its a bit of moral blackmail, but please!

Part 5

As always, the wind screamed along the cobweb strewn tundra. As always, it stole away the warmth in Ainis’ body, but he ignored the discomfort. He simply needed to get to his home.

He pushed aside the curtain that served as a door to his cave and slung the girl he was carrying onto his bedroll. He crouched down on the stone floor next to her, removing his cloak and gently placed it over her.

His own behaviour puzzled him. Never before had he tried to help someone. Never before had he done something that could even be vaguely compassionate. Yet here he was, taking this girl in, caring for her, instead of leaving her to live a pointless and painful life back the real world.

Why?

Why now? Why her? What was he even thinking?

He couldn’t think of an answer.

Did he love her? No. He couldn’t love. All capability of being kind had been wrung out of him long ago. What was love? Nothing. It was empty, a lie people told themselves to give themselves a reason to live their lives. Love only happened in stories, and why should somebody believe stories that were not true?

People only knew fear and hate, and lied to themselves about love, in a pathetic attempt to make themselves feel secure. He hadn’t lied to himself about it. He had accepted the truth, accepted himself as a monster, and he never needed to lie to himself.

So why was he doing this?

He sighed, unable to find the answer, and crouched down next to her, examining the girl who fascinated him so much. He didn’t even know her, but he had taken her to a place where her wounds would heal without threat of infection, where she wouldn’t know sickness or hunger. He was one of a few granted such a privilege, and he never thought he would share it. He didn’t even know the girl’s name.

Throwing wood onto the fire, Ainis settled down to think.

#

Denya woke and instinctively tried to open her eyes, which seemed to be burning with pain. She couldn’t open them, however, and confused and disorientated she reached up to the lids.

A strong hand grabbed her arm, and an all too familiar voice spoke.

“Don’t touch them,” it ordered, and Denya remembered the last night in the chapel. She yelled as she recognised the voice and tried to struggle away. She thrashed her free arm in wild sweeps at her jailer, but it was grabbed by another strong hand.

“Get off me,” she shouted, beginning to panic. “What do you want from me?”

Her arms were released and she immediately fled away from the voice, first crawling on her hands and knees before scrambling to her feet and stumbling onwards, before slamming face first into the cave wall. If she hadn’t been so afraid she may have found it comical, but she simply tried to escape in the opposite direction, before someone grabbed her.

“Careful,” he hissed. “You nearly ran into the fire. Calm down.”

Denya struggled against the man’s grip, still yelling, but her sudden exertions had exhausted her. She had lost a fair amount of blood after her eyes had been removed, and she was beginning to get dizzy.

“Sit down,” the voice ordered, and Denya complied. She felt someone shift to sit down next to her, and she weakly attempted to push him away.

“You calmed down yet?” the voice asked. Denya nodded quietly.

“Who are you?” she asked. “Where am I?”

“Somewhere safe,” the voice answered. “My name is Ainis.”

“Why have you taken me here?” she continued. “Where is here?”

“Somewhere safe,” Ainis answered again.

“Where is this somewhere?” Denya asked, panic rising on her voice. “Tell me!”

Sensing that she was upset, Ainis decided to tell her the truth.

“I’ll tell you,” he said. “But you won’t like it.”

Denya said nothing, just took a few deep breaths to try and calm herself down.

“You know the planes of Oblivion,” Ainis said.

Denya nodded, beginning to fear that he was some kind of Oblivion cultist.

“You are in one now,” Ainis continued.

Denya gasped in surprise, and once again tried to scramble away from her jailer.

“For goodness sake,” Ainis cursed. “Just stay still. You’ll hurt yourself and I don’t want to tie you up!”

“What do you want with me?” Denya asked. “Why have you taken me to Oblivion?”

“Because you’ll be safe here,” Ainis said. “No Daedra will dare intrude into my home, and your wounds will heal without danger of infection or disease. You can’t die here, you won’t age, and you won’t need medicine.”

“Why am I here?” Denya asked again.

“I don’t know,” Ainis answered. “I usually kill anyone I come across on a mission, but not you. I don’t know why.”

“Why did you take my eyes then, if you weren’t going to kill me?” Denya asked, still agitated by her strange new companion. “Why did you do that?!”

“Because you were there,” Ainis said. “Because that was how I was brought up.”

“Who is your mother?” Denya asked.

“My mother?” Ainis asked. “She’s a Daedra. Not just any Daedra either. I was raised by Mephala. She told me to do things like that, what else could I do?”

Denya heard him say that, and suddenly saw through the psychotic that inhabited Ainis’ mind and discovered a frightened child, one screaming at the world in pure terror and lashing out at anything that came close. She remembered the chapel had once taken in a child who had been abused by her parents, who had been practically sold into prostitution by them. She hadn’t trusted anyone, had spent over two weeks hiding away from the world. But eventually, Denya had gained her trust, had helped her through the nightmares that invaded her sleep every night and helped her work into a normal life. Before she was kidnapped by Ainis, Denya had kept contact with the girl, had discovered that she was going to be married.

But she knew what she had to do.

She would have to reach this child in Ainis, help him to be a normal person. Perhaps she could awake some spark of goodness in him, maybe convince him to let her go back to her own world.

It could be hard, he had been driven to the brink of insanity many times, but Denya knew she had to try. Whatever it took, Denya would get herself out of this place and back home. All she needed to do now was find his weak point.

Ah Mr Bean!
Just read your story, with great pleasure. Sorry I haven't commented on it before, this really is a very well written story. I sincerely hope you aren't disappointed on the lack of comments, you must continue it, it's getting more and more interesting the more I read it.

Good Work Mr Bean!

Thanks Minque, I'm glad to hear that you enjoy it. I was probably going to continue it, but I was beginning to lose motivation a bit. However, your kindly words mean this is no more!! There'll be more coming

That....is really good! I can only speak for myself but as I've said before, I read everything, but I might not comment every time, I want to say something sensible when I comment, so I choose to say things when I actually can come up with something!

Alright, part 6 is. I'm also rather chuffed to announce that this part is probably the best thing I've personally written. Hopefully this will continue with the next parts. Enjoy, ladies and gentlemen.

Part 6

Denya slept quietly on the bedroll, curled in an embryonic position under rough sheet, breathing gently. Next to her, Ainis sat, still deep in thought, plumbing the depths of his mind in an attempt to answer the question of why he was helping Denya. He couldn’t find an answer.
His musings were interrupted by a knocking on the door he had mentally erected over the front of the cave. That was the unique thing about Oblivion; anyone could create anything provided they had the will to do so.

He got up and walked to the door, opening it to see a Xivali standing outside.

“Yes?” he asked suspiciously.

“Your mother wishes to see you,” the Daedra answered. “Now.”

Ainis said nothing, but closed the door behind him, stepping out into the biting cold of the wind. Ignoring the messenger, he made his way through the realm.

The wind shipped biting snow past him as he made his way through jagged crags of rock. Cobwebs woven by some gargantuan spider coated them stiff and frozen in the cold. When Ainis gripped them for support, his hands came off raw and painful. Mephala’s home was an unforgiving place.

After almost a hour of travelling through this bleak and desolate landscape, Ainis reached his mother’s home.

It was a bizarre structure. Stone and cobwebs rose miles into the sky, twisting around eachother in a frozen dance. Ice dusted the outside, and the structure hummed, as each taut, frozen cobweb was pulled and twitched by the wind. The gentle howling was carried by the wind, meaning it could be heard miles around. Spider Daedra scuttled around the outside, weaving yet more webs, whilst their spiderling servants followed, carrying out any menial tasks below their mistresses.

The Palace of Cobwebs towered above the world, mighty and hateful in its splendour.

Ainis strode onward, through the gates of ice and silk, ignoring the gatekeeper of the palace. A mighty hall, lit by glowing white strands of cobweb, and shimmering with ice, was through them. Tables of shimmering white cold were laid with a frozen banquet that would never be eaten, and each dish was laced with a fatal poison, each more deadly than the last. On the side of the hall, two staircases went both up and down, the one to the dungeons echoing with screams and howls of those who had displeased Mephala. Failed assassins, insubordinate daedra, all writhed in eternal torment.

At the far end of the hall, a throne of ice and black granite grew out of a pedestal of spider silk. Gnashing skulls of beautifully carved granite adorned the throne, whilst ten beating hearts of ice were connected by veins of stone to the dread chair, pumping the warmth of lifeblood into the seat.

The throne was empty, leaving only one other place for Mephala to be. Ainis sighed, and began to climb the stairs.

To reach Mephala, any visitor would have to get through a series to traps, each more fiendish and deadly. Those who needed to see her and could not find her in her throne room would have to climb the stairs or wait-and Mephala looked unfavourably on those who did not take risk.

Halfway up the first flight, the very first of the traps was triggered. A hail of thousands of darts sprang out, but Ainis was faster, his sword springing out of its sheath and weaving around him, stopping every one of the projectiles from reaching him. Returning it to its sheath, he continued.

On the next flight, the stairs slid flattened themselves, and Ainis found himself sliding towards a spiked pit at the bottom. He grabbed one of the cobwebs lining the wall and hauled himself to the top.

More traps hindered his progress-stairs fell away beneath him, to reveal gaping, hungry maws. Flames of burning ice sprang out of the air, freezing everything they touched. Yet Ainis’ progress was relentless. It was a test, and one Ainis had passed many times.

The final challenge was the most difficult. Here the stairs stopped, leading onto the walls of the Palace of Cobwebs. Nearly anyone would be exhausted, and then they would have to risk two hundred metres of climbing again. It was dangerous and risky. Howling winds threatened to whip the incautious off of the wall, whilst the jagged frost on the cobwebs could lacerate the palms of those who were foolish enough to hold them incorrectly. And to make life more difficult, hundreds of spiderlings would swarm you, forcing you to fight them off and still keep a hold. But at least Ainis had a strategy for dealing with them.

Slipping on specially made gloves, Ainis placed his hands on the first of the strands of web, nimbly vaulting onto the frozen silk. From there, he swung from web to web, monkey like, constantly twisting and spinning around them. Following him were various rustlings and hisses and first dozens, then hundreds, of spiderlings converged upon him.

Still vaulting and flipping around the webs, Ainis drew his sword, keeping an eye on the approaching Daedra. Spiderlings were simple creatures, and weak, but they were cunning and could force you into corners, where you would be forced to fight your way through hundreds before hundreds more would swamp you and eat you alive.

The first of the to miniscule daedra to make its move was neatly bisected by Ainis’ sword, the flying blood freezing in midair, turning into sanguine crystals before they even clinked off the cobwebs. Yet more of its compatriots surged after it though, and Ainis’ blade wove all about him, in front of him, behind him, above him and below, each one killing the tiny daedra, sending their corpses to fly down to bound against cobwebs. Gallons of blood was spilt within minutes, only to freeze. Anyone directly below the battle would think to been showered with a hail of tiny rubies, yet if they held them in their hand they would have melted into puddles of blood.

Then, with frozen crystals of blood coating his clothes, Ainis put his plan into action.

He muttered a few words in a short lull in the tide, and a spiderling of his own materialised into being. The creature immediately attacked the other daedra around it, and was torn apart in seconds, but the creatures assumed the worst.

There was a traitor amongst the swarm.

Within moments, the creatures broke down in a frenzy of biting and clawing, scratching and tearing as each of them tried to bring the supposed traitor to justice. To a spiderling, loyalty to the swarm was everything, and anyone who betrayed the sacred trust had to be killed.

Using the distraction while he could, Ainis slipped away, clambering up the frozen cobwebs, his gloves allowing his grip without his palms being cut to shreds. Yet even an unlucky slip or sudden gust could leave him at risk of a fatal fall, and by the time he reached the top his legs and arms were still badly scratched.

The summit of the precarious climb was of icy stairs of white marble, similar to that of the ayleid, and most likely a nod to them by Mephala for their centuries of enslavement, bloodshed and cruelty.

Guarding the twin doors to Mephala’s personal sanctum were Aiscarris and Sirracsai, two spider daedra both alluring and repellent in their unnatural, arachnid beauty. They smiled at him sadistically as he approached, bloodied and exhausted from his long and hazardous climb.

“He approachesss,” Aiscarris hissed. “Our mistress was…”

“Growing impatient,” Sirracsai finished. The daedric twins held some mental bond, and seemed to know what the other was going to say before their said it. It was an interesting talent, but Ainis had the feeling that they did it just to annoy him.

“Go on…”

“Through.”

Ainis walked past them, pushing the doors aside, and walking into a scene of opulence.

The entire room was a display of decadent finery. Pillows of finest silk adorned a massive bed, whilst the purple painted walls were coated with the exquisite paintings of cruelty and debauchery in equally sickening measures, often the two combined together upon one canvas. It was said that Mephala had kidnapped Nirn’s finest artist and forced him to paint those pictures, and that the content of them, so perfect and yet so appalling, drove him mad. But then again, many things were said about Mephala.

Ainis bowed as he entered the chamber, dread and righteous anger mingling in his stomach, knowing full well why his mother wished for his presence.

“You asked for me?”