While I have more than a few Trek fics here, I do write in multiple fandoms. Here's a story that I wrote awhile ago; I hope you enjoy it. If you have played the game, you know that the Dark Brotherhood questline will go unresolved until your character chooses to start it... but what if that was not the case? How might the quest resolve itself, were it possible for you to just not get involved? this story provides one such answer...
POETIC JUSTICE
9 Evening Star - Late Afternoon
Streets of Windhelm
The Dragonborn's face hardened as he watched the young Nord boy and his Dunmer minder head off into the howling snow together. He had overheard their conversation, about a reported dark ritual going on in the city, and didn't like what he heard. He had never had any contact with the Dark Brotherhood, but he knew the stories. The summoning ritual involving human remains, the undead creature in the metal casket, the band of assassins dwelling somewhere in Tamriel... the tales had passed from person to person, growing more bizarre and more unsettling with each iteration. The Dragonborn had long thought them to be fabrications... but then, he hadn't believed in dragons until he saw one firsthand, or that a Dragonborn could exist until he absorbed the power from the dying wyrm outside of Whiterun.
As he stepped under shelter to avoid a particularly fierce gust, he noted the writing on the door closest to him: ARETINO. Curious, he stepped close to it, and his nostrils caught the faint whiff of decomposing human remains. He pressed an ear to the door, and heard the child's voice, intoning the words: "Sweet mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must..."
With a shudder, the Dragonborn withdrew his ear from the door and stepped decisively away from it. He didn't know what dark forces were converging on this run-down house... but he knew that whatever had happened here or was about to, he wanted nothing to do with it. Behind him, unheard, the chanting continued.
21 Evening Star - Late Night
Honorhall Orphanage, Riften
It was just another night at Honorhall Orphanage. The children had been in bed for over an hour. Constance was in her tiny chamber keeping the books. the cruel, elderly woman known ironically as Grelod the Kind slouched past the younger woman without saying anything. She only spoke to her aide if she had complaints about her or a given child, which was a frequent occurrence. She walked into the children's bedchamber, hoping that there would be a child out of bed that she could threaten, or maybe worse, but they were all lying peaceful and still under their thin blankets. If they weren't asleep, they had the sense to pretend to be so. It was the safest thing they could do.
The day had passed like so many others, with only one thing to break the relative monotony. A little after sunset, there had been a knock at the door. Constance had answered it, and ushered in a pale-faced child of about ten winters, Breton by the look of her. She had explained that she was from the faraway town of Old Hrolden, and that her mother had died in a dragon attack on the town. Since she had no one else to turn to, the jarl had dispatched her to the orphanage. Dragon attacks were a common enough event these days.
With no other place to put her, the new brat had been settled on Aventus's old bed. It looked like that was probably going to be a permanent thing. It irritated Grelod to no end that the little snot had apparently made good his escape. With him gone, the other kids would dare to hope for some form of deliverance as well. She would need to clamp down on any hint of that the next day, she knew. Maybe she would start with the new one. She needed to be shown who was boss. Grelod had intended to do that right away, but the rotten little brat had not given her any pretext. She had obeyed all instructions, willingly aided Runa with the evening chores, and done them quickly and well. She had not even spoken unless spoken to (and been unfailingly polite when she was). However, tomorrow it would happen. If the girl didn't provide her with a reason, one would be made up.
For Grelod the Kind, monster that she was, there was nothing like looking into the tear-streaked face of a new inmate after delivering his or her first real thrashing. Nothing like seeing the horrified realization in their eyes that this was what their life was going to be like until they came of age, and that there would be no hope of escape through the usual route of being adopted or apprenticed. She eagerly looked forward to doing so once again. Well, tomorrow, she promised herself as she entered her quarters and set about getting ready for bed. Tomorrow, it would be the new girl's turn to...
She sensed movement in the corner of her eye and spun on her heel. She had not heard the door open or close, but though it was closed now, she was not alone in the room. Outrage surged through Grelod like flames through a barn full of dried straw. Nobody came into her room! Not even Constance was stupid enough to enter her quarters without permission. And yet, here she was, that rotten little Breton. Silent, serene, and totally unafraid, standing around like she had every right to be there.
"What in oblivion are you doing here, you little brat?!" she snapped at the girl. The savage look on her face would have terrified any child, and many an adult. Grelod had fond memories of the time Hroar had wet his pants at the sight of it. And after that, she had taken a belt to him for wetting his pants. Her arm had been sore after it was over, but the boy had been unable to sit without wincing for two days afterward.
The girl, however, showed no sign of fear at all. Indeed, a slight smile split her pale face. "The Dark Brotherhood has come for you, Grelod."
"I don't know what you think you're playing at, but you've just earned the beating of your miserable life," Grelod snarled, snatching up a long stick from the bedside table. She always had at least one appropriate pain-inflicting implement within reach. "Now turn around and bend over."
"No," said the girl, looking her squarely in the eye.
"I'll teach you to you defy me, you filthy little..." Grelod moved in closer, reaching down to pull up the girl's skirts. Only a few weeks before, in a filthy alley in another town, a certain man had attempted to do the exact same thing to that same girl (albeit for a very different reason). It had put his neck, and the fat arteries that pulsed with his lifeblood, mere centimeters from her mouth. The elderly woman before her made the exact same mistake.
Grelod didn't see what happened next, she simply knew a sudden, piercing pain in her neck. She struggled fiercely, but her legs collapsed under her and she went over backward, the girl coming down with her, teeth locked in her throat. Grelod had been bitten before, many children had tried to defend themselves against her, in various ways. But a terrified and desperate child does not attack with the swiftness and dead-serious purpose of a master assassin, and that is what she had on top of her tonight. The only weapon in her hand was the stick, but while it was an excellent tool for raising stinging welts on tender little bodies, it was useless for fending off a determined attacker: she flailed away without any effect. She was dimly aware of something warm and wet spurting from her neck, and tried desperately to reach up to stanch it, but her right hand was pinned under the girl's knees and... her left would not obey her. And something was wrong, the room was spinning, and getting dark and blurry. And then, blackness and increasing confusion, and then oblivion.
And then... Oblivion.
*~*~*~*
Babette continued to eagerly feed until the spurts of blood faded to bubbles, and then quit altogether as the old woman's heart finally stuttered to a halt. Then, she released and daintily wiped the blood from her lips. Quietly, she left the room. The murder had made relatively little noise, not enough to penetrate the heavy wooden door. Runa and the boys snored on, and Constance continued her work. Babette lay back down on her bed with a small smile of contentment. She had been with the Brotherhood for over two centuries, and had been a freelance assassin for some years before they recruited her. In that time, any vestige of a conscience had long since been eradicated. Still, she took a certain amount of pleasure in having brought a genuine monster to justice. Her previous contract had been similarly satisfying; the man in question had destroyed the innocence of far too many little girls before Babette's fangs ended his career.
With the job done, she considered her exit strategy. She would need to stay put for awhile. She could see that Constance genuinely cared for the children, and therefore would probably check on them one last time before retiring for the night. Once that was out of the way, Babette could sneak out, then leave the town through one of the unguarded side exits. Constance would of course raise the alarm when she woke up the next morning and found that Grelod was dead and one of the orphans was missing. However, Babette had explicit orders from the client not to harm the young Imperial in any way. It didn't matter; she knew how to move fast and quiet, and would have cover of darkness. She would be safe in Eastmarch well before sunrise. After that, it would just be a matter of collecting her payment from the Aretino boy, and making her way back to Falkreath.
Another successful contract. Astrid would be pleased.
POETIC JUSTICE
9 Evening Star - Late Afternoon
Streets of Windhelm
The Dragonborn's face hardened as he watched the young Nord boy and his Dunmer minder head off into the howling snow together. He had overheard their conversation, about a reported dark ritual going on in the city, and didn't like what he heard. He had never had any contact with the Dark Brotherhood, but he knew the stories. The summoning ritual involving human remains, the undead creature in the metal casket, the band of assassins dwelling somewhere in Tamriel... the tales had passed from person to person, growing more bizarre and more unsettling with each iteration. The Dragonborn had long thought them to be fabrications... but then, he hadn't believed in dragons until he saw one firsthand, or that a Dragonborn could exist until he absorbed the power from the dying wyrm outside of Whiterun.
As he stepped under shelter to avoid a particularly fierce gust, he noted the writing on the door closest to him: ARETINO. Curious, he stepped close to it, and his nostrils caught the faint whiff of decomposing human remains. He pressed an ear to the door, and heard the child's voice, intoning the words: "Sweet mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must..."
With a shudder, the Dragonborn withdrew his ear from the door and stepped decisively away from it. He didn't know what dark forces were converging on this run-down house... but he knew that whatever had happened here or was about to, he wanted nothing to do with it. Behind him, unheard, the chanting continued.
21 Evening Star - Late Night
Honorhall Orphanage, Riften
It was just another night at Honorhall Orphanage. The children had been in bed for over an hour. Constance was in her tiny chamber keeping the books. the cruel, elderly woman known ironically as Grelod the Kind slouched past the younger woman without saying anything. She only spoke to her aide if she had complaints about her or a given child, which was a frequent occurrence. She walked into the children's bedchamber, hoping that there would be a child out of bed that she could threaten, or maybe worse, but they were all lying peaceful and still under their thin blankets. If they weren't asleep, they had the sense to pretend to be so. It was the safest thing they could do.
The day had passed like so many others, with only one thing to break the relative monotony. A little after sunset, there had been a knock at the door. Constance had answered it, and ushered in a pale-faced child of about ten winters, Breton by the look of her. She had explained that she was from the faraway town of Old Hrolden, and that her mother had died in a dragon attack on the town. Since she had no one else to turn to, the jarl had dispatched her to the orphanage. Dragon attacks were a common enough event these days.
With no other place to put her, the new brat had been settled on Aventus's old bed. It looked like that was probably going to be a permanent thing. It irritated Grelod to no end that the little snot had apparently made good his escape. With him gone, the other kids would dare to hope for some form of deliverance as well. She would need to clamp down on any hint of that the next day, she knew. Maybe she would start with the new one. She needed to be shown who was boss. Grelod had intended to do that right away, but the rotten little brat had not given her any pretext. She had obeyed all instructions, willingly aided Runa with the evening chores, and done them quickly and well. She had not even spoken unless spoken to (and been unfailingly polite when she was). However, tomorrow it would happen. If the girl didn't provide her with a reason, one would be made up.
For Grelod the Kind, monster that she was, there was nothing like looking into the tear-streaked face of a new inmate after delivering his or her first real thrashing. Nothing like seeing the horrified realization in their eyes that this was what their life was going to be like until they came of age, and that there would be no hope of escape through the usual route of being adopted or apprenticed. She eagerly looked forward to doing so once again. Well, tomorrow, she promised herself as she entered her quarters and set about getting ready for bed. Tomorrow, it would be the new girl's turn to...
She sensed movement in the corner of her eye and spun on her heel. She had not heard the door open or close, but though it was closed now, she was not alone in the room. Outrage surged through Grelod like flames through a barn full of dried straw. Nobody came into her room! Not even Constance was stupid enough to enter her quarters without permission. And yet, here she was, that rotten little Breton. Silent, serene, and totally unafraid, standing around like she had every right to be there.
"What in oblivion are you doing here, you little brat?!" she snapped at the girl. The savage look on her face would have terrified any child, and many an adult. Grelod had fond memories of the time Hroar had wet his pants at the sight of it. And after that, she had taken a belt to him for wetting his pants. Her arm had been sore after it was over, but the boy had been unable to sit without wincing for two days afterward.
The girl, however, showed no sign of fear at all. Indeed, a slight smile split her pale face. "The Dark Brotherhood has come for you, Grelod."
"I don't know what you think you're playing at, but you've just earned the beating of your miserable life," Grelod snarled, snatching up a long stick from the bedside table. She always had at least one appropriate pain-inflicting implement within reach. "Now turn around and bend over."
"No," said the girl, looking her squarely in the eye.
"I'll teach you to you defy me, you filthy little..." Grelod moved in closer, reaching down to pull up the girl's skirts. Only a few weeks before, in a filthy alley in another town, a certain man had attempted to do the exact same thing to that same girl (albeit for a very different reason). It had put his neck, and the fat arteries that pulsed with his lifeblood, mere centimeters from her mouth. The elderly woman before her made the exact same mistake.
Grelod didn't see what happened next, she simply knew a sudden, piercing pain in her neck. She struggled fiercely, but her legs collapsed under her and she went over backward, the girl coming down with her, teeth locked in her throat. Grelod had been bitten before, many children had tried to defend themselves against her, in various ways. But a terrified and desperate child does not attack with the swiftness and dead-serious purpose of a master assassin, and that is what she had on top of her tonight. The only weapon in her hand was the stick, but while it was an excellent tool for raising stinging welts on tender little bodies, it was useless for fending off a determined attacker: she flailed away without any effect. She was dimly aware of something warm and wet spurting from her neck, and tried desperately to reach up to stanch it, but her right hand was pinned under the girl's knees and... her left would not obey her. And something was wrong, the room was spinning, and getting dark and blurry. And then, blackness and increasing confusion, and then oblivion.
And then... Oblivion.
*~*~*~*
Babette continued to eagerly feed until the spurts of blood faded to bubbles, and then quit altogether as the old woman's heart finally stuttered to a halt. Then, she released and daintily wiped the blood from her lips. Quietly, she left the room. The murder had made relatively little noise, not enough to penetrate the heavy wooden door. Runa and the boys snored on, and Constance continued her work. Babette lay back down on her bed with a small smile of contentment. She had been with the Brotherhood for over two centuries, and had been a freelance assassin for some years before they recruited her. In that time, any vestige of a conscience had long since been eradicated. Still, she took a certain amount of pleasure in having brought a genuine monster to justice. Her previous contract had been similarly satisfying; the man in question had destroyed the innocence of far too many little girls before Babette's fangs ended his career.
With the job done, she considered her exit strategy. She would need to stay put for awhile. She could see that Constance genuinely cared for the children, and therefore would probably check on them one last time before retiring for the night. Once that was out of the way, Babette could sneak out, then leave the town through one of the unguarded side exits. Constance would of course raise the alarm when she woke up the next morning and found that Grelod was dead and one of the orphans was missing. However, Babette had explicit orders from the client not to harm the young Imperial in any way. It didn't matter; she knew how to move fast and quiet, and would have cover of darkness. She would be safe in Eastmarch well before sunrise. After that, it would just be a matter of collecting her payment from the Aretino boy, and making her way back to Falkreath.
Another successful contract. Astrid would be pleased.
