The Rose and the Azalea - Chapter Eleven

• Posted by The Sunflower Manual July 24, 2018 - Filed in TSC: Long Story - #Harrow  #Sabina  #Rose/Azalea  - 1,214 views

  

   

   

  

   

   

   

   

  

  Thanks to the efforts of alchemists and mages across Nirn, roses are one of the singularly most diverse flowers when it comes to colour. In addition to natural red, yellow, orange, pink and white roses, there have also been roses selectively bred and enchanted to express colours anywhere from green to blue to black to violet.
  

   

   

   

   

  

   

   

   

                  It was a dark blue morning when I woke.

   

                  Rain pounded the roof. Rivulets of water ran down the window as I pulled back the drapes to look. Clouds flashed white and grey in the distance, slightly muted thunderclaps ringing out across the countryside. I saw the stable-hands run out to feed the horses, holding tarp over their heads.

   

                  A purple bolt of energy streaked down from the sky to strike a tree barely a quarter-mile away, splitting the bark and lighting it on fire. The clash of thunder shook the entire mansion. I rose and watched the flames on the tree struggle against the torrential downpour for few seconds, then looked down to see Azalea waking himself, gasping as his eyes darted towards the window like a startled rabbit’s.

   

                  ‘Shh,’ I said, cupping his cheek. ‘It’s just lightning. Nothing to be afraid of.’

   

                  ‘Just lightning,’ Azalea whispered as he sat up, hugging his knees. Our sheets fell around his body to reveal two pale shoulders, a hint of his naked collarbone, and the soft curve of his neck.

   

                  ‘Ahh, this is bad,’ I grumbled, pulling on trousers and a shirt. ‘I’d wanted to take you riding today, but apparently Kynareth had other ideas.’

   

                  ‘Well,’ Azalea said, running a finger up my arm, a teasing smile creeping up on his face as he shimmied in place, letting the covers slide down his body. ‘We can still do a different sort of riding today…’

   

                  I forced down a growl and began climbing back onto the bed, but barely a second later the suppressed growl emerged from my stomach instead. Azalea stared at me for a brief moment, and then we both began to giggle.

   

                  ‘Maybe tonight,’ I sighed, rolling off him and running a hand through my hair. ‘Breakfast should be waiting.’

   

                  My fingers got stuck on a particularly dense tangle of hair. I frowned, irritated, and tugged on it forcefully. Tutting, Azalea picked up a comb and slipped behind me.

   

                  ‘You shouldn’t do that with your hair,’ he murmured as I lowered my hand and let him smooth out the messy strands with gentle, professional strokes. ‘It’ll start falling out, you know? And it would be such a waste…’

   

                  He finished after a few seconds, and I found myself looking at him enviously as he applied the comb to his own hair. Even while loose after an entire night in bed, it was impeccable, shiny and sleek and exquisitely textured, the dark tresses flowing down on either side of his cheek and across his back in what I think was called an Akaviri princess cut. My own hair looked and felt like ginger straw in comparison.

   

                  ‘Say, what do you use for your hair?’ I said, picking at a split end.

   

                  ‘Hmm?’ Azalea tilted his head to the left. ‘There’s a few oils from High Rock that I like to apply to my head when I bathe… I haven’t used any since I came here, though.’

   

                  ‘I see.’ I nodded slowly.

   

                  ‘Why do you ask?’ Azalea tilted his head to the other side. Like a small housecat begging to get rubbed behind the ears.

   

                  ‘Ah, no particular reason…’ I stammered, resisting the urge to slam him back onto the bedsheets.

   

                  ‘I think you’re fine as you are, Sabina,’ Azalea said, pulling his robes around his body, his eyes bright, his smile sweet. ‘You don’t have to pretty yourself up for me.’

   

                  My stammering got worse. ‘Right, uh… thanks. Breakfast.’

   

                  Smooth, Lady Flavana, really, you do your Breton blood proud, I yelled at myself as we walked downstairs. ‘Uh, thanks, breakfast.’ Gah. I sound like a complete glutton!

   

                  Azalea giggled as he watched me.

   

                  ‘W-what?’ I demanded.

   

                  ‘Oh, sorry…’ Azalea covered his mouth with the crook of his index finger, still giggling quietly. ‘It’s just that I don’t see you blush that often... you look really cute.’

   

                  ‘What?’ I could feel the heat on my face. ‘No, I’m-’

   

                  ‘You do!’ Azalea laughed, curling his arms around mine and leaning against me. I felt a stupid grin crawl up my burning face, which stayed stuck to my lips even as we separated and sat down in front of the dining hall table.

   

                  ‘So then, tell me more about these oils of yours?’ I asked, spooning porridge into my mouth.

   

                  ‘You can usually get them from the more expensive salons in the market districts,’ Azalea replied, tearing off a small chunk of bread and nibbling on it.

   

                  ‘Done,’ I said immediately. ‘I needed to head into town later today to take care of some business anyways. I’ll get you a few jars.’

   

                  ‘Oh, you don’t have to go out of your way to-’ Azalea said hurriedly.

   

                  ‘Nonsense,’ I chuckled. ‘It’s no trouble.’

   

                  I chewed briefly on a mouthful of salted pork, then swallowed it as I remembered something.

   

                  ‘Speaking of trouble…’ I raised my voice. ‘Edwin!’

   

                  My bodyguard stepped forward, hands clasped in front of him, alert as always. I held out a hand.

   

                  The skin behind Edwin’s eyes tautened, and I was reminded of how vehemently he’d disagreed with my idea yesterday night. I almost thought he’d outright ignore me.

   

                  But no matter how close we were and how long we’d known each other the fact remained that he was my servant. Edwin produced the poniard and pressed it into my hand, his expression clearly asking me if I knew what I was doing.

   

                  ‘Here,’ I said, sliding the dagger across the table. ‘You need to be able to defend yourself.’

   

                  Azalea picked up the blade gingerly. ‘This is…’

   

                  ‘This style of dagger is called a poniard,’ I explained. ‘The blade is slim, meant for thrusting. I’ll teach you some basic moves when I have the time, but for now, just remember – when you’re in a pinch, draw and stab. Just keep that in mind. Draw, stab. Draw, stab. At the very least, it should keep you alive a bit longer.’

   

                  The poniard gleamed as Azalea drew it out of its sheath. I nodded appreciatively, a little surprised. Perhaps it was his dancing experience, but he seemed to have a good, instinctive feel for the balance of the weapon. Then he twisted his wrist around, frowning, and I chuckled again as I walked around the table. He reminded me of myself when I first began training with weapons.

   

                  ‘Don’t let your grip tilt forward like that,’ I said, slipping my hands around him from behind and adjusting his posture. ‘The handle should never drag or be dragged from your fingers.’

   

                  I let him hold it for a while longer before sliding the sheath back on. ‘Okay, now. This isn’t a toy, got it? Don’t pull it out unless you intend to hurt someone.’

   

                  ‘Hurt… someone…’ Azalea looked away, his lips tight.

   

                  I smiled apologetically. ‘Did I remind you of what happened in the clinic? Sorry… I just wanted to keep you safe, and as much as I would like to, I can’t stay by your side constantly.’

   

                  Azalea took a deep breath, then looked me in the eyes. ‘No, it’s fine. This is the world we live in, isn’t it?’

   

                  ‘So it is,’ I said, taken aback at the sadness in my own voice. It was good that none of my underbosses were around. Right now, I stank of weakness.

   

                  ‘I hope I never have to use it,’ Azalea said, subdued, stuffing the dagger into his robes as he went back to his bread.

   

                  ‘I hope so too.’ I tried for a smile as I got up. ‘Feel free to ask the chef for seconds, there’s some documents and reports I need to look over.’

   

                  ‘All right.’ Azalea was trying to smile too, but it seemed that I’d fouled the atmosphere too much already, talking about stabbing and hurting people.

   

                  I’m just the definition of tactful today, I grumbled as I headed back upstairs to my office.
  

  

   

  

  There have been numerous accounts (some believe them to be fictitious propaganda) of Altmeri horticulturists being punished severely for incorrect azalea trimming procedure. One such story even has the gardener in question exiled for over pruning a branch.
  

   

   

  
  

   
   

                  The storm had abated, and the late afternoon sky was clearer than ever. I leant back on the bed, holding up the poniard to a ray of dimming sunlight coming in from the window.

   

                  The weapon was short – two to three inches longer than a kunai, perhaps a few angaids lighter. It was also much more elaborate, with a crossguard and scabbard both decorated and engraved. I forced back a smile as I thought back to the time Ambarro went and carved up Akaviri glyphs on the blades of one of his kunai sets. Even as a child, his fire had been uncommonly strong… with precision jets of flame from his claws, he’d dug right into the metal. Of course, Master Mokko had not been particularly impressed with what the dunce had done to his gear.

   

                  ‘Engravings,’ he had said as he made Ambarro melt down all of the daggers personally, ‘Give you no tactical advantage whatsoever.’

   

                  Of course, the decorations on this poniard were just as important as any tactical feature, even from a practical standpoint. This was a noble’s dagger, meant to show status and wealth, meant to be flaunted and worn as an item of fashion in formal events, a showpiece denoting high social standing and commanding respect. As for the blade itself, it was lethal enough. Bretons and Imperials called the style a stiletto, a very specialised blade intended for direct thrusts and little else.

   

                  Sabina had left the mansion on her business, taking Edwin with her. I had the house to myself. I’d already taken the opportunity to search her office during a few of her other absences earlier this week, but most of the documents and plans I found there were only details related to the day-to-day operation of the Flavana criminal empire – plenty important, but nothing critical.

   

                  Sunset was still one full hour away. To minimise exposure, Rhansan wouldn’t arrive until the last minute. With nothing else to do until our meeting, here I was lying back on the bed, weighing the poniard in my hand. I unsheathed the dagger, noting the width of the blade, playing out strikes and assassinations in my head.

   

                  Narrow, needle-sharp point. Tempered, high quality Colovian steel, expertly stoned, polished until brilliant. Extremely high penetration against flesh, but perhaps less effective against bone. I can forget trying to pierce armour; the blade would snap. Priorities: between the ribs, into the heart and lungs… under the chin, through the mandibles… close to that, the windpipe, of course, a Shadeclaw favourite… and if I could get behind the target, a thrust directly into the uppermost spinal column, through the base of the skull and into the brainstem… am I accurate enough to do so reliably? The myriad differences in skeletal structure between individual races could be what decides a perfect slip into the medulla oblongata and a useless poke against the cranium…

   

                  I gave the poniard a little twirl to amuse myself, watching the bright steel glow golden in the late afternoon sun, reflecting amber light all across the bedroom. Then I quickly sheathed the weapon and slapped myself mentally. Horribly undisciplined of me – a proper shinobi should be meditating right now, keeping his thoughts clear, preparing… but I was bored, and my mind was strangely active today.

   

                  Bored? Ridiculous. No matter how slack I was, idle boredom should have been drummed out of my psyche since my third year of training. No, not bored.

   

                  Was I nervous?

   

                  I had little reason to be uneasy. Compared to some of my previous assignments, I was not in as much immediate danger. And after all, this was hardly my first mission in Cyrodiil.

   

                  My first mission in Cyrodiil…

   

                  Not again.

   

                  The unique structure and composition of Altmeri brains – which correlated with the raw magicka they could access – meant that all High Elves possessed a keenness of memory few could match. I was barely more than half an Altmer, but I still expressed that particular physiological attribute… and Master Torako’s full decade of instruction had only honed it further.

   

                  Thus I could recall, with perfect clarity, the exact sound that my katana had made as it parted skin from skin and fat from fat and flesh from flesh and the stench of bile and blood and faeces and-

   

                  I coughed, my eyes widening involuntarily. There had been the rotten stench of filth, yes, but it had also smelled sweet, cloyingly sweet. Like the scent surrounding me right now. This was no memory, this was-

   

                  This was-

   

                  Lilac, vanilla. This was me. Just me.

   

                  I took a cautious sniff, frowning. Abnormally strong. I smelled like I had been soaked in perfume. I tucked my nose under my collar and sniffed again.

   

                  My reactivated glands had… begun secretion of their own accord? But in place of perspiration, they produced the chemical compound Haruka had introduced into my system – now my signature scent.

   

                  So instead of breaking out into a cold sweat, I start smelling like a flower garden when stressed? That could prove far more disastrous in the field.

   

                  Fortunately, the secretion was easy enough to halt. Two deep breaths returned my heartrate to its normal ten beats per minute, and a silent kiai released out through my pores wiped my body clean of all odorous particles. Haruka would not have given me this ability if I hadn’t been able to manage this level of scent suppression in turn. Still, I would have to be more careful. A great deal of security measures across Nirn involved scent detection.

   

                  It is fortunate that only the apocrine glands for ‘cold’ sweat were reactivated, not the eccrine glands for normal sweat in humanoids, or else I would leave behind a painfully obvious scent trail whenever I exert myself from now on.

   

                  While I was perched on the bed thinking those disjointed thoughts, the sky outside had darkened considerably. Sunset was not far away now.

   

                  With one last deep breath, I expunged every trace of useless thought and memory clouding my concentration. Focus on the mission. Only the mission matters… only the village matters. Everything I do, I do for the village. Our village… my village.

   

                  I sauntered out of the mansion, making it seem to the servants as if I was taking a leisurely walk. The air outside was fresh and slightly damp. I circled the grounds once, both to sell the lie and to make sure none of the gardeners were still doing their rounds, then stopped behind the stables and waited.

   

                  Rhansan had chosen this evening for our meeting because the stable-hands only worked mornings on Loredas and they had Sundas off. They were likely all in town drinking their worries away.

   

                  A few minutes passed. The shadows lengthened. A pair of horses nickered, pawing at hay.
  

   

                  As the sun dipped to kiss the horizon, I heard heavy, armoured footsteps come up from the gates and I raised an eyebrow, a little surprised. He was coming in through the front?

   

                  ‘Ah, Mister Rhansan, sir. Right this way, the mistress is out but you can leave the samplers here…’

   

                  I nodded, understanding. Of course. The Redguard smuggler was supposed to be here today.

   

                  Rhansan passed the stables without even turning his head, marched up to Flavana Manor, and left a small packet in front of the door. He swept the area after that, scanning every direction for servants and guards. After making certain there was no one else in sight, he made straight for me.

   

                  Meeting behind the stables was ideal. This spot was blocked from view both from the windows of the manor and the usual guard patrol routes around the entire mansion. Rhansan knew Sabina’s routines well. And I had an inkling as to why.

   

                  I flashed a smile at the Redguard as he approached, his Dwemeri plate glinting with the orange and red of a vivid dusk. ‘Sampler?’ I asked, keeping my voice high and gentle. While Rhansan was already dead certain that I wasn’t what I appeared to be, there was no reason to present myself as a professional, either. Always allow your target to underestimate you.

   

                  ‘That’s none of your concern,’ Rhansan said in a monotone.

   

                  ‘Let me guess…’ I said playfully, drawing a little circle with my foot. ‘Some new brand of skooma? Illegal spirits from Black Marsh? Ooh, is it truffles? I hear there’s good trade in truffle smuggling-’

   

                  Rhansan reached out, growling under his heaume. I stood there and let him grab my arm, feeding just the right amount of fear into my eyes, then masking it with transparent defiance.

   

                  ‘Are you deaf?’ the Redguard hissed. ‘Enough with the perky femme fatale act. Who do you think you are? Naryu Virian?’

                                                                                                                                          

                  I hid my appreciation for that comparison. Tsukikage had no equals when it came to assassination, but the Morag Tong… came very close. ‘I don’t know who that is,’ I protested, jerking my arm.

   

                  Rhansan snorted as I made a show of struggling. ‘It wasn’t you, was it?’

   

                  ‘What?’

   

                  ‘You’re not the one who killed my men.’

   

                  I blinked and silently processed that information. The Dunmeri assassins were his. Rhansan was the one behind the attempt on Sabina’s life.

   

                  ‘I didn’t think so.’ He squeezed my arm a little harder. ‘No true professional would let himself get poisoned so easily, and there’s no way someone this physically weak could’ve taken all three of them out. I’m betting the people you work for just fished out the prettiest piece of boy-meat they had, didn’t they? Got the young lady figured out straight.’ The Redguard laughed, a low, unpleasant sound.

   

                  I glared at him sullenly, reinforcing his initial observations. Sometimes it was best to let the target lead himself further and further off the mark.

   

                  ‘That means you must have backup, which then means you have a noteworthy organisation behind you,’ Rhansan continued. He wasn’t too far off there. ‘One of the small families, probably. Ah, whoever sent you isn’t important. What does matter… is why you’re here.’

   

                  I kept my mouth shut and the underboss chuckled. ‘Staying quiet and letting me volunteer information? Smart. But even that tells me something.’

   

                  This Rhansan was simultaneously more cunning and more stupid than he let on.

   

                  ‘It tells me that you’re just here to observe, to gather whatever intelligence you can,’ he concluded. Once again, not too far off. ‘You’ve had an entire week’s worth of opportunities to kill the little bitch, and you didn’t take them.’

   

                  I looked up at the Redguard. His face was hidden behind his helmet, but I registered his tone. Vicious, angry. Rhansan laughed his low, menacing laugh again.

   

                  ‘Yes, you get what I’m driving at, don’t you? Twenty years, twenty fucking years I’ve been underboss, waiting my turn, serving the family without a word of complaint, and at the end of all of it… tossed aside for his spoiled brat.’

   

                  I met his eyes. Small, black, hateful things, darting around underneath the slit in his heaume.

   

                  ‘I want Sabina Flavana dead,’ Rhansan snarled. ‘And I don’t care who does the deed. I can see it, too – you’re no fighter, but you’ve got a killer’s eyes.’

   

                  I nodded, chewing my lip. ‘It’s going to be difficult getting past Lysanders. I need some incentive…’

   

                  ‘Oh, you are a real whore all right,’ Rhansan said. I could hear the grin in his voice, the triumph. ‘Sixty thousand septims.’

   

                  I raised my eyebrows and smiled a greedy smile. It was highly improbable that Rhansan had any intention of paying me. I was simply a very convenient scapegoat… and tying into the fact that the underboss thought I was working for some unspecified rival family, said family would become a convenient scapegoat as well.

   

                  ‘Come on now, tease me a little,’ I coaxed, pouting. ‘How about something more immediate to whet my appetite?’

   

                  ‘You’re overdoing it,’ Rhansan muttered. ‘I told you to drop the act.’ I ignored the warning. The foolhardier I appeared, the easier he would believe I was to manipulate.

   

                  ‘Hmm?’ I stretched out my smile, leaning closer to the underboss.

   

                  ‘All right.’ Rhansan dropped a large coin pouch into my hands. ‘Two thousand septims to start you off.’

   

                  ‘Ooohh,’ I giggled, bouncing the pouch up and down on my palm. ‘You’re loaded, I like that in a man-’

   

                  ‘Enough already,’ Rhansan spat, holding out his hand. ‘Do we have a deal?’

   

                  I slipped my fingers into his and shook. ‘We’re in business!’

   

                  With that we parted ways, the entire conversation having taken barely three minutes.

  

   

   

                  When Sabina returned another two hours later, she found me sitting upright on our bed, staring glumly at the pouch of coin I’d received earlier in the evening.

   

                  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, concerned, her hair clinging to her face, sweaty and sticky from being pressed down in a Flavana’s trademark helmet. ‘Why the long face?’

   

                  ‘I… well…’ I stammered, pointing at the pouch.

   

                  Sabina picked it up and frowned, her gaze sharpening. ‘Where’d you get this? This is a lot of gold.’

   

                  ‘That… Redguard fellow who comes around every so often. Ranshad?’

   

                  ‘Rhansan,’ Sabina said slowly, sitting down next to me. ‘What about him?’

   

                  ‘He’s paying me thirty times that to kill you,’ I whispered.