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powerovernothing · 2 years

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(Ho, ho, ho, merry early Christmas, I’m not actually dead! The artwork used in this tale was made by the incredible artist by the name of haleviyah! Thank you so very much for creating something absolutely amazing for me!)

The groaning of an iron door is the only sound to herald Korbin's arrival into the darkened, dusty room. It was not very often that he venture into the shadows of Lucien's personal office deep within the lower levels of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, as he found it far less fun and creatively draining to fight back against the grievous and utterly exhausting beast that was paperwork — when he actually chose to tackle the near endless stacks and did not simply hand them over to those far more capable to such a task rather than himself -- rather than being within the main levels with the bulk of the Dark Family to converse with, and assist him with his grueling task.

Even so, he had not come into Lucien's pretentious workspace to merely rearrange his things in the hopes of sparking his ire and prompt him to angrily chase him throughout the countless corridors, and actually have some manner of fun for once amidst the towers of papers and dried ink. Nor had he come to lie in wait for his next attempt to successfully catch his brother by surprise when he was least expecting it.

No, instead he had come for another, much greater reason entirely than simply poking and prodding a tired Assassin far past the limits of his fragile patience. He merely wanted to dig through Lucien's bookshelves, as well as his personal collection of stories, novels, and other such tomes in search of finding something new to read.

He had read through Kolb and the Dragon, as well as Three Thieves, cover to cover more times than he cared to remember, even to the point where there were obvious creasing in the spine — of which a certain Light Brother now sitting comfortably upon the Ruby Throne within the highest reaches of Imperial Palace would surely never allow him to hear the end of in a lengthy lecture about proper book care if he knew of his horrific literary sins — from how often he would reread his very favorite parts late into the hours of a moon kissed night.

He was hungry for a new challenge, to discover a new favorite, and he believed there was no better way to do so than to comb through Lucien's shelves until his brother found him surrounded by several dozen books, with a childlike gleam in his eye. With a quiet chuckle under his breath at the mental image of Lucien's absolute surprise upon walking in and seeing him mid-story, he makes his way over to the nearest bookcase and begins skimming through the titles as he traces the spines with his fingertips.

Several titles that he was familiar with jumped out at him almost immediately: The Brothers of Darkness that he knew was a somewhat boring history lesson of how the Brotherhood first came to be. Sithis, which went into detail about who the Dread Father was and what his connections to the alleged Lorkhan could have been. A rather thick tome that detailed every one of the Five Tenants and what happened to those who failed to follow them.

Even one he knew was intended to go hand in hand with Brothers of Darkness and went into equally dull detail about how the Morag Tong first rose to power.

Despite the strangeness of finding such a book within a Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, each and every one of them made absolutely perfect sense to be nearly stacked on Lucien's shelves, and yet none of them presented him with the challenge he so desperately craved. And as for the books he didn't recognize or even knew the titles of... well, he surely had no desire to feel any worse about his reading abilities — or the lack thereof — than he already did from behind closed doors.

His previous chuckle progressively transforms into a much more impatient sigh, and he pushes the much larger, and frankly intimidating books aside, and hastens his searching. Lucien had to have something his level, and something he had not already read ten times over.

The various books of different types of riddles? He had read it and delighted in tormenting his siblings with every joke and terrible pun on the page. The Locked Room? Read it, enjoyed it, but it had ended on a dreadful cliffhanger and with the author's unfortunate demise... The Black Arrow? Very happily read it, loved it as one of his many favorites, however, he had already mastered the fundamentals of archery for many years now, and unless he was looking for a —

And then Korbin's brows furrow in bewilderment.

Why would Lucien keep such a book in his library when everyone knew he was utterly hopeless at such a skill? He shrugs his shoulders at such a thought, deciding that he would question his brother over it at a later time, and pulls the book of marksmanship from the shelf and into the rapidly growing stack in his arms, where he finally finds himself something of interest at long last.

A large, rather dusty-looking book that had gone overlooked, hidden behind rows of other, better-maintained stories. However, now that such obstructions had been eliminated, he could see it all the clearer. He reaches back into the back of the shelf and brushes away some of the dust that had accumulated on the weathered spine. The title 'A Game At Dinner' looks back at him, and his eyes twinkle with excitement at the mystery that surrounded such a book.

He strains even further, battling the weight in his arms as well as the awkward angle he had found himself twisted into, and he can only lightly touch the forgotten book before his accursed foot loses its balance and he stumbles — slamming his hip into the wooden shelves and dropping every book he was holding to the floor with a thunderous crash that echoed throughout the room.

A deeply frustrated groan escapes his lips as he slumps his shoulders and his arms drop limply in front of his chest.

"...Damn it all to the bloody depths of the shitting Deadlands themselves," He mutters under his breath, one hand reaching up to run through his unruly grey locks.

"So much for the wonderful stealth approach I had in mind. There's no damn way that Lucien didn't hear that — hell, likely the whole Sanctuary heard it! Both living and dead! — and now this means I not only have to clean up this awful mess, which was most certainly the books' fault for falling in the first place and not my own, but I also have to do it quickly enough before Lachance comes running in and wrings my neck for making said mess in the first place!"

He lowers himself to a kneel and begins picking up the scattered books that had been strewn across the floorboards. Yes, some of the covers had minor scuffing and some of the spines were flattened where they had fallen face down, but perhaps this was not at all the disaster he had feared it would become.

All he had to do was pick up the scattered pages, smooth out the wrinkles in those that had been bent or even torn, and then return the volumes to their original locations... all the while hoping that Lucien would not notice the key differences when he was finished.

One book leads to the next, and he soon has a considerably smaller stack beside him. The riddles would go on the shelf first, then the Locked Room, and he would have to remember to bring A Game At Dinner, because despite all that had happened with the books refusing to seek his permission before acting on their own will, he still well and truly wanted to read it and see if it was perhaps any good.

But suddenly he comes to a halt, one palm hovering just over the surface of the embossed arrowhead on the cover of what he considers to be the strangest book in all of Lucien's collection, and his golden gaze falls upon a book he knew very well that he had not seen before the avalanche.

It was leather bound, with a faded image of the once-respected Black Hand on the cover, and there was no title or indication of what was hidden inside the yellowed pages other than two initials scrawled in crimson ink in one of the corners of the cover that read simply: 'L.L.'

The more time he spends staring at the cover, the more questions come to mind. Was this some type of book of Lucien's that he felt as though did not deserve a place on the shelf? Was it possible that it was made for Lucien as a gift by a member of the Dark Family during a celebration of some kind, and that was why he had not seen it until now?

Or, perhaps, was there the slightest chance that such a book was actually written by his brother's own hand?

He pulls back, resting his palms over his knees, and struggles to recall any possible moment in which his brother picked up a quill for any reason other than to slice away at the papery beast all higher-ranking members of the family dreaded to overcome. And he knew too well that the book before him was much too important to be reduced to a folder containing successful or unsuccessful assignments.

So, what did it truly contain, his mind continued to question.

Were there files within that detailed some of the Brotherhood's most formidable foes throughout their years in Cyrodiil? Were each Family member's strengths and weaknesses painstakingly documented, to be used mercilessly and brutally against them if they ever dared to step out of line, or go against the newfound rules? Were there secrets buried behind the pages that not even he, a Veteran of Sithis, knew about, and were only meant for Lucien's eyes because of an unspoken lack of trust that had formed between them unknowingly?

He reaches out once again, intent on snatching the book and obtaining his answer, but his hand comes to a sudden standstill as another, far more rational, thought enters his mind.

What if there were indeed secrets to be uncovered, but not to be found in the way he had first imagined them to be? What if this was not a folder providing methods for assassinating future traitors, but rather Lucien's personal journal instead? The Black Hand emblem clearly indicated that the leather book was old, and if this was indeed his brother's journal, then what right did he have to pry? Even if he was, somehow, able to read the writing inside?

After all, he would never want Lucien prying into his journal entries for no reason, save for the one time when an allergic reaction to a poorly crafted healing potion robbed him of his voice and he had no other choice but to communicate through hand-written messages. And if there was any chance that such entries alluded to topics Lucien was not yet ready to discuss...

He shakes his head and sighs softly before making his decision. Respecting Lucien's privacy and preserving his heart was much more preferable to indiscriminately pouring over what was very clearly not his.

He reaches for the book a final time and shakily raises himself to his full height. All he had to do now was proceed with his previous plan of returning everything to its proper location, taking his selection of new literature to read in his spare time, and leaving his brother's office without him realizing that he had accidentally stumbled across one of his most closely guarded secrets.

But before he has a chance to carry out his intentions, or even so much as finish his own thoughts, the alleged journal tilts slightly in his grip, and a faded piece of parchment flutters to the floor, sending his stomach crashing into the soles of his shrouded boots. Why?

Why were the Gods of all written text doing this to him?

Why were they torturing him in such a way, and receiving some sort of horrific, twisted glee from his torment? All he wanted was to read a single damn book from Lucien's collection, and now he had thrown nearly a dozen different ones on the floor because of his own clumsiness, found his brother's private journal in the process, and ended up causing parts of it to spill out by accident while he was attempting to put it back in place and pretending that none of this had happened.

Someone in the infinite libraries of unending knowledge hated him. They absolutely hated him and were punishing him for trying to be clever. And, if he wasn't so utterly panicked, he would have a few choice words for them just as well. But first, he had to fix this parchment nightmare that he was currently in.

Because now he would have to gather the pieces that had fallen out, open said journal of his brother's, locate and put them in their proper places, try as best he was able to remain respectful to whatever had been written from Lucien's many long years of life with shielded eyes... and all the while hoping, praying, and begging to the non-book related Gods, Divines, or whatever else could possibly be listening that he could do so before Lucien returned to his office, caught his Silencer Redd-handed, nose deep in what did not belong to him, and then promptly wrung his neck for daring to snoop.

He takes the paper from the floor, smooths out the creases as he had with the novels before, and whispers a quiet apology to Lucien before unfolding and being greeted by the sight of a charcoal drawing of Ocheeva and Teinaava as small toddlers.

His eyebrows raise, he blinks several times, and he feels a wave of tremendous confusion engulf him. This was not at all what he had thought to see. He had expected to find some type of journal entry Lucien had tucked away, recounting an event in his past with the Brotherhood when he was much younger, but a drawing of his children? Of Korbin's own beloved Niece and Nephew, and one that was rather amazingly detailed?

It astounds him, and he wonders whether Lucien created the artwork himself... and, if he did, then what an incredible talent his brother has that he was completely unaware of! Knowing he had such exceptional skill in the art of Assassination, and now it seemed, in genuine art as well? It was simply remarkable!

And in all his enthusiasm at discovering the artwork and questioning if there was perhaps more to be found, he failed to notice that he had sunk into a comfortable sitting position back upon the floor. Or that he was now more than willing to go through the pages of his brother's perhaps journal, perhaps sketchbook, to see what else he might learn of Lucien's many hidden talents.

His prior careful consideration for his brother's privacy now seemingly abandoned underneath the currents of his own curiosity.

Pages flutter and brush his fingertips as he skims through several chapters worth of memories in a rush, all the while seeking anything he recognizes, anything he could read without difficulty, and perhaps more sketches worthy of the utmost highest of praise. At first, he merely saw countless pages worth of Dark Brotherhood memorabilia, those of which he actually did believe he would uncover if he dug deeper into the pieces of Lucien's earlier life, and his attention is soon piqued by the unexpected amount of depth.

He finds barely legible contracts faded from age, detailed fighting strategies regarding the greater art of Assassination, swordplay, striking down your adversary before you were made a victim yourself, as well as, and most strange of all, a handwritten — albeit rather poorly — recipe for some sort of apple sweet he had never heard of. The text was atrociously done, clearly written in a hurry, and the illustrations of apples decorating the sides of the page were in a much different manner from the sketch of Ocheeva and Teinaava, that much was quite apparent.

Yet despite his best efforts, he merely admits defeat with a shake of his head, and a faint giggle under his breath after a dubious number of attempts to decipher what he considered to be far worse than any normal scribbling. He once believed that he had the very worst handwriting, but now it seemed as though there was a new competitor standing before him to correct him on such a thought.

He gradually comes to realize that this was not the personal journal he had first assumed as he thumbs through several more spreads of items held in place by wax stamps carrying the initials as those decorated upon the cover. Instead, it was some sort of scrapbook created by Lucien. And even though he had only opened the book to replace a wonderful, charming little sketch under the threat of brotherly rage and bodily harm, the more that he found, the more intrigued he became to investigate further.

He turns another page and smiles warmly as he comes upon a chapter entitled "My Precious Children." That was precisely what he was looking for, but hardly anticipated a full page devoted to practically every single thing that the twins had experienced with their chosen father. He learns Ocheeva's first was 'knife' whereas Teinaava's was 'da'. He learns of their first steps, their first true celebration of the Gathering of the Void with Lucien, where they gifted him with handcrafted feather necklaces and referred to him by the title of Father and them as his children.

He even finds contracts that appeared to be sent directly to Lucien, along with a small note attached to the side stating how this was their first real effort to hone their skills in stealth, and how well they could recall every twist and turn of the Sanctuary without assistance.

The note went on to explain that he could not have been prouder of their development, or more honored to become their very first 'victim', and that when they reached adolescence, he rewarded them with a family contract in which they raided a traveling carnival together and made a game out of the number of downed marks they had accumulated at the end of the evening.

He laughs softly to himself as he refolds the sketch and places it back in the crease between pages. He knew very well that Lucien could be, and quite frequently was, an extraordinarily sentimental bastard, to the point that he could even claim that he outshone Martin in terms of overwhelming sappiness, but he had no idea that his genuine heartfelt feelings ran so deep.

To know he cared so much about his children that he would document nearly everything from their hatching to the current present... he felt torn between wanting to mock his brother for feeling so strongly and wishing to hide it all away from prying eyes, and truly finding it all incredibly moving and sweet.

As the familiar feeling of fluttering pages caresses against his fingers when he shifts the book slightly in hand, he smiles in amusement. Perhaps there was a way to strike a balance that would be the best of both worlds. If he went to Ocheeva and Teinaava and told them what he found — as he had no doubt they had already known of Lucien's scrapbook long before him — most tender memories with their father from their perspective, and he would be able to learn of more ways Lucien was indeed the most sappiest Assassin in the whole of the province of Cyrodiil.

But, before he can execute his ingenious plan of action, doubling as lighthearted blackmail, he catches a glimpse of a chapter title he had not previously seen. The words 'My,' and 'Beloved,' as well as something beginning with the letters 'S,' 'I,' and 'L' fly past him in rapid succession as the book closes itself shut, and a burning sensation spreads swiftly over his cheeks as he considers what those words together could possibly imply.

He frantically searches through every possible page in the scrapbook, nearly ripping some of them in half, in the desperate hopes of finding the supposed chapter title once again and being proven so very, and oh-so happily wrong about what his foolish mind assumed it had seen in brief, which was now tormenting him with a dozen humiliating ideas — each one more horrific than the last — and a crushing amount of confusion.

This was, after all, Lucien's scrapbook. A way for him to keep track of the most important and memorable events in his life, and Ocheeva and Teinaava unquestionably brought him the most joy! The greatest sense of pride! So, why would he have a place in the scrapbook? What would his brother even have of his that would be worthy enough of being included in these well-kept pages at all?

Obviously, he had simply misread the title somehow. His inability to comprehend quick flashes of text was most certainly working against him, and there was no way, not in all the depths of the Void itself, that Lucien had crafted the same full page spread about him as he had his children. He was willing to stake a month's worth of freshly baked pastries that it was he, not Lucien's heart, that was at fault, as he knew his brother so much better.

And, honestly speaking, despite all the shows of affection he read based around Lucien's children, just what was there about him that was genuinely worth being proud of? Apart from narrowly preventing history from repeating itself with the powers of pure Madness, being only a scarce few steps ahead of a traitor, and a gigantic bastard of a Daedra who wanted nothing more than to take away all he knew and loved with a twisted grin upon their faces.

But all his wondering and justifying as to why Lucien surely had other, more important, things to write about rather than his foolish younger brother ultimately comes to naught, and he feels his precious sweet rolls slip from his grasp as he locates the aforementioned chapter he had seen, and his cheeks burn with a much deeper scorching heat when he finally reads the title in full: "My Beloved Silencer."

With a flick of his wrist, he turns the page, and his head spins in disbelief at what he finds. Just as he surely feared, there were indeed several many pages dedicated to him, almost exactly as Ocheeva and Teinaava had received from Lucien.

However, unlike the twin's and the parts of their lives that their father chose to speak about and catalogue, it seemed as though his personal spreads were much more heavily focused on the time that he and Lucien spent together following the murder of Mathieu Bellamont, and the beginnings of the revised Cheydinhal Sanctuary, rather than when they met each other in Skingrad, and he was brought into the comfort of the Dark Family – and filled to the absolute brim with items that he had not seen, or even spared a passing thought to in more than a Khajiit's age.

From pressed flowers to woven bracelets, to sketches of sparkling rocks turned gemstones, and even marshmallow sculptures crafted in Lucien's likeness. They were all things he had given his brother at one time or another, and all things he had assumed Lucien would accept and acknowledge, before moving on to bigger and better things that required his full attention.

Not once did he consider that Lucien cared enough about his little trinkets and childish creations to go out of his way to preserve them in his personal scrapbook as though they were some kind of a pleasant, fond memory — especially not when his actual children's gifts should have been, and absolutely were, of far more important and so much more beloved than his own senseless display of unnecessary affection. Scanning over the page — past the list of favorite sweets and how they were made, past the arrowhead that felled the first target of the first contract he and Lucien went on together, and even past the list of favorite book titles that actually explained why Lucien had a book of archery in the first place — he comes across a scrap of paper obstructing the view of whatever else Lucien thought to save, and smiles softly despite the embarrassment he feels.

It was another drawing, created with the same precise attention to detail as the one with Ocheeva and Teinaava, but this one featured himself and Martin instead of the Argonian Twins. It depicted the two of them from behind, laughing over a book they each held in one hand.

He shakes his head with a lighthearted scoff, joyfully recalling the night in question. How they sat at one of the temple's main hall tables and read aloud, amusing themselves with how outrageous they made each character until Martin's voice eventually lulled him to sleep.

Yet he was completely unaware that Lucien was lurking nearby and sketching the scene from the shadows. He runs his hand over the surface of the drawing, being ever careful not to disturb the charcoal strokes, and finds a message scrawled on the back when he folds it in half:

"Valtieri took me aside when my children first came into my life and explained how he believed caring for a pair of forgotten, often lost souls were somehow linked to the man I was destined to become. Who could have predicted how far his foresight reached? I am certain he laughed himself half to life when he saw the two of them at my side that fateful day we opted to take that young adoring fan into the depths of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary."

A much more delighted chuckle slips past his lips as he puts the drawing back in place. The thought that Lucien was reminded of his children whenever he looked to him and Martin... he was unsure as to whether he should feel flustered by such a revelation, or simply be amused by the absurdity of it all.

As his laughter fades, he attempts to compose himself by running a hand through his hair, only to notice something familiar just out of the corner of his eye. Notes, it seemed. And not just one, but a great number of them. At least half a dozen, and all perfectly organized, even despite the sloppy handwriting on each. The same sloppy handwriting he instantly recognized to be his very own.

The longer he peers over them in silence, the more bewildered he becomes, and he cannot understand why, out of all the things his brother had within these private pages filled with memories, he chose to devote one to what he believed to be meaningless garbage. Crude scribbles he hastily created either out of his childish desire to apologize for taking Lucien's belongings, just as he was undoubtedly doing now, or because he simply wanted to wish his brother well by slipping a note between the sleeves of his robe as he set out on the next assignment.

But it was not as though any of them were actually valuable. Perhaps, given enough time, he would eventually come to understand the reasoning behind all other trinkets Lucien chose to keep, but certainly not these. He could hardly wrap his head around why Lucien thought these were somehow special when they were surely anything but.

For Sithis' sake, they appeared to have been made by children — or were so much worse than what a child would have created when comparing them to the writing he had seen on Ocheeva and Teinaava's pages. The writing was barely coherent, the spelling embarrassingly bad, and it was all yet another continual reminder of everything he should have already mastered for someone of his age but had not.

And the fact that Lucien saved them, preserved them in his scrapbook, and most likely arranged them from most to least shameful simply infuriated him. It made me want him to scream. Or rather, it made him want to wait until Lucien finally waltzed back into his office, and then scream at him for keeping such useless things before destroying the page while his brother was watching.

But he doesn't. Regardless of his strong feelings on the matter. And he wouldn't. Because he told himself he would only satisfy his curiosity and then return everything to the book properly, as if he had never been here. That he never knocked the book from its shelf, scattering its papers, and then sat on the floor, learning a thousand new things about his brother and how he felt about those around him, including himself, evidently.

That did not, however, make any of it any less frustrating.

He sighs as he turns the page; grateful to finally be rid of the sight of those horrible little notes, and even more so when he finds that his portion of Lucien's scrapbook only had one sheet of folded paper remaining on an otherwise blank page before transitioning onto another chapter that appeared to be incomplete.

Before his attention is ultimately drawn back to the paper he had just seen, he glances at the half-written chapter title, just making out something along the lines of 'My Dearest Li'.

He narrows his gaze, wondering for a moment what these words could mean. They were unfinished, and while he knew it would make much more sense once they were, there was still that third word he didn't quite understand and gave him pause. What was it that began with the letters 'L' and 'I' that Lucien clearly cared about enough to address them by the title of 'dearest'?

Was it possible that it was the beginning of a name, perhaps? But if that was surely the case, then who the hell did Lucien know with a name that sounded like a 'lee'?

He does not dwell on it for long before shaking his head and returning to the folded paper. Knowing Lucien would either tell him if he cared enough to share, or he would find out for himself by going through the scrapbook at a much later date.

But for the time being, all that he really cared about was discovering what other embarrassing items his brother had sneakily stashed away, and what could have been so horrible that it warranted an entire page dedicated to it.

Everything else could surely wait until he received his answer, particularly whether the page was magically impervious to the harshest of flames after being hurled into a fire pit.

With a trembling hand, and all the while fearing the absolute worst that awaited him when he revealed the contents, he slowly unfolds the page. And instead of the top ten ways he had personally let his brother down throughout their years, or a detailed recounting of the night he lost control of what meager amount of will power he had and consumed the entirety of a chocolate fountain when he was supposed to locate his actual, non-sweet flavored victim – he actually finds a highly detailed sketch of himself.

It illustrated him in a quiet moment, one in which he sat cross legged in a chair dressed in his sleep clothes and appeared fairly absorbed in a specific book that he held in his lap, and he could not help but smile at the sight. Finding out that his brother was capable of drawing was one thing but finding out that he could masterfully bring all these small, seemingly trivial moments to life right under the noses of the oblivious was more than enough to make him giggle with sheer relief.

Over the thousand other horrifying lists and embarrassing stories that were now floating around carelessly in his mind, he would have much preferred suffering a single drawing captioned as 'Korbin Redd. My Silencer.'

Perhaps he had overreacted much like how he had before; perhaps he worried for nothing, and instead of the five hours he first envisioned, he would only have to reprimand his brother for two hours over his embarrassing little secrets and keepsakes.

However, when he refolds the sketch and goes to return it to its place, that is when he finally notices the overabundance of words scribbled over the back, and a bead of sweat courses down the side of his face in genuine horror.

Oh, dear Sithis, Lucien had written some sort of list after all and concealed it behind the same piece of artwork he had just praised for its strange sort of sweetness. What a complete and utter fool he was to believe anything otherwise; because, of course, his brother would have written such a thing and thought to hide it in plain sight after he had done the very same thing with the drawings.

He expected nothing less from his bastard of an older sibling, and his stomach churned at the thought of what he would find if he dared to read the words.

It was enough to know that his fears were justified, and there was a chance he would find something that would either take ten years off his life or give him a permanent blush from the shame he would feel. But the mere concept of whatever was written on the back of his own sketch could somehow be far worse than a simple list, or a story about him drinking himself into an early grave from the vile temptation of delicious chocolate combined utterly terrified him.

It could have been anything, about anything, and potentially even have been a near-perfect description of the time he had fallen asleep whilst on assignment, accidentally fell on top of the target from the wooden beams and crushed said target to death in the process. And such a thought made him want to frantically toss the paper across the room, then crawl underneath Lucien's desk and deny everything from here until the next Daedric related Crisis came to be.

But what truly made him the angriest of all, despite every emotion he felt in regard to each what-ifs and maybes of what he could possibly find... there was a part of him struggling to keep his warped sense of curiosity at bay.

Half of him wanted to know, and the other half wanted to become deeply familiar with the shadows of the darkest corner of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary so that his brother would never find him. He knew he would come to regret such a decision, and he knew it would complicate matters when he finally confronted Lucien over what he read, but — he sighs deeply, admitting defeat to his own masochistic inquisitiveness, then slowly draws the paper close and begins to read.

"I vividly recall sitting at my desk in the temporary home the three of us built for ourselves in the Bruma mountains for hours upon hours in the aftermath of completing this very portrait. Searching for what seemed like an eternity for the words to adequately convey how much his presence has meant to me since he first came into my life all those long years ago, and yet... it seemed as if any words that flowed into my mind were simply too small, and too few. How would one ever properly describe a soul that has brought so much joy into a life shrouded in shadow, and filled an emptiness that once appeared unending?"

His face scrunched in confusion at the words before him. This was everything he was certainly not expecting, just as it was when he first stumbled across the drawing of Ocheeva and Teinaava.

Lucien was not talking about his worst, most humiliating moments; but instead, he seemed to be unusually open and emotional, which made his head spin as he attempted to make sense of it all.

He was having trouble putting his thoughts into words because he somehow meant so much to him? He saw him as some kind of soul who brought him joy and filled an emptiness in his life that he once believed to be unending?

Just what the hell was his brother even talking about?!

"In truth, if you had even the faintest inkling of what I was doing, you would surely mock and dismiss me as nothing more than the 'sappiest assassin known to Cyrodiil' who wrote paragraphs upon paragraphs of raw emotion and rambled for hours unnecessarily. As a result, I shall do my best to keep this brief"—he smiles at the irony of Lucien's choice of words, as well as the fact he believed six full paragraphs was the proper definition of the word 'brief,' before continuing—"There is not a night that goes by that I do not express my gratitude to our Dread Father within the Void for your place at my side. You came to me... on nothing more than a whim. Embraced me in your broken tears, seeking comfort from a man you did not truly know, and yet, when I wrapped my arms around you to calm your cries I felt an unmistakable urge to do everything within my power to not only shield you from the grasp of this harsh, uncaring world, but also to teach you how to harness the power of your rage so that it would soon kneel at your feet, shattered and bloodied.

'And by Sithis, did you surely carve a path through every imaginable obstacle that stood in your way, and find the means to save me time and time again. From myself, from acting on my worst conceivable choices, and then... you put your own life on the line to save mine from a traitor's vengeance. I do not know if you ever quite understood the pride I felt, how truly grateful I was of your efforts, of your unwavering determination, and how desperately I wished to give to you as much as you had freely given to me. Even though I had no right to expect even a fraction of it."

The incredible weight of Lucien’s words slowly begins to sink in, and his vision blurs with the threat of oncoming tears, and he quickly moves the page away to avoid soaking through the ink. He was so certain when he met Lucien for the second time and did nothing expect stare at him as if he had grown a second head, and then collapsed in his arms and sobbed much like a child reunited with his comfort item, that he would have been insulted, if not outright appalled, by his actions.

But realizing all he really felt was nothing more than a fierce desire to protect him from the world, and that he actually felt some kind of pride for how Bellamont was finally subjected through the very same hell he sought to bring into their shared life… It was so much more than he could have ever imagined, and even despite his turbulent emotions and the knowledge that if the tears spilled onto the paper, there would be no other excuse or explanation for the smeared writing except the actual truth, he continues on. "I am well aware that you doubt," Lucien’s written words state, and he chokes back the sob rising in his throat. "That you too frequently wonder of my love for you, and when the day will come when my eyes will finally open, and I will regret bringing you into the shadows of my heart. I know you have asked in your own unique manner, curious if I would still care for you if you chose to act against my wishes in some way, almost afraid to speak of the truth in fear of your nightmares finally coming to pass. And while I have done my best to alleviate the worries that weigh heavily on your mind, I realize now it would be best if I brought an end to your concerns once and for all.

'Understand this, and only this, my dear foolish boy. There have been many choices in my life I have come to regret, many decisions I would gladly turn back the hands of time to avoid acting in such a way, or even doing things so much differently in the hopes of a better outcome. But you, Korbin, have never been one of those regrets. And shall never be. For when I look at you, I do not see all you do when you look at yourself.

'I see a blessing within my shadow, a pure joy who always has a childish smile on his face as well as a terrible joke when I need it the most, I see someone who I would set ablaze the fields of Cyrodiil and drive my blade through every damnable creature that poured out of those accursed Gates of Oblivion to protect from all harm. But ultimately, I see someone who I cherish, and care for dearly, and will never see as anything other than my friend, my brother, and my beloved Silencer. And if you are somehow reading these words, all I ask in return is one thing. Simply nothing more than for a day to come when you will finally be at peace with yourself and see yourself in the way that I always have. That is all I could ever want."

As he reaches the conclusion of Lucien's words, he rereads the final sentence — "Simply nothing more than for a day to come when you will finally be at peace with yourself and see yourself in the way that I always have" — multiple times over and is unable to keep the tears from streaming down his cheeks.

To know that, despite all his faults, flaws, and countless mistakes he had made, and would undoubtedly continue to make throughout their years of knowing one another, and even with Sheogorath's presence miraculously gone from his mind, Lucien did not see him as something he regretted, but he somehow saw him as a blessing. An actual blessing, and a joy, and a plethora of other wonderful things that he would never have expected to hear from his brother.

It was everything he always wished for, everything he wanted to hear from his siblings during the darkest of days, everything that would have given him some measure of peace against all he fought back against in his own mind, and yet when he finally read such words... it was everything that confused the hell out of him.

He does not realize the sound of his sobbing had been steadily increasing in volume and was now echoing off the walls of Lucien's office the more he considered his brother's words for a second, third, and even fourth time. He does not realize the tears he was trying so hard to keep from damaging the page he was still clutching, as well as the rest of the scrapbook, had now spilled past his trembling grasp, and was slowly drenching the various books still encircled at his feet.

And he certainly does not realize the door to Lucien's office had now been thrown open, and his brother was standing in the entrance with a worried expression over his face.

"Korbin? By the Dread Father himself, are you in here? Are you all right?!" Lucien calls to him as he moves further into the room, far more concerned about his brother's well-being than the mess of books strewn around. "I heard your cries coming from the hallway! Just what is it that has managed to make you so—?"

And then his concerned frown is quickly replaced with a much more tickled and relieved smile when he notices an all-too-familiar book laying over Korbin's lap.

"Ah, looking for a new book to read, were you?" He waits for Korbin to acknowledge his presence before continuing in a playful tone of voice. "That one is exceptionally good, I will have you know. One of my personal favorites in my entire collection."

Korbin slowly blinks back into awareness as he feels Lucien ruffle the top of his hair when he moves past him, and a thousand questions flood his mind all at once.

How had Lucien sensed his presence, stormed into his office, and taken him by surprise before he could prepare for the unexpected brother-shaped invasion? Why did he regard him with genuine amusement rather than the anger he had expected when he came upon him amid an avalanche of books, holding one close to him which he hardly had the permission to even glance at, let alone read the contents of?

And worse, now that everything had happened and he was caught with his hand in the metaphorical sweetroll jar, just how, in all the depths of the Void itself, was he going to explain himself? How was he going to explain to Lucien these so-called cries, what he had uncovered, and how he felt about what he had learned as he read over candid words?

He had to think of something, he had to do something. He could not remain still any longer with his mouth agape like a total and utter fool.

So, instead, he tries to speak. "I... I found... your... your scrapbook..." And if he had been in his right frame of mind, he would have slapped himself on the forehead so hard for his pathetic attempt that it would have left an instant bruise.

"Indeed you have, my Silencer," Lucien responds, widening his smile as he leans against the front of his desk with his arms folded across his chest. "Although, in truth, I am not surprised. I always assumed it was only a matter of time before you discovered it, given how regularly you sneak into my office to steal away my collection of literature for yourself."

Korbin stares at his curiously calm demeanor and continues to fumble over his laughable excuse for an explanation. "I… read through your... your notes, and..." His words trail as his eyes widen, and he finally realizes what Lucien was actually saying. His uneasiness swiftly replaced with a familiar feeling of frustration, almost as if a switch had been flipped inside of him.

"W-Wait, what do you... what do you mean you thought it was only a matter of time before—? But all of it was... I-I mean...what you wrote inside. The things you said..."

"'What I wrote inside'?" Lucien repeats his words with a raised eyebrow. "Did you find something within the pages that you personally disagreed with?"

Korbin remains silent as Lucien asks his questions and frowns slightly. There was so much that he disagreed with. So much he read that he would have never thought of himself, let alone assumed Lucien did and believed it to be some sort of common truth.

But he knew if he brought up the sketch and what was written on the opposite side that it would no doubt result in the two of them being engulfed within the confines of an emotional, tearful argument. And neither of them needed such a weight upon their shoulders.

Instead, he searches for something else. Something about which they could briefly argue over without becoming angry with one another, yet still satisfying his need to complain over every embarrassing detail of his brother's scrapbook.

Still sitting over the floorboards, he quickly thumbs through the pages, causing the small collection of notes from before to fall onto his lap, where he stares down at them with a shrug of his shoulders.

Those would work. At least for now.

He gathers the notes in one hand and the book in the other before standing to his full height. "Well, for bloody starters about what I 'personally disagreed with', just what the hell are these?" He asks accusingly, as he practically shoves the small papers into Lucien's face.

Lucien pulls Korbin's arm back, removing the papers from him, and chuckles when he recognizes what he is being shown. "...Why, I do believe those are many of the notes you have left in place of actual apologies whensoever you have chosen to take any of my belongings for yourself."

"Oh, for the love of--!" Korbin exclaims, a deep groan of frustration etched into every word as he runs a hand through his hair. "I know very well what they actually are, Lachance! I only meant... Why are they still here?! Why do you still have them?!"

"Is it not obvious, my brother? I still have them simply because they are some small parts of you that you chose to share especially with me," Lucien explains plainly. "Thus, all of these are not only a pleasant memory, but ones I wished to have preserved among the rest of my memories of you."

Korbin remains still, astounded by Lucien's willingness to say such things so freely, and even more so by the fact that he felt so strongly about something he thought so insignificant.

"...But why?" The question falls from his lips before he even realizes he is speaking it.

"Why what, Korbin?"

"Why would you consider these notes, of all things, to be a good memory?" Korbin questions innocently. "They're just... just scribbles. Doodles that make no sense, and childish notes, and... and sometimes not even that! I never imagined you caring enough to see them as anything other than trash! I thought... well, I thought you and Martin would see them, read them, and then just throw them away! Not feel warm fuzzies about them enough to go and make"—he flips through the pages of the scrapbook, then shoves it into Lucien's face as he had the notes—"an entire damn chapter out of them with the rest of my awful little 'gifts'!"

And as he speaks of their dear Light Brother, another thought suddenly flashes in his mind, and it only causes his blush to deepen in color over his face.

"Oh Sithis, I hope Martin doesn't have one of these little secret scrapbooks stashed away somewhere in the Imperial Palace. Because if he does, then I will have to rip out and burn two sets of pages halfway across different parts of Cyrodiil instead of just one, and that’s just way too much trouble."

"You will do no such thing," Lucien says sternly as he takes the scrapbook and places it upon his desk. "I cannot speak in regard to Martin’s feelings on the subject, but I shall inform you that the contents contained within the pages of this book are extremely precious to me, and to lose them would be as though I have lost a part of myself."

"Now you're just being ridiculous!" Korbin cries out once more as he folds his arms over his chest. "Even more ridiculous than usual! They're just nonsensical scribbling, as I've already said! If anyone else found them, they would hardly be able to even read them! And I know damn well that what you have in that scrapbook of yours from Teinaava and Ocheeva is way more legible than what I've written! And they were bloody children when they made them!"

Lucien sits down at his desk and chuckles at his brother’s dramatics. "Perhaps so, but even when you compare the two of them side by side, it hardly diminishes the importance of your writing in my eyes."

"But… but why would you even want to keep them!?" Korbin asks as he rests his palm against the side of his head and gestures with the other. "I know you can be an absolutely mushy bastard behind closed doors, and yeah, sometimes I enjoy it — especially when I get the chance to tease you about it like I originally had planned — but this!? This!? This doesn't… it doesn’t make any sort of sense at all!"

"It is because of the significance they hold, Korbin," Lucien begins to explain; his tone softening considerably. "Each of these 'scribbles', as you have called them, demonstrates to me the progress you have made in not only your writing, but also your spelling."

He leans forward, elbows resting upon his desk, and points a finger in emphasis. "Do remember that I have only been teaching you how to improve these skills for only a few months now. And despite this, you have improved remarkably in such a short amount of time. To the point where you are able to write the words you struggled with without needing mine, Martin’s, or anyone else's assistance. Do you believe that is not worthy of appreciation in some way?"

"I swear, this is all just making my head spin like it's about to shoot up into the first floor of the damn Abandoned House, but… all right. Let me try to see it from your twisted point of view," Korbin sighs as he runs an uncomfortable hand across the back of his neck. "So, basically, what you're trying to tell me here is that you keep these because you want to see how far I've improved?" He shakes his head, feeling no less confused than when he first began. "And you want to remember my accomplishments? I guess? Even if they're based around something small like these notes?" A similarly uncomfortable chuckle escapes him. "Feel free to tell me if I’m even getting close."

"You most certainly are," Lucien responds with a smile. "And yes, to answer your final question. In a manner of speaking, at the very least. But more so as a way to reflect on said accomplishments throughout our time together and remember fondly the pride I feel for you because of them."

"The pride you feel?" Korbin repeats with a tilt of his head, his confusion reaching an all-time high. "For my... spelling and writing?"

Lucien nods. "But of course."

"...Wait, you're… you’re actually proud of me for something like that?"

"As well as a great many other things, my brother, as you surely already know."

The flush over Korbin’s cheeks returns quickly and intensely as ever before and he covers his face with his hands. "Do you see what I mean?!" He shouts from behind his hands as a purposely drawn-out groan accompanies his muffled words. "Do you!? Because this is… this is exactly what I meant about you being an overly sentimental and mushy bastard of the highest possible level! Next you're going to sit there in your terrible little chair and tell me you've also kept every one of my completed contract reports as well!"

Even though Lucien knows Korbin cannot see his expression too clearly, he cannot help but grin mischievously.

"And who is to say that I have not already done just that?" He asks in a far more playful chuckle to match his brother’s whining. "That I did not keep our very first contract together after we officially became Dark Siblings, and continued to do so for all that followed long after we remade the Cheydinhal Sanctuary in our own image?"

Korbin lowers his hands and looks horrified. "...Please tell me you're joking."

"Do you wish to wager your pride on such a thing?" Lucien places a hand upon the surface of his scrapbook. "Or would you prefer I showed you the proof within the pages? After all, you have only witnessed a rather brief sample of what has given me the very best memories of you. And that is not at all including the countless other pages I wish to add to your chapter now that that unspeakable nightmare of a Crisis has finally come to an end, and we at last have the peace we fought for."

"What?! No! Are you... are you kidding me!?"—and yet Lucien continues to grin from ear to ear— "That isn't — that's not... why would you... why—?!" Korbin throws his hands up in the air with a scream of exasperation. "By the Dread Father, you are absolutely impossible!"

He dashes out of the room, trying in vain to conceal his blood-red cheeks in the collar of his armor. "You are worse than both Valtieri and Martin combined, and you know damn well the kind of insult that is!"

He proceeds to ramble on about the unfairness of Lucien’s incredibly cruel and yet terribly soft heart to the shadows, the Dread Guardians, and anyone else who would care to listen. "And now I'm not going to be able to sleep at night — even less than I already do, which is most likely your own fault I’m sure — because of the terrible, awful, dreadful nightmares I'll have of you somehow documenting my every milestone or achievement like the... the twisted, emotional, overly sentimental guardian that you are, and dammit all, Lachance! Why must you always do these things to me?!"

Lucien leans back in his chair, props his feet upon his desk, and listens to Korbin's voice begin to fade as he stomps his way back to the common area.

"To answer your every frantic question once more, my dear Silencer, it is simply because the pride I feel each time you manage to better yourself shall forever remain unending," He whispers softly, despite the fact he knows his brother cannot hear his words, and then a much more amused chuckle slips past his lips once the sound from the hallway disappears completely.

"...As well as the fact your oh-so amusing reaction to my sentimental behavior never fails to make it all entirely worth it in the end."

Shifting slightly in his chair, he reaches for both the scrapbook at one end of the desk and the quill at the other and pulls them both into his lap as an ingenious plan comes to mind in the aftermath of Korbin’s amusing performance.

"However," He murmurs under his breath after a moment. "Do not believe what you shall never hear as truth, and instead allow me to compose a far more personalized message on your behalf. So, when next you search these pages, you shall find the most wonderful discovery awaiting you."

And as Lucien dips his quill into its container of ink, he smiles gleefully to himself as the wondrous image of Korbin’s eventual over the top reaction dances vividly in his mind, inspiring every new sentence that would soon transform themselves into a myriad of paragraphs containing every possible word his brother always needed to but never quite had the appropriate moment appear until now.

"And oh, how I eagerly look forward to such an evening with bated breath."

#hero of kvatch #lucien lachance #dark brotherhood #tes oblivion #the elder scrolls oblivion #The Knight The Emperor And The Assassin~#My Fan Fiction~

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