Nairn leaned back in his seat, lips pursed as the pretty woman pinned him in place. Her nails dug into the arms of his chair, and she was standing over his lap. His arms were crossed. How can I help you, Ema? She seemed unsteady, and smelled of alcohol. It was unsightly, if he was being honest.
Ema was young, much younger than Nairn; about ten years between them. But she was a smart girl, red hair mimicked her mercurial temper. He'd swear, when she was mad, her hair looked even more red than usual. She'd been the top-asked after girl in a Darktown brothel, and he'd dug her out of her hell and brought her up in the world. If you could call Lowtown being brought up, that is. If one looked at Ema too closely, they'd see scarring to one side of her face, as if she'd been repeatedly burned.
"Thought you'd like some. Was cleanin' the storeroom." She nodded to the bottle she'd sat on the desk. "Figured you might... wanna celebrate your upcoming wedding," she settled onto his lap, and reached for the bottle.
Ema, get up.
She didn't move, opening the bottle and drinking deeply from it. "I loved you. Did you know that?" Her voice hitched, and she sniffled, "You never loved me, but you might've... might've grown to."
He was quiet, as she continued, "I cared for you. I made sure this thing," she hit his chest hard with the bottle, "kept workin' when you were too sick to sit up. I made sure nobody put a hit on you! I made sure the Coterie kept runnin'."
She took another drink from the bottle in her hands, and he reached to snatch it from her. That's enough. We're nothing but business partners, Ema. She was still on his lap, sobbing now.
"Why don't you love me?" She pleaded, loudly. Any passerby in the hallway would hear her.
Nairn placed the whiskey on the floor, just under the chair they were seated in. While doing this, he didn't see her reach for a knife he'd been sharpening before he'd interrupted her. She held the blade under her chin, and sniffled.
"You're all I've ever known, you know. You saved me and I... I kept your place in the C until you could take it back. Without you, there's nothing. Managing the brothels and running your errands means nothing, when you look at her the way that you do!"
He sighed, sweeping a hand through his hair. Ema, put the knife down. His voice was quiet, as his hands settled on her hips, to make sure she stayed within reach. She shook her head, and pressed the tip of the blade firmer against her skin, until blood began to trickle. A minor scratch, for the moment.
Ema, would you believe me, if I said that I loved you right now? Look at where we are. Look at what you're doing. He reached to drag his thumb through the blood on her neck, You did good, holding me up when I needed it. And you've been an amazing manager.
She was watching him, hanging onto his every word, but the knife was still being pressed too hard against her throat to risk getting it from her. She was trembling, and the knife shifted slightly, Give me a kiss, Ema. It's the most I'll do, while you're like this.
Nairn leaned towards her, and her mouth sought his; the knife for the moment forgotten. As they kissed, he felt her lowering the knife, leaning hungrily into the kiss. He broke the kiss, just as the door to his office opened—startling him, and he let go of Ema's wrist, causing the woman to bring the knife back to her throat as she scrambled off of his lap. His irritation at the interruption was brief, as he made one last attempt to snatch the knife.
Megara was running late for their scheduled dinner. The Council had been bickering more openly than usual and while the wedding preparations had begun, there had been some argument over a few logistics. The meeting had ran on and before she’d changed and headed through the Eluvian, Meg was already thirty minutes behind.
He wasn’t at the Eluvian though. She didn’t find him in the Mess waiting either, and that was unusual. A runner mentioned in passing he was probably still in the office, so she decided on wandering the usual way through the tunnels and corridors. Meg surmised he’d also been delayed when the pair didn’t meet halfway so slowed her steps, taking her time.
She was about to knock when she heard the voice. Confessing. Pained. Drunk. Meg paused her knuckles from rapping against the wood panel, stalled mid-air as she strained to hear more. Instead of entering she listened to someone pour out their heart to him, heard his sigh, but not the words returned. They were too muffled and quiet, and Meg continued to hesitate as she tried to piece together the impossible.
”...if I said I loved you…” Liar. ”Look at what you’re doing.” What was she doing!? Meg’s eyes widened and she couldn’t stay on the other side, “business” or not, his voice was laden with discomfort.
Carefully, she turned the handle and softly pushed the door open, quiet enough not to disturb but quickly enough she caught his words clearly. ”Gimme a kiss…” Her head searched, finally landing on them entangled and indignation surged through her, sending the door slamming behind her, echoing off the frame.
Megara’s posture straightened, rigid and tight. The flash of the blade sent her hands gesturing, weaving and reaching out to hold the woman in place. The threads of magic thickened into vines that snaked around Ema’s arms to bind her, allowing Nairn to retrieve the weapon. I’m sorry. My meeting ran on. Am I interrupting something? voice curt and lacking the usual warmth. She glanced at him, then to the woman, Ema and Meg began studying her. Am I? I thought the knife rule was only for us, Nairn?
Megara bound the woman, and he moved, plucking the knife from her hand. He tilted her head back, to examine her throat, and shook his head. Thankful for the interruption. He responded, cleaning the edge of the blade with the end of his shirt, before he placed it back on the desk.
Megara's question about the 'knife rule' being just for them, made the young woman thrash against the vines, lunging towards the mage. And Nairn moved to stand in-between the two of them. It'd seem there's been a misunderstanding.
It was a lousy explanation, and he couldn't even begin to figure out when Megara had arrived. He'd not heard the door open. But he'd definitely heard it close.
Ema pulled at the vines, attempting to free herself. "Why don't you love me? I've done so much to help you—"
He cut her off. Fingers settled against her shoulders, and he waited until she'd look him in the eyes. You are a valuable asset. But I will discharge you, if you don't stop. A veiled threat, but one that made the crying woman's breath hitch. Because you weren't allowed to leave, once you'd been as useful as she had.
Had Megara been someone else, Ruth perhaps, she might have smirked at the woman’s attempts to struggle against her magic, lunge for her, but her face assumed a calm pool. She merely adjusted the gesture of her hand, vines curling further around the woman to impede her from hurting herself or others further.
Misunderstanding? Her gaze now flickered to him with his standing between, but she shifted a step to one side to keep Ema in her sights. Her confession dampened the insult to a sense of pity, hardening with Nairn’s veiled threat.
Meg sighed, some tension in her shoulders released though not all. This woman had served him long, faithfully, but still didn’t understand? She tried to catch her eye, her look reflecting kindness, but honesty and truth were about to cut deep. You have helped him, but what about him has changed in the time you have known him? You allowed a daydream to obscure the reality of everything. He will never love you. Or anyone else.
Then her face went ice cold, the chill evident in her eyes as she stared. And if you’d managed to succeed? Well then. I think you and I would have a lot more to talk about, than reminding you of what you should already be more than aware of.
Nairn might dispatch her, but with the Evanaris as an ace, Megara could keep her hovering on the cusp indefinitely. Which reminded the elf that it had been a long time since she’d sparred recreationally, hands curling into fist as they hung against her sides.
Nairn watched his fiancee, turned sideways once Ema was further restricted. He was quiet, as she addressed the younger woman, stepping back from her entirely after a moment. She can be seen in the infirmary. He stated, moving to offer his arm to Megara. Let her down, ma vhenan, and then we'll go together.
He waited, patiently, for Ema to be released from the vines. She was still crying, sobbing, and he exhaled quietly, murmuring under his breath, I don't appreciate the tears, Ema. He almost sounded like a very tired parent.
What would you like for dinner? He inquired, ignoring the sobbing mess in the corner.
She glanced at him, ignoring the offer of his hand for a final lingering look at Ema. Megara took in an obvious breath, Fine, fingers turning and magic fading back to the fringes of her mind. Vines unwound themselves, the composition of them returning to dust as they crumbled away.
I think I want wine. Which meant she wanted to go home. Sitting in the Mess would feel all too exposing, her mask not quite up to the task of schooling her features as well as Nairn could. The sobbing began to wane on her earlier pity and Meg finally reached for his arm though held it instead of letting her arm slide around it. Best if you take her, or get someone to, don’t think you can trust she’ll get herself there in her state.
She’d squeeze his arm, reassuring him she’d be fine if he couldn’t take her himself. I’ll see you at home, promise.
A sigh, as he leaned into her touch. Mmm. I'll stop by the mess and get us some plates, you won't be in any state to cook. He reached to cup her cheek in his free hand, murmuring, I'll see you at home. Will you set the inks and needles out before you get too far into your wine?
It'd take him a bit longer to come home, if he stopped off to pick up dinner. He moved to open the door for her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, before he moved to let her go, so that she could go on her way.
He approached Ema, sighing at her. She was pitiful, without the vines to hold her upright, she'd hit the ground and sat on all fours, sobbing and gasping. Let's go. Up you get, he murmured, patiently.
It was a slow process, guiding the woman to the infirmary, and about halfway there a passing healer offered to take over. He thanked the man quietly, and slipped off to the mess hall to pick out dinner for himself and his lady.
Once he had acquired two plates of food, with slightly different foods on each, to ensure they'd have a bit of everything, he made his way home. Nudging the door open with his foot, and sat the covered containers of food on the table by the door, so that he could shrug his jacket off and hang it up.
Megara made a face. Something between agreeing though still thought she could make something drunk on wine. But why cook when there is already food available? Smiling at the idea, Meg nodded, tilting her head into his hand when he reached for her cheek. His request though, gave her pause and her eyes flickered to Ema before back to his. She understood the meaning. I won’t get far into the wine, but I’ll set them out first, yes.
She left him with a warmer smile, taking the Eluvian and path home at a steady pace. Sylaise stirred in the background the entire way, silent, but Megara understood what and all she wished to say… it was more than loud and clear.
Sylaise, she’d calmly address the spirit. Be at peace. I know I am.
"...You should have let me smite her."
Chuckling, Meg let herself in, head shaking. She is not ours to deal with and I think she is suffering enough by her own doing, Mm? No answer came into her mind, and the elf smiled. She trusted Nairn. Like Sylaise trusted June. An inescapable bond that went beyond the norm.
It didn’t completely quell the pang of jealousy crawling over her, seeking to find its way into her mind and nest. That was what the needles and ink would cure though, and after changing into her nightie, Meg pulled over a thin housecoat before setting them out on the table. She stared at the spread out needles and paints, quietly wondering which colour he’d choose. Fingers drummed against the wood and padding around to the counter she poured out two glasses, leaving one and the bottle and the table to sit out on the garden porch.
She heard the door, heard the shuffle of his coat peeling off. Her hand played with the grass next to her, magic coaxing fireflies into the night light. Out here,she’d call, raising the barely sipped wine into the air.
Nairn made his way to the garden, leaning on the door-frame, as he studied the wine she'd raised up. Mmm, you've not even begun to drink. Lightweight, he teased, swirling the glass she'd set out for him, gently.
Ema made it to the infirmary, with the help of Osmon. The healer's help had been something he was grateful for. And I brought a bit of everything, for dinner. He mused, moving to sit next to her.
I've been assured, she's drunk enough she won't remember. But she'll be demoted, if not released to brothel-work. He couldn't release her; not entirely. She knew too much about him, about the Coterie, and their various functions and safe-houses. A demotion was akin to death, with the option of living. And her only other option would be death.
But he doesn't say that, not right now. Instead, he reached up to carefully curl Megara's hair around his fingers. Perhaps a green... shimmer shade, he mused, idly. As if the topic made sense, with no segue.
You prefer it this way, means you avoid bucket duty, she teased him back, gaze appreciating how he stood leaning against the frame. One glass would be enough to mellow out the tension from earlier, but keep her wits still sharp.
He spoke of Ema and Megara’s gaze shifted out towards the fireflies still dancing around the garden. Nodding, she took a sip of the wine while he took the space next to her on the step.
You are trying to reassure me, but you don’t have to. Have you thought about perhaps blocking out some of her memories? It was possible, though, outside Megara’s skills. She had heard of the practice of selecting specific memories or information and sealing them off. If the subject tried to recover them, they’d just be left with the fuzzy outline and disjointed, warped fragments.
She abandoned the train of thought when his fingers began teasing, curling around her hair. His musing returned to something more important than the actions of a foolish drunken subordinate and she was all too willing to forget about the view discovered in his office. Megara smirked slightly, head angled to give him more of the lock, Your favourite colour, yeah? Do I get to know what it says before you ink it, or is that surprise for another day?
Nairn hummed, Not... reassuring you. More, seeking your thoughts. She's good at what she does, and she's done a lot for me — and for the Coterie as my proxy. I just did not... realize she thought that entitled her to more than a working partnership. But, like he'd hoped, his fiancee had thoughts. And he made an approving hum, Find me someone? John-Marc can do it, but I wouldn't trust him to do it correctly. If anything, the wizard might warp her memories rather than lock them up.
He sat his glass down, on the table in front of her, as he trailed his fingers along what would be his canvas. Mmm. I won't tell you, but I'll write it down. When you decipher it, let me know. He teased, See how much you remember from your time as my healer.
A kiss pressed to the side of her head, and he sighed. You are my voice of reason, ma vhenan. You're the only person in this world, that can rattle my conviction. She was also the only person in the world who could get him to change his mind about something.
Her smirk softened, and Meg reached out to rub his thigh, settling around his knee to play with the fabric there. He was seeking advice, a path that didn’t cause too much suffering. Ah, so I’m the one doing the reassuring then, her tone light, playful, but listening.
Her brow arched, surprised he’d ask her to, but immediately agreeing with his reasoning. It will take a very skilled mind mage, but I will ask around. I’d rather not give John Marc the opportunity to plant his own agenda in someone else’s mind. She would not trust that man an inch, especially after demonstrating just how far the kitchen mage had come.
Oh is that how it is, huh? she giggled, skin tingling as he trailed his fingers along. Her head moved in response, following the careful trace of his digits. Maybe in revenge I’ll whisper it during sleep play. I remember. Happiest time of my life, till now. And every day after, because he was alive and they were finally making up for lost time.
Meg set her glass down onto the table, humming into the kiss. The hand at his knee still played and drug her nails lightly while she mulled over his words. I think… I just try to offer the least cruel among the options, and if I’m unsure, or there are questions… She chuckled quietly, Seek wiser counsel. Meg wasn’t sure she counted as wise, but her amusement gave way to the familiar weight of leadership. Ema… might not consent to the memory binding, and while it wouldn’t sit right with me to force her… the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. It wasn’t about Nairn’s secrets, it was what those exposed secrets could do to those under his protection.
Nairn hummed, as she addressed the fact he was seeking reassurance. She didn't make a big deal about it, it was something that was happening, and that was that. She promised to find him a mage to perform the ask, and he managed to let talk of John Marc lay in silence.
Heh. If that's what your pretty little head calls revenge... He mused, leaning to press a kiss to her cheek, just under her eye.
Megara was musing over Ema again, and he shrugged. Consent won't matter. Ema's paid for and owned. She knows that. He'd liked it, the attention that he got by pretending he had no idea how she felt. But she'd crossed a line, and he wasn't willing to look past that.
He tapped the back of her neck, and turned to go back inside, to where she'd set the inks and needles out. Ma vhenan, come on. The sooner it's done, the sooner it's healed. He winked in her direction, as he began to mix the green with an opaque shimmer ink.
Next, he dipped a quill into that ink and wrote out the verse he was going to be inking on the back of her neck. Dashes and dots, lines. Nothing anyone outside of the C would be able to decode. Not without insider knowledge.
Megara hummed, leaning into the kiss on her cheek. I don’t think we want to linger on what I’d count as real revenge… Her brow arched, she didn’t need to elaborate the destructiveness a mage could wield. He’d blown up the house on his own afterall. Leaning forward, she’d peck his lips, Only the fun loving kind.
She knew it was the way of things, even if owning a person never sat right, there were few choices when it came to the greater safety of the C. Removing her memories was a kindness, her life preserved for a better future. Nodding, Meg tried to let it go, remaining where she was until he called for her.
Chuckling, she made the slow return inside, picking up her wine to sip a few times as she padded her way indoors. An arm snaked it’s way around his back to the side, hooking a thumb in the belt loop of his breeches. Meg leaned in, wine glass clutched close as she read it over. It had been years, and though rusty, she managed to work out the meaning eventually. Fingers drummed against his side as she recalled the various sequences, tapping out the code once finding the right cypher.
Well… I think I’ll be wearing my hair up more often… Then glancing around, she tilted her head at him. Where do you want me?
Nairn grinned, as she pecked him on the mouth. It wasn't often that he was frank about the fact he, more or less, owned many people as the current leadership of the Coterie. He didn't linger often on the fact he could release those souls when and if he wished. It was a mutually beneficial agreement, that kept the Coterie safe, kept his family safe, and to a degree, Kirkwall.
She was tapping the sequences against his side, and he grinned, leaning to brush his lips against her ear. In shadowed depths, my heart you mend. Forever yours, until life's end. A cruel joke, given that they'd been warned his artificial heart could simply stop working — even crueler still, given the fact he'd not been honest about what powered the damned thing.
But a sweet sentiment, nonetheless.
Mmm, you wanna lay down or sit up? He inquired, tipping his head. 'cross the table, if you wanna lay. On this stool if you wanna sit. And she could always opt to move to and fro each position.
