To Kill a Nightingale

Complications

Bashnag opened his eyes and stared at the dilapidated ceiling. It took a minute for the dream world to fade away completely and for him to return to this so-called reality. The transfer was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. The problem with living in a world like this was that it was difficult to tell whether you awoke from a bad dream or into one.

Too early for that.

He rubbed at his face. Then recalled last evening. He quickly turned his head to find the other side of the wide bed empty. She had left. Thank the gods. He rubbed at his face again, shaking his head. Not soon after the first time, they had done it again. And soon again. None of the times had been much more spectacular than the last; nor would Dura have expected any different. "You sure know what a girl likes." Had she actually said that? She had indeed. Bashnag shook his head again. Unbelievable.

I'm just surprised you actually had it in you to act like a real man for once! Even if it did take your every effort to feign it.

Ignoring Malacath's derisive voice, Bashnag pushed himself off the bed. He winced at the pain in his back. It, as the sore muscles about his loins, was from yesterday. He then suppressed a shiver. The hearth had long been cold, and of course there were no servants to stoke the fires. His every breath was a faint puff of mist. The dampness of the earth surrounding him seeped through the many cracks in the walls.

Bashnag scowled. He hated this place. Hated everything it represented. He could not get out of here soon enough. But he would do his best. Quickly collecting his things, he stormed out of the room and up the stairs. No one had better try to encage him or they would be truly sorry. Gods, how he hoped not to run into Dura, yet was unable to count on his luck.

He would go out and collect his horse, growl at anyone who in any way tried challenging him, then ride out as fast as he could—not that he had any way of controlling the horse, hopefully it would be smart enough to get to where he was supposed to go—without as much as a glance back. If he was lucky, which he never was, he'd never have to come here again. Perhaps he could try to explain to the Nightingale—

No, out of the question.

Almost out, the door in sight. And no Dura. Though no doubt she'd be waiting outside. There, walking past Bashnag in the hallway now, was that girl, the poor Nord from Ragnar's room. Something about her caught his attention . . . No, spare her no thought. Pushing things away, yes: right after breaking people's bones, that was the one thing he was good at. Almost there now—

Bashnag stopped. The girl.

He just couldn't push it away.

Spinning around, he caught up with her in in a few long strides. Took her by the shoulder, felt her grow tense as she stopped. She would not turn or otherwise seem to acknowledge him, simply submitted to the fact that her movement had been arrested. When Bashnag gently brought her around, she kept her eyes on the floor, the tangled snarl of her hair hanging in front of her face. She did not resist as he tenderly took her by the chin and lifted her face, swept the tangles aside. She would not meet his eye.

Bashnag scowled. Around one eye, there was a fresh purple bruise, reaching down over the cheekbone. He suddenly remembered what Dura had said. Supposedly he'd made Ragnar livid. And if there was one thing weak men did it was take their helplessness out on those more vulnerable than them.

That's how his own father had been. Now that's laughable. The great warlord a weak man? Who would ever believe such a thing?

Fools wouldn't, that was for sure. To them, a man like Bashnag's father was not only strong, he was the solid foundation on which they could lean. His words inspired such fear in their weak souls that they were regarded as truth—as law. He could do no wrong. He was strong, as so he was wise. This was the sort of sort of stuff they ate up like a swarm of locusts. Then go seek out some other fools whose skulls to bash in. Welcome to Nirn.