The Prince's Dagger

Three: Plans and the Black-Briar Boy

I think Leaviln is planning something.

He's never in the room when Sheogorath calls upon me to ramble, which hasn't been often but is an odd consistent considering that it's been three days. During my own night-time walks along the corridors, I usually spot him outside the window with his mouth moving, chin up like he's talking to the sky. Maybe he is mad. But there's something in the way he sees his fellow captives.

I admit, I hate people. They annoy me. But Leaviln... his eyes are shards of dangerous ice had that chill the blood as they slice. And his clan name leaves a terrible taste in my mouth, namely the taste of stolen gold and the hunger of emaciated civilians, the likes of which exist under Black-Briar rule. Those fuckers are always plotting, always scheming, always-

"You gonna eat your bread?" asks a peer from my group whose name I haven't learned to bother. The combination of pudgy white cheeks and well-groomed red hair peg him as a former noble.

The dining hall is split into sex and age groups, with mine being nearest to the door and Sheogorath's own personal table. I've barely nibbled at anything on my platter; I can feel those cat eyes move over my body, making my stomach clench and refuse the nutrition it so needs on account of anxiety.

"Take it." I push the plate towards him, and his eyes light up.

Sheogorath hasn't done anything negative to me yet aside from the occasional threat, but I think it may just be part of his personality. What really gets my nerves going, though, is the idea that he is the one that gave Leaviln his bruises. The idea that he still wants me to march against Tamriel, even if he hasn't explained the entire picture. The idea that... whatever that Black-Briar ballsack is plotting, vengeance on Sheogorath may be involved.

And for that, I usually wouldn't care. But Black-Briars believe they can pay off the sun to move on the other side of the earth if it's too bright in their eyes. They figure they could cure an ailment if they barked orders at it enough. That idiot is going to make the madgod, well, mad. And with the way things have been going, I'll be the next human Sheogorath sees and probably feel the rest of his wrath.

Leaviln stares absently at the slice of ham on his plate. The juices soak the edges of a bread roll. "That was kind of you, Thorne, but he did not need or deserve it. That is the point of kindness, isn't it?"

The red-haired noble shrugs, speaking through a crumbly mouthful, "He wasn't eating so someone had to."

"It shocks me that a noble would insinuate caring about wasting."

"Don't talk to me like that. You've got a noble name too, but you're no more than a thug."

I study Leaviln for a reaction, but he only continues to stare at his plate. Weird.

I don't process that there's someone behind me until Haskill clears his throat, and the hackles on my neck suddenly stand to make way for the cold air that sweeps down my bones. I turn in my booth, giving him my best traveling-merchant grin. The balding man looks even less bemused that usual, hands tucked behind his back and posture befitting royalty. Whenever he and Sheogorath are around, I become strangely aware of the collar on my neck, but looking at him, I'm glad I don't have to wear those silken black frills.

I'll stick with my flax shirt and burlap trousers, thanks.

Haskill's eyes slant over to my empty plate. "When you are done, sir, please accompany me to our Lord's table. He wishes to speak with you."

I stand. "Couldn't he just wave me over?"

"Then you may not have noticed over all your... Mmm, glaring." The others are back to their eating and don't question who I was glaring at, though I'm sure Leaviln is an exception. "Come. It would be foolish to keep our lord waiting."