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The Most Beautiful Kill [Part III] Oct 5, 2012
Aren had left Windhelm many years ago at age twenty-two to help bring in money to help his mother. Even though she had just remarried, she and her new husband were struggling. Coincidentally, his mother was a Dunmer; she had adopted Aren when he was just a babe, abandoned in the snow of the Gray Quarter and left to die. Many stories about him had circulated amongst the people of the city, most popular of all, that he was an assassin. Of course, for his mother’s sake he furiously denied the accusations (often offering an apology to the Night Mother afterwards). He had been gone so long and changed so much from the carefree, happy youth he had been to the cold, calculating man he had become that not a single soul recognized him. Not that anyone would remember an urchin from the Gray Quarter anyway.
Upon her death, Aren fell apart. The undertaker had informed him that she had been poisoned. It was a slow and very painful process, one that she had suffered through silently and with great strength. Aren was struck numb; someone had murdered his mother, and he had no idea who. It could’ve been any one of the viciously racist Nords of the city but with no way to pinpoint the culprit, he was powerless to avenge her. After her quiet, discreet burial, the newly widowed husband had left Windhelm, claiming there was nothing left for him in the wretched town; Aren was happy to believe him. The depressed thirty-four year old had stayed in the city long enough to lay his mother to rest and sort out the family assets; there weren’t many. Between all of that, he drank himself stupid. Every night he was in Candlehearth Hall drowning himself in the finest mead that was available. Such frivolous spending had attracted the attention of a beautiful Nord woman who introduced herself as Elena Stone-Fist.
Aren had heard that name before, but having been gone from the city for so long, could not rightly place it. Even still, the woman was warm, compassionate, and caring; she liked him, and he liked her body. They spent many nights together over the next fortnight and engaged in acts so primal it would make a respectable citizen’s hair stand on end. She was now “Laana”, and she allowed him into places that only hundreds of septims could buy from the sleaziest of whores and what was more,he could own her; she let him, she asked him. He marked her body with his seed and etched his name in her back with his nails. Her buttocks were often red with welts and minor abrasions from his rough strikes and she regularly wore ruffled neck ribbons to hide the ligature marks he left around her throat. She was a wonderful woman, a loving woman and she did whatever he asked without fail. Even with her father’s disapproval due to the rumors of his affiliation, she thirsted for him. He was bad, and she was bad for him. But he was addicted.
All that changed one fateful night. As they lay in bed in the afterglow of a particularly rough sexual session, Aren confessed that he would be leaving Windhelm and going back to Cyrodiil. She was shocked and saddened and begged him to stay. When he refused, she fell silent. Then, she softly asked if he could keep a secret; more curious than anything, he said that yes, he could. What she next told him made his blood run cold. Her father, Roloff Stone-Fist had paid to have a “filthy grayskin whore” poisoned. It was intended to be a scare tactic to run the Dunmer out of the city. It hadn’t quite worked, but he had rid the world of another Dunmer, and that was something to be celebrated. She looked up at Aren, waiting for approval, but that was the last thing she would get. She couldn’t see in the darkness, but his face was livid. He was paralyzed by fury and shock. This woman’s father had murdered his mother, and she was happy about it? This was a part of her he had never seen because if he had, she’d have been dead a long time ago. She was a racist maggot, just like her father and it was then that the Stone-Fist name came flooding back to his memory.
The clan had been avid Dunmer-haters for as long as Aren could remember. He never met them directly but every night he could hear them outside in the streets of the Gray Quarter jeering at the Dunmer that lived therein. His mother always warned him to stay away from them, though she never went into detail as to why. When he became old enough to figure it out, he would never mention who his mother was or where he lived when he ventured out into the rest of the city; not out of shame, but out of concern for his mother and friends. They would probably think he’d been kidnapped and kill the Dunmer who were guilty of nothing but loving him. Since he kept clean and looked healthy, no one questioned his living situation, and he was glad for it. Even still, a number of Dunmer murders took place over the years and all evidence pointed to the Stone-Fist clan but no one did anything about it, not even the Jarl. The injustice enraged the Dunmer population but without even the Jarl on their side, the fury was silent and contained. Once the war got underway, the killings stopped and everything went back to normal; well, as normal as could be possible, in Windhelm.
Aren had spoken aloud without meaning to. He grimaced. Even her voice sent him into an internal rage. He wanted to kill her, to beat her to death with his bare hands. To take her from her vicious family as they had taken his mother from him. But, he didn’t. Instead, he ravenged her. He attacked her body like a rabid wolf, starved and desperate for it. He was rougher than was usual and several times she had cried out that he was legitimately hurting her. He ignored her once or twice and she had simply shut up and took it, but other times, she screamed out in agony and he stopped, only because he wanted to avoid undue attention. At the very end as he climaxed, he had gripped her around her throat so tightly she almost lost consciousness. She was so worn out and grateful for it to be over that she fell asleep within minutes, or else faked being asleep to avoid further interaction. Aren didn’t care. He stayed awake for the rest of the night, sitting naked in a chair across the room, a dagger in hand, twirling it between his fingers and fighting the urge to bury it deep into the Stone-Fist’s bare chest.
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