They were both dancing in the corps for the Red Eagle ballet, all in black feathers as a legion of Hagravens, when Anirye realized that she disliked Vardaline. It was after the performance of The Wolf Queen, the one where they both had their first solo roles, when she realized that she hated her. And it was when they announced the casting of Almsivi that she realized that she wanted to kill her. It's stupid. Completely petty, really. But Anirye still wants Vardaline dead.

She cried when they announced the casting. The director thought she was overcome with joy –after all, Almalexia is a part everyone envies- but really it was because they cast that ill-bred imp as Vivec. It's not right. It's not fair. Anirye trained for decades under the best tutelage in all of Alinor, danced for centuries in the greatest company in all of Tamriel. She dedicated herself so completely to the dance and nothing more that she was eight-six when she had her first kiss. She's never skipped practice, never skipped exercises, never even eaten anything in twenty years except specialty meals calibrated to give her optimal energy for the performance. Every evening, she undergoes a strenuous restoration regimen to keep her as youthful as she was at seventeen. She's seen every major performance in Daggerfall in the last fifty years. She's been in half of those major performances.

And yet she's still losing lead roles to a little Riften tartlet barely out of puberty.

Sedris proposes the method of execution. It's one of the dress rehearsals leading up to the performance and the cast has just received word that Lord Vivec himself will be in attendance at the premiere. This is unprecedented. Wonderful, but unprecedented. The ballet is still hotly debated in the performing arts community and there are many who regard it as blasphemous. This might change things completely. Little Vardaline is practically doing cartwheels as the makeup team applies gray paint to half of her body. Her head may be bald and alight with harmless magefire, her skin may be split, her eyes bright and Morrowind accent flawless as she goes through her few lines once more, but she doesn't resemble a living god so much as a little hairless scamp.

Sedris gleams in the elaborate Sotha Sil costume as she approaches Anirye's table. It's all synthetic dwarven: very flashy, very showy, but completely lightweight. What little she wears as the Mother of Mercy weighs twice as much in comparison. Sedris is brilliant, absolutely radiant when she smiles and more so when she dances. This role doesn't fit someone of her skill. Sotha Sil is important to the tale but such a drab, boring part to play.

"Hey you," she says as she throws an arm around Anirye's shoulders, giving a quick peck to the base of her neck. She's hiding something behind her back with her other hand, but she can't get a good look at it. The Altmer squirms and frees herself. "I've got a secret."

"You're messing my wig up, you witch," she says, but she laughs as she does so. She's serious by nature but rarely serious in speech. "What is it? We're on in a couple minutes. Your mask is on crooked, by the way. Just scoot it a little bit to the left. There you go."

"I have an answer to our Vardaline problem," she says and then dangles the book she's been hiding in front of Anirye's face before depositing it in her lap. She flips a page open, but the text is written in some strange script that she doesn't understand. She fixes her wig, looks at Sedris' reflection questioningly.

"Ashcroft lent me a book on the Anticipations to prepare for my role. I mean the obscure stuff, not just the stuff they teach in the temple. There's summoning instructions. And tonight is a summoning date. Do you get where I'm going with this?"

Anirye doesn't at first, but then it clicks. Daedric summoning? People still worship the Princes –who hasn't seen the flyers for the Church of Merid-Guiding-Light?- but the thought of summoning one seems savage, like something out of a distant story. But as she sits here dressed as a long-dead goddess that only one person in recent memory has ever seen, the thought seems fitting. Comforting, even.

She hands the book back, makes the last few adjustments to her wig and makeup. Summoning or not, they're due to begin rehearsal in a matter of minutes and she has to look perfect.

"Tonight then," she whispers. "Hide this. Don't tell anyone. My place?"

Sustained by secrets, Anirye dances perfectly this dress rehearsal. She soars through the air effortlessly and feels like she's obtained a taste of godhood in the dance. It's exhilarating, maddening even. And Sedris is brilliant. Bound at the end of her death scene, the Hopesfire prop to her breath, she reminds Anirye of a fallen swan. They live for moments of absurd beauty like this.

She doesn't wash the makeup off after the performance. She feels like Almalexia herself with it on, fierce and wonderful and free. The two of them stop by the florist on the way home to pick up the offering, then take a quick trip to pick up some candles, mirrors, and gauzy curtains to set the mood. Anirye's flat is pink and swarming in stuffed animals, so they need all the help they can get.

"I can't believe we're doing this," she giggles as she prepares the altar in the middle of the night. The focal point is a porcelain statuette of the many-armed goddess in the cutesy style that Sedris' grandmother always sends for Ascension Day. It seems vaguely blasphemous, but it's the only thing they had at hand, so hopefully the goddess doesn't mind.

"I can. Pass the lighter? I think these matches got wet."

She obliges and Sedris lights the ring of candles, singing a finger along the way. The air is thick with the scent of roses and wine and, though she doesn't know why she thinks so, magic. Anirye gathers up an armful of the nightshade they picked up earlier and scatters it around the little statue until it's barely visible among the carpet of flowers. The two share a look –are they really doing this?- before they join hands and begin the invocation.

"To Mephala, who threads the needle, we offer you the bane of life so that you might know the beauty of our sincerity. Yours is the hand that stitches, that rips the seams and puts it together anew. We offer our service as your hands and beseech you to answer our pleas, dear mother."

Nothing. Anirye's heart sinks. She doesn't know what they were even thinking. Daedra? The stuff of history and old stories. Then a laugh, quiet but amused. It's actually not a laugh. It does not meet the bare minimum requirements for a sound to be considered laughter. She has no idea why she thought that sound was a laugh at all. Nevertheless, it happened.

There's someone unspeakably beautiful lounging on her pink rose-print divan, a stalk of nightshade clasped in her long hands. Her eyes and lips are as red and inviting as a glass of wine, dark hair slicked back in the latest Alinor fashion, and Anirye catches herself staring for several seconds before she realizes that he isn't a woman at all. Is he? She? She catches the barest swelling of breasts, a hint of bulge between the legs, but perhaps it could just be the way Mephala's outfit is bunching up. She'd like to ask, but somehow she thinks it's rude to ask a deity of their sex.

"You have spoken the words –trite words, yes, but words nonetheless- and bade me to come, and so I answer. I am Mephala Webspinner. You speak of service to me, but that's not what you really seek at all, is it?"

She is speaking to a Daedric Prince. The reality of the situation hits her at once and she can't help but let out a nervous giggle at the thought of how disappointed her ancestors must be in her right now. Sedris jabs her sharply with one elbow –they are speaking to a Daedric Prince- and speaks next.

"Mother-Father, as one of your children, I come to you seeking blood-vengeance. There's this Altmer, Vardaline. Time and time again, she's taken what she doesn't deserve. It's not right. It's not fair. She's stolen parts from everyone, not just us. And now she's going to play in front of Lord Vivec and…well, why her? She's not even that good. But anything we might do to her, they'll surely find out. And we can't go to prison. We just can't. We need help."

This Mephala is hard to read. She can't tell if she's amused or disgusted.

"So you're jealous and come to me hoping for a killing solution? My, my, little one, if you know enough to summon me, you should know well enough that I favor the bold. But I am in an obliging mood and I do so love the ballet. Very well, if you want murder, it shall be done."

"Really?" squeaks Anirye, delighted, before she corrects herself. "I mean, thank you! Thank you. But how?"

"I have been told that there is an absolutely delightful scene that involves certain gods that I am intimately acquainted with. It is…romantic in its passion, though not, perhaps, in its actions. You know of that which I speak of. Would it not be fitting if mere props were replaced with something more substantial, yes? There will be an investigation, of course, but it shall be ruled a tragic accident. How terrible, they will say, and it will never be traced back to you. But don't you think you should wait until the premiere? I daresay Vehk and Vehk will enjoy the display better and they will talk of it for centuries."

She knows what scene she's talking about: the wedding, if it can be called that, of Vivec. The spear-tips used look fearsome from a distance, but they're actually blunt and retract into the shaft on contact. It seems easy. If anyone's blamed, it'll surely be on the props team, and so what? They can just hire some more. This won't give her the Vivec role –Vardaline's little Maormer understudy will have to take on the mantle- but she just wants her out of the way. Out of sight, out of thought.

"Yeah, that would be gre- I mean, yes, thank you. And what do you want of us in return? We're sworn to your service."

"Be beautiful. Be daring. Put on a decent show for Vivec. Above all, amuse me. If you expected more, you either know me too well or not at all."

That's simple enough. After all, they are the best. Anirye glances over to Sedris, squeezes her hand to stop her nervous shaking, and in the second that it takes to do so, Mephala is gone, leaving behind only a purple flower to prove he was there. She stands up on creaky legs and sees the first light of dawn filtering in through the windows.

So that's that. They made a pact with a Daedric Prince to kill someone. She should be ashamed, but no, she feels like rushing down the street and screaming to the world, "I summoned Mephala! Me, me!"

Stupid, yes, but that's how she feels. But there's no time for any of that. The two of them have to catch some sleep before heading to today's practice.

Before she realizes it, the week flies by and it's finally time for the premier. Backstage, it's practically a wasp nest with the way so many people buzzing around: makeup artists, stagehands, FX mages, and, of course, the cast. You can't put on Almsivi without a veritable army of people behind the scenes. Anirye draws on her face paint with a fine brush dipped in an inky-black mixture, going through her steps in her head. She could have someone else paint it on for her, but she finds the repetitive movement helps with her concentration. In the mirror, she sees the reflection of Sedris strapping on her armor and a mage in the distance sticking a ball of magelight to Vardaline's shaven head.

All of the sudden, there's a commotion. The brush nearly slips in her surprise, but thankfully, she doesn't smear her face paint. She finishes it up and goes to investigate, but the crowd is so thick that she can't see a single thing. She pushes through, her pauldrons snagging on someone's headdress in the process and nearly coming undone, to see what it is. Who it is.

Lord Vivec himself is here to wish the performers the best tonight. Photographs do not do him justice. He's not handsome in any traditional sense, but he has the sort of face that ought to be carved in stone in for all in the temple to see. It is. It's when her eyes start smarting that she realizes that she's been staring at him and, blinking at last, averts her gaze. Her heart races. That makes two gods she's met in the past week. She could get drunk off his presence alone.

Vardaline knows no shame. She's looking up at him with those big, dumb cow eyes of hers and chattering away, none of it relevant, all of it completely inane. Worst of all, he seems faintly amused by it all. Or is he? Sometimes a laugh isn't a laugh, sometimes a smile isn't a smile. She hopes this is so now. She really, really does. She's going to be sick if this keeps up.

There's a touch at her cheek, ghost-soft. Here is Vivec, golden eyes gleaming with something indiscernible. Sadness? Mirth? She is reminded of Mephala, beautiful in ambiguity, and then has to stifle a gasp, because she realizes that he probably knows. She can call on a god but she can't hide from a god.

"How beautiful it is to walk this path. Dance well for the memory of Almalexia."

But that's all he says to her before murmuring scant praise to the next person. Does he or doesn't he? That's what rings through her head an hour later when the curtain rises and she takes her first birdlike steps before the audience of her greatest performance. Does he, doesn't he, does he, doesn't he, one, two, one, two, three. It becomes a rhythm to keep time. Rise on 'does,' fall on 'he.' She dances to the tune of indecision.

Later, she has a break before she goes on again, so she's backstage until she's due to come on again. The Pomegranate Banquet sequence is starting in a minute, maybe three at most, and the scamp corps in their yellow tulle are lining up to go on. Anirye scrounges up the first water bottle she can find and downs half in one go. She visited Elsweyr's endless expanse of desert once, but the heat from all the lights focused on her feels a thousandfold worse.

The drums begin beating. Doom drums. She doesn't know why she just thought that. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Vardaline go onstage. It's going to happen soon now if it happens at all. She needs Sedris here, but she's on right now, doubling as a Daedric demiprince, so there's no one to share her secret fear and excitement with.

She squeezes her eyes shut, takes deep breaths to calm her nerves. Gods, this infernal beating is getting to her. It's like a heartbeat or a Heart beat: steady, steady, steady, and never ceasing. Nevertheless, she finds herself tapping out the rhythm on the arm of her chair as she strains to hear anything over the beating.

Drums, chanting, the shrill screech of violins, the sound of footfalls, on and on and on it goes. Suddenly, silence that seems to last a lifetime. Then applause. Anirye takes a deep breath to quell the tears that threaten to spill forth, then goes to ply Vardaline with false compliments as she, beaming in all senses of the word, comes twirling backstage.

After that, she is fueled by the wrath of a mer scorned. An ardor of bloodlust overtakes her as she cuts through the air like a throwing knife. She know the nature of the goddess now. Truly, she is Almalexia herself. She is no Mother of Mercy any longer. No, she is the Face-Snaked Queen, the one Boethiah anticipated. She never needed Mephala and her lies. After this is over, she'll strangle Vivec herself.

It is almost over. The Hortator is dead and alive again. Sotha Sil too is alive, but not for much longer. She, wearing her war-face, infiltrates the Clockwork City with a smile, bypasses all of his defenses and heads directly toward the ticking heart of it all. He welcomes her formally as if he knows why she's here, what she's come for, and has accepted it. A short, one-sided battle ensues. She binds him to the machines that sustain him and are him and, raising Hopesfire to the light, plunges it deep into his breast. The blood gushes forth and the doom drum beats on.

A pause. Then applause erupts from every corner of the theater, more than she's ever heard in her life. Confused, Anirye drops the prop Hopesfire. It clatters to the ground much louder than Dwemericine should, glows in a way that mere magefire should not. Bound and muffled by her mask, Sedris' death-gurgles go unheard by the audience. Breath stills in her throat. Anirye, eyes wild, takes a single step forward before she collapses and the crowds cheer on before they realize that something has gone horribly wrong.

In the balcony, Lord Vivec and Mephala watch on, faces unreadable.