Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
This makes me so happy to hear, Grim!
It's been a labor of love and I've thoroughly enjoyed it so far. I'm glad you have as well!I am still quite humbled by your fan-fan-fiction.
Kathodos: A Return of Exiles
- Thread starter Docta Corvina
- Start date
This makes me so happy to hear, Grim!
It's been a labor of love and I've thoroughly enjoyed it so far. I'm glad you have as well!I am still quite humbled by your fan-fan-fiction.
Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
Thanks so much for the kind comments, everyone! 
I'm sorry Chapter 18 took so long for me to get finished and posted, but I hope it was worth the wait! I'm starting on Chapter 19 shortly as well! The tale continues!
Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
You rated this post, with its threats of domination and bondage, 'friendly', Docta?
My, my. Perhaps the rumors are true! Be still, my beating heart.
Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
You rated this post, with its threats of domination and bondage, 'friendly', Docta?
My, my. Perhaps the rumors are true! Be still, my beating heart.
Haha, an "Informative" rating, huh? Is that sarcasm?
I still stand by my "Friendly" rating for the previous post you mentioned. And haha, thank you, Grim! I quite enjoyed writing this chapter, as I have all the others. But I had quite a bit of fun with the second half. I like to keep things mysterious.
Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
I've actually taken the time to read this and I gotta say, I like your style, it's creative and enjoyable to read
Thank you so much for checking it out, and your kind words! I appreciate it, and hope you continue to enjoy!
Anouck
Queen of Procrastination
I always find it difficult to read stories in English. I do understand English texts but it requires more concentration than one person can posses
Somehow I managed to keep my attention to the text. And that's a compliment because I have this concentration disorder It was lots of fun to read..
You could be an Authorkhiin
Somehow I managed to keep my attention to the text. And that's a compliment because I have this concentration disorder
It was lots of fun to read..You could be an Authorkhiin
buggegirl99
Member
If I could add a pic I would, but frankly, I'm Flabbergasted I am such an amateur!!!!!! <--- "(Untalented me reading your story)
I am such an amateur!!!!!! <--- "(Untalented me reading your story)
Atmora
New Member
Been away from the forum for a while, but I have just finished reading the chapters I have missed and refreshing myself with the story as a whole. Your writing continues to amaze me. The story is beautifully written and is filled with the perfect amount of drama and tension to keep you reading! Keep up the excellent work. I hope you are able to continue soon
Aeri Shadow
Dainty Elven Heir
Wow, Docta. :O
I remember first reading this series when it barely had 1,000 views. You've come so far, and your writing and plot is so beautifully written. I cannot wait to see more.
I remember first reading this series when it barely had 1,000 views. You've come so far, and your writing and plot is so beautifully written. I cannot wait to see more.
MagicBlade
Instinctive
Docta, you seriously need to get Published. You have a gift, and I swear those publisher companies are missing out! You're an AMAZING writer, and I love this Fan Fic. You are AWESOME
Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
Chapter 19
“So it’s revenge they want, then?”
While always present, the tension in Castle Dour had been especially thick recently. Ever since the recent meeting between the Legion’s brass and the now constantly vexed commander of the Penitus Oculatus, there had been nothing but nervous and sometimes frenzied speculation. That is, on the part of the excitable Maro. When it came to General Tullius and even his Legate, the anxiety was much more restrained – but no less present. Rikke had availed herself for reading of the history book retrieved ever so cautiously from the chest in the war room. Tullius had handed it to her with great hesitance, despite knowing that the time had come for his second-in-command to finally share in the most privileged information. Rikke, unsettled but very curious, could tell from the opening pages that the material within was of the bleakest, darkest stroke. And as she continued taking the interim time to read and try to research further, the very grim urgency that she had observed in Maro’s voice and demeanor made great and terrible sense. She now had a context for the riddle-like utterances between the two men, as well as those on the lips of miscellaneous Legionnaires.
But now, on this dreary afternoon in Solitude, the two usual inhabitants of the fortress continued their protracted discussion. Maro had returned to Dragon Bridge a bit earlier in the day, and not a moment too soon in Tullius' opinion. The man's persistent pacing had promptly worn on the latter's nerves.
Following her question, Rikke’s comparatively pensive glance was met with a raised eyebrow from the general, who stood nearby with his arms crossed in typical fashion.
“It’s certainly what he wants. I can’t say I know about every last man who calls himself one of the ‘Manes’, the ‘Ghosts’, as I suspect there are more than a few soulless mercenaries within those ranks whose first and only loyalty is to gold. Regardless, they’re following Avienus’ lead and certainly appear to be enjoying the chaos they’re reaping. Bloodthirsty bunch.”
“But why now? After all of these years? It’s been decades since the Great War ended. Why wait?”
The general’s dark eyes widened and both brows raised. "Does it not seem obvious, Legate? They could have asked for no better time than this. Ulfric stirring things up has caused an opening to manifest for them, an opportunity to slip into Skyrim and make some serious strife while we're trying our damnedest to wrap up this insurrection. If it were not for the fact that Nord civilians are now dying in these attacks, I'd almost wonder if Ulfric might even encourage them. Cheer them on in their endeavor, as it were. Their 'enemy' is the same, after all. Truth be told, there's actually not a lot of daylight between Ulfric and Avienus, when one really thinks about it..."
"Sir..." The mention of her old friend in such a chilling context disarmed the Nord. But she could not wholly disagree with her superior's assessment. The rebellion's leader, an ex-Legionnaire himself, had become violently disillusioned and lead in no small part by his pride to carry on a crusade. If what was said about the mysterious Imperial Avienus was true, there were far more similarities than she would ever truly wish to admit. As she pondered, Tullius' face grew even more solemn.
"Bad business, all of it. I sometimes wonder just how we could have lost such promising soldiers to the kind of mad vanity we're seeing now. Despite the fact that their brand of arrogance could well be owed in part to noble upbringings. A pair of spoiled, spiteful children - they have that in common. But, spitting on the oath, slaughtering the protectors of the Empire, protectors of their own interests, their people's interests!"
The Imperial's face had reddened with emotion as his voice grew louder with each word. It was a side of Tullius that Rikke had scarcely ever seen. There was a weariness, a profound frustration, as well as a depth of gravity to his tone and his words that she found incredibly compelling. All she could do was listen as the normally even-tempered general continued in his spirited monologue.
"I ask myself, how is it possible, such spectacular treachery? But then, Legate, I swear...all I need do is remember that Thalmor woman's smirk and it all becomes painfully clear."
"...Elenwen, sir?" Rikke asked softly.
"None of it starts or ends with her, of course. But I will praise the Divines for the future in which none of us have to deal with any of those people. Ever again. That day is coming. Just...not yet. Not yet."
The room fell silent. Even the flames of the candles and sconces around the chamber seemed briefly to flicker wildly with the officer's words. Flicker, and grow still. Faced with the same antagonists of all of those years ago and yet, simultaneously having to shake their hands and curse them behind closed doors was a strange twilight reality. The irony had not been lost on either the general or his lieutenant. But the second eventually broke the lengthy hush.
"Alright, I suppose that does make sense about the timing. It's the other half of Maro's assignment here. That's what it has been - though unofficially?"
"Yes." Suddenly uncrossing his arms Tullius approached the map table and leaned over it, planting his palms upon the sturdy wood. "Destruction of the Dark Brotherhood has been the touted objective, but they secretly have been funneling resources into rounding up the Manes. It's no small task, either. These men are skilled soldiers, some of the best of the best. Avienus himself was not only a highly proficient swordsman but also the strategist, the intelligence man of their group."
"Was? Don't you mean, is?" The Legate's eyes narrowed.
"Is and was."
"Was, during the Great War? That special contingent he was part of?"
"Yes. There were five of them in that group. There was more than one such group, make no mistake. But each contained five and each member was highly trained, highly adept in his respective skill set. Arguably near Master level. They'd have never stood a chance where they went if they hadn't been, though."
“Was this group - any of them, really - part of the Shadow Legion? The book didn’t specify, but-” An especially loud and uneasy sigh from the General interrupted her questioning.
“To my admittedly limited knowledge, some members were drawn from the Shadow Legion, yes. The ones who were most skilled in sorcery, drafted from all schools of magic. The ones who could give the Dominion’s own wizards a real run for their money."
"I...I'm starting to see what's got Maro so jumpy." Rikke offered a very rare and almost awkward chuckle out of nervousness. Tullius only closed his eyes and shook his head.
"Indeed. They're the same men who are loose now. Even as the years have passed, it'd be foolishly optimistic to assume that they've lost any of their proficiency with age. If anything, they've had all the time in the world to get better. To take up company and arms with those who would seek to sell out the Empire and all of its assets over some misplaced sense of self-righteousness."
"But if they're this angry, there must be more to it. The murder convictions...there must be more to their alleged pleas of innocence. The book says they never wavered in that."
Tullius drew back from the table with a slight scowl and re-crossed his arms. "I suppose we should assume there's more to the stories of every wretch rotting in the prisons and act accordingly, eh? Divines know they're all innocent - they all proclaim as much, whether they've been asked or not."
"Granted. But something's still not adding up with this, sir. There seem to be...holes. Gaps in the thread."
"Oh, that's quite intentional, Legate. And the unfortunate nature of it. No one knows all of the truth, not even the ones who were there, I'd expect. And there are reasons for that."
"Not even this 'Silanus', who wrote the account?" Rikke gestured to the black tome on the edge of the table. "He certainly seems to possess a solid amount of knowledge of this matter. Especially when it seems the information has been suppressed at nearly every turn. What's his affiliation?"
Tullius shot the book a wary side glance. "That's actually another curious detail in all of this. Silanus is the name of an historian who wrote a few different volumes on Cyrodilic and Tamrielic history, both political and martial. He's been very popular since the days of the Oblivion Crisis and has remained so since."
"The Oblivion Crisis?" Rikke gasped in puzzled disbelief. "Over two hundred years ago? It certainly can't be the same man then. Surely the one who wrote our book on the Great War is merely sharing a pen name for the sake of added attention."
"I suspect that's the case. It's the most logical explanation. Trouble is, this 'imposter' Silanus has been strikingly competent in imitating the original's style and overall character of work. There is no variation between the writings of the two - scholars in the Imperial City have dedicated quite a bit of time and study to this, as a matter of fact. The script is perfectly consistent, the diction, the tone. If I didn't know any better, I would say it's the same man. But how to explain that, I wouldn't dare begin to try. Hell, maybe he's a damned vampire."
"Very, very odd, sir."
"Yes. But it's not really anything of particular concern to us. If his ghost has returned to write history books on more recent events, so be it. It's true, not much at all has ever been known of his life - and absolutely nothing has been recorded of his death. And it is...unusual. But even I'll admit, if he were actually still walking around after all of these years, he'd be a damn useful one to find. I certainly have my fair share of questions..." Tullius chuckled cynically to himself as Rikke continued her inquiry.
"Who were the others, the other men in the group with Avienus? Maybe someone here can tell us something more if they know who it is we're looking for. Again, it’s curiously not in the book-"
"I myself do not know the identities of all of the others. And I suspect that the very records have long since been sealed. It was never public knowledge what such a group was created to do, and so the identities of the men in it were never widely known – except in some Legion circles. Even at the trial, their covert affiliation was never revealed, only their standing service in the Legion. I dare say that even some of the blood kin of these men have no idea of what they were involved in then. Though, secrets have a habit of getting out."
"Indeed, sir..." Rikke blinked and looked to the side. “But…”
"You know...I do know of one other who was part of Avienus' cohort. The group's leader, acting captain...'Aquila', was the code name. The 'Eagle'."
Rikke quickly looked over at her commander, who now bore a somewhat softer expression. She could not determine if it was a look of sadness, of anxiety, or a mix of both. But it unnerved her, as did his hesitance to continue. "Sir?"
"The captain...the captain was that girl's father. Captain Adrianus, of Cheydinhal." All of the flames in the room flickered vigorously again. The Nord actually took a surprised half-step backward in spite of herself.
"Her...her father? By the gods..."
"Yes. And now perhaps at this moment, you're starting to even further appreciate the very delicate nature of this situation, Legate."
Rikke's eyes narrowed with renewed focus and intrigue. The determined young woman, the latest and most promising recruit she had seen in a while, was related to this mystery. She had to ask the very next question that flew forward in her mind.
"She's in danger here, sir? But why? What would compel these 'Manes' men to do harm against her? Her father is dead."
"First of all, we can't be sure they know that. These men were exiled, cast out of Cyrodiil years ago. They were very lucky that they were not thrown out of the boundaries of the Empire itself, left to scratch out a pathetic existence amongst the wilds and Dominion strongholds - though I am sure they may well have found their ways there at some point in time-"
"They have recanted their oaths to the Emperor and Empire. That, I grasp. But what does it have to do with the girl?"
"These are mad dogs, Legate. They are unpredictable, driven by a passion for retribution at any cost. They haven't merely recanted their oaths, they have declared war upon everything the Empire stands for. They have already murdered those who sought to get in their way. Avienus is by nature very unforgiving, ruthless. Icy of soul and heart. There is no reason to believe that he would not have an interest in at least holding the young woman hostage as a bargaining chip if he saw the utility in it. This is why her brother also is receiving special protection at his location. Neither one of them, as Adrianus' children, should be here in Skyrim. Not now. Not at this time."
“I would certainly agree with that, General.”
The graying Imperial took a moment to musingly scratch his chin. "But given that they are, it might just work out in everyone's favor, including their own. They may unwittingly help lead the bastards out of their holes and into our nets. We can only hope the gods aid us in this endeavor."
"I...how…" The Nord looked almost flustered, her thin mouth parted as she shook her head slightly.
With the driest of cynicism in his voice, Tullius once more took his turn to raise a single eyebrow in response to his subordinate’s baffled and concerned expression. "You look skeptical, Legate."
"Forgive me, sir. It’s…you're saying she may well be a target. But she may also help us find these men by remaining here in the province. With all due respect, General, and please forgive me for saying, but...this just seems wrong. It seems wrong that we're essentially using her and her brother as bait."
The Imperial moved his attention to the map on the table, taking a blue flag here and replacing it with a red one there. Even as he stood discussing such matters with his officer, he was always contemplating, strategizing and imagining all sorts of tactical possibilities for his principal task. Though she would never say as much Rikke often wondered if the General was truly only half-listening in such moments, with the greater share of his passion and fascination given to the approaches he cycled through his ever turning mind.
"Everything we do comes with risks, Legate. This is the way of it. I know you are not squeamish, though you nevertheless may perhaps be a tad idealistic. Legionnaires know the risks, we always have-"
"But does she? Does she know the risks? It seems she’s been told just about nothing of the situation. How can she protect herself without knowing of these threats?”
"The young woman is quite capable of handling herself. After all, we did send her to rout a flock of bandits by herself, from which she came back looking no worse for wear…” Tullius shifted steady eyes to his officer. “As you told it."
"True, though I must admit my discomfort for doing that. I...I'm glad she was able to handle it. Proves that she is of Legion stock."
"Indeed."
"But this, this is different. If these men are as hell-bent as you say on getting what they conceive of as 'revenge' and there's no telling, being as experienced and skilled as they are as veterans, how can we possibly protect her? Who is protecting her? And her brother?"
"Legate, we have our very best and brightest now looking out for her and her brother, make no mistake. I am fully prepared to request additional aid from home if necessary. We owe it to her father's memory to do at least that much-"
"Additional aid? But I thought they weren't going to give you any more troops from the homeland?"
"Not troops, Legate. Aid. Resources in the form of people, great and knowledgeable minds. As well as especially capable blades. We will have to see how bad this thing gets before I take further action. I don’t want to draw more attention by stepping up the patrols drastically. I do fear, however, that the only way to know how bad it is getting is to get on the ground. I never desired fighting a two-pronged war in this hinterland because believe it or not, Ulfric and his cause will benefit from this. He will benefit until we put an end to it.”
"If the Legion is perceived to be incapable of or uninterested in stopping the killing, especially by former Legionnaires, it would only compound all of our current problems."
“Exactly, Legate. Between the rebels, the dragons, and now the Manes, it’s well beyond a nightmare scenario. But it seems that that is where we find ourselves now. And I must do what I must do. That is all we can do. We do what we must, yes?"
"Yes, sir. Of course." Rikke looked toward the ground. She was simultaneously embarrassed by her very candid expressions of worry, and deeply frustrated. For the Nord could not shake a sense of responsibility, of culpability when it came to the Breton's most current plight. She had to trust in her leader's good faith, but it was something which would haunt her conscience until either the men of the Manes were rounded up or the young woman and her brother were otherwise rendered as safe as possible.
"If I may ask, General...what was her father really doing here in Skyrim? Did it have to do with these men?"
Tullius parted his lips to answer most reluctantly, but closed them again. It was now his turn to cast a normally confident glance downward to the floor. He silently nodded. And Rikke pressed further.
"Do we truly not know what became of him here? Or has that also merely been the 'official line'?"
"Oh, someone surely knows, of that I have no doubt. I myself, however, know no more than you do on that matter. I do have my suspicions."
"Do you? What do you think happened?"
Tullius sighed. "Everything in me, Legate, tells me that he encountered his old comrades out there. He crossed paths with them again, for the last time."
"You think they...they killed their captain?"
"Ah, but you must remember, it's been decades. Decades in exile, decades of madness. Of bitter delusion. The man they once knew as their leader was likely not the man they saw before their eyes. Time assuredly warped him in their sight, making him every bit as detestable and fit for their hatred as the Emperor himself. In other words, I would not be surprised if the last ragged shred of humanity that they may have possessed died along with Adrianus in that fight."
"But...why?"
"Adrianus was the captain of their cohort. Their trusted leader back then. Thing is, I’m not so sure that they have ever forgiven him for what happened. I’m not sure that they don’t blame her father for leading them into a trap. For getting them all captured.”
“Sir?”
“They would have followed him to Coldharbour and back. In some ways, that’s exactly where they all went. And not one of them came back the same." Tullius turned to lock eyes with Rikke. And a sudden cold rush of air passed through the nearby corridor, making a faint whistling sound. "How could they?"
Brynjolf watched the ships in Solitude's harbor for more than an hour. And he easily could have spent the rest of the day sitting there along the stony ledge. There was something perfectly soothing about the lazy drifting of the vessels in the dark waters. The cheerful clang-clang of the ships’ bells, the squeaky squawks of the sea birds, and the low whoosh of the hulls against the waves were all enough to lull him toward sleep where he sat. And more than once, his weary eyes did close despite the almost whirring mass of concerns in his head then. After leaving the Winking Skeever with perhaps more questions than he had entered with, he felt like all he could manage to do at least for the current time was to sit down. And try to let all of the pieces of the enduring puzzle arrange themselves of their own accord. He was, at the very least, a cleverer man than most. Though, he possessed neither an eye nor an eager mind for intellectual pursuits. His acuity came in the more pragmatic callings. Surely before long the riddle would become obvious. But, by gods, he hated waiting.
His sense of urgency had been heightened all the more as the name of the troubling and still-yet unknown Imperial snaked into his thoughts. The man in the tavern was himself an unsettling character, and everything in the Nord's bones told him that the former was feigning ignorance. The way he bristled at the mention of the name 'Roscius Avienus', and then slackened with an almost forced congeniality was a hallmark of deception that he had long since grown accustomed to identifying. He was one of the best in his business for a reason. The gray-eyed man would be one to watch. Though he wondered just how long he could afford to haunt footsteps and shadows in search of veiled truths. Perhaps it was all much too big for him, much too complicated and convoluted. And chasing ghosts - now in a supposed literal sense as much as a metaphorical one - seemed a doomed venture. But as soon as he started to yield to such a weighty feeling of defeat and entertain the notion of simply spurring back to the east, he remembered the Breton woman's smile and her laughter - and the warnings in Maro's trembling voice.
He turned his confounded gaze upward, noting the clouds sliding against the darkening expanse. More rain? No, it wouldn't dare.
As if summoned by his deep and sad sigh, a curious sea bird suddenly landed on the ledge, not a couple of feet from him. The animal cocked its head up and down and in various abrupt angles in vacant observation. Amused, the Nord wasted no time in sharing the summary of his worries with the feathered companion.
“It just…just doesn’t make sense.” He smirked and softly chuckled. “Worse still, Gulum-Ei may be my only hope in all of this. Couldn't have hoped for a dodgier character…”
As he sat observing the harbor, the tones of surly sailors and cynical merchants rode the breeze as strangely resonant whispers. Recalling what the Argonian informant had said about his dockside sources, Brynjolf was eager to pick up what he could from every itinerant conversation. Just as quickly as the men would seem to project, they would hush again. And the Nord would be left with brows knitted and deliberate curiosities piqued.
“Something’s going on. Someone knows something. Why won’t they talk-”
“Ah, might you spare a coin for a veteran?” A man's tired voice sounded closely behind the Nord, interrupting his vocal musings.
Jolted from his trance, he spun around to face the stranger. An Imperial, haphazardly clad in torn and discolored tunic and pants, looked back at him. This man stood with his arms crossed and his expression weary and dour, yet vaguely hopeful. The auburn-haired thief blinked and remained silent for a few seconds, fumbling to disengage from his own vexing contemplations. It was only after those few seconds that he noticed the shroud of blindness upon the Imperial's left eye, and the surrounding scars.
“...Aye.” Leaving the ledge to stand, Brynjolf nodded absently and fished for a few gleaming septims. The coins made happy little tinkling noises as the redhead dropped them into the older man’s waiting and shaky hand.
“Bless you and your generosity." He grinned broadly before it gradually loosened back into the frown with which he had approached. "Such a thing is getting rarer these days. You’d think in a time of war, more would have compassion for the old and lame soldiers of yesteryear.”
“Seen better days, eh? I suppose we all have.”
"Well…I don’t know about ‘better’." The Imperial barked out the word, betraying more than mere hints of his bitterness. "More fulfilling, certainly. Days that didn’t see so many of us spent and abandoned. Walking around half-dead.”
Brynjolf leaned against the ledge, his head cocked a bit to the side in consideration. “I’ve never been off to war, myself. I suppose I can only imagine-"
“Count your blessings, son. Believe me, even when you do right by your side, it gets you a great big fat heap of nothing. Funny way of showing gratitude, I'd say. No interest in righting wrongs. Even after I was left for dead by my 'comrades', they had the nerve to do it again. What in Divines' names am I supposed to make of that, you wager?"
“Surely the Legion looks after its own? You're 'in it for life', isn't that the motto? Why have you been left in such a…state?”
Although he was a thief, Brynjolf had always had a very particular reaction to the idea of family, whether it be in the abstract or in the corporeal and immediate sense. The Guild was a family. Perhaps as untraditional as one could ever possibly conceive of, but it was a family nonetheless. One driven by mutual aspirations and love of success, of finely tuned approaches to enterprise. It may have been a family united by coin, but it was also fueled by the spirits and loyalties of the members. Who else could a thief bond with, let alone trust to back him up at any given time - or at least, most times? Who else, but other thieves with whom the bond is strong and understanding is forged by time. He imagined losing that bond, through a shaking of faith, of unequivocal wrong-doing. And shuddered to think about the implications.
“Ha! You really think they care about old dogs like me? Some things never change. They could see a hundred of us gathered outside of Castle Dour, but it wouldn’t do a damn thing to move any sympathy our way. What we got is what we got. Bah. Daedra can carry it all off for all I care."
"What we got is what we got...that definitely seems more and more to be the case for everyone." The thief ruminated aloud. "Uncertain times, these are."
"Uncertain doesn't begin to describe it, son. Course, if there's one thing that is certain, it's that not a day goes by that I don't wish I could wind back the infernal clock. Was a scout once, you know. A damned good one, too. Saw a lot of unspeakables during the war. Was on the ground at Anvil when it happened. When...this...happened."
He gestured to his unseeing eye, and the Nord nodded in acknowledgement. "Ah."
On par with an uncomfortable trend lately, Brynjolf again found himself speechless. He found himself stumbling in a search for suitable words. It had been a very strange sensation to be one so praised for a silver tongue and yet increasingly struggle to articulate or to reply at all. It was as if in a matter of mere days, all of the usual assurances had vanished. Had he been a much more superstitious man, like many around him, he would have been looking for a Daedra to blame and an Aedra to propitiate. But as it stood, he didn't even know quite what it was that didn't make sense. Words in a stranger's smoky voice played in his mind once more. What use are answers when you don't even know the questions?
"You ever been there? Anvil, I mean." The elder man suddenly inquired with an almost wistful tone, again shaking the redheaded man from his own contemplations.
"No, can't say that I have, sadly."
"Beautiful town. No one would believe what it looked like then unless they'd been there. Like I was. Like so many of us were. Horrifying. Sickening. Not even a starved shadow of itself."
"Aye, I'd bet it looked a bit like Helgen does now."
"No."
"No?"
"No. Worse."
"I...I see."
"Pray that you don't. Not ever."
The cold gravity of the man's tone unnerved the usually self-assured thief. And the acuteness of the former's glare was enough to cause the latter to grasp for a reply.
“...Well, at least it’s over and done with and you survived. At least it’s ended-"
“That I survived is hardly a reassurance anymore, friend. As for it being 'over', I’ve never heard a bigger load of hogwash in all my years. Friend, it never ends. And I'm not even just talking about my blasted eye." Brynjolf nodded subtly as the other man continued. "By gods, look around you, boy. Take a journey to the Embassy near here if you're naive enough to think the Great War is 'over'. Try not to linger there too long."
With a snort and a huff and a scoff, the ornery former soldier turned to take his leave. The coins newly inhabiting his pocket meant much-needed sustenance in the form of roasted meats and very chilly ale. But the red-haired Nord was not quite ready to see him off. For he was compelled to pose to him a very rare but nonetheless simple and almost humbling inquiry.
"What's your name, friend?"
The half-blind Imperial stopped, incredulous. He could not recall the last time anyone in the city had asked him such an obvious yet frustratingly overlooked question. For so often when folk wandered the streets, noting the glittering spires and dreamy skyline of the timeless capital, the incense and wood smoke did all too well to mask the scent of human grime and neglect. The beauty of the rich-toned and painted wood and brick and stone did all too well to draw eyes away from the unkempt and degraded forms of the lowliest dwellers. Bold talk of war and business and wine and song drowned out the pained grunts and sneezes and coughs of the beggarly class. That was how it had always been. Every once in what felt to him like a decade or two, a compassionate stranger would take pity and pass on some coin. But his name was almost never a part of that lightning-quick transaction. Of course, he also could not remember a conversation with such a stranger stretching on as long as the one at present, either.
"Noster. Noster Eagle-Eye. Or, One-Eye, if you're feeling spitefully clever." He smirked.
"Ah. Noster it is, then. I'll be sure to put a good word in...with the general here when I see him. See if it does any good. Couldn't hurt, anyway." The Nord shrugged with an easy smile.
"You're going to see Tullius, eh? Hmpf, I wouldn't waste my breath if I were you." The Imperial offered a lazy though warm salute amid a sad grin. "But all the same...good luck. And thank you."
And with that, the elder man turned to make his way back up the hill and inside city walls. He trudged until he was gone again with a steady pace of slow but determined footsteps.
The thief had been able to read no lack of grim testimony in the veteran's voice as well as his face, which had been hewn with time and all manner of stresses. There was almost a deadness to his countenance that had shaken the Nord slightly. But as he had watched him disappear now, it saddened him. He had seen lives interrupted by burned bridges and pillaged coffers. But the way souls could be plucked from hollowed out rib cages of those yet living, was something that had always inspired great shudders in his broad Nordic frame.
He then half-wondered if he should have asked old 'Noster' about the scribbled name he bore. Maybe on the way back.
Alone once more along the stony ledge, one hand found a coin in his pocket and withdrew it. He brought the septim close to his face, scrutinizing the gleaming exterior. He grasped it tightly within his palm, musing. The little sea bird that landed nearby earlier had remained, no doubt to watch the deliberation.
"Heads, I go to Tullius. Tails, I go back. Back to Riften, back to where things actually make some bloody sense."
He tightened his grip and sighed dryly before flipping the coin in the air - and catching it between his palm and the top of his other hand. But he delayed the reveal for a few seconds. Can't afford to worry now. I'm already in too deep.
Slowly, he drew back his topmost hand. And he bit his lip - something he had not done in ages.
With another deep sigh, he re-pocketed the coin. And began his ascent back into the city. Castle Dour was still waiting.
The briny breeze was a bit heavier now with the scent of impending rain. But he did not hurry. He was far too lost in thoughts, too lost in recollections and wonderings to mind if the sky opened up. The Nord rehearsed what he would say when he did finally come face to face with the province's military governor. If the discussion was even remotely like that between him and Maro, it would be a challenge to gain anything more considerable and helpful than purposely muddy commentary. But he would try, especially now that he had a name to offer.
His mind also turned to the Guild, which had been running with a presumably still-absent leader now for several days. Although Brynjolf bore every confidence in his colleagues, it still unnerved him to be away for so long and under such circumstances. He reminded himself that after speaking with Tullius, whether successful in information-gathering or not, he had to get back to Riften as soon as possible. There were clients who inevitably required contact and assurances. He figured Delvin was doing a capable enough job directing things in the meantime. But there was also the significance of present leadership to consider. With Mercer's whereabouts still unknown, it was more imperative to keep up the twin appearance of confidence and competence.
It was also entirely likely that the eastern city, one so full of characters almost charming for their dubious yet reliable connections, would yield the intelligence he sought. Lips were not as stubborn in the taverns and merchant corners there. Maven was even still a possibility - theoretically, anyway. Even though it would be a most unpleasant experience. But he could set aside his pride temporarily if it meant any sort of breakthrough. After all, the Guild had been doing much better in recent weeks. Surely he could use some of that as currency when it came to the Black-Briar matriarch's good will. One can hope.
As he made his way through the city again, passing by the market, he noted how empty the area had become since but a few hours earlier. It was no longer bustling with the energy of a typical afternoon, but was only sparsely populated. He blamed the weather for the dispersing effect. The merchants manned their stalls with obvious boredom, but held out hope for a cloaked figure which had perused their wares for a few minutes despite the threats from the clouds. Brynjolf paid the figure little mind, only noting it in passing as he continued on his trek to Castle Dour. Something on the ground caught his attention, a twinkling flash of metal. He stopped to kneel down and examine the object, which turned out to be a septim. Not one to ever let an as yet unclaimed piece of gold lie idle and unattended, he picked it up and pocketed it - but not before noting that it too had been facing heads-up. Maybe it's a sign, he snickered to himself.
As he stood back up, he felt a sudden pressure at his side, as if someone or something had run into him as they passed by. He soon realized that that was precisely what had happened. And he spun around to see the same cloaked figure from the nearby market hurrying off in the opposite direction. But before disappearing the figure paused to throw a glance over the narrow shoulder, and Brynjolf caught a brief glimpse of an unfamiliar Dunmer man with very dark hair and red eyes that glowed with insistence. The Dark Elf gave what appeared to the Nord as a single nod and then hurried off in the direction of the city gates. He was much too swift for pursuit. And the thief looked on for a few moments, perplexed.
But he would soon notice that something else had appeared on the ground in the encounter. It was a thin sleeve of parchment, wrapped with wax paper and the outside covered in illegible scribbles and half-formed words. Even after picking it up and holding it close to his face, nothing on it would make ready sense. A pair of black marks, however, on the bottom right corner of the bundle caught his attention. For they were the very familiar Shadowmarks denoting both affiliation with "the Guild" and "safety", a lack of threat for those among the group. These two marks, acknowledged and understood by every seasoned member of the Thieves Guild, spoke far more efficiently and plainly than even the most conventional shorthand. But the fact that the Dunmer was unfamiliar to Brynjolf was something that stirred a smidgen of concern in him. Concern and intrigue.
He carefully opened the wax paper sleeve and retrieved the piece of parchment it contained, all of it crinkling loudly in his hands. And upon his eyes meeting the script on the page, they flashed with new fascination:
"I have been lead to believe our parallel quests are for a common end - her safeguarding. Meet me at the docks at sundown. We are allies in this and all associated endeavors.
- S. Selaren"
Looking upward the Nord brushed a hand through his auburn hair, and took a second or two to scratch the back of his head in bewildered thought. Her safeguarding? Surely that couldn't be...how could anyone possibly...
He blinked.
"People have been talking, alright. But certainly not to me." He glanced down at the note again, his words fading on the rising breeze. "Not until now. Selaren...Selaren...I know I've heard it before, but where..."
Names. Two names. One Imperial. One Dunmer. And one furtive invitation. These are what he now possessed, and the great riddle at present seemed no closer to being answered. There was no guarantee what a meeting with the reserved general in Castle Dour would yield - if anything at all. But the pressing look from the shadowy Dunmer and the note which fell coincidentally at the Nord's feet were enough to give him hope for some sort of revelation. He would go guardedly to meet the stranger at sundown, with or without insight from Tullius. But most certainly armed with keenest discretion.
The waters murmured and whispered, just as they had forever. The Sea of Ghosts was always relating tales of old in hushed tones. Lamenting. And it invited all of its beholders to do the same. Visitors, especially on chillier and stormier days like this, were rare and fleeting. But there was one who would spend hours along the shore, with the old lighthouse behind him and his body impervious to the cold winds and icy spray. One who would stare out at the dark waves, lips silent but mind rushing with memories. Of those hours, one would be spent with his arms crossed in front of him, a frown further darkening his already stern features. Faces, voices - all were summoned from the water. And he grew utterly entranced. Bewitched. Yet disbelieving. And angry. Then, like the shifting of the winds and rolling waves, the next hour would find him with his arms hanging listlessly at his sides, fists clenching with the intermittent surges of emotion. And those gray eyes would simultaneously narrow and widen. And mist.
For the third hour upon the rocky coast would confront him with recollections the likes of which he had not anticipated. They were recollections complete with the clearest echoes of a certain booming voice and clearest images of a certain countenance. Something compelled him to reach under his shirt and pull out the dragon pendant he had so often cursed and sworn to destroy. The metal emblem stared back in all of its reticence, silence that spoke more than that which words could convey. And sad fondness, the painful hollowness of loss, stirred within him.
Aquila…dead…how can that be?
As sure as the sea breeze blew by him, around him, it brought the past with it. And he very soon was swept up in his remembrances. The present melted away, the sea shifted and faded before his sight. His legs trembled as he felt the memories come crashing on, but he steadied himself on the rocks. The light from the beacon behind him flashed, becoming the luminance of the sun. And the years, three decades worth, rolled back as the waves rolled forward upon the craggy shore. In heart, soul, and mind, he was back in Cyrodiil...
...
The daylight had been piercingly bright then, despite the sooty clouds of war that had already begun to roll into the countryside. How defiantly bright the sun was then was something he had always found most extraordinary. The brilliance did well to mask, however fleetingly, the depth of the darkness to follow. But they were all smiling then. Pushing grins, in spite of the advancing danger. In spite of the incoming sword slashes and spilled blood. In spite of the inevitable sickening stench of the dead and the smoke from the fetid corpse piles. Every one of them could well imagine the creeping horrors. Though, knowing and being wholly prepared for such things were entirely separate. All any of them could do was sigh with resolve and narrow their eyes and their focus. They had each other - for the Emperor, for the Empire. For home.
He was a much younger man then, a young man of lofty privilege. Privilege that saw generations-old luxury, gilded ballrooms, and finest porcelain. He had grown up with it all. But this, this moment had been what he wanted more than anything in the world: to prove himself, as much as defend the homeland. And to give back what he believed, what he felt was owed. There was no doubt why he was there. But the twinges of fear in his gut were no less sharp, no less real. For the time of basic training had passed. And as he stood in the battle lines assembled outside the Imperial City, the realization broke over him. It mattered not how much he reminded himself of the genuine praise heaped upon him by officers and fellow recruits alike for his surprising deftness with a blade - even two at once. The only son of one of the most prominent and ancient families in the Colovian Highlands, he had, reluctantly, been allowed to train and nurture his penchant for tactical studies as a purely intellectual exercise.
To him, however, it had been a lifelong and very serious pursuit. He had dedicated as much time and energy as he could to his combat lessons and to practicing between them. This coupled with some measure of inborn skill had served him well. His swift and targeted movements rendered him as deadly a foe for the monstrous marching armies of the Dominion as anyone bearing the Legion standards could hope for. And yet, it was not nearly enough reassurance. He had been accused of being cold in demeanor, aloof. Unfazed by the world around him. Little did anyone know how much conflicting emotion surged through him. And then, in these long moments, demoralizing thoughts of his own cowardice had forced almost a whimper from his throat.
He gasped and shook in spite of himself, armor clinking with the sudden slackening of his nerves. As he looked around, his gray eyes darting between the other soldiers in his battalion, they all appeared steeled for engagement. Gazes forward and stoic, no sign of trepidation. And his fear rapidly became mixed with shame and embarrassment. Maybe they were right after all. Maybe the paired voices of his wailing mother and fuming father had been correct in their condemnation of his decision on the evening of the 30th of Frostfall - his twenty-second birthday. Maybe they were right that he did not belong on the battlefield. That no matter what he did to try to prove his worth, whether he donned armor or slashed a thousand dummies on horseback or on foot wielding two swords, he was not meant to be there. That his world, the world of blessed aristocracy, was one in which assurances had been given and arrangements been made that armored carriages bound for Skyrim would spirit them all away from the carnage. That mercenaries would guard Avienus Manor and the acreage it sat upon until the last Dominion troops had exited Cyrodiil. His was a world apart from what now faced him. Lost, lost in a sea that would rise quickly enough when topped with the blood of countrymen. His eyes burned at the thought and his knees threatened to buckle.
But the Redguard soldier who had somehow appeared at his side turned to him and smiled broadly, knowingly. Reassuringly. And placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. Brown eyes sparkled and gently laughed as he nodded once. Something in that friendly acknowledgement had filled the Imperial with sudden resolve. In that moment, even though the Redguard was far more optimistic, far more unafraid than he imagined himself ever being, he felt as if the man had been able to simultaneously encourage and calm him. It was a rare kind of empathy that he sensed.
Their first conversation ensued, one that took place in those moments in the battle lines, awaiting orders to move out. It was, perhaps, a most unnatural setting for relaxed small talk, but somehow the Redguard man with the affable and handsome smile made it seem entirely appropriate and easily managed.
"Name's Adrianus." A hand extended for a friendly shake. The Imperial returned the grin, albeit a bit reservedly. And shook the other soldier's hand.
"Roscius..." He decided against offering his family name, as it had given him unwanted attention in the not so distant past. He'd had a difficult enough time enlisting against the stated wishes of his parents whose influence in Cyrodiil seemed maddeningly omnipresent. But as with all things, gold had a way of moving mountains. And if it meant making arrangements to part with some bags of coin to achieve his goals, it was more than worth it to him.
"Ah. Well met, Legionnaire. Whereabouts in Cyrodiil are you from then, friend?"
"The Highlands. Near Chorrol."
"Lovely country up that way! Would love to spend more time there. When this is all over, I'll plan on it. Live in Cheydinhal, myself. But I'm sure my family would enjoy the change of pace."
"Family...ah, yes..." Thoughts of his own family, family that he had effectively traded for a place in the Legion, struck him like a blow to the stomach. The condemnation of his parents had culminated in an ultimatum. If he went off to war, he should not expect a light to stay on for him and a bed to be waiting upon his return - if he were to be lucky enough to survive the slaughter.
No son of mine will give himself up like a fool and selfishly doom the family line, his father had railed. Enlisting's as good as a death sentence anyway. Whether they bring your corpse home in a box or if you slink back to the estate on your belly, one will not be any different from the other in consequence to me!
Hearing the words again caused his legs to lighten and wobble and his cheeks to flush with rare pallor. Surely you don't mean that, Father. Surely you'll think better of me. You must... How can you reject me for wanting to protect you? And our homeland?
"Are you alright, friend? You look faint." Uncharacteristic worry crossed the Redguard's face. He had seen the same breathless and almost disoriented expression on recruits many times before. But the Imperial looked about ready to collapse at his feet.
"No, it's...it's nothing. My family's proud of me." Gray eyes gleamed with sorrow and he swallowed nervously, his throat growing dryer. "Hopefully I'll come back to them in one piece."
"Indeed, may the Divines see to it. We should all hope for as much, and be blessed enough to receive that. I have a little one on the way, myself. Should arrive in a couple of months."
"Oh, congratulations on that!" Roscius tried to project friendly excitement over his still-lingering lightheadedness. "I'd imagine it's very difficult to think about in times like these, though."
"I'll not lie, it's rough when I think about it. But my wife, my Corcyra, is a strong woman. No matter what happens here...she and our young one will be alright. I have no doubt. Honestly, she's feisty enough for the entire Dominion army. She's been known to cook a reasonably mean boar stew - chased off a family of bad-tempered bears with the smell of it more than once. I'd imagine if she added just a pinch less salt and more pepper and served it to the Dominion troops, we could all go home tomorrow."
The Imperial cocked one eyebrow, half-smirking. "Wait...she chased bears away with it?"
"You heard right, friend. The smell will knock you onto your ass faster than a stiff Skyrim wind in the heart of winter. But the stuff itself? Eating it? Gods, man. It's better not to mention what the stuff will do to one's guts in polite company."
The Redguard's hearty laughter continued to ease the Imperial's fear and doubt. Enough so, that he found himself able to laugh as well - maybe not quite as hard. But all the same he was genuinely grateful.
And as quickly as the amiable soldier had appeared beside young Roscius, he vanished forthwith with a final brilliant smile and warm wink. For the blares of horns sounded in front of the ranks and summoned all of the officers to their positions. Adrianus nodded, clapping an encouraging hand on the Imperial's shoulder once more and wove his way through the lines until Roscius could no longer see him. The oppressive sense of aloneness took the latter again and he gasped for breath slightly as he looked forward. He stared ahead, waiting to navigate the impending storm of clashing steel, fiery spells, and spilling blood. And when the lines finally began to move and march out, it was as if his feet were no longer touching the ground. It was as if he were being spirited forth. As if he had fainted and never lost consciousness.
Into the abyss...
...
The memories swirled and faded into the Sea of Ghosts with the snapping of the ocean breeze, the sounds thundering and at last declining. It took him another few seconds to realize that he had in fact fallen to his knees in these moments, overcome. Ghost eyes glinted with welling tears. He would not allow himself to sob. But the sorrow still choked his words as he slowly stood up. "Where are you?"
Distant clanging of ships' bells and the groan of a fog horn immediately followed his aching questions, almost seeming to offer answers incapable of parsing. The winds stirred, blowing his gray-streaked black hair across his face. Some of the strands clung to his tear-dampened cheeks. He did not push them away. Rather he let them remain, and returned his attention to his pendant. So many times had he tried to rid himself of it. Not long ago he had come to this very stretch of coastline and held it over his head to cast it into the sea. And yet, it had stayed around his neck and dangled near his heart. I wonder...do you still have yours? Even now? Are you still wearing it? Aquila?
He glared through his tears at the metal emblem, however, as his sorrow slipped into anger. "Dead? Dead?! I thought of all of us, you'd be the last to go, you know. But you've gone. Again! Gone! You've gone and abandoned us to our madness for the last time! Damn this cursed thing!"
His fist clenched around it, desiring to rip it from the chain. But the smiling face of the Redguard man flashed anew in his mind. And he loosened his grip.
"What have they done...what have they done...useless....useless..."
His voice wavered and was lost on the increasing winds, winds which brought the encroaching fog in closer to the shore. After gingerly replacing the pendant under his shirt, he pulled his hood up over his head. The afternoon would finish waning soon, and the fading sun would at last be overcome by the bleakness. And he would need to return to his solitary space in the inn, as much as he dreaded walking through the doors of the well-lit and overly friendly establishment. So he sighed, shook his head sadly, and turned to walk back with dragging feet.
But as he took a few steps past the lighthouse, a familiar figure stepped out from behind the structure. In reflex, one hand moved quickly to wipe away residual tears, and he forced a sarcastic smile. Clodius also wore a grin, one not particularly warm but nevertheless enthusiastic. It was one Roscius had grown accustomed to seeing and he had learned to expect good news whenever he saw it.
"Dogging my steps, I see."
"I figured I might find you here." Clodius chuckled wryly. "It's always one of two places with you - the tavern or the water. Mind you which one you visit before the other, else it could end tragically."
The elder Imperial crossed his arms and frowned. "Yes, yes, you're very clever. Now to the point, man!"
"Well, I knew you'd want to know the most encouraging developments as soon as they came down the pike."
"Well, yes. Of course."
"Another victory for the Righteous."
"Oh?"
"Yes. It seems several Legionnaires were caught unawares near Eldergleam Sanctuary. Reports say several dead. And, I think, we may be in for some real advances soon. Not just this flighty skirmish stuff."
"You think so, do you? Well, out with it!"
"Chimera's extended vacation in the Rift is due to his intelligence gathering. Or, so they say. He's already been a guest in the camp there, and has spoken to the commanding officer. I would think that a little more mischief in that Hold won't be as distant of a hope as we thought previously."
Roscius rubbed his lightly bearded chin in thought. "Hmm. It's still being contested, last time we both checked. This could make things even more interesting."
"Indeed. He witnessed the aftermath of the first strike there, near some old ruins. He's been clearing the path for an even more ambitious set of moves. I'd honestly like to see the looks on the faces of both Tullius and Ulfric when it happens. Idiots, the pair of them. Honest to gods."
"Hmpf. Again, actually, neither one is an idiot. And that's what makes the irony infinitely sweeter. At the end of all of this, they'll each be staggering around whining and wondering how they could have missed the signs, how they could have lost control of their own little worlds. And somewhere, someplace not far off, I - or my ghost - shall be laughing my damned arse off."
"You and me both, brother." Clodius assented with a crooked grin.
"It's true what they say, there isn't enough blood on Nirn to atone for what was done. For what's still being done. But I for one have never been accused of being modest in any of my endeavors."
"Certainly not."
"If Chimera is getting the lay of the land for us there, then all the better. I just hope that he keeps his head and doesn't do anything...foolish. You know how easily distracted he is and always has been. He's very impressionable. Even now."
"Oh, I think he's grown more wary, more worldly as the years have gone by. Remember, it has been a few decades. He's come a long way."
"Yes. Yes, I know..." Roscius sighed and shifted his glance back to the now choppier sea. Clodius tilted his head in question.
"You sound...almost worried."
"...No," Was the delayed and leaden reply, "I...I'm quite confident that it's lingering guilt rather than worry."
"Guilt?" Dark eyes blinked, brow furrowed. "Guilt about what?"
"Chimera...he was too young. So young then." The icy waves that so fascinated him threatened to send up a new onslaught of vivid recollections, of shadows and specters of years gone by. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to fight the images. But he could not banish them. Even the more pleasant vision of the wily red-head's grinning countenance was not enough to assuage the shame stabbing his gut and chest.
The other Imperial shook his head spiritlessly, sighing inaudibly. "War is unforgiving. Merciless. We know that better than anyone."
"Never should have been there. Should have let him go."
"He...he was very good at what he did. What he still does. None of us were the wiser because that's how he wanted it. Illusion is...it's a very powerful thing-"
"Bloody hell, man, that's not the point! They knew. That Thalmor witch. And all the rest. He was just a boy then, for godsakes!"
Clodius blinked, surprised by the other man's vehemence. Such displays of that unceasing inner turbulence were not unknown to him. But ones that unveiled such palpable sadness were decidedly rare. All he could do was gloomily lower his head, casting his sight to the cold ground.
"I...I know."
"They should have let him go." Roscius repeated in a nigh-whisper. Fresh tears stung and threatened to pour forth anew. But he sniffled harshly in an effort to stifle it. "Damn. You know, I think I might be willing to broker a deal with a Daedra if it meant I could lose all of the memories."
Clodius cleared his throat awkwardly and rasped, "As would I."
He knew more than likely what it was that Roscius saw before his distant and pained eyes. He knew more than likely what it was that he heard echoing in his ears. For he saw and heard it all as well. He saw the agonized and terrified faces of his comrades. He heard the sickening cracks of their bones breaking, their heart-stopping, piercing screams. And he heard the especially high-pitched shrieks of pain and horror from the youngest one among them. All of it, again. And like Roscius, the anger rose up within him. Unlike Roscius he did not let it shake his body, instead standing still and appearing dispassionate.
And he stood by reticent as the other man turned his bitterly mournful gaze downward and slowly hiked back up to the city on the hill.
Soft mist and low rumbles of thunder warned of rain. But neither man cared.
“So it’s revenge they want, then?”
While always present, the tension in Castle Dour had been especially thick recently. Ever since the recent meeting between the Legion’s brass and the now constantly vexed commander of the Penitus Oculatus, there had been nothing but nervous and sometimes frenzied speculation. That is, on the part of the excitable Maro. When it came to General Tullius and even his Legate, the anxiety was much more restrained – but no less present. Rikke had availed herself for reading of the history book retrieved ever so cautiously from the chest in the war room. Tullius had handed it to her with great hesitance, despite knowing that the time had come for his second-in-command to finally share in the most privileged information. Rikke, unsettled but very curious, could tell from the opening pages that the material within was of the bleakest, darkest stroke. And as she continued taking the interim time to read and try to research further, the very grim urgency that she had observed in Maro’s voice and demeanor made great and terrible sense. She now had a context for the riddle-like utterances between the two men, as well as those on the lips of miscellaneous Legionnaires.
But now, on this dreary afternoon in Solitude, the two usual inhabitants of the fortress continued their protracted discussion. Maro had returned to Dragon Bridge a bit earlier in the day, and not a moment too soon in Tullius' opinion. The man's persistent pacing had promptly worn on the latter's nerves.
Following her question, Rikke’s comparatively pensive glance was met with a raised eyebrow from the general, who stood nearby with his arms crossed in typical fashion.
“It’s certainly what he wants. I can’t say I know about every last man who calls himself one of the ‘Manes’, the ‘Ghosts’, as I suspect there are more than a few soulless mercenaries within those ranks whose first and only loyalty is to gold. Regardless, they’re following Avienus’ lead and certainly appear to be enjoying the chaos they’re reaping. Bloodthirsty bunch.”
“But why now? After all of these years? It’s been decades since the Great War ended. Why wait?”
The general’s dark eyes widened and both brows raised. "Does it not seem obvious, Legate? They could have asked for no better time than this. Ulfric stirring things up has caused an opening to manifest for them, an opportunity to slip into Skyrim and make some serious strife while we're trying our damnedest to wrap up this insurrection. If it were not for the fact that Nord civilians are now dying in these attacks, I'd almost wonder if Ulfric might even encourage them. Cheer them on in their endeavor, as it were. Their 'enemy' is the same, after all. Truth be told, there's actually not a lot of daylight between Ulfric and Avienus, when one really thinks about it..."
"Sir..." The mention of her old friend in such a chilling context disarmed the Nord. But she could not wholly disagree with her superior's assessment. The rebellion's leader, an ex-Legionnaire himself, had become violently disillusioned and lead in no small part by his pride to carry on a crusade. If what was said about the mysterious Imperial Avienus was true, there were far more similarities than she would ever truly wish to admit. As she pondered, Tullius' face grew even more solemn.
"Bad business, all of it. I sometimes wonder just how we could have lost such promising soldiers to the kind of mad vanity we're seeing now. Despite the fact that their brand of arrogance could well be owed in part to noble upbringings. A pair of spoiled, spiteful children - they have that in common. But, spitting on the oath, slaughtering the protectors of the Empire, protectors of their own interests, their people's interests!"
The Imperial's face had reddened with emotion as his voice grew louder with each word. It was a side of Tullius that Rikke had scarcely ever seen. There was a weariness, a profound frustration, as well as a depth of gravity to his tone and his words that she found incredibly compelling. All she could do was listen as the normally even-tempered general continued in his spirited monologue.
"I ask myself, how is it possible, such spectacular treachery? But then, Legate, I swear...all I need do is remember that Thalmor woman's smirk and it all becomes painfully clear."
"...Elenwen, sir?" Rikke asked softly.
"None of it starts or ends with her, of course. But I will praise the Divines for the future in which none of us have to deal with any of those people. Ever again. That day is coming. Just...not yet. Not yet."
The room fell silent. Even the flames of the candles and sconces around the chamber seemed briefly to flicker wildly with the officer's words. Flicker, and grow still. Faced with the same antagonists of all of those years ago and yet, simultaneously having to shake their hands and curse them behind closed doors was a strange twilight reality. The irony had not been lost on either the general or his lieutenant. But the second eventually broke the lengthy hush.
"Alright, I suppose that does make sense about the timing. It's the other half of Maro's assignment here. That's what it has been - though unofficially?"
"Yes." Suddenly uncrossing his arms Tullius approached the map table and leaned over it, planting his palms upon the sturdy wood. "Destruction of the Dark Brotherhood has been the touted objective, but they secretly have been funneling resources into rounding up the Manes. It's no small task, either. These men are skilled soldiers, some of the best of the best. Avienus himself was not only a highly proficient swordsman but also the strategist, the intelligence man of their group."
"Was? Don't you mean, is?" The Legate's eyes narrowed.
"Is and was."
"Was, during the Great War? That special contingent he was part of?"
"Yes. There were five of them in that group. There was more than one such group, make no mistake. But each contained five and each member was highly trained, highly adept in his respective skill set. Arguably near Master level. They'd have never stood a chance where they went if they hadn't been, though."
“Was this group - any of them, really - part of the Shadow Legion? The book didn’t specify, but-” An especially loud and uneasy sigh from the General interrupted her questioning.
“To my admittedly limited knowledge, some members were drawn from the Shadow Legion, yes. The ones who were most skilled in sorcery, drafted from all schools of magic. The ones who could give the Dominion’s own wizards a real run for their money."
"I...I'm starting to see what's got Maro so jumpy." Rikke offered a very rare and almost awkward chuckle out of nervousness. Tullius only closed his eyes and shook his head.
"Indeed. They're the same men who are loose now. Even as the years have passed, it'd be foolishly optimistic to assume that they've lost any of their proficiency with age. If anything, they've had all the time in the world to get better. To take up company and arms with those who would seek to sell out the Empire and all of its assets over some misplaced sense of self-righteousness."
"But if they're this angry, there must be more to it. The murder convictions...there must be more to their alleged pleas of innocence. The book says they never wavered in that."
Tullius drew back from the table with a slight scowl and re-crossed his arms. "I suppose we should assume there's more to the stories of every wretch rotting in the prisons and act accordingly, eh? Divines know they're all innocent - they all proclaim as much, whether they've been asked or not."
"Granted. But something's still not adding up with this, sir. There seem to be...holes. Gaps in the thread."
"Oh, that's quite intentional, Legate. And the unfortunate nature of it. No one knows all of the truth, not even the ones who were there, I'd expect. And there are reasons for that."
"Not even this 'Silanus', who wrote the account?" Rikke gestured to the black tome on the edge of the table. "He certainly seems to possess a solid amount of knowledge of this matter. Especially when it seems the information has been suppressed at nearly every turn. What's his affiliation?"
Tullius shot the book a wary side glance. "That's actually another curious detail in all of this. Silanus is the name of an historian who wrote a few different volumes on Cyrodilic and Tamrielic history, both political and martial. He's been very popular since the days of the Oblivion Crisis and has remained so since."
"The Oblivion Crisis?" Rikke gasped in puzzled disbelief. "Over two hundred years ago? It certainly can't be the same man then. Surely the one who wrote our book on the Great War is merely sharing a pen name for the sake of added attention."
"I suspect that's the case. It's the most logical explanation. Trouble is, this 'imposter' Silanus has been strikingly competent in imitating the original's style and overall character of work. There is no variation between the writings of the two - scholars in the Imperial City have dedicated quite a bit of time and study to this, as a matter of fact. The script is perfectly consistent, the diction, the tone. If I didn't know any better, I would say it's the same man. But how to explain that, I wouldn't dare begin to try. Hell, maybe he's a damned vampire."
"Very, very odd, sir."
"Yes. But it's not really anything of particular concern to us. If his ghost has returned to write history books on more recent events, so be it. It's true, not much at all has ever been known of his life - and absolutely nothing has been recorded of his death. And it is...unusual. But even I'll admit, if he were actually still walking around after all of these years, he'd be a damn useful one to find. I certainly have my fair share of questions..." Tullius chuckled cynically to himself as Rikke continued her inquiry.
"Who were the others, the other men in the group with Avienus? Maybe someone here can tell us something more if they know who it is we're looking for. Again, it’s curiously not in the book-"
"I myself do not know the identities of all of the others. And I suspect that the very records have long since been sealed. It was never public knowledge what such a group was created to do, and so the identities of the men in it were never widely known – except in some Legion circles. Even at the trial, their covert affiliation was never revealed, only their standing service in the Legion. I dare say that even some of the blood kin of these men have no idea of what they were involved in then. Though, secrets have a habit of getting out."
"Indeed, sir..." Rikke blinked and looked to the side. “But…”
"You know...I do know of one other who was part of Avienus' cohort. The group's leader, acting captain...'Aquila', was the code name. The 'Eagle'."
Rikke quickly looked over at her commander, who now bore a somewhat softer expression. She could not determine if it was a look of sadness, of anxiety, or a mix of both. But it unnerved her, as did his hesitance to continue. "Sir?"
"The captain...the captain was that girl's father. Captain Adrianus, of Cheydinhal." All of the flames in the room flickered vigorously again. The Nord actually took a surprised half-step backward in spite of herself.
"Her...her father? By the gods..."
"Yes. And now perhaps at this moment, you're starting to even further appreciate the very delicate nature of this situation, Legate."
Rikke's eyes narrowed with renewed focus and intrigue. The determined young woman, the latest and most promising recruit she had seen in a while, was related to this mystery. She had to ask the very next question that flew forward in her mind.
"She's in danger here, sir? But why? What would compel these 'Manes' men to do harm against her? Her father is dead."
"First of all, we can't be sure they know that. These men were exiled, cast out of Cyrodiil years ago. They were very lucky that they were not thrown out of the boundaries of the Empire itself, left to scratch out a pathetic existence amongst the wilds and Dominion strongholds - though I am sure they may well have found their ways there at some point in time-"
"They have recanted their oaths to the Emperor and Empire. That, I grasp. But what does it have to do with the girl?"
"These are mad dogs, Legate. They are unpredictable, driven by a passion for retribution at any cost. They haven't merely recanted their oaths, they have declared war upon everything the Empire stands for. They have already murdered those who sought to get in their way. Avienus is by nature very unforgiving, ruthless. Icy of soul and heart. There is no reason to believe that he would not have an interest in at least holding the young woman hostage as a bargaining chip if he saw the utility in it. This is why her brother also is receiving special protection at his location. Neither one of them, as Adrianus' children, should be here in Skyrim. Not now. Not at this time."
“I would certainly agree with that, General.”
The graying Imperial took a moment to musingly scratch his chin. "But given that they are, it might just work out in everyone's favor, including their own. They may unwittingly help lead the bastards out of their holes and into our nets. We can only hope the gods aid us in this endeavor."
"I...how…" The Nord looked almost flustered, her thin mouth parted as she shook her head slightly.
With the driest of cynicism in his voice, Tullius once more took his turn to raise a single eyebrow in response to his subordinate’s baffled and concerned expression. "You look skeptical, Legate."
"Forgive me, sir. It’s…you're saying she may well be a target. But she may also help us find these men by remaining here in the province. With all due respect, General, and please forgive me for saying, but...this just seems wrong. It seems wrong that we're essentially using her and her brother as bait."
The Imperial moved his attention to the map on the table, taking a blue flag here and replacing it with a red one there. Even as he stood discussing such matters with his officer, he was always contemplating, strategizing and imagining all sorts of tactical possibilities for his principal task. Though she would never say as much Rikke often wondered if the General was truly only half-listening in such moments, with the greater share of his passion and fascination given to the approaches he cycled through his ever turning mind.
"Everything we do comes with risks, Legate. This is the way of it. I know you are not squeamish, though you nevertheless may perhaps be a tad idealistic. Legionnaires know the risks, we always have-"
"But does she? Does she know the risks? It seems she’s been told just about nothing of the situation. How can she protect herself without knowing of these threats?”
"The young woman is quite capable of handling herself. After all, we did send her to rout a flock of bandits by herself, from which she came back looking no worse for wear…” Tullius shifted steady eyes to his officer. “As you told it."
"True, though I must admit my discomfort for doing that. I...I'm glad she was able to handle it. Proves that she is of Legion stock."
"Indeed."
"But this, this is different. If these men are as hell-bent as you say on getting what they conceive of as 'revenge' and there's no telling, being as experienced and skilled as they are as veterans, how can we possibly protect her? Who is protecting her? And her brother?"
"Legate, we have our very best and brightest now looking out for her and her brother, make no mistake. I am fully prepared to request additional aid from home if necessary. We owe it to her father's memory to do at least that much-"
"Additional aid? But I thought they weren't going to give you any more troops from the homeland?"
"Not troops, Legate. Aid. Resources in the form of people, great and knowledgeable minds. As well as especially capable blades. We will have to see how bad this thing gets before I take further action. I don’t want to draw more attention by stepping up the patrols drastically. I do fear, however, that the only way to know how bad it is getting is to get on the ground. I never desired fighting a two-pronged war in this hinterland because believe it or not, Ulfric and his cause will benefit from this. He will benefit until we put an end to it.”
"If the Legion is perceived to be incapable of or uninterested in stopping the killing, especially by former Legionnaires, it would only compound all of our current problems."
“Exactly, Legate. Between the rebels, the dragons, and now the Manes, it’s well beyond a nightmare scenario. But it seems that that is where we find ourselves now. And I must do what I must do. That is all we can do. We do what we must, yes?"
"Yes, sir. Of course." Rikke looked toward the ground. She was simultaneously embarrassed by her very candid expressions of worry, and deeply frustrated. For the Nord could not shake a sense of responsibility, of culpability when it came to the Breton's most current plight. She had to trust in her leader's good faith, but it was something which would haunt her conscience until either the men of the Manes were rounded up or the young woman and her brother were otherwise rendered as safe as possible.
"If I may ask, General...what was her father really doing here in Skyrim? Did it have to do with these men?"
Tullius parted his lips to answer most reluctantly, but closed them again. It was now his turn to cast a normally confident glance downward to the floor. He silently nodded. And Rikke pressed further.
"Do we truly not know what became of him here? Or has that also merely been the 'official line'?"
"Oh, someone surely knows, of that I have no doubt. I myself, however, know no more than you do on that matter. I do have my suspicions."
"Do you? What do you think happened?"
Tullius sighed. "Everything in me, Legate, tells me that he encountered his old comrades out there. He crossed paths with them again, for the last time."
"You think they...they killed their captain?"
"Ah, but you must remember, it's been decades. Decades in exile, decades of madness. Of bitter delusion. The man they once knew as their leader was likely not the man they saw before their eyes. Time assuredly warped him in their sight, making him every bit as detestable and fit for their hatred as the Emperor himself. In other words, I would not be surprised if the last ragged shred of humanity that they may have possessed died along with Adrianus in that fight."
"But...why?"
"Adrianus was the captain of their cohort. Their trusted leader back then. Thing is, I’m not so sure that they have ever forgiven him for what happened. I’m not sure that they don’t blame her father for leading them into a trap. For getting them all captured.”
“Sir?”
“They would have followed him to Coldharbour and back. In some ways, that’s exactly where they all went. And not one of them came back the same." Tullius turned to lock eyes with Rikke. And a sudden cold rush of air passed through the nearby corridor, making a faint whistling sound. "How could they?"
…….
Brynjolf watched the ships in Solitude's harbor for more than an hour. And he easily could have spent the rest of the day sitting there along the stony ledge. There was something perfectly soothing about the lazy drifting of the vessels in the dark waters. The cheerful clang-clang of the ships’ bells, the squeaky squawks of the sea birds, and the low whoosh of the hulls against the waves were all enough to lull him toward sleep where he sat. And more than once, his weary eyes did close despite the almost whirring mass of concerns in his head then. After leaving the Winking Skeever with perhaps more questions than he had entered with, he felt like all he could manage to do at least for the current time was to sit down. And try to let all of the pieces of the enduring puzzle arrange themselves of their own accord. He was, at the very least, a cleverer man than most. Though, he possessed neither an eye nor an eager mind for intellectual pursuits. His acuity came in the more pragmatic callings. Surely before long the riddle would become obvious. But, by gods, he hated waiting.
His sense of urgency had been heightened all the more as the name of the troubling and still-yet unknown Imperial snaked into his thoughts. The man in the tavern was himself an unsettling character, and everything in the Nord's bones told him that the former was feigning ignorance. The way he bristled at the mention of the name 'Roscius Avienus', and then slackened with an almost forced congeniality was a hallmark of deception that he had long since grown accustomed to identifying. He was one of the best in his business for a reason. The gray-eyed man would be one to watch. Though he wondered just how long he could afford to haunt footsteps and shadows in search of veiled truths. Perhaps it was all much too big for him, much too complicated and convoluted. And chasing ghosts - now in a supposed literal sense as much as a metaphorical one - seemed a doomed venture. But as soon as he started to yield to such a weighty feeling of defeat and entertain the notion of simply spurring back to the east, he remembered the Breton woman's smile and her laughter - and the warnings in Maro's trembling voice.
He turned his confounded gaze upward, noting the clouds sliding against the darkening expanse. More rain? No, it wouldn't dare.
As if summoned by his deep and sad sigh, a curious sea bird suddenly landed on the ledge, not a couple of feet from him. The animal cocked its head up and down and in various abrupt angles in vacant observation. Amused, the Nord wasted no time in sharing the summary of his worries with the feathered companion.
“It just…just doesn’t make sense.” He smirked and softly chuckled. “Worse still, Gulum-Ei may be my only hope in all of this. Couldn't have hoped for a dodgier character…”
As he sat observing the harbor, the tones of surly sailors and cynical merchants rode the breeze as strangely resonant whispers. Recalling what the Argonian informant had said about his dockside sources, Brynjolf was eager to pick up what he could from every itinerant conversation. Just as quickly as the men would seem to project, they would hush again. And the Nord would be left with brows knitted and deliberate curiosities piqued.
“Something’s going on. Someone knows something. Why won’t they talk-”
“Ah, might you spare a coin for a veteran?” A man's tired voice sounded closely behind the Nord, interrupting his vocal musings.
Jolted from his trance, he spun around to face the stranger. An Imperial, haphazardly clad in torn and discolored tunic and pants, looked back at him. This man stood with his arms crossed and his expression weary and dour, yet vaguely hopeful. The auburn-haired thief blinked and remained silent for a few seconds, fumbling to disengage from his own vexing contemplations. It was only after those few seconds that he noticed the shroud of blindness upon the Imperial's left eye, and the surrounding scars.
“...Aye.” Leaving the ledge to stand, Brynjolf nodded absently and fished for a few gleaming septims. The coins made happy little tinkling noises as the redhead dropped them into the older man’s waiting and shaky hand.
“Bless you and your generosity." He grinned broadly before it gradually loosened back into the frown with which he had approached. "Such a thing is getting rarer these days. You’d think in a time of war, more would have compassion for the old and lame soldiers of yesteryear.”
“Seen better days, eh? I suppose we all have.”
"Well…I don’t know about ‘better’." The Imperial barked out the word, betraying more than mere hints of his bitterness. "More fulfilling, certainly. Days that didn’t see so many of us spent and abandoned. Walking around half-dead.”
Brynjolf leaned against the ledge, his head cocked a bit to the side in consideration. “I’ve never been off to war, myself. I suppose I can only imagine-"
“Count your blessings, son. Believe me, even when you do right by your side, it gets you a great big fat heap of nothing. Funny way of showing gratitude, I'd say. No interest in righting wrongs. Even after I was left for dead by my 'comrades', they had the nerve to do it again. What in Divines' names am I supposed to make of that, you wager?"
“Surely the Legion looks after its own? You're 'in it for life', isn't that the motto? Why have you been left in such a…state?”
Although he was a thief, Brynjolf had always had a very particular reaction to the idea of family, whether it be in the abstract or in the corporeal and immediate sense. The Guild was a family. Perhaps as untraditional as one could ever possibly conceive of, but it was a family nonetheless. One driven by mutual aspirations and love of success, of finely tuned approaches to enterprise. It may have been a family united by coin, but it was also fueled by the spirits and loyalties of the members. Who else could a thief bond with, let alone trust to back him up at any given time - or at least, most times? Who else, but other thieves with whom the bond is strong and understanding is forged by time. He imagined losing that bond, through a shaking of faith, of unequivocal wrong-doing. And shuddered to think about the implications.
“Ha! You really think they care about old dogs like me? Some things never change. They could see a hundred of us gathered outside of Castle Dour, but it wouldn’t do a damn thing to move any sympathy our way. What we got is what we got. Bah. Daedra can carry it all off for all I care."
"What we got is what we got...that definitely seems more and more to be the case for everyone." The thief ruminated aloud. "Uncertain times, these are."
"Uncertain doesn't begin to describe it, son. Course, if there's one thing that is certain, it's that not a day goes by that I don't wish I could wind back the infernal clock. Was a scout once, you know. A damned good one, too. Saw a lot of unspeakables during the war. Was on the ground at Anvil when it happened. When...this...happened."
He gestured to his unseeing eye, and the Nord nodded in acknowledgement. "Ah."
On par with an uncomfortable trend lately, Brynjolf again found himself speechless. He found himself stumbling in a search for suitable words. It had been a very strange sensation to be one so praised for a silver tongue and yet increasingly struggle to articulate or to reply at all. It was as if in a matter of mere days, all of the usual assurances had vanished. Had he been a much more superstitious man, like many around him, he would have been looking for a Daedra to blame and an Aedra to propitiate. But as it stood, he didn't even know quite what it was that didn't make sense. Words in a stranger's smoky voice played in his mind once more. What use are answers when you don't even know the questions?
"You ever been there? Anvil, I mean." The elder man suddenly inquired with an almost wistful tone, again shaking the redheaded man from his own contemplations.
"No, can't say that I have, sadly."
"Beautiful town. No one would believe what it looked like then unless they'd been there. Like I was. Like so many of us were. Horrifying. Sickening. Not even a starved shadow of itself."
"Aye, I'd bet it looked a bit like Helgen does now."
"No."
"No?"
"No. Worse."
"I...I see."
"Pray that you don't. Not ever."
The cold gravity of the man's tone unnerved the usually self-assured thief. And the acuteness of the former's glare was enough to cause the latter to grasp for a reply.
“...Well, at least it’s over and done with and you survived. At least it’s ended-"
“That I survived is hardly a reassurance anymore, friend. As for it being 'over', I’ve never heard a bigger load of hogwash in all my years. Friend, it never ends. And I'm not even just talking about my blasted eye." Brynjolf nodded subtly as the other man continued. "By gods, look around you, boy. Take a journey to the Embassy near here if you're naive enough to think the Great War is 'over'. Try not to linger there too long."
With a snort and a huff and a scoff, the ornery former soldier turned to take his leave. The coins newly inhabiting his pocket meant much-needed sustenance in the form of roasted meats and very chilly ale. But the red-haired Nord was not quite ready to see him off. For he was compelled to pose to him a very rare but nonetheless simple and almost humbling inquiry.
"What's your name, friend?"
The half-blind Imperial stopped, incredulous. He could not recall the last time anyone in the city had asked him such an obvious yet frustratingly overlooked question. For so often when folk wandered the streets, noting the glittering spires and dreamy skyline of the timeless capital, the incense and wood smoke did all too well to mask the scent of human grime and neglect. The beauty of the rich-toned and painted wood and brick and stone did all too well to draw eyes away from the unkempt and degraded forms of the lowliest dwellers. Bold talk of war and business and wine and song drowned out the pained grunts and sneezes and coughs of the beggarly class. That was how it had always been. Every once in what felt to him like a decade or two, a compassionate stranger would take pity and pass on some coin. But his name was almost never a part of that lightning-quick transaction. Of course, he also could not remember a conversation with such a stranger stretching on as long as the one at present, either.
"Noster. Noster Eagle-Eye. Or, One-Eye, if you're feeling spitefully clever." He smirked.
"Ah. Noster it is, then. I'll be sure to put a good word in...with the general here when I see him. See if it does any good. Couldn't hurt, anyway." The Nord shrugged with an easy smile.
"You're going to see Tullius, eh? Hmpf, I wouldn't waste my breath if I were you." The Imperial offered a lazy though warm salute amid a sad grin. "But all the same...good luck. And thank you."
And with that, the elder man turned to make his way back up the hill and inside city walls. He trudged until he was gone again with a steady pace of slow but determined footsteps.
The thief had been able to read no lack of grim testimony in the veteran's voice as well as his face, which had been hewn with time and all manner of stresses. There was almost a deadness to his countenance that had shaken the Nord slightly. But as he had watched him disappear now, it saddened him. He had seen lives interrupted by burned bridges and pillaged coffers. But the way souls could be plucked from hollowed out rib cages of those yet living, was something that had always inspired great shudders in his broad Nordic frame.
He then half-wondered if he should have asked old 'Noster' about the scribbled name he bore. Maybe on the way back.
Alone once more along the stony ledge, one hand found a coin in his pocket and withdrew it. He brought the septim close to his face, scrutinizing the gleaming exterior. He grasped it tightly within his palm, musing. The little sea bird that landed nearby earlier had remained, no doubt to watch the deliberation.
"Heads, I go to Tullius. Tails, I go back. Back to Riften, back to where things actually make some bloody sense."
He tightened his grip and sighed dryly before flipping the coin in the air - and catching it between his palm and the top of his other hand. But he delayed the reveal for a few seconds. Can't afford to worry now. I'm already in too deep.
Slowly, he drew back his topmost hand. And he bit his lip - something he had not done in ages.
With another deep sigh, he re-pocketed the coin. And began his ascent back into the city. Castle Dour was still waiting.
The briny breeze was a bit heavier now with the scent of impending rain. But he did not hurry. He was far too lost in thoughts, too lost in recollections and wonderings to mind if the sky opened up. The Nord rehearsed what he would say when he did finally come face to face with the province's military governor. If the discussion was even remotely like that between him and Maro, it would be a challenge to gain anything more considerable and helpful than purposely muddy commentary. But he would try, especially now that he had a name to offer.
His mind also turned to the Guild, which had been running with a presumably still-absent leader now for several days. Although Brynjolf bore every confidence in his colleagues, it still unnerved him to be away for so long and under such circumstances. He reminded himself that after speaking with Tullius, whether successful in information-gathering or not, he had to get back to Riften as soon as possible. There were clients who inevitably required contact and assurances. He figured Delvin was doing a capable enough job directing things in the meantime. But there was also the significance of present leadership to consider. With Mercer's whereabouts still unknown, it was more imperative to keep up the twin appearance of confidence and competence.
It was also entirely likely that the eastern city, one so full of characters almost charming for their dubious yet reliable connections, would yield the intelligence he sought. Lips were not as stubborn in the taverns and merchant corners there. Maven was even still a possibility - theoretically, anyway. Even though it would be a most unpleasant experience. But he could set aside his pride temporarily if it meant any sort of breakthrough. After all, the Guild had been doing much better in recent weeks. Surely he could use some of that as currency when it came to the Black-Briar matriarch's good will. One can hope.
As he made his way through the city again, passing by the market, he noted how empty the area had become since but a few hours earlier. It was no longer bustling with the energy of a typical afternoon, but was only sparsely populated. He blamed the weather for the dispersing effect. The merchants manned their stalls with obvious boredom, but held out hope for a cloaked figure which had perused their wares for a few minutes despite the threats from the clouds. Brynjolf paid the figure little mind, only noting it in passing as he continued on his trek to Castle Dour. Something on the ground caught his attention, a twinkling flash of metal. He stopped to kneel down and examine the object, which turned out to be a septim. Not one to ever let an as yet unclaimed piece of gold lie idle and unattended, he picked it up and pocketed it - but not before noting that it too had been facing heads-up. Maybe it's a sign, he snickered to himself.
As he stood back up, he felt a sudden pressure at his side, as if someone or something had run into him as they passed by. He soon realized that that was precisely what had happened. And he spun around to see the same cloaked figure from the nearby market hurrying off in the opposite direction. But before disappearing the figure paused to throw a glance over the narrow shoulder, and Brynjolf caught a brief glimpse of an unfamiliar Dunmer man with very dark hair and red eyes that glowed with insistence. The Dark Elf gave what appeared to the Nord as a single nod and then hurried off in the direction of the city gates. He was much too swift for pursuit. And the thief looked on for a few moments, perplexed.
But he would soon notice that something else had appeared on the ground in the encounter. It was a thin sleeve of parchment, wrapped with wax paper and the outside covered in illegible scribbles and half-formed words. Even after picking it up and holding it close to his face, nothing on it would make ready sense. A pair of black marks, however, on the bottom right corner of the bundle caught his attention. For they were the very familiar Shadowmarks denoting both affiliation with "the Guild" and "safety", a lack of threat for those among the group. These two marks, acknowledged and understood by every seasoned member of the Thieves Guild, spoke far more efficiently and plainly than even the most conventional shorthand. But the fact that the Dunmer was unfamiliar to Brynjolf was something that stirred a smidgen of concern in him. Concern and intrigue.
He carefully opened the wax paper sleeve and retrieved the piece of parchment it contained, all of it crinkling loudly in his hands. And upon his eyes meeting the script on the page, they flashed with new fascination:
"I have been lead to believe our parallel quests are for a common end - her safeguarding. Meet me at the docks at sundown. We are allies in this and all associated endeavors.
- S. Selaren"
Looking upward the Nord brushed a hand through his auburn hair, and took a second or two to scratch the back of his head in bewildered thought. Her safeguarding? Surely that couldn't be...how could anyone possibly...
He blinked.
"People have been talking, alright. But certainly not to me." He glanced down at the note again, his words fading on the rising breeze. "Not until now. Selaren...Selaren...I know I've heard it before, but where..."
Names. Two names. One Imperial. One Dunmer. And one furtive invitation. These are what he now possessed, and the great riddle at present seemed no closer to being answered. There was no guarantee what a meeting with the reserved general in Castle Dour would yield - if anything at all. But the pressing look from the shadowy Dunmer and the note which fell coincidentally at the Nord's feet were enough to give him hope for some sort of revelation. He would go guardedly to meet the stranger at sundown, with or without insight from Tullius. But most certainly armed with keenest discretion.
…….
The waters murmured and whispered, just as they had forever. The Sea of Ghosts was always relating tales of old in hushed tones. Lamenting. And it invited all of its beholders to do the same. Visitors, especially on chillier and stormier days like this, were rare and fleeting. But there was one who would spend hours along the shore, with the old lighthouse behind him and his body impervious to the cold winds and icy spray. One who would stare out at the dark waves, lips silent but mind rushing with memories. Of those hours, one would be spent with his arms crossed in front of him, a frown further darkening his already stern features. Faces, voices - all were summoned from the water. And he grew utterly entranced. Bewitched. Yet disbelieving. And angry. Then, like the shifting of the winds and rolling waves, the next hour would find him with his arms hanging listlessly at his sides, fists clenching with the intermittent surges of emotion. And those gray eyes would simultaneously narrow and widen. And mist.
For the third hour upon the rocky coast would confront him with recollections the likes of which he had not anticipated. They were recollections complete with the clearest echoes of a certain booming voice and clearest images of a certain countenance. Something compelled him to reach under his shirt and pull out the dragon pendant he had so often cursed and sworn to destroy. The metal emblem stared back in all of its reticence, silence that spoke more than that which words could convey. And sad fondness, the painful hollowness of loss, stirred within him.
Aquila…dead…how can that be?
As sure as the sea breeze blew by him, around him, it brought the past with it. And he very soon was swept up in his remembrances. The present melted away, the sea shifted and faded before his sight. His legs trembled as he felt the memories come crashing on, but he steadied himself on the rocks. The light from the beacon behind him flashed, becoming the luminance of the sun. And the years, three decades worth, rolled back as the waves rolled forward upon the craggy shore. In heart, soul, and mind, he was back in Cyrodiil...
...
The daylight had been piercingly bright then, despite the sooty clouds of war that had already begun to roll into the countryside. How defiantly bright the sun was then was something he had always found most extraordinary. The brilliance did well to mask, however fleetingly, the depth of the darkness to follow. But they were all smiling then. Pushing grins, in spite of the advancing danger. In spite of the incoming sword slashes and spilled blood. In spite of the inevitable sickening stench of the dead and the smoke from the fetid corpse piles. Every one of them could well imagine the creeping horrors. Though, knowing and being wholly prepared for such things were entirely separate. All any of them could do was sigh with resolve and narrow their eyes and their focus. They had each other - for the Emperor, for the Empire. For home.
He was a much younger man then, a young man of lofty privilege. Privilege that saw generations-old luxury, gilded ballrooms, and finest porcelain. He had grown up with it all. But this, this moment had been what he wanted more than anything in the world: to prove himself, as much as defend the homeland. And to give back what he believed, what he felt was owed. There was no doubt why he was there. But the twinges of fear in his gut were no less sharp, no less real. For the time of basic training had passed. And as he stood in the battle lines assembled outside the Imperial City, the realization broke over him. It mattered not how much he reminded himself of the genuine praise heaped upon him by officers and fellow recruits alike for his surprising deftness with a blade - even two at once. The only son of one of the most prominent and ancient families in the Colovian Highlands, he had, reluctantly, been allowed to train and nurture his penchant for tactical studies as a purely intellectual exercise.
To him, however, it had been a lifelong and very serious pursuit. He had dedicated as much time and energy as he could to his combat lessons and to practicing between them. This coupled with some measure of inborn skill had served him well. His swift and targeted movements rendered him as deadly a foe for the monstrous marching armies of the Dominion as anyone bearing the Legion standards could hope for. And yet, it was not nearly enough reassurance. He had been accused of being cold in demeanor, aloof. Unfazed by the world around him. Little did anyone know how much conflicting emotion surged through him. And then, in these long moments, demoralizing thoughts of his own cowardice had forced almost a whimper from his throat.
He gasped and shook in spite of himself, armor clinking with the sudden slackening of his nerves. As he looked around, his gray eyes darting between the other soldiers in his battalion, they all appeared steeled for engagement. Gazes forward and stoic, no sign of trepidation. And his fear rapidly became mixed with shame and embarrassment. Maybe they were right after all. Maybe the paired voices of his wailing mother and fuming father had been correct in their condemnation of his decision on the evening of the 30th of Frostfall - his twenty-second birthday. Maybe they were right that he did not belong on the battlefield. That no matter what he did to try to prove his worth, whether he donned armor or slashed a thousand dummies on horseback or on foot wielding two swords, he was not meant to be there. That his world, the world of blessed aristocracy, was one in which assurances had been given and arrangements been made that armored carriages bound for Skyrim would spirit them all away from the carnage. That mercenaries would guard Avienus Manor and the acreage it sat upon until the last Dominion troops had exited Cyrodiil. His was a world apart from what now faced him. Lost, lost in a sea that would rise quickly enough when topped with the blood of countrymen. His eyes burned at the thought and his knees threatened to buckle.
But the Redguard soldier who had somehow appeared at his side turned to him and smiled broadly, knowingly. Reassuringly. And placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. Brown eyes sparkled and gently laughed as he nodded once. Something in that friendly acknowledgement had filled the Imperial with sudden resolve. In that moment, even though the Redguard was far more optimistic, far more unafraid than he imagined himself ever being, he felt as if the man had been able to simultaneously encourage and calm him. It was a rare kind of empathy that he sensed.
Their first conversation ensued, one that took place in those moments in the battle lines, awaiting orders to move out. It was, perhaps, a most unnatural setting for relaxed small talk, but somehow the Redguard man with the affable and handsome smile made it seem entirely appropriate and easily managed.
"Name's Adrianus." A hand extended for a friendly shake. The Imperial returned the grin, albeit a bit reservedly. And shook the other soldier's hand.
"Roscius..." He decided against offering his family name, as it had given him unwanted attention in the not so distant past. He'd had a difficult enough time enlisting against the stated wishes of his parents whose influence in Cyrodiil seemed maddeningly omnipresent. But as with all things, gold had a way of moving mountains. And if it meant making arrangements to part with some bags of coin to achieve his goals, it was more than worth it to him.
"Ah. Well met, Legionnaire. Whereabouts in Cyrodiil are you from then, friend?"
"The Highlands. Near Chorrol."
"Lovely country up that way! Would love to spend more time there. When this is all over, I'll plan on it. Live in Cheydinhal, myself. But I'm sure my family would enjoy the change of pace."
"Family...ah, yes..." Thoughts of his own family, family that he had effectively traded for a place in the Legion, struck him like a blow to the stomach. The condemnation of his parents had culminated in an ultimatum. If he went off to war, he should not expect a light to stay on for him and a bed to be waiting upon his return - if he were to be lucky enough to survive the slaughter.
No son of mine will give himself up like a fool and selfishly doom the family line, his father had railed. Enlisting's as good as a death sentence anyway. Whether they bring your corpse home in a box or if you slink back to the estate on your belly, one will not be any different from the other in consequence to me!
Hearing the words again caused his legs to lighten and wobble and his cheeks to flush with rare pallor. Surely you don't mean that, Father. Surely you'll think better of me. You must... How can you reject me for wanting to protect you? And our homeland?
"Are you alright, friend? You look faint." Uncharacteristic worry crossed the Redguard's face. He had seen the same breathless and almost disoriented expression on recruits many times before. But the Imperial looked about ready to collapse at his feet.
"No, it's...it's nothing. My family's proud of me." Gray eyes gleamed with sorrow and he swallowed nervously, his throat growing dryer. "Hopefully I'll come back to them in one piece."
"Indeed, may the Divines see to it. We should all hope for as much, and be blessed enough to receive that. I have a little one on the way, myself. Should arrive in a couple of months."
"Oh, congratulations on that!" Roscius tried to project friendly excitement over his still-lingering lightheadedness. "I'd imagine it's very difficult to think about in times like these, though."
"I'll not lie, it's rough when I think about it. But my wife, my Corcyra, is a strong woman. No matter what happens here...she and our young one will be alright. I have no doubt. Honestly, she's feisty enough for the entire Dominion army. She's been known to cook a reasonably mean boar stew - chased off a family of bad-tempered bears with the smell of it more than once. I'd imagine if she added just a pinch less salt and more pepper and served it to the Dominion troops, we could all go home tomorrow."
The Imperial cocked one eyebrow, half-smirking. "Wait...she chased bears away with it?"
"You heard right, friend. The smell will knock you onto your ass faster than a stiff Skyrim wind in the heart of winter. But the stuff itself? Eating it? Gods, man. It's better not to mention what the stuff will do to one's guts in polite company."
The Redguard's hearty laughter continued to ease the Imperial's fear and doubt. Enough so, that he found himself able to laugh as well - maybe not quite as hard. But all the same he was genuinely grateful.
And as quickly as the amiable soldier had appeared beside young Roscius, he vanished forthwith with a final brilliant smile and warm wink. For the blares of horns sounded in front of the ranks and summoned all of the officers to their positions. Adrianus nodded, clapping an encouraging hand on the Imperial's shoulder once more and wove his way through the lines until Roscius could no longer see him. The oppressive sense of aloneness took the latter again and he gasped for breath slightly as he looked forward. He stared ahead, waiting to navigate the impending storm of clashing steel, fiery spells, and spilling blood. And when the lines finally began to move and march out, it was as if his feet were no longer touching the ground. It was as if he were being spirited forth. As if he had fainted and never lost consciousness.
Into the abyss...
...
The memories swirled and faded into the Sea of Ghosts with the snapping of the ocean breeze, the sounds thundering and at last declining. It took him another few seconds to realize that he had in fact fallen to his knees in these moments, overcome. Ghost eyes glinted with welling tears. He would not allow himself to sob. But the sorrow still choked his words as he slowly stood up. "Where are you?"
Distant clanging of ships' bells and the groan of a fog horn immediately followed his aching questions, almost seeming to offer answers incapable of parsing. The winds stirred, blowing his gray-streaked black hair across his face. Some of the strands clung to his tear-dampened cheeks. He did not push them away. Rather he let them remain, and returned his attention to his pendant. So many times had he tried to rid himself of it. Not long ago he had come to this very stretch of coastline and held it over his head to cast it into the sea. And yet, it had stayed around his neck and dangled near his heart. I wonder...do you still have yours? Even now? Are you still wearing it? Aquila?
He glared through his tears at the metal emblem, however, as his sorrow slipped into anger. "Dead? Dead?! I thought of all of us, you'd be the last to go, you know. But you've gone. Again! Gone! You've gone and abandoned us to our madness for the last time! Damn this cursed thing!"
His fist clenched around it, desiring to rip it from the chain. But the smiling face of the Redguard man flashed anew in his mind. And he loosened his grip.
"What have they done...what have they done...useless....useless..."
His voice wavered and was lost on the increasing winds, winds which brought the encroaching fog in closer to the shore. After gingerly replacing the pendant under his shirt, he pulled his hood up over his head. The afternoon would finish waning soon, and the fading sun would at last be overcome by the bleakness. And he would need to return to his solitary space in the inn, as much as he dreaded walking through the doors of the well-lit and overly friendly establishment. So he sighed, shook his head sadly, and turned to walk back with dragging feet.
But as he took a few steps past the lighthouse, a familiar figure stepped out from behind the structure. In reflex, one hand moved quickly to wipe away residual tears, and he forced a sarcastic smile. Clodius also wore a grin, one not particularly warm but nevertheless enthusiastic. It was one Roscius had grown accustomed to seeing and he had learned to expect good news whenever he saw it.
"Dogging my steps, I see."
"I figured I might find you here." Clodius chuckled wryly. "It's always one of two places with you - the tavern or the water. Mind you which one you visit before the other, else it could end tragically."
The elder Imperial crossed his arms and frowned. "Yes, yes, you're very clever. Now to the point, man!"
"Well, I knew you'd want to know the most encouraging developments as soon as they came down the pike."
"Well, yes. Of course."
"Another victory for the Righteous."
"Oh?"
"Yes. It seems several Legionnaires were caught unawares near Eldergleam Sanctuary. Reports say several dead. And, I think, we may be in for some real advances soon. Not just this flighty skirmish stuff."
"You think so, do you? Well, out with it!"
"Chimera's extended vacation in the Rift is due to his intelligence gathering. Or, so they say. He's already been a guest in the camp there, and has spoken to the commanding officer. I would think that a little more mischief in that Hold won't be as distant of a hope as we thought previously."
Roscius rubbed his lightly bearded chin in thought. "Hmm. It's still being contested, last time we both checked. This could make things even more interesting."
"Indeed. He witnessed the aftermath of the first strike there, near some old ruins. He's been clearing the path for an even more ambitious set of moves. I'd honestly like to see the looks on the faces of both Tullius and Ulfric when it happens. Idiots, the pair of them. Honest to gods."
"Hmpf. Again, actually, neither one is an idiot. And that's what makes the irony infinitely sweeter. At the end of all of this, they'll each be staggering around whining and wondering how they could have missed the signs, how they could have lost control of their own little worlds. And somewhere, someplace not far off, I - or my ghost - shall be laughing my damned arse off."
"You and me both, brother." Clodius assented with a crooked grin.
"It's true what they say, there isn't enough blood on Nirn to atone for what was done. For what's still being done. But I for one have never been accused of being modest in any of my endeavors."
"Certainly not."
"If Chimera is getting the lay of the land for us there, then all the better. I just hope that he keeps his head and doesn't do anything...foolish. You know how easily distracted he is and always has been. He's very impressionable. Even now."
"Oh, I think he's grown more wary, more worldly as the years have gone by. Remember, it has been a few decades. He's come a long way."
"Yes. Yes, I know..." Roscius sighed and shifted his glance back to the now choppier sea. Clodius tilted his head in question.
"You sound...almost worried."
"...No," Was the delayed and leaden reply, "I...I'm quite confident that it's lingering guilt rather than worry."
"Guilt?" Dark eyes blinked, brow furrowed. "Guilt about what?"
"Chimera...he was too young. So young then." The icy waves that so fascinated him threatened to send up a new onslaught of vivid recollections, of shadows and specters of years gone by. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to fight the images. But he could not banish them. Even the more pleasant vision of the wily red-head's grinning countenance was not enough to assuage the shame stabbing his gut and chest.
The other Imperial shook his head spiritlessly, sighing inaudibly. "War is unforgiving. Merciless. We know that better than anyone."
"Never should have been there. Should have let him go."
"He...he was very good at what he did. What he still does. None of us were the wiser because that's how he wanted it. Illusion is...it's a very powerful thing-"
"Bloody hell, man, that's not the point! They knew. That Thalmor witch. And all the rest. He was just a boy then, for godsakes!"
Clodius blinked, surprised by the other man's vehemence. Such displays of that unceasing inner turbulence were not unknown to him. But ones that unveiled such palpable sadness were decidedly rare. All he could do was gloomily lower his head, casting his sight to the cold ground.
"I...I know."
"They should have let him go." Roscius repeated in a nigh-whisper. Fresh tears stung and threatened to pour forth anew. But he sniffled harshly in an effort to stifle it. "Damn. You know, I think I might be willing to broker a deal with a Daedra if it meant I could lose all of the memories."
Clodius cleared his throat awkwardly and rasped, "As would I."
He knew more than likely what it was that Roscius saw before his distant and pained eyes. He knew more than likely what it was that he heard echoing in his ears. For he saw and heard it all as well. He saw the agonized and terrified faces of his comrades. He heard the sickening cracks of their bones breaking, their heart-stopping, piercing screams. And he heard the especially high-pitched shrieks of pain and horror from the youngest one among them. All of it, again. And like Roscius, the anger rose up within him. Unlike Roscius he did not let it shake his body, instead standing still and appearing dispassionate.
And he stood by reticent as the other man turned his bitterly mournful gaze downward and slowly hiked back up to the city on the hill.
Soft mist and low rumbles of thunder warned of rain. But neither man cared.
Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
*PANTING* Chapter 19...is finally done! I apologize humbly for the wait, guys. Just been a crazy month and a half. But I hope it was worth the wait. Revelations, revelations everywhere!
Also, for those who enjoy trivia...the last scene of Chapter 19 was written as I listened to this original song from the Dragonborn DLC, one of my favorites from the whole game:
It's the song I hear when I read and think about Roscius at the shore here. Sad and beautiful music. Fitting, I think.
I apologize humbly for the wait, guys. Just been a crazy month and a half. But I hope it was worth the wait. Revelations, revelations everywhere! Also, for those who enjoy trivia...the last scene of Chapter 19 was written as I listened to this original song from the Dragonborn DLC, one of my favorites from the whole game:
It's the song I hear when I read and think about Roscius at the shore here. Sad and beautiful music. Fitting, I think.
Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
Just wanted to post a quick THANK YOU again to everyone who's reading - new and old readers alike. I appreciate you all very, very much and am very grateful for your enduring patience. I've been at work on the next chapter already and I suspect the turnaround will be sufficiently shorter than the previous chapter, certainly. In any case, thank you for your readership and I hope you continue to enjoy the tale.
I'm also toying with the idea of using my blog as a way to post story-related tidbits, like character/historical info, illustrations, etc. If I do so, I'll keep you posted.
I'm also toying with the idea of using my blog as a way to post story-related tidbits, like character/historical info, illustrations, etc. If I do so, I'll keep you posted.
rizen
A to the K homeboy
I don't know if you're aware of this, but just recently Amazon have announced that they will be going into the business of publishing fanfiction for Kimble (perhaps due to the success of 50 shades of grey originally being Twilight fanfiction?). Anyways, I think the contract is geared towards something like 20-35% profit for the author (dependent on size of work)...as for the other details of the contract, dunno...Might be something worth looking into, Docta.
Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
Hey, that is very cool, Rizen! Thanks for passing that on! I will most definitely be looking to it tonight, check out the contractual details. I'd be blown away if it was something I could actually do.
Thanks again!
