Prologue

Decimus crouched at the foot of the crumbling tower. He was in Helgen, many months after he was almost executed at this same spot. The small city was barely recognizable, reduced to the burned out shells of buildings, and a crumbling keep.

He had only avoided losing his head at the intervention of a dragon. A dragon who had thereafter proceeded to destroy Helgen, slaughtering the inhabitants. He himself had only escaped with the help of a Nord. Ralof of Riverwood. Poor bastard had know idea who he was helping escape, or he might have thrown him into the jaws of the beast. He had killed more Stormcloaks than he cared to count.

The Sicarius. That's what they called me. He thought. He had always hated the name, but it served a purpose. If he wanted information he merely had to flash the black hand tattooed over his heart. What had once been famed as the mark of the Dark Brotherhood was now his personal crest. But not one he was proud of. He had been far younger when he had joined them, scarcely out of his teens, and yet he grew to be the most feared assassin that Tamriel had known in centuries. It had all started with revenge. Not for himself, but for someone who could not do the deed themselves.

A cruel old woman, Grelod the Kind who tormented the orphans of Riften. It had been easy. Too easy he now thought. To take life without a second thought was a dark thing indeed.

The next morning he had awakened within a shack with four others. One, a woman clad in black and red armor, the other three bound, and blindfolded against the wall.

The woman extended him an invitation to her family if he would pay her back the kill he had stolen.

The three prisoners met a swift end. While he may not have known it then, he did it out of the urge to be accepted. The offer of companionship was irresistible to someone who had never known it. To someone who unknowingly craved it. That urge led him down the darkest three years of his life. His contracts grew more and more important, and more dangerous.

Then had come the war. Ulfric Stormcloak murdered High King Torygg, and plunged the province into a bloody conflict, dividing its people. Then Decimus received a contract to kill the emperor. Titus Mede II. But not just him. It would be a string of assassinations. First The emperor's cousin, her death would force the old man to come to Skyrim to pay his respects. He had snuck aboard the Katariah and killed the old man in his sleep.

When he returned to the Brotherhood's Sanctuary however he had found it overrun with Penitus Oculatus agents and those he had come to regard as family slain. He stayed within the shadows and watched, helpless as they burned the hall and all inside. He hid in the trees the entire night, only venturing into the Sanctuary after the Agents had long since gone Astrid, miraculously had survived, just barely holding onto life.

"Run." She had whispered as she pressed her Blade of Woe into his hand. "The Brotherhood is finished. But you may yet live."

"How did they the Sanctuary?" Decimus had demanded. The thirst for revenge grew inside him.

Astrid gave him a sad smile and relinquished her hold on life, passing into Sithis' void.

Though he felt a coward for doing it he had run, fleeing Skyrim he thought forever. He gained passage on a ship to Solstheim and upon reaching the island disappeared into the mountains on the islands north. After another year of solitary living he entered Raven Rock for the first time since his flight and advertised himself as a sellsword, willing to protect anyone for the right price. After several successful job he decided to visit his birth home in Morrowind. Blacklight was where he had been born and where he had lived for his first years. His family was one of the only Imperial ones in the entire city.

His mother, a tall, dark haired Imperial woman had died five years after his birth leaving him in the care of her sister, who had been unable to produce children of her own. He had never known his father, but his mother had told him stories. He was a Nord, Tall and muscled, a warrior. It was no wonder his mother had fallen for him. He did not fall for her however, No self respecting Nordic man would build a life with an Imperial. He had left her after she confessed that she was with child. A Milkdrinker for an heir? Never. It would only bring shame to his family name. A name Decimus never was told. His mother had sought to erase all image of his father, but after her passing he had learned small bits about him.

Decimus had left the village at the age of fifteen, a couple of septims in his pocket and a steel dagger at his hip. He had snuck across the border and entered, Morrowind beginning his new life. He was a fool in those days, falling in with all the wrong sort. All in an attempt to bury the feelings of abandonment. The burning resentment he felt for his father for leaving them, and to a lesser extent, resentment at his mother for giving up because the man she thought she loved had left her.

So from Solstheim he went, retracing his path across Morrowind until he reached Blacklight. He had crossed the border near the small outpost known as Refugee's Rest and then proceeded to Windhelm. He had only ever been to the city once, before the war had started and he wanted to visit once more.

It had rotted to the core. The racism he had experienced in that place left him feeling sick. The abuse anyone who wasn't a Nord suffered was terrible. He left Windhelm, stole a horse and traveled at a breakneck pace, making the normally monthlong journey to Solitude in two weeks. He had marched straight to Castle Dour, Tullius base of operations. He demanded to speak with the general alone and then began to spin his tale.

He admitted to everything, the assassinations from nearly three years prior, the killing of the emperor, and finally his identity as the Sicarius.

"If you wish to execute me, then do so." He had told Tullius. "But I assure you that I am far more valuable to you alive."

Tullius had agreed to his terms, that his identity remain a secret, and that he could operate with large amounts of freedom when engaging the Stormcloaks.

Unfortunately his identity being a secret was a problem when he was ambushed by Imperial soldiers. They had just wrangled up a group of Stormcloaks, and he, not clad in the standard Imperial armor was mistaken for a rebel. When he resisted they had beat him into unconsciousness.

Then he had awakened in the cart, bound and bruised...

"You okay?" Came a voice from behind him. A warm hand touched his shoulder. Lydia.

"Yeah. Just lost in thought." Decimus sighed rising and turning to face her. "We've still got a long way to go if we're going to end this war. Tullius wants me back in two days time."

Lydia gave a coy smile.

"Then why don't we make the most of the time we have?" She said, a slightly seductive tone creeping into her voice.

She turned and stalked, a suggestive sway to her hips, towards the old barracks where they had set up camp.

Decimus took one last look at the chopping block, an then followed her, the smallest trace of a smile on his lips.

Author's Note: The rest of the story will be continuing on from Decimus escape from Helgen after he was mistaken for a spy.

Side Note: Decimus armor is a retexture of the Letho armor done by Elianora, and since Letho doesn't exist in Skyrim's lore, the set will be reffered to as the King-Killer's armor(Since that's what Letho & Decimus both are.)

I also use the Bijin Warmaidens replacer by rxkx22, and the Lydia in that pack is the Lydia in this story.