I: Awakening

The stranger walked in that Heartfire afternoon, the click and creak of the front door the only indication someone had entered. He stood in the doorway, his gaze sliding over the odds and ends adorning the walls and shelves. Above him there was movement: the scuffling footsteps of a careful descent down stairs.

Calixto Corrium crept down from his bedroom in the loft, gripping a short walking stick with wrinkled and shaking hands. The elderly Imperial didn't get many visitors in his House of Curiosities, save for the bored Legionnaire recruit with time on his hands and not enough gold to get drunk on.

"Good day," Calixto greeted, his raspy voice clawing its way out of his scratchy throat. The stranger regarded Calixto, but the elder had to turn away as a mild fit of coughs overcame him.

"Are you all right?" the stranger asked as the last hack tore its way out of Calixto's lungs.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Calixto assured, "Yes, yes, just fine." He was old, and the harsh, cold air of Windhelm had become harder to bear in his twilight years. "You've no doubt come to see my collection," Calixto said to his guest, clearing his throat. "Only two septims, and I can give you the full tour."

The stranger seemed to consider this for a moment in silence, then said, "I'd very much like that." Calixto watched as the man, a fellow Imperial, removed a small black coin purse from the pocket of his worn leather trousers.

There was something about this man that put Calixto on edge, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. From the rigid way the man stood to his eyes, so dark a shade of brown that swallowed his pupils, to the inky blackness of his hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. He moved fluidly, hardly making a sound.

Calixto wondered if he might not be from the Thieves' Guild. They'd grown to be quite the mob in the past decade, aided no doubt by Jarl Black-Briar down in Riften. If that was the case, Calixto had a way of dealing with him. There was a reason, after all, why the House of Curiosities had not seen a break-in in years.

Septims in hand, Calixto began the tour as usual, describing many of the treasures he and his sister had collected in their travels together. Though it had been a long time since her passing, he still felt the sting of her loss in his soul every day. It never ceased to plague him, and his failure to bring her back had nearly driven him to suicide.

Falling silent while the stranger regarded Ysgrammor's soup spoon, Calixto tried not to remember the grisly murders and his total failure in his attempt to bring his sister to life. He hadn't thought of that time in years, having buried it away in his mind, never to be unearthed. He'd been fortunate to get away with the deaths of five young woman while entirely submerged in delusion; he need not think of it further.

He was a dying man, after all.

Calixto roused himself from his thoughts and began the next part of the tour, taking the stranger into the smaller room off the to east of the main part of the house. This once had been his bedroom, but he had had it remodeled into an armory of sorts. Here he displayed the weapons he and his sister had used in their adventures, as well as several pieces he'd bought over the years.

Racks of swords, maces and axes mounted each wall, glittering sharply in the candlelight. Bows both mundane and enchanted hung along mounts, displayed alongside their sharp arrows. Cases held daggers and knives, sharpened and polished, and one wall proudly displayed several staves, offset by a set of black soul gems.

Empty of course. The message was clear to any would-be thief.

If the stranger was rattled by the collection, it didn't show on his stoic face. Calixto spoke of the weapons and how he had acquired a few of them. His gaze fell on a small silver dagger locked in a case beside the door. It shined dimly, the silver surface darkened permanently. No matter how many times Calixto had cleaned and polished that blade, he was never able to remove the stains.

The stranger walked about the room, looking at each sword and axe, his hands clasped behind his back like he was doing an inspection. His leather-clad feet hardly made a sound as he walked, even over the creakier of floorboards. He moved gracefully and with purpose, and Calixto eyed him carefully as he paused before a case on the far side of the room.

"Tell me about this one," he said over his shoulder, and Calixto joined him by the case.

He gazed down at an ebony dagger, displayed alone. It was an ugly blade, its edge rough and hardly sharp enough to cut butter. The hilt was curved awkwardly, making it hard to wield. "I bought this off of a Khajiit caravan some time ago," he explained, looking to the stranger's face again. "I was told it held a powerful enchantment."

"Does it?" the stranger asked, meeting Calixto's gaze.

Calixto felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. "I haven't had a chance to find out," he admitted. He hated holding the thing. It felt wrong, somehow.

Once more, Calixto was thrown into a fit of coughs. Must have been the dust in that room. He didn't often get a chance to clean in there. He turned back to the man to excuse himself, and gasped when he saw the stranger was holding the dagger in his hand.

The case had been locked up tight. How the man had opened it so quickly and so quietly, Calixto couldn't be certain. The light in the room flickered, as if the flames in the sconces along the wall had been blown by a draft. The room seemed to grow colder.

"Put that back," Calixto demanded, taking several steps away from the man. He was already charging a powerful lightning spell. He may be dying, but he had once been a respected mage of considerable power.

"This blade hungers," the stranger spoke slowly, his voice having dropped two octaves. He peered right into Calixto's eyes, and the old man felt frozen on the spot. "You understand that hunger, don't you?"

Calixto felt his stomach drop and the spell died in his hand. There was no way this man could have known about Calixto's murders. He was a stranger; Calixto had never seen him before, and he would have remembered someone like this. If he did know, however, he could not be allowed to leave this place alive.

Steeling his nerves, Calixto glanced toward the case holding the silver dagger. Every death played behind his eyes as he said firmly, "It's time for you to go."

"My time was long ago," the stranger said, "but now I've returned. It is you the Dread Father calls for."

Calixto's eyes went wide. This man was Dark Brotherhood, but that was impossible. The order had been destroyed for good years ago. And who would perform the Black Sacrament against him? No one knew!

From some ancient place in his mind, survival instincts came to life. Calixto turned to run, but he tripped over feet grown clumsy from age and fear. He went dow, slamming his head hard against the cold wood of the floor. He groaned as stars exploded behind his eyes, and he could barely see the leather-clad feet of his assassin in front of his glazed eyes.

He felt the blade enter his body, almost as if his flesh welcomed it in. It didn't hurt. It felt almost comforting as the cold enveloped him, as if he'd been waiting for this moment for fifteen years.

The stranger stood over Calixto's body, gazing at the blade in his hand, its cold hilt in his colder hand. Its ebony blade, bathed in the blood of a murderer, appeared to grow sharper before his eyes. He ran a finger down the curved blade, the metal cutting flesh that did not bleed.

"My friend," he whispered to the Blade of Woe, "how I have missed you."