(AN: When i first set out with this story, i was making an epic high fantasy story along the lines of Conan the Barbarian. By the time i reached The Dragon and the Bear, i had more or less accepted the popular opinion that the Stormcloaks were racist and Eirik had to accept that and decide where to go from there. But now i've realized that most of the "racism" was just propaganda that everyone - especially my brother - bought without questioning it. Hell, i never questioned The Bear of Markarth until i read the Stormcloak Bible. But as we will be seeing Placators more in Cyrodiil, the truth will definitely be appearing. The question is whether Crixus will accept the truth or run back into his comfortable little zone of obstinate ignorance?)

(Also Urtius' comments about Selvia's "unnatural affections" refer to the fact that, aside from being single [he tells everyone she's gay and therefore won't supply Anvil with an heir], she is not your typical Colovian noble in that she's not obsessed with Japanese [-cough- i mean Akaviri] relics and culture. It's part of my biting back against the heavy Japanophilia rampant in the Elder Scrolls [started by Kirkbride who idolized everything eastern, as we saw in Morrowind]. Just because it a] came from the east or b] was held by the elves/Dwemer/Japanese/Akaviri does not make it intrinsically superior to anything established from the north, south or west.)

(Oh, and where do you see me taking Lethia, Weetos? I'd like to see what your idea would be. Maybe it's spot on, maybe it missed the mark altogether.)


Request of a Personal Nature

As soon as Crixus believed he was safe to leave, he darted back into the city and made his way back to the Count's Arms. Up the stairs and into the room he went, where Lethia was none too happy about seeing him or having him rip off her cloak. She slapped him around a bit, but after the second strike, Crixus seized her hand and told her everything he had experienced.

"And just who are the Thalmor?" she asked. "I remember you talking about them when you were besieging Solitude."

"The leadership of the Aldmeri Dominion," Crixus stated. "Their agents were in Skyrim to keep the White-Gold Concordant upheld by persecuting the worshipers of Talos."

"And who or what is Talos?" Lethia asked.

"A Nord born in High Rock," Crixus stated. "A murderer, back-stabbing oath-breaker, traitor and warmonger...who became deified when he died."

Lethia scoffed. "A human god! Don't be ridiculous, your kind are not meant for starlight. It is a gift of mer-kind, and only for mer-kind."

"Well, in addition to that," Crixus stated. "He wasn't a good person. If anyone should be deified, it should be someone with the qualities that one expects a god to have."

"Capriciousness?" Lethia asked. "Complete apathy for anyone but themselves? Disregard for life? This Talos certainly seems to have those qualities."

"That's not what I mean and you know it!" Crixus retorted.

"Why?" Lethia asked, a cheeky grin on her face. "I've heard what you say in your sleep, raging against the gods that made you. Do you hold a different standard for others and not for yourself?"

"Shut the fuck up," Crixus stated. "You know nothing, Lethia. You have no place to lecture me on what I do or who I do or do not believe in."

"And whose place is it?" she asked. "The white slave who you tried to kill?"

"Shut up, or I swear I'll slap the b*tch right out of you," Crixus threatened.

"Violence, the way of the slave races," she stated. "How are you any different to the white Nords?" With that, Crixus suddenly punched Lethia in the face, sending her crumbling to the floor, her hands over her face.

"I saved your ungrateful life, b*tch!" Crixus shouted, an accusatory finger pointed down at Lethia's fallen form. "If it weren't for me, the Grey Spirit would have killed you! So don't you ever fucking liken me to those barbaric little shites again! Do you hear me? Do you fucking hear me?" Lethia looked up at him with shock in her blue eyes. Suddenly a horrific image passed over Crixus' eyes and Lethia became a six year old Colovian boy with a mop of black hair and his hand, pointing down at her angrily, became a thin, grey-blue appendage.

"No!" Crixus shouted, drawing his hand back in fright. "No, I'm not like her! I'm a good man, I've always been!"

They did not speak to each other that night, and Lethia slept on the floor, curled up in a ball in the corner while Crixus fell asleep on the bed. He did not sleep long, for his night was filled with images of a place with men in mage robes. He snapped awake, realizing that he had completely forgotten the plan. Waking Lethia, he gave her back her robe and took the rope, then stole out of the Count's Arms, making for the docks. They had to return to the castle before dawn.

It was two in the morning when they arrived at the docks and rowed the little boat over to the isle upon which the castle stood. Then, with the rope, Crixus scaled the castle walls. It was dark and very late and the guard had dozed off momentarily on his watch. For a moment Crixus considered killing him: he had failed his duty, he deserved to die. But he had Lethia in tow and things would get complicated, especially when his new family learned that there were dead guards, so Crixus went on his way back down the tower and went in search of his room. This took longer than he thought, for as soon as he was within the walls, he had to find where his room was. That took at least another hour and by the time he found it, both of them were exhausted. Rather than wake Petruvius up at such a late hour, Crixus picked the lock and quietly crept into the room, sealing it quietly behind once Lethia had entered. Once inside, he gave Lethia the bed while he stayed awake. The dream he had seen was still on his mind and he wasn't feeling interested in going to bed.


When dawn finally arrived, Crixus was standing over Petruvius, watching him sleep. As he had not had a good lark in a while - whether killing a Nord or bedding a woman - Crixus wanted to have a little fun with his squire. Taking the Nightingale Blade in his hand and kicking Petruvius awake, he put the sword to his squire's neck, whose eyes swelled open when he saw the sword at his neck.

"You failed your orders, soldier," Crixus grumbled, deepening his voice and trying to keep his Colovian drawl as hidden as possible. "Last night, someone broke into this room and stole your master away. Your life is forfeit for this failure."

"I d-don't know how my master disappeared," Petruvius stammered. "But I swear, by all the gods, that I never failed in my watch!"

Crixus chuckled as he removed the point from his squire's neck, assuming his natural voice. "You should have seen the look on your face, Petruvius. I thought you'd almost shite your pants."

"Sir!" Petruvius exclaimed. "B-By all the gods, where have you been? The Countess was worried sick about you, she almost had me arrested for losing you!"

"I was indisposed," Crixus stated. "But now I'm back, and I have to speak to the Countess. For now, however, redeem your failure to keep me out last night by keeping watch over this one." He pointed to Lethia, asleep in the bed. "No matter what she says, what she calls you or how much she demands it, you don't let her out of this room. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Petruvius nodded. "Thank you, sir."

Crixus grinned as he tossed the sword back onto his pile of things, then made his way out the door to look for the Countess. His first decision was to seek out the throne room, which he had much better luck finding than his own room in the dead of the night. As he entered the throne room, which had a few petitioners there, he saw the Countess speaking to someone by the throne. Crixus' entrance was announced and he saw the person speaking to the Countess turn towards him: it was Livia Maro, Severus' wife who hated him. With a scowl upon her face, she picked up her skirts and left the throne room in a huff. A few minutes later, the Redguard steward Casimir approached Crixus.

"Her Highness is busy hearing petitions this morning," he said. "Any other requests you have can go through me."

"Actually this is something I should be telling her alone," Crixus stated. "It's about...Urtius."

The Redguard nodded knowingly. "I'll see if I can give you a private audience."

Casimir the Redguard made his way to the Countess and muttered into her ear. She nodded, then gestured to the people and Casimir nodded. Selvia then rose up from her throne and gestured for Crixus to approach. He followed her into a side room, which she closed behind them.

"Where have you been?" she asked. "I had half the guard searching all through the town and the castle all day yesterday! We thought you'd been kidnapped!"

"I was on your business," Crixus replied. "I sought out Cassius Urtius, as you instructed."

"So Casimir told me," Selvia nodded. "And what have you learned?"

"Something about a cave," Crixus stated. "A place where he might be hiding. Do you know what this could be about?"

"There are a few caves in this region," Selvia replied. "There's the old Smoke Hole cave north of Gweden Farm, where we used to play as children, the Brittlerock cave on the border of county Kvatch, Bleak Mine near Sadryn Drad's estate and the Hrota cave north of Whitmond Farm just north of the city. Any one of those could be this cave you speak of."

"Do I have your permission to search for him, then?" Crixus asked. "He's planning something on the 6th of this month, possibly to usurp your throne."

"Only that, eh?" she asked. "That's not exactly news to me, my dear nephew. Cassius was Count Urtius' illegitimate son, and his father decided to make him his heir, though he had no true-born son. The promotion was not recognized and, because his true-born daughter had married my grandfather, we were part of the family. As your mother died young, the title of Count passed to my father and his children: but since Severus, my brother, chose to join the Penitus Oculatus, he forsook all titles and claims, according to his vows, and the titles passed to me."

"Why didn't it pass to Uncle Surius?" Crixus asked.

"The title would have passed down to him," she replied. "Had Gentonius died with no children. But Count Urtius was upset that his throne passed out of his grasp and raised his bastard son to hate us, telling him that we stole the throne from him. So far he's only just been a rabble-rouser, stirring up trouble here and there. He's never had any great power, none to be anything greater than a nuisance to my family."

"Not this time," Crixus sighed. As much as it pained him to admit it, he would be betraying family once again by hiding this information from his aunt. "I have it on good authority that he has greater help, help though that would put the throne of Anvil in his hands."

"What help could possibly give him such power?" Selvia asked. "The Count of Kvatch is too busy knocking horns with the Merchants Guild to be bothered with things beyond his borders."

"Someone bigger than the Count of Kvatch," Crixus sighed. "Surius mentioned them at dinner two nights ago. The people from the Imperial City whom no one crosses."

Selvia's face blanched. "Oh, Divines save us! Surely you don't mean the...the Thalmor?"

"Yes," Crixus began, then did a double-take. "You-You know of them?"

She sighed. "They have an embassy in the Imperial City and their agents have dealings with the Synod. As Uncle Surius said, no one crosses them."

"I encountered them in Skyrim," Crixus stated. "They were there to keep the ignorant Nords from worshiping Talos, as according to the White-Gold Concordant. Why they would be here is beyond me."

"They have more sinister aims here in Cyrodiil," Selvia replied, her voice rising in anger. "They are the leading class of the Aldmeri Dominion, the ones who invaded the Empire and killed our people!" She was practically livid with these words. "I may be forced to have the Synod in my city, but I refuse to deal with them! If Urtius is in league with them, he's as good as a traitor and must be stopped!"

"I-I'm sorry," Crixus stammered. "I didn't mean to anger you."

"No, it wasn't you," Selvia sighed. "It's not your fault. The War was different for all of us. For me, I remember those days as a time of fear and terror. My father, grandfather and aunt were killed by the Dominion, while the rest of us lived at the mansion in horror that, any moment, they would attack and kill us all. When I became Countess, I swore that I would never let my people be enslaved to that same kind of fear ever again."

"A worthy vow," Crixus nodded.

"Now, then," Selvia sighed, wiping her eyes. "Urtius has revealed himself. He must not be allowed to carry out his plan, especially if he is in league with...them. I'll send the guards out to search the caves. Perhaps we'll catch him, or at least thwart his plans for the time being."

"Good," Crixus grinned.

"Perhaps I will let you join the hunt," Selvia stated. "But that must come later. For now, I must return to the people and hear their petitions. We will speak of this again later this evening."

At this, Selvia left the private room and returned to speak with those in her court. Crixus, meanwhile, left the room and went to seek out Petruvius once again. He was determined to speak further with someone who had experienced war with him - as he could not have Gorak or Shaddar with him, people who knew war as deeply and intimately as he had, Petruvius was the only one who had even an inkling of what true battle was - and who could devote to him all of his time.

When he came to the room, he found Lethia curled up on the corner of the bed, looking like a spider hiding from strangers. Petruvius was awake and alert and answered the door when Crixus entered, telling him that nothing untoward had happened while he was away and that she took that posture as soon as she awoke, saw that Crixus was not there and caught a glimpse of him instead. Crixus then told Petruvius all that had happened that night in the Count's Arms, leaving out his treatment of Lethia.

"This is most dire news, sir," Petruvius said. "If the Thalmor are here in Cyrodiil..."

"Don't be a fool, Petruvius," Crixus replied.

"But after all we've seen, sir," Petruvius continued. "How can you deny that they're involved? You heard it with your own ears!"

"Just because it was an Altmer," Crixus 'reasoned'. "Doesn't automatically make him a Thalmor. He-He probably was acting of his own accord and-and used the Thalmor's name just to scare that mongrel Urtius into submission."

"But everything in Skyrim, sir..."

"What about Skyrim?" Crixus retorted. "They were only there because Ulfric Storm-cunt had to b*tch and moan and make a fuss about worshiping Talos."

"That doesn't explain why they were on Solstheim, like you yourself said, sir," Petruvius continued. "Or why they were in Winterhold, or what happened at Solitude."

"Just whose side are you on, squire?" Crixus replied.

"Yours, sir, of course!" Petruvius nodded. "It's only, well, if I may be so bold..."

Crixus groaned. "What is it?"

"Why are you so determined," Petruvius asked. "To dismiss the Thalmor threat as insignificant? We've clearly seen just how deeper their infection has been, how can you possibly deny it now?"

"Because there's no proof they've been anywhere in the Empire but Skyrim," Crixus angrily retorted. "And there's no proof that they weren't in the Empire before Ulfric slaughtered everyone in Markarth and openly defied the White-Gold Concordant. The Empire would have noticed if someone were trying to influence them, they wouldn't let the Dominion have any place in their lands."

"But you've seen that they have infiltrated our lands," Petruvius replied.

"Shut up, servant!" Crixus shouted. "Shut the fuck up! You don't know shite, Petruvius! Do you hear me? Nothing!"

"Alright, I don't know anything," Petruvius relented. "It was just a question."

"It's a stupid fucking question is what it is!" Crixus retorted. "And it smacks of treason. The Empire is strong. We defeated the Dominion, and I'll not have any more talk about the Thalmor infiltrating every echelon of the Empire. That's fear-mongering and treasonous; the kind of bull-shite Ulfric used to seduce the weak and disloyal to his cause. Now if what we're planning here will have any chance of success, I will need you to be loyal to the Empire and to me. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir, whatever you wish," Petruvius bowed.

Crixus angrily walked over to the window and gazed out at the Gold Coast. There was calm in the sea and respite, an escape from the truth. For he knew that the Dominion were everywhere and, despite this knowledge, refused to accept the truth. The truth, for him, would mean the destruction of everything he believed in, everything he had fought for and worshiped. The truth would mean an even worse defeat than the death of the Emperor: the truth meant that the Empire had lost the war and that all the lives lost - his father, his grandfather, Selvia's father, Surius' first wife, the children in the Imperial City, the brave men and women of the 9th Legion - would have been for nothing.

Better to believe a comforting lie than accept the truth that he was wrong.

"Now, then," Crixus said. "We've got a manhunt to commence. Are you with me?"

"As always, sir," Petruvius returned.

"And you, Lethia?" Crixus asked. She unfurled from her position at Crixus' words, though remained in her corner.

"I would seek out those learned in the magical arts," she muttered. "That I may increase my power."

"That might be a good idea," Crixus stated. "And it seems that we've got right here a perfect match: the Thief, the Warrior and the Mage. Together we'll be invincible."

"Unfortunately," Petruvius said. "We might not be able to find anyone interested in magical education, unless it's with the Synod or the College of Whispers."

"That will not last," Crixus shook his head. "As bad as the Oblivion Crisis was, we cannot let fear of magic to rule the Empire. If we allow fear to bind us, we will become as vile, base and ignorant as the Nords. Gods, even they have their little College of Winterhold! This is Cyrodiil, the cosmopolitan heart of the Empire, the last hope for reason, justice and civilized man in Tamriel! We won't let those ignorant little snow-backs have anything over us! I swear to you all, today begins a new day for the Empire. We will reform the Mages Guild and show the world that we are still a beacon of enlightenment and magical education."

"A rousing speech, slave," Lethia stated. "But where will you find those to join your cause?"

"There are bound to be other people like Marcurio," Crixus stated. "People who are dissatisfied with the dealings of the Synod and the College of Whispers. All we need to do is find them. Then, once we have enough people, we will seek out where the seats of power of the Synod and the College of Whispers lie and we will overthrow them, demanding the reinstatement of the Mages Guild."

"If I may ask, sir," Petruvius interjected. "Why is there a need to reinstate the Mages Guild?"

"Were you not listening?" Crixus asked. "I've already said that the time for being gripped by Nord-like fears is over. The Oblivion Crisis has long-since ended: isn't it time the people of Cyrodiil got over their foolish superstitions and fears and reinstated the Mages Guild? Gods, we're Colovians, not Nords! We should be past such superstitions!"

"So what do we do?" Lethia asked.

"I want both of you to frequent the Flowing Bowl and the Count's Arms at odd intervals today," Crixus stated. "Spread the word that the Mages Guild is back. Maybe if we spread the word enough, those with the desire to join will make themselves known."

"What will you do, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"I'll ask the Countess," Crixus replied. "If I can join the hunt for Urtius. I'd like to see just who his contacts might be. Aside from the Merchants Guild, there were others that night in the Count's Arms. I want to know who they are. Also, I have some questions for Decimus about the Fighters Guild."


While Lethia and Petruvius spread rumors about the resurgence of the Mages Guild, Crixus was spending his time wandering about the castle, looking for someone. Like many in Tamriel, he put great stock in magic and, if he ever decided to take the initiative in becoming Emperor, he would have to have magic on his side. For, to him, the magic of the Mages Guild and skilled sorcerers was permissible, unlike the god-like crutch of the Voice.

But he also would need the Fighters Guild, if only to have those with whom he could hone his own fighting skills. Therefore he sought out Decimus, whom he had seen going into the Fighters Guild hall in town. Therefore he went in search of his father, to see if he had indeed gone there as he had before-times. After ten minutes of searching, he found Uncle Surius on one of the castle towers, staring out at the bay.

"My good uncle!" Crixus greeted. "I've been looking for you. I would like to have a word."

"Ah, Servius!" Surius grinned. "There you are! Selvia had been worried about you since your disappearance. Me? I didn't worry, not too much at least. Doubtless you went in search of the local fare: trust me, it's worth it." He winked and chuckled knowingly.

"Not this time, uncle," Crixus replied. "However, I would like to ask you about your son Decimus."

"Ah, yes, my middle son," Surius nodded. "What do you wish to know?"

"Has he gone down to the Fighters Guild today?" Crixus asked. "I hadn't seen him since the dinner, and..."

"Yes, he often goes down there," Surius replied. "He trains with his arms, as per his aunt's orders. His heart, however, is far from warfare and battle."

"I see," Crixus nodded. "Well, I should go look for him, then."

"Wait a minute, Servius," Surius interjected. "Might I ask you something as well?"

"Anything," Crixus replied.

"I don't know how much longer you plan to stay in Anvil," Surius began. "If you're anything like me, you can't be in one place for very long." He sighed. "At least, that's how I was when I was your age. Bah, but I'm rambling. You'll be eager to be on your way shortly, and, while you're away, I would like to make request of a personal nature."

"Oh?" Crixus asked. "Well, alright then, let's hear it."

"As you know," Surius sighed. "My youngest children, Alcedonia and Quintus, have gone missing. I refuse to believe they're dead. While you are away, I want you to seek them out. Then when you have found them, let me know that they live. Bring them back home, send me a message, a raven, a-a courier, some token of theirs, anything! I don't care, so long as I know that my babies are still alive." Crixus saw a shadow pass over the face of his favorite uncle; a twinge of sadness pricked at his heart and he placed his arm around his uncle's shoulders.

"I will do as you ask," Crixus assured him.


As Surius had predicted, Crixus was getting weary of Anvil indeed. Aside from Cassius Urtius, the city seemed to be doing as well as any he had seen in his lifetime. But moreover Crixus was feeling an itching in his feet and legs to be on the open road again: a wanderlust that could not be satisfied with short walks around the familiar streets of Anvil. He wanted to see the Imperial City and the other counties in their prime after the glorious Reconstruction: Cheydinhal he had seen and known almost as much as Anvil and he wanted to see the familiar haunt once again.

For the rest of the day, he waited outside of the Maro mansion where Surius said he might run into Decimus that evening on his way back from the Fighters Guild hall. As it was getting on to evening, a new thought erupted in Crixus' mind and his feet began carrying him westward, towards the Count's Arms. Neither Petruvius nor Lethia had reported back, but that was not his intention. Instead, just as he was coming near to the Count's Arms, he turned right into a narrow alleyway and went in as far as the wall. Turning to the left, he saw a cluster of stone houses, poor houses, stacked between the Count's Arms and the city wall. He came to one such house whose door was barred and a sign hanging upon the lintel thereof, reading: Cursed and condemned. Do not enter.

Crixus removed the bar and kicked in the door. Inside, he found a small house with two rooms and a stairway leading to the two bedrooms above. Slowly he moved through the house, examining first the small family room with its cold, ashen hearth. Looters had stolen everything of value in the house, leaving nothing but a bare, dirty, empty and cobweb-filled house. The walls had deep cracks in the masonry, but they were still standing. Walking up to the stairs that led up from the family room, he found the wooden stairs to be old, worn and creaky. Part of him feared to put his whole weight on them, yet he had to see what lay beyond.

Very carefully he crept up the stairs, each one straining and groaning under his weight. As he came to the top, he knelt down and removed the last but one stair from the top. Underneath it was cut into the masonry of the roof a little cubbyhole where one could hide small valuables. Inside he found a tiny knife, the thing a little boy might keep in his pocket for his everyday needs. The bone handle was brittle and the blade had rusted, and it was laughable compared to the knives that Servius Crixus used now, but to the boy who had placed it here, this was his most precious possession. He had long planned that, should she ever become so horrible that she would endanger his father's life, he would end her life by his own hands. To that end, he had hidden this knife just in case he ever needed a weapon.

Crixus grinned at the memory and took the knife from its hiding place. He had no more use for it, for Sedris Ulver had died with his father when a Dominion host passed through Anvil and Kvatch on their way to Hammerfell. With the little bone knife in his hands, he climbed up the last steps and looked at the two rooms on either side. The one to the right belonged to his father and his stepmother: from there he heard a whistling noise, like the howling of the wind. His mind reeled from the memory of being beaten with a stout reed by his stepmother whenever she was too drained to use magicka to punish them. He turned to the left, to the children's room. It too was bare of everything save for cobwebs covering the ceiling and corners.

He turned from the empty bedrooms and made his way back down the creaking stairs to the landing, then turned into the bare kitchen. It too was empty: the apple and the table Valerius had knocked it off of were long since gone. His eyes turned towards the trapdoor that led to the cellar. The looters had left it open: surely, having taken everything of value, they had no need for secrecy. On the top step of the wooden stairs leading down into the darkened cellar, he saw the eerie sight of a skeletal hand resting upon the top step, as if grasping desperately for escape, for life. Into Crixus' mind again came the memory of what he had seen in the cellar when he was playing hide-and-seek and came upon the ceremony that changed his life forever. Just how much of Sedris' dark magic still clung to this house after her death? Aside from the howling, the sight of the dead body was enough to make him believe that there might still be some presence within the house.

A shadow passed over the door and, with a start, Crixus stepped back. Looking again, he saw the shadow of Petruvius standing in the doorway.

"Sir?" he asked. "Are you in here?"

"Wha-What?" Crixus breathed. "Petruvius, is that you? Wha-What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was on my way out of the Count's Arms," the squire replied. "And I saw you going down this way. What would you have to do in this house, sir? It's condemned."

"This was my home, Petruvius," Crixus muttered. He suddenly realized that he had shared personal information with someone who was not family. Not since his time with Eirik had he shared information he would never have dared share with anyone else.

"Your home, sir?" Petruvius asked.

Crixus sighed. "Yes. I lived here for fifteen years, until I joined the Legion. Oh, how I longed to be rid of this place, but my father needed me..." He trusted Petruvius more than others, and since he had seen the place and heard him utter personal information, and being in the house of his youth, he felt more open than usual.

"...and then my brother ran away on the eve of his thirteenth birthday," Crixus continued. "My brother Venerius, ran away to join the Legion. I knew he was too young, and I couldn't let him die. I was always looking after him ever since I could remember. I had to, what with my stepmother being an abusive Dunmer witch."

"Dunmer?" Petruvius asked. "Not Nord?"

"No, not Nord," Crixus replied.

"I-I always thought, sir," Petruvius said. "That the reason you hated Nords was because..."

"...because they're barbarous little shites, that's why," Crixus replied. "And they have no desire to change. But I was exposed to Dunmer culture in Mournhold; they weren't all bad there."

"And all Nords are still bad?" Petruvius asked.

In any other situation, Crixus would have exploded on his squire. But here, in his childhood home, his defenses were weaker than usual.

"Yes, they are," he sighed. "If my time in Skyrim has taught me anything, it's that all Nords are exactly as the public opinion of them says. No more and no less." He looked down at the bare, filthy house of his youth, then back to Petruvius. "So? Did your time in the Count's Arms bear any fruit?"

"There were a few people asking me where they could find the new Guild-master of the Mages Guild," Petruvius said. "I had no answer, but you said to send it all to you."

"You did well," Crixus sighed. "Now, let's leave this depressing ruin and go back to the Maro manor. Lethia might be looking for us. Please, squire, tell no one of what you've heard or seen here."

"Why?" Petruvius asked. "I mean, if I may be so bold as to ask."

"My past belongs to me," Crixus stated. "It's no one else's burden, no one else's concern."

Yet even as he spoke, he felt strangely lighter. Selvia and the others were still very new to him, and they seemed far too formal to be bothered with the bad things of his personal life. But now, as with Elisif, he felt lighter and more secure. Something about laying his burden on someone, if only for a moment, lightened and strengthened him.

"Just give me a moment, squire," Crixus muttered. "I'll be right there."

"But what about..."

"Please, just go outside," Crixus insisted.

Petruvius nodded, then turned back into the alley. Crixus, meanwhile, turned back to the two-story hovel that had been the only home he ever knew. His throat was constricted and he realized that his eyes were leaking. Opening up had been harder than he expected; part of him wanted to hold on to the ghosts of this place. If he let them go, after all, what would he have left? But then he remembered that Petruvius had not laughed him to scorn, had not belittled or mocked his pain. As with Elisif, he found solace for one brief moment.

He held up the little bone knife, wondering if he should break it or not. There was no need for it anymore and, as a weapon, it was inferior to everything he possessed. All it reminded him of was the pain and anger that had fueled him as a child. He had Petruvius and he had Elisif; he did not need to shoulder this burden alone anymore. He could confide in them, find strength, solace and, perhaps, even healing in their company and their love.

His hand closed upon the knife, then slowly placed it back into his pocket. There was plenty of ugliness in the world, plenty of pain and suffering, and great cause of anger. Letting it go would only make him vulnerable, as it had been when his goddess had betrayed him. He needed to be strong, not weak and vulnerable. They would bear the burden, yes, but they would not take it away, not all of it. That was still his to bear. A moment or two of solace would swiftly end and he would only be left empty and vulnerable. He did not need to shoulder his burden alone: he wanted to shoulder it all alone. Turning away from the depressing shell of a house, he walked outside and found Petruvius waiting for him.

"I need to write," he said at last.


That evening, Crixus found Selena in the castle and asked her to have the servants bring food, parchment, quill and ink up to his room. There he and Lethia retreated to after they had met Decimus at the Maro manor. He had little to say to them, being too exhausted from his training with the Fighters Guild all that day. All he had said was that if Crixus wished to join the Guild, he should speak to Master Oreyn in Chorrol.

In the room, the three of them feasted on roasted mud-crab and warm bread. Over their meal, they discussed what had happened that day. Both Petruvius and Lethia had, for the most part, found more than a few people interested in finding the newly-formed Mages Guild. Both of them also had several who wanted an address to come to or to send messages to in order to seek out the Mages Guild.

"Good, this is good," Crixus stated. "Tomorrow, I want you to go back there, see if you can find these people again, get their addresses. I will need to be sending ravens out to rally the new members."

"But what happens," Petruvius asked. "When they find out there is no Mages Guild?"

"Who says there won't be?" Crixus asked.

"You intend to build your own Mages Guild?" asked Lethia. "An intriguing proposition for a slave."

"We will need a charter," Crixus began. "A new charter, one based on the original one that must surely be somewhere. Perhaps the Synod may keep a copy at the old Arcane University: I remember Marcurio talking about how they hoarded magical artifacts. But to steal it, we will need the Thieves Guild, so that means talking to this person they've mentioned: the one who's been looking for secret, illegal work. Then we'll need a master of magic, one whose power will judge the worthiness of all others: the new Arch-Mage."

"And who will be the new Arch-Mage?" Lethia asked.

"That's what we'll have to find out," Crixus grinned. "Once we leave Anvil." He turned to Petruvius.

"Take note," he said, gesturing to the ink, parchment and quill. "I need to write a letter to Elisif in Solitude."

Petruvius nodded, then quickly readied himself to write. With hands and ears moving as swiftly as Crixus spoke, he wrote down exactly what Crixus dictated.

"'To Elisif Oyvidsdottir, earl...' no, jarl. 'Jarl of Solitude.'" Crixus began. "'I am writing to let you know that I am alive and well, having arrived safely in Anvil. While I would dearly wish to say more, propriety demands brevity. Please have your court mage Sybille Stentor write to Mirabelle Ervine, Arch-Mage of Winterhold, with my regards and a request for counsel regarding the recreation of the Mages Guild. For you, my lady, I will keep ever in mind as I face whatever life sends my way. My sincerest and warmest regards, S. Crixus.'"

"Who is this Elisif, hmm?" Lethia asked, a cheeky, mocking grin on her face. "It sounds like a Nord's name. Surely there cannot be a Nord slave who has your 'sincerest and warmest regards', is there?"

"That's none of your business," Crixus replied. He turned back to Petruvius. "And finish it with this post-script: 'Forward your next reply by the swiftest raven to me, care of the Hero's Welcome tavern in the city of Kvatch, Kvatch county, the West Weald of Cyrodiil.' Did you get that?"

"Yes, sir," Petruvius said proudly as he finished it up.

"Good," Crixus nodded. "Tomorrow, I'll see if I can get the Countess to let me go with her guards in search of Urtius, while you two go back to the inns and try to get addresses from all of those interested in the Mages Guild. We will need to keep correspondence with them until the time is right to go public."

"What is the Mages Guild, if I may ask?" Lethia asked. "And if you won't hit me over it, you brutish, barbaric slave?"

"Hit her?" Petruvius asked.

"It's nothing," Crixus dismissed. "She was being a b*tch and I put her in her place." He then turned to Lethia. "Oh, yes, that's right. You don't know, do you? Well, the Mages Guild was formed by a very powerful and very wise High Elf who wanted to bring magical practice and service as a practical guild for the people of Tamriel."

"Are not your enemies, the Dominion, also High Elves?" asked Lethia.

"So?" Crixus asked.

"So why cling to those things of your enemy?" Lethia drove home.

"Just shut up already," Crixus groaned. "You don't understand what you're talking about."

"What do I not understand?" she asked. "You slaves carry on the traditions of your elven masters. You are still bound to them, if only in name. Is this not so?"

"Look, it doesn't matter!" Crixus shouted. "The Mages Guild was a good idea, and we need them back again. And I'm going to be the one to bring it back, and you two will help me." He then made his way to the wall and slouched against it. "Petruvius, find a swift raven to send that letter. Lethia, enjoy the bed. It's the least I can give you. I'm going to try to sleep against the wall. Goodnight."


Crixus' sleep was disturbed once again by images of what appeared to be the Synod office, rifled papers and the search for something. When he finally awoke, it was to the pounding of a fist upon the door of his room. He shook himself awake and ordered Petruvius to answer the door. At the door stood Casimir, the Countess' steward, who requested Crixus to attend her at court that day. He told the steward he would be there shortly, then asked for privacy to speak to his 'servants', as he called them. Once alone, he ordered them to go back to the inns; they had not succeeded in gathering addresses yesterday and he needed them.

The rest of that morning was spent seated at Selvia's side in the throne room, listening to her hear the petitions of her people. With each one, Crixus found himself admiring his aunt in a way he never thought possible. Despite what Urtius had said, she seemed both a skilled diplomat and a kind ruler. She always listened to everything her people said and, no matter who they were - even in the case of Nords - she ruled fairly, justly and without bias or preferential treatment. He had not met anyone in Skyrim or Mournhold who could compare to her.

Since they would be at court most of that day, lunch was served on two small wooden chairs brought out for Selvia and Crixus, where they ate a light meal and drank alto wine. During lunch there was a slight lull in the amount of petitions and Crixus was permitted to ask what had been on his mind all that morning.

"Your Highness," he said. "Why have I been brought here to sit at your court? I have yet to display my skills to you, as you requested, and my skills are best demonstrated in action, not at court."

"Captain Roderic is returning from the hunt for Cassius Urtius," she replied. "He will give his report here upon his return. Also, I wanted to have family with me at court. I know that I am frequently busy and have not the time to spend with you, so I thought that I would make it up."

"Thank you, Your Highness," Crixus nodded. "But I would like to remind you that I am leaving soon. I do have things to do in the other counties."

"I understand," she replied. "It saddens me to see you go, but you are free to do as you will. I would only ask that you remain until this evening. We are having a ceremony in remembrance of those we lost during the War, and I would like you to attend before you must go."

Crixus hung his head, thinking of all those who had died in the 9th Legion. "I'll remain here. For you."

She smiled. "Thank you, Servius. Now, let us wait until..."

"Roderic Dracus, Captain of the City Guard!" announced the announcer at the door.

"Speak of the lords of Oblivion!" Selvia chuckled, then turned to the captain, who had saluted her with a fist upon his chest. She gestured him to come forward which he did, kneeling before the throne.

"Your Highness," the captain said. "My men have searched the caves in the surrounding region. We have not found Urtius, but we have found some documents in the Hrota cave."

"The Hrota cave?" Selvia asked. "That was the one just outside the city, right?"

"Yes, Your Highness," the captain replied. "We found it to be recently deserted, with several signs that someone had once been there. We also found several documents." He opened the bag hanging from his back and handed Casimir a leather valise. Casimir opened the valise and handed several parchment documents to the Countess.

"I took the liberty of examining them, Your Highness," the captain said. "There were several names of important citizens, here in town as well as in Kvatch, Bruma and the Imperial City."

"Thank you, captain," Selvia replied. "I will examine these thoroughly. You should be commended for your service to the throne of Anvil." The captain saluted, then Selvia dismissed him and he left. Once the doors closed upon his departure, Crixus turned to her.

"Do I have your permission to leave the city?" Crixus asked.

"Where will you go?" she asked.

"Kvatch, first," Crixus stated. "I'll need to read those papers and see if I can track down any of Urtius' associates."

"You have my permission to leave," she said with a grin. "As long as you stay for the ceremony tonight."

"Agreed, Your Highness," Crixus nodded. "Now, then, there is one last question I want to ask you."

"Yes? What is that?"

"While I was in Skyrim," Crixus began. "I was on assignment from the Emperor."

"The Emperor himself?" Selvia whispered.

"The same," Crixus nodded. "He gave me a very important assignment, one that I have yet to fulfill. My question for you is this: should the Emperor demand the services of Anvil, will you respond if I ask you in his name?"

"For the present," Selvia said. "The danger to my throne is diminished. As you know, we are all very loyal, the Maro family. If the Emperor, therefore, has need of County Anvil, I will send whatever forces I have at hand. You have my word."

"Really?" Crixus asked. "That easily?"

"You are family," Selvia noted. "And you're loyal. I have no cause to think you are lying. Severus trusts you, and he is one of the Emperor's personal guards. I trust you as well."

"Good," Crixus nodded. "The Emperor will be very pleased."

Crixus was, indeed, pleased. Though he knew very little about becoming Emperor or forming an empire, he guessed that he would need some kind of force on his side. He hoped to have the Fighters Guild, which meant that he would have to meet Guild-Master Oreyn in Chorrol. His plan to reform the Mages Guild was tied into his desire to build force: not only mercenaries but mages would give him quite a bit of leverage. But to reform the Mages Guild, he would need to meet with this strange person seeking out the Thieves Guild; having power of the purse might also make the transition easier. As far as martial force went, the Fighters Guild would not be enough. He had Eirik at his beck and call after the siege of Solitude, but he knew that not only would a few Nords make little difference, but that the Grey Spirit could be as much a danger as a help.

What Crixus needed was a personal fighting force, one that would answer only to him in complete loyalty.


(AN: Thankfully, we are leaving Anvil immediately next chapter. I hated how this chapter seemed to wear on and so little happened. Mostly just character and plot development. Lethia did have a point, though, about the elvish mastery and all. This, of course, makes me think that this is the reason why the Mages Guild [and, for the reasons i stated above, the Fighters Guild] have no presence in Skyrim. The Nords don't trust the elves, so they would not allow the elvish Mages Guild to have a presence in their land, just as how, after they ravaged their land in the First Era, the Nords would not allow the Akaviri-based Fighters Guild to exist in Skyrim.)

(As you can see, we're also building up everything that is to happen in this story, as well as Crixus' motivations. As far as why he refuses to believe the Thalmor are as deeply involved as they are, it is part of his hypocritical nature. He criticizes those who believe in the gods as having "blind faith", and yet his own faith in the Empire blinds him to the truth that they lost the War, the Dominion got everything they wanted and they're actively weakening the Empire he loves. He wants to believe that the Empire is invincible, that they "won" the Great War, that the lives lost were not for nothing. Kind of like his own past: he doesn't want to let that go because holding onto that hate makes him, as he believes, "stronger.")