Chapter 8: The Belly of the Beast

It had begun to snow by the time she arrived in Windhelm, and as she crossed the long stone bridge to the city, tiny flakes drifted down and settled on her cloak. She was buried in it once again, her hood drawn up to protect her face from the worst of the winds whipping across the open water. But the weather was the last thing on her mind as the gates of the city drew nearer and nearer.

Windhelm was Ulfric's city, she knew, and the quiet voice that had been reminding her of that fact since she'd boarded the carriage in Riften had turned into a warning scream. Memories were roaring up from the deepest dark corners of her memory, but no, she told herself, she had to force them down. She had to resist. She had no idea what she'd find when she reached the Aretino house, but whatever was there, she had to be ready.

Beneath her cloak, her hand closed over the hilt of her dagger. If Aventus had actually managed to make contact, she thought grimly, she very well might need it. A better idea, some part of her consciousness suggested, would be to find the city guards and have them investigate. But given the situation, that would more likely be more trouble than it was worth. And regardless, she thought with a prickle of fear, she would never dare approach anyone who owed allegiance to Ulfric Stormcloak. And so she strode forward, despite the gates that loomed ahead like the jaws of a trap, ready to spring shut on her the moment she set foot inside.

As she entered the city, she was struck by how cold it was. The towering stone walls shielded the city from the flesh-peeling winds, but they radiated a chill of their own, grim and ancient, silent as the grave.

Or perhaps not so silent, as her attention was immediately captured by the scuffle taking place up ahead. Two tall men—Nords, she assumed—had cornered a smaller, hooded figure. Noticing them swaying with inebriation, she began to walk a little faster, ducking her head down and giving them a wide berth. "You come here where you're not wanted, you eat our food, you pollute our city with your stink, and you refuse to help the Stormcloaks!" one of them was snarling as she began to skirt around them.

"It's not out fight." The reply was brusque, and when she stole a glance at the hooded figure, she caught a glimpse of red eyes glittering in the lantern light.

The second Nord scoffed, leaning in closer and forcing the Dunmer to step back. "Maybe the reason these grey-skins don't help in the war is because they're Imperial spies."

She froze in her steps at those words. "She's the one, the spy…"

Her throat tightening, she closed her hand around the dagger hilt, even as her knees began to quiver. Fighting the urge to turn and flee straight out the city gates, she heard Alvor's words echoing in her head: strike first, ask questions later…

But the Dunmer's reply contained no fear, only weariness. "You can't be serious," she sighed, her voice flat. "Imperial spies now, is it?"

"Maybe we'll pay you a visit tonight, little spy." And Monica's heart gave a lurch as the first Nord suddenly lunged toward the Dunmer. "We got ways of finding out what you really are," he taunted menacingly. And then, to her utter relief, he and his companion drew back, turning and sauntering away in the direction of a nearby tavern.

The Dunmer growled under her breath, a few phrases Monica vaguely recognized. Then she seemed to notice her standing there, and her posture immediately stiffened. "Got a problem?" she snapped.

Monica froze, quickly shaking her head, and the Dunmer heaved a long sigh. "You've come to the wrong city then," she muttered, and Monica ventured a half-step forward.

"Are you all right?" she asked quietly. The Dunmer's eyebrows rose.

"You mean that?" She pointed toward the tavern, where the two Nords had been joined by a third, laughing raucously at some unheard joke. "Nothing new there." Monica couldn't help but note the raw bitterness in her tone. "Most of the Nords living in Windhelm don't care much for us, but Rolff is by far the worst. He likes to get drunk and walk around the Grey Quarter yelling insults at us in the small hours of the morning." She rolled her eyes. "A real charmer, that one."

"I'd noticed." Apparently her curt reply was amusing to the Dunmer, as she let out a short bark of laughter.

"Watch yourself in Windhelm, then," she said, her tone warming considerably. "It's a haven of prejudice and narrow thinking." She sighed. "Take care." She moved to continue on down the street, but Monica quickly spoke up.

"Wait," she blurted out, thinking of the maps she'd lost in the Jeralls. "Could you point me in the direction of the Aretino house?"

The woman paused, turning back toward her. "Sure," she said, pointing down a nearby street. "You're going to head down that way until you reach the fork, then to the left up the hill, and the house'll on your left. You can't miss it; it's—"

"—the one that spans across the street. I know." And Monica smiled to herself as she set off in the direction the woman had indicated, her feet kicking up the powdery drifting snow.

Back in the winter of 189, Giovanni Aretino had suddenly been struck with the urge to return to his childhood home so she and Guinevere could meet his family. And seeing as the Pale Pass was blocked by ice and snow, they had been forced to take the long way, traveling west across Cyrodiil and through Morrowind, and then by ship to Windhelm. Monica remembered how frustrated Guinevere had been by the entire situation, continually demanding to know why Giovanni couldn't just wait until spring. But in a small border town, his intentions were finally made clear as Monica watched her father propose to her mother in the very spot they had met.

Both of Giovanni's parents had been dead since the war, but they were greeted by his brother Apelles, along with his wife Naalia. Her parents had been married here in Windhelm, actually, although their stay had been short, only a couple of days. Her memories of that time here had long since faded, but there were small, clear details she remembered—Naalia's smile, the austere atmosphere of the temple…and the fact that Giovanni's family home had been constructed so that it formed a bridge over the street.

Sure enough, she recognized the house immediately, rising up ahead out of the dark winter gloom. As she stood in the empty street, snow swirling around her feet, she was suddenly overcome by a burst of nostalgia. Giovanni had carried her on his shoulders as they'd approached the house, allowing her to see out over the throngs of pedestrians as Guinevere's bright blue hood bobbed anxiously beside them. Her mother had been sick with worry that the Aretinos wouldn't approve of a half-Breton tailor marrying into them, a fear that had developed within the hour of Giovanni's proposal and only seemed to grow the closer they got to Windhelm. For a moment, Monica almost smiled—then she recalled the purpose behind her visit here.

The house appeared dark and still, though she wasn't sure whether that was a good sign or bad. Stepping into the shelter of the overhang, she slowly reached out with a shaking hand and tried the door handle. Locked, as expected. She turned and slumped against the door in defeat, feeling her heart thumping quietly against her ribs as that familiar queasiness grew in her midsection. Suddenly, rushing off to Windhelm in a hurry as she'd done seemed rather foolish. What had she expected to find here? She had no way of knowing if Aventus had even made it to Windhelm in the first place. In fact, she thought grimly, she might have had better luck asking to see if there'd been any boys found dead alongside the road recently. Her heart began to speed up at that thought, and she suddenly felt light-headed. Riften appeared to be dangerous enough—what if he had never even made it out of the city?

But before she could work herself into a full frenzy, she happened to glance to the side—and notice something peculiar about the window. Frowning, she stepped closer and ran her fingers along the edge of the frame, sucking in a breath when she realized it was gapped open, as if it hadn't been secured properly. Surely the city guards would have made sure the house was closed up before they escorted Aventus away? She felt sicker than ever, but it was too late to turn back now. Sliding her fingers along the gap, she pried up hard—and let out a gasp of relief when it swung open.

Climbing through the window was a challenge—clutching the sill, she managed to toe her way up the side of the house and heave herself over the edge. At least she was able to catch hold of the frame before she crashed to the floor, and landed with only small thump. Batting the heavy curtain aside, she rose to her feet and looked around the room. The last time she'd been here, it'd been bursting with light and warmth, the polished wood practically glowing and the smell of that night's dinner wafting through the hallways. Now, however, it stood cold and empty, all the furniture cleared away and debris littering the floor, her breath turning to white plumes as it was released. No assassin had leapt out to murder her yet, which had to be a good sign—but although the room was dark, she caught sight of a flicker of light from beyond the door at the top of the stairs.

Gulping, she started forward, willing the stairs not to creak beneath her feet. It was freezing in this house, yet she was starting to perspire, her fur cloak suddenly seeming too heavy. Beneath its folds, she had a death grip on the dagger. As she drew closer, she could hear voices, too, a low whisper. Divines preserve her, this was not good. This was very bad.

Swallowing hard, she nudged open the door at the top with her free hand. This room, too, was empty—miraculously so, but she could see the glow of candlelight spilling out from an ajar door further down the hall. And she could hear the voice more clearly now, too.

It was low, hardly a mummer, but she could still make out the words. "Sweet mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me," it intoned. "For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."

A cold sweat of dread was breaking out all over her body, the back of her neck prickling as silent tears formed in her eyes. A small voice in the back of her mind reminded her that it wasn't too late, that she could still flee and go call the guards, but she pushed it down. She'd come this far—through everything—and she would see this to the end, despite her shaking legs and erratic heart. She only had to know, really know for certain.

Inching forward, she started toward the door, easing her dagger from its sheath. "Sweet mother, sweet mother," the voice continued, "send your child unto me." Closer, closer still. The roaring in her ears threatened to drown out the words. "For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear." And she edged around the corner, her free hand flying to her mouth at the sight before her.

A circle of candles surrounded what appeared to be a human skeleton—and a small figure crouched over it, methodically striking with a dagger. "Sweet mother, sweet mother," he breathed feverishly, "send your child unto me. For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."

She stood still in horror, hardly believing what she saw. The Black Sacrament, that boy in Riften had called it. A ritual to summon the Dark Brotherhood. She eyed the empty eye hollows of the skull, suddenly feeling sick. At least he was alive, she reminded herself desperately. He was alive and safe. And as for this whole situation…

Summoning all her courage, she drew in a breath and managed to croak out a single word. "Aventus?"

There was a clatter as the dagger fell from his hand, and she froze in place as the boy's head whipped toward her. For a full second he simply stared at her in silence—and then she tensed as he clambered to his feet. "You came!"

She blinked, confused, as the boy's face lit up like the summer sky. They hadn't had any contact with Naalia since before the onset of her illness—they'd never had the chance to send word to Aventus that they'd be coming for him, and besides, he'd never actually met her. How could he possibly know who she was? But he was still speaking.

"It worked." There was a note of awe in his voice—and was she detecting a trace of fear? "I did it over and over." He pointed to his handiwork on the floor. "The Black Sacrament. And here you are!"

As he stared at her wide-eyed, her stomach turned over on itself, her horror quickly returning as she realized just who he thought she was.

"Aventus, it's Monica." Her voice shook a little, but she struggled to keep it firm. "Your cousin. I'm not an assassin."

The boy's face went blank, and it faintly occurred to her that she was meeting her young cousin for the first time. Gods, he looked so much Giovanni—it was downright eerie. He had the same slightly-wavy black hair and dark, serious eyes—although he'd inherited the pale Nord skin of his mother, with a dusting of freckles sprinkled across his nose. It made sense, though—from what she remembered of Apelles, he and Giovanni could have passed for twins, despite being born nine years apart.

But the boy was balefully staring her down, and she knew she had to get the situation under control—and do so quickly. "Aunt Guinevere's daughter?" she ventured. "And Uncle Giovanni's?" She edged half a step closer, forcing a smile to her lips. "I'm sorry about your mother," she said. "And I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner. We didn't even know she was sick." She swallowed, feeling suddenly earnest. "We only got the news in Sun's Height, and I…I came as fast as I could."

He stood frozen in place, and as she watched, his eyes slowly widened. "Monica?" His tone reflected both suspicion and astonishment, but the hostility was fading. "It's you?" The last hint of disbelief was fading from his voice, and she nodded, breathing a long, shaky sigh of relief.

"It's me," she whispered, even as the tears started to prickle in her eyes. At long last, it was finally over. The long, painful quest had reached its end, her goal fulfilled. She'd gotten Aventus.

"How did you find me?" he asked, suddenly wary again.

"Your friends in Riften told me," she answered, inching another step forward. "The headmistress wouldn't speak to me. She wouldn't even admit that you'd ever been there."

His expression soured. "Grelod," he spat, with a venom surprising for one so young. "They call her 'the Kind,' but she's not. She's evil and cruel, and she's terrible! To all of us!" He was turning bright red as his voice rose, and Monica couldn't help but notice his clenched fists—and the tremor in his voice.

"It's all right," she said, even though her own mind was reeling. "You're all right now." Even as she spoke, her gaze was fastened on the skull's empty sockets.

Aventus seemed to be aware of where her attention was focused, as he quickly fell silent. "It's not what it looks like," he began, but she interrupted.

"I know what it is," she told him flatly, stepping forward toward the circle of candles. The pure terror she'd felt had faded the moment she'd seen him; the horror following as they'd spoken. Now, she was simply weary, as though her previous torrid emotions had sapped all her strength—and strangely disappointed. "Aventus…"

"You don't understand!" he cried out. "She's a monster. Someone like her doesn't deserve to live even another day!"

"Where did you even get all of this?" she demanded. Up close, it was an even grislier sight—a scattering of bones arranged into a haphazard skeleton—and bits of something that looked suspiciously like flesh. There was a smell, too, she realized, and fought to keep from gagging.

"From Helgird." His tone had grown smug, and when she turned back to face him, she saw a hint of defiance cross his features.

"And Helgird is…?"

"The priestess in the Hall of the Dead." He crossed his arms over his chest, and she gaped at him in horror.

"A priestess is helping you try to contact the Dark Brotherhood?"

His gaze shifted guiltily away at that. "She doesn't know I took it," he mumbled. "She's an old lady, sometimes she forgets to lock the door…"

"Aventus!"

"I know!" His expression had turned pleading. "I'm sorry!"

"Honestly, I don't know what the worst part is." She shook her head. "That you stole from the Hall of the Dead, or that you tried to contact a…a cult of killers—or that you seem to think it's perfectly reasonable to have a woman murdered!"

"You don't know what it was like!" he shouted back "She's the meanest person in the world! She beats us, and we only get one meal a day! And she locks us in the room!" He was growing more frantic by the moment, shoulders heaving, voice growing hoarse. "I hate her!"

Monica slumped against the wall, burying her face in her hand. "Aventus," she said quietly, "the world is full of people like Grelod. And do they deserve to die? Maybe. I don't know. But that's not your decision to make."

"But it's not right," he protested hotly, face darkening with fury.

"Aventus," she interrupted, "look around you." She gestured toward the remains of his ritual, rotting flesh scattered among ancient bones, thin wisps of smoke rising as the candles sputtered out into thick puddles of wax. "How long have you been doing this for? A month?" And for once, the boy was silent.

"No one is coming, Aventus," she said gently. "The Dark Brotherhood is not going to show up and agree to kill Grelod. You can't hire assassins by just by chanting a few words and…doing all this. You have to be someone important—to have influence." She paused. "And do you realize how much money it would cost? Thousands of septims. Maybe even more than that."

For a moment his face filled with anguish—then his shoulders slumped in defeat. She inhaled slowly.

"You can't stay here, not all by yourself in a big empty house," she said. "Your mother wouldn't have wanted it. She'd want you to come home with me and Aunt Guinevere. I know Cyrodiil's far away and it's scary, but it's not so bad." She smiled thinly. "Wait until you see Battlehorn. I'll take you up on the battlements—you can see out over the entire Great Forest. On clear days, you can even see all the way to White Gold Tower."

He stood with his head bowed, and she stepped over to him, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. "It's only for a few years," she said. "Time will fly, and before you know it, you'll be of age, and you'll get to come home."

And finally—mercifully—the boy began to nod.


It took only a few minutes to gather his things. He didn't have much, only some pieces of clothing and a pair of toy soldiers, along with a knapsack he clutched tightly to his chest. Neither of them spoke as they made their way through the streets, hunched against the biting cold and the snow that was beginning to dust the ground and rooftops, giving the city a faint ghostly glow.

She didn't even bother asking for a room at the inn—there were only a few septims jingling in the coinpurse she'd shoved up her sleeve, and even fewer in the one at her belt. Instead, she quietly ushered Aventus up the stairs to the tavern's main room.

It was mostly deserted, with the few patrons left passed out over their mugs of ale, and only the occasional burst of noise from the far side of the room, where a cluster of armor-clad patrons sat as a woman in a bright green dress served them drinks.

But despite the low-key crowd, there were several familiar blue sashes among them, and Monica felt the back of her neck prickle. Despite the warmth from the roaring fire, she sat wearing her cloak with the hood drawn up. The chances were probably slim, she told herself, that she'd encountered any of them up in the Jeralls. How many had been captured by the Imperials—and out of them, how many had even managed to make it out of Helgen? But of those who had, how many would have made it back here? How many would be able to recognize her?

She was beginning to feel light-headed, her hands gone clammy. Some faint—yet feral—stirring in the back of her mind told her to run, to get up and take off out of the inn as fast as her feet would carry her. And she might have—if not for that fact that Aventus was nodding off in the chair across from her. Her fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the worn surface of the table as her other hand balled into a fist, nails digging into her palm. This was no time for fear, she sternly reminded herself. She had to stay strong—for Aventus.

The server passed by their table again, pausing as she stared down at Aventus. "Poor thing," she said sympathetically, her gaze shifting to Monica. "Long journey?"

"Too long," Monica agreed wearily. It was simpler to leave it at that—and it wasn't even that far from the truth. The woman glanced over her shoulder as another burst of noise erupted from the far table, then leaned in closer.

"You know," she murmured, "if you don't have a room for the night, you can let him lie down in the kitchen. There's nobody down there until Nils comes in at eight."

"Are you sure?" Monica leaned forward. "I…" There was suddenly a lump in her throat. "Thank you. I truly appreciate it." She glanced over to Aventus' dozing form. "We both do."

The woman gave a light chuckle. "There's no need for thanks," she said, as Monica rose and began to collect her belongings. "It's just a pile of sacks on the floor—not really much of an offer."

"Oh, no—it is," Monica refuted, sending a pointed glare toward the noisy group across the room as she nudged Aventus' shoulder, jostling him awake.

"Huh?" The boy groggily lifted his head, eyes red and drooping, and she smiled a little to herself.

"Come on, wake up," she urged. "Time to go lie down." The woman laughed again as he instead dropped his head back down on his arms.

"Aventus, come on," Monica groaned, tugging on his sleeve more insistently. "You don't want to sit here like this all night, do you?" The boy made a noise halfway between a growl and a whimper, but he lifted his head again. "That's it," Monica encouraged as he pushed back from the table, his movements stiff and reluctant. "There you go."

"My name's Susanna, by the way," the woman informed them as they followed her down a ladder in the far corner of the room. "If you need anything else, just let me know." The kitchen they emerged in was small, with clutter crowding every available surface, but with a cheerful fire crackling. And sure enough, Susanna led them over to the far corner, where a heap of sacks had been piled.

Aventus immediately made a beeline for it, staggering across the room to flop down on it, burying his face in the scratchy material. Monica draped her cloak across him before sinking down in a nearby chair, once again making eye contact with Susanna. "Thank you."

The words seemed to ring hollow—they could never be enough—but Susanna's smile brightened. "Sleep well." And then she was gone, ascending up the ladder.

Monica leaned forward on the table, resting her head on her arms—an imitation of Aventus' earlier posture. Down here, it was nearly silent, with only an occasional pop from the fireplace or a low rumble of laughter from overhead to interrupt it. And with the heat and the low, lazy light, she could almost forget about the blue sashes upstairs. Almost.

But she was so drained. After the ordeal of getting to Aventus, she never would have thought finding him would be almost worse. She'd been so scared for him—so terrified of what could have happened. Yet that moment she'd walked through the door to see him in the midst of his grisly ritual…

And with a familiar flap of black wings, she jerked upright. She'd fallen asleep, she distantly noted, but when her bleary eyes made out the time on the clock above the mantel, she leapt from the chair. Not again.

"Aventus," she said, yanking back the cloak. "Wake up. We have to go. We have to go right now." He sat up with a dazed expression, his hair sticking in every direction and the imprint of the sacks' material blotched across his face. "Aventus!" she cried when he didn't budge. "Hurry! Let's go!"

He grumbled something intelligible under his breath, casting an evil eye in her direction, but he stood up and began to tug on his shoes. "Here," she said, thrusting his cloak and his knapsack into his arms. "Now come on."

They exited through the far door and made their way down the hallway through the inn's front room, Monica practically dragging Aventus the whole way. "If we miss this carriage," she began, hand on the door—but the rest of the sentence was forgotten as she pushed it open, her jaw dropping at the sight that met her.

Windhelm had been smothered, the entire cityscape transformed into a stark white wasteland. An angry grey sky loomed overhead, still spitting out white flakes that stung as they whipped past on icy winds.

The publican let out a chuckle from behind the counter. "No carriages today," she said. "The autumn snows have begun."