Orange wasn't Argis' colour. It simply didn't go with his Nord complexion, or his blond hair. Other than that, the jumpsuit wasn't too bad – generally speaking – because Argis' happened to be flecked with blood.
On his first night in the Imperial Penal Complex some particularly conceited guards had thrown him into one of the communal cells which were also commonly referred to as the Kennels.
"That'll soften him up." They had laughed, and left him to his own devices.
Nobody was laughing now. Not Argis, not the guards, and certainly not the dead guy lying in a sprawl between the latter from the former.
Argis looked at the corpse at his feet. Death had not improved the man's looks any, but even with his face disfigured, he seemed vaguely familiar. If only he could remember where he might have seen him before. The Nord's concentration was disrupted by the noise and shouting as more and more security officers filed into the wrecked mess hall.
Argis counted eight tranquilizer guns trained on him, sighed, and lifted his hands in surrender.
oooo
It was the Penitus Oculatus that found him, the Emperor's very own secret service. They came knocking to his door at an ungodly hour; six agents dressed in black and looking like the epitome of cartoon villains meaning business. A petite but stern blonde woman who had to be the officer in charge shoved a badge under Argis' nose.
"In the name of the Empire; you are under arrest." She didn't even lead with 'good morning'. "You have the right to –"
"Grab some pants first, I hope," Argis interrupted her, which drew a snicker from a soldier to her right, a young man with a square jaw and chin-long auburn hair. His unblinking scrutiny told the warrior that the lad would be perfectly fine with a nearly naked Argis spending the car ride next to him.
Or on him.
But one soldier's adoration notwithstanding, Argis really did not want to do the prison walk of shame in his underwear.
Thankfully the woman nodded at one of her subordinates and he was handed a pair of pants that he had discarded on his couch a few days ago. The blond pulled them on under the Penitus' watchful gaze and discovered they had a coffee stain high on his left thigh. Argis sighed. He wouldn't be keeping them on for long anyway.
Her task completed, the officer surveyed the room they were standing in with a wrinkle of her snub-nose, and turned brusquely to march out of the front door. Argis looked around for the last time, which forced him to admit that the place indeed was a mess. The dirty dishes piling up in the sink were probably enough to get him arrested all on their own, on the grounds of being a biohazard. At least he didn't have to worry what his neighbours would think of him being led away like a criminal, thanks to the hour and the general lack of neighbours.
Argis used the car ride to figure out how the Penitus Oculatus had tracked him down. It didn't take him long to deduce that Varo must have talked to the police about the guard who had neither died nor reported back, and after that... well, after that everything was Wulfryk's fault. Again. He had to drag Argis to the damned theatre and in front of the camera. Sybilla the Condor saw their picture in the Morndas edition of her beloved pulp magazine and recognized the hulking one-eyed Nord from when he had applied for a job at the bureau.
Argis briefly wondered what had happened to Vorstag. The warrior was the only other guard who had not died the night of Maro's assassination, but Argis had not heard from him since. If he was smart, he would keep his head down, maybe make an extended trip to visit his family back in Skyrim.
If he had been clever, Argis would have done the same.
Except that his family lived a quiet, unexciting life in one of the smallest rural communities the Reach had to offer, believing that he was nothing more than a drill sergeant. Argis fully intended to keep them ignorant of what he truly did for a living.
oooo
But some cocky piece of prison trash? He could have a taste.
Half an hour later the cell's gates closed behind the blond Nord with a clatter, and the guards, still snickering, disappeared around the corner. Soften him up. What a load of crap. Well, the joke was on them. He wouldn't have to clean up come morning. Argis looked after the men to make sure they were truly gone, and the lout who believed himself to be tough enough to take him on misinterpreted it as worry. His tattooed face was distorted by an ugly grin that showed the yellow, ruined teeth of a long-time drug addict.
Argis cracked his knuckles, tilted his head to the side until his neck popped, and then proceeded to teach those too dim to understand on their own why you did not mess with a former legionnaire.
He got left in peace afterwards, and stretched out on the only bench this place had to offer. The warrior took a deep breath and closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift in a state somewhere between watchfulness and actual rest.
The other inmates – those that could still sit – were crowded on the other side of the cell, as if afraid that the loss of teeth and consciousness was catching. Those that still could sit, that was. Those who could not were welcome to the floor.
Inkface was currently making liberal use of that right.
On the next morning Argis was questioned by a police officer who was painfully ignorant about how to conduct a proper interrogation, and chose to answer the torrent of questions with stoic silence. The warrior knew that he was a mere suspect. Sooner or later they would have to let him go due to lack of evidence. How soon depended on the zeal of the prosecutor.
It didn't change the fact that they didn't have anything on him other than some bodily harm from yesterday, which was clearly the result of rightful self-defence, and the fact that he had been Maro's guard. He had not as much as touched the Imperial the evening the man had died, and he did not believe that the police had found anything of his on the site of the murder. From what he had seen of them, Wulfryk's team was too thorough for that.
Eventually the inspector gave up.
Argis was led to his future quarters, nourishing the revenge fantasy that Varo would get his own investigation on how half his workforce was illegally employed. Which led him to thoughts about how he was due with payment of his taxes. For the last ten or so years. Crap. Maybe he wasn't here because of Maro, after all.
The sudden thought made Argis burst out laughing, and the guards escorting him eyed the Nord nervously, their fingers twitching against their batons.
He was put in a room of four, with the other inmates giving the blond warrior a wide berth. Apparently word had gotten around that he was some sort of maniac serial killer.
Argis did nothing to disperse the rumour.
His life took on a new routine, and though he was anything but happy about the change, Argis settled into it with ease. At least he was allowed visits to the gym and the library, and made good use of both to break up the monotony. They were the only means to pass the time, apart from methodically killing one's brains with television, and he wasn't that desperate yet.
Prison, it turned out, had all the ambience of a public toilet. Argis chose to share that particular piece of insight with the nearest guard on duty on the morning of one dreary, rain-darkened day.
"Tell me about it," the man muttered dismally, "I have to work here."
And just like that Argis had made a friend, or what counted for one in this place. He was doing nothing more than what he had been trained for; to undermine and find potential allies, and he thought he was doing well on that front considering the short time of his incarceration.
Two days later, that fucker drew a gun on him.
It happened during the midday meal, right after Argis sat down to savour the prison cuisine. He was blowing on a forkful of overcooked pasta, because the steam rising from it indicated that it was just about nuclear in heat, when he noticed a figure break away from the queue of prisoners waiting for their food.
Weird, that he would leave without getting his ration. The man shuffled closer and Argis tensed. There was just something... familiar... about him. The knowledge that he had met him before was like a burr, an itch under his skin.
He never got to find out more.
Argis wasn't sure what set him off, whether it was the cold calculation in the other man's eyes, or the diminutive motion of his hand to his side, the telltale sign of a practiced gunman. He was already diving under the table when the firearm went off, blowing the brains of the unfortunate sod behind him all over the place.
For the fraction of a second the mess hall was plunged in total silence. Then, chaos erupted. Panicked prisoners ran for the exits, and the guards could do nothing more than stand aside lest they be trampled in the onrush.
Argis used the confusion to feel around for anything that could be used as a weapon, and cursed when he drew up a blank. Fuck prison for bolting the tables and seats to the floor! Then his questing hand encountered something that made him hiss in pain. He grabbed the object and hurled it in the direction of the shooter.
A heartbeat later a scream rose above the clamour of shouts and footsteps. Before the distraction lost its element of surprise, Argis was leaping over the furniture to face his would-be assassin. The man stood bent over at the middle, got nearly knocked over and struggled to stay upright when somebody knocked into him. When he looked up, Argis could see half of his face covered in blistering burns. He saw the blond Nord bearing down on him, eyes going wide, mouth slack.
"Oh shit," was all he managed to get out. Not particularly memorable, as far as last words went.
To give him credit, the guy did not go out without putting up one hell of a fight, but anybody went down with shattered kneecaps. Argis ignored his shrieks as he pushed his fingers into his eye socket to get a better grip on his head, pulled it back and smashed his knee into the other man's neck, just below his skull. A wet crunch followed, and the struggles ceased.
Even so it took more than one go to achieve the desired level of deadness.
Argis could probably have subdued him, though if the man was who he suspected, then the last thing he wanted was him surviving to be questioned by the police.
Argis dropped the body, wiped his hands on his thighs, and sent a prayer to the Nine that he was wrong.
oooo
He was placed in solitary, a safety measure which ensured that there were no more incidents that might end his imprisonment before he was officially released.
A few days later Argis was ordered to court. He had been given a Kevlar vest and his very own escort who looked every bit as ill at ease as he felt.
The warrior was not surprised to find a stranger already there, waiting for him.
It was a reedy man dressed in an old-fashioned brown suit, who sported an impressive moustache and wore his thinning grey hair in a neat ponytail held in place by a clasp that looked as ancient as he had to be. He introduced himself as 'Vignar' and shifted a heavy leather briefcase to his left hand so he could extend his right in greeting.
"I did not know you had a lawyer," the guard who was almost-a-friend, asked.
"Neither did I." Argis ignored the proffered hand and continued to eye the briefcase warily, wondering what its contents were. "Did the Ruadth Ros send you?" the warrior asked finally, dreading the answer. Ten years and he still knew every code, as if they had been drilled into him only yesterday.
But the man only blinked in confusion and shook his head.
"Forgive me, but I think you are mistaken. I am here on behalf of – "
"Me," an all too familiar voice spoke up from behind Argis, and the warrior's initial reaction actually was to feel relief course through him.
Maybe he had been wrong, after all. Please, let him be wrong. "Why do we always meet in the weirdest of places?"
Wulfryk flashed his teeth in a fleeting grin of genuine amusement, but he did not respond to the question other than to say, "Judge is waiting."
The judge was an Imperial that bore a striking, if disconcerting resemblance to the officer who had been sent to arrest Argis. Vignar did most of the talking, and Argis followed the lawyer's clues about which questions to answer, and when to remain silent. Wulf contributed by fiddling with his tie.
The hearing was almost over before Argis had quite wrapped his mind around the fact that it looked like he might walk free, especially when the lawyer argued that the former legionnaire was a friend of the family and that Mr Aemilius would vouch for him.
The judge looked like Mr Aemilius had pissed in her cereal, but relented. "His bail has been set to three hundred thousand."
Wulf did not look pleased upon hearing the sum – a number which made Argis slightly queasy – but he reached into his breast pocked to pull out a black fountain pen without hesitation. "I hope you accept cheques."
oooo
Argis squinted at the endless blue of the sky above him. He had missed the sight. He had missed the sun, too, and air that was cool and fresh and whipped his braided hair around. He had no idea how Wulfryk had managed to pull him out of jail after only two weeks. Unless he was mistaken there should have been at least another hearing; but did it really come as a surprise that Mr Aemilius had somehow skipped right past that? Apparently the man couldn't pour himself a glass of water without breaking a dozen laws.
Not that Argis was complaining. He was just feeling very much out of his depth. Politics wasn't an enemy that you could face head-on and he had always hated subterfuge and counter-intelligence.
The warrior turned when he heard the crunch of approaching footsteps.
Wulf stopped an arm's length away, a distance that could be the result of mere happenstance or careful calculation on his part. He leaned against a nearby lamppost, feet crossed at the ankle, his body language one of languor and fished out a pack of cigarettes.
Argis watched the other man's moves as he pulled one cigarette out, and then patted his pockets down in search of a lighter. A moment later fire flickered, barely visible through his cupped hands, and then a plum of white smoke rose from Wulf's lips as he tilted his head to mirror Argis' former action, a thoughtful expression on his face.
Whether the sky provided the answer he was looking for Argis did not know, but eventually Wulfryk seemed to become aware of the blond warrior studying his profile. Then, as if the matter was already decided, he said, "Come by my office on Morndas."
The man never gave up, did he? Argis shook his head, adjusting the strap of his bag so it wouldn't dig into his shoulder. "I don't think this is wise," he said.
Wulf flicked ash on the pavement, watching as the wind made the end of his cigarette light up a bright red. "Trust me, it is merely a business arrangement I want to discuss."
It was delivered curtly, and professionally, and Argis did not have to ask what business Wulfryk meant. He didn't want to think about what the offer might entail right now. The warrior chuckled without amusement, deciding that a distraction was in order. "Are you going to pay me to spend time with you?"
Wulf actually looked upset at the comment. His head whipped around fast enough he nearly knocked his forehead against the lamppost, dark eyebrows creasing with hurt. "I wouldn't do that."
Argis was only half-buying the wounded gaze he found himself being held captive by. "Pity," he said through a suddenly dry throat. "Cause it seems I owe you a shitload of money."
It was hard not to be self-conscious; broke, without work, freshly out of prison and with a huge coffee stain not too far from his crotch. Well done, Argis. Your ancestors would be so proud of you.
Wulf shrugged, his features smoothing back into the unreadable mask of haughty indifference that he had cultivated to perfection. "I will get it back – as long as you don't bail on me." He extinguished his cigarette against the same lantern he was leaning on, and tossed it past the curb.
It seemed a waste to have lit it all. He had not taken more than two drags of it.
Argis' eye followed the flash white until it got crushed under the wheels of a passing cab. The blond warrior studiously ignored the not too subtle threat, and the metaphor that came to mind; of being snuffed at done away with should he inconvenience the entrepreneur.
Instead he turned the idea of absconding over in his head again. Though it would make him look guilty as hell, he might do just that – seeing how the Imperial City wasn't becoming him lately. Run, and see if Igmund could set him up with a nice cottage somewhere hidden within the deep valleys of the Druadachs. He had always loved the mountains. Perhaps it was time for a change of scenery.
'As long as it does not include watching the veggies grow from below,' a quaky voice within him cited. Argis always had wondered why the most pessimistic part of his mind sounded like his late gramps.
"Are you carrying?" he asked the man next to him in a soft voice, careful not to be overheard.
They both seemed to be equally surprised at the unexpected question. Wulf's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline, but he did pull back his suit a bit to show more of the shirt he wore underneath. "Not in court, I'm not."
"I need a gun," Argis said, keeping his good eye on Wulf's. And the reason he was asking Wulfryk and not one of his army friends? He couldn't think of one straight away, except that he did not want to pull his comrades into this mess. Because he knew they would insist on getting involved.
Sardonically, "And I can trust you not to shoot me with it?"
"I might not live long enough to have the pleasure," Argis countered sourly.
That sobered Wulfryk right up. "Who was trying to have you killed?"
Argis didn't even ask how he had found out about that. He turned to face the dark haired Nord fully. "Part of my money was on it being you."
"I admit, I may have given the matter some thought," Wulf said without any apparent discomfort.
"But instead you'd rather buy my silence?" Argis enquired.
"I don't think this is the right place for this discussion," Wulf said and pushed away from the post. He was already making for the other side of the road where a black SUV flashed its lights when he unlocked it.
Argis nearly got himself run over by a brown delivery van before he caught up to the other Nord, cutting off his way. "I think it's bloody perfect."
A car honked at them, reminding them to take their discussion off the lane.
"As you wish." Wulf impatiently gestured at the car. They got in and he seemed to relax marginally. "No, I do not want to bribe you," he said, looking firmly ahead. His next words managed to surprise Argis. "I want to recruit you."
"Why?"
He knew he wasn't getting the truth out of the other man today, when Wulfryk graced him with a smile that would be best described as wistful."Just something faði used to say," the dark haired Nord told him. "If they're too tough of a sonofabitch to kill, best make sure they're on your side."
It wasn't a promise, or the assurance Argis needed, but it was all he was going to get. He quickly went through the options left to him. What he needed most, was more time.
"When do you want me to start?" he asked. He could always cut and run later.
The smile he received in return was almost worth the concession.
"I knew I was irresistible."
Argis snorted at the terrible line. Here was the man he had joked and drank – and liberally flirted with. Several answers raced through the blond's head, along with a few things he wished to tell the other Nord, but saved for another time.
You are a pretentious prick. You're cute when you're drunk. Your sense of humour is appalling. Please, tell me we will fuck again.
Despite himself he was feeling a bit better. Wulf might only be conducting 'business', but if this offer of his was serious, then it would be in his own interest to look after the warrior.
He deserved to know a sliver of the truth.
"Whatever happens today," Argis told the other man, "you stay out of it. If I'm right, then money and a name won't protect you."
Wulf nodded, then cursed vividly. "This is stupid. I shouldn't be doing this." He punched the wheel and the car honked. Wulf jumped a little and gave his vehicle a soothing pat on the dashboard.
Argis kept quiet. If their positions had been reversed, he would not have trusted himself, but Wulf opened the glove compartment and handed him a Berretta, ammo, and after some hesitation a knife of some dull grey metal that Argis couldn't quite place.
"I'll see you on Morndas." It was a dismissal, yet surprisingly it sounded like a promise.
At least one of them was confident he would come back.
oooo
Although everything appeared to be peaceful, Argis felt that he was being watched. His hand hovered above the doorknob, before he forced himself to insert the key into the lock, knowing that he was giving himself away. Like all the other houses in the neighbourhood his home was a small, red-brown two-storey building made of brick. The warrior nodded to the old man who was taking his stroller and his aging Colovian shepherd for an afternoon walk, before he unlocked his door. The action was accompanied by the barely audible sound of the tumblers turning, and then the door swung inward soundlessly.
In his absence, somebody had oiled the hinges. How bloody considerate of them.
Argis was glad to have that gun.
Nobody accosted him in the hallway, but there were three people occupying his couch in the living room.
In the middle sat a lad that looked like he should wear his scout uniform and ring on other people's doorbells to sell lemonade and cookies. Or was that only for the girls? The woman to boy-scout's right had a heavy brow and a prominent underbite to which she wore army greens and a scowl that told the blond that she'd sooner mug you than offer you homemade bakery.
But it wasn't them Argis cared about. It was the man on the left, and it took the Nord a second to recall the name that went with the lined face. The grey hair was the same, except that maybe it was now a tad lighter from additional white, and so were the hard eyes of a predator.
He had last seen Carsten over a decade ago. He was the man who had recruited him, years back, when Ulfric had been looking for able bodied men and women willing to fight the Forsworn.
"You."
Carsten nodded in wary acknowledgement. "Argis."
"What do you want?" The warrior detoured over to the fridge and took a six pack of beer out of it. Seeing his former recruiter here had shaken him, but the action served more purposes than to get some liquid courage for him to fortify himself with.
The open kitchen commanded a good view of most of the house, and it gave Argis the opportunity to check if there were any more soldiers lurking where they shouldn't. He didn't see anybody and took a deep breath to calm his racing heart. There was a reason they had sent Carsten here. Argis came back to find all gazes trained on him. He set the beer down, and helped himself to one of the bottles of which he did not offer his unbidden guests any.
No, he didn't think those three were here to kill him.
Not after the army had already botched up their first attempt so spectacularly.
"And I hope you put all my things back to where they belong."
The way boy-scout's eyes darted around nervously told him he had hit the nail on the head. His friend glowered at the warrior. If she'd had asthma, she would have been the best impersonator of a bulldog he had ever seen.
"You do not seem surprised," Carsten said, half-proud and half-sad.
"A standard issue P80 isn't something they sell in prison, you know," Argis retorted, using the doorway to open his second bottle of stout.
"He went after you with a gun?" the officer enquired incredulously.
"Makes you wonder what idiot is in charge, doesn't it?" Argis asked with forced levity in his voice.
The older Nord shook his head. "More like how you survived."
Argis lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "He was a lousy shot. I wasn't."
"What could you have shot him with?" the pug-nosed soldier burst out.
"Macaroni and cheese," the blond warrior replied truthfully. One shouldn't ever underestimate the lethality of prison food, especially when served burning hot and in an unbreakable plastic bowl.
While the others were busy picking up their jaws from the floor, Carsten carried on. "I just wanted you to know that I disapproved," the other Nord stated. "It was a rash decision and I was outvoted." He looked and sounded like he meant it.
It made Argis' blood boil. "Sincerely, fuck you."
The old soldier nodded, accepting Argis' anger. He may have felt sorry, but an errant sentiment of regret did not stop him from following his superiors' orders. "We have an assignment for you," he told the warrior, just like he had used to when Argis had still been his model recruit.
But Argis was that man no longer. "I quit four years ago," he reminded the officer. Whatever it was, he did not want to know. He was done with this sort of shit.
A brief pause followed in which the two other soldiers shifted uncomfortably. Carsten seemed to be searching for words, but if those had ever been his forte, he would have risen above the rank of sergeant. So he just laid the facts out plain, in the same voice he had used to discuss combat strategy. "There are doubts concerning your loyalty."
"My loyalty," Argis repeated to make sure he had not misheard. An even longer silence followed.
Boy Scout took the opportunity to make a grab for one of the remaining four bottles on the table.
"Touch my beer you mongrel whoreson and I'll put your fucking face through the fucking wall." Argis did not have to raise his voice; the simple truth that he would do exactly as he threatened leant a deadly edge to his otherwise friendly tome. The lad's face, including his freckles, turned whiter than freshly cured cheese. If this was what the military had to offer these days, he was glad to have left. Argis turned back to Carsten. His outward calm bellied the turmoil of emotion raging within him. After everything he had done for them, after they had tried to murder him, he was now the one being accused of treason.
"I gave you ten years of my life." He couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice anymore. "Or have you forgotten what happened in Arenthia?" Argis reminded the officer of the fateful mission four years ago that had led to his retirement. "Those bastards cut up my face and burned out my eye and I did not speak. I wouldn't have if they'd taken the other one. But now you fear that soggy food and bunk beds will break me?"
He might be disgusted at how much the legion's cold dismissal of him hurt, but once he had called those people his family. Once, he would have voluntarily laid down his life, back when he had still believed in their cause.
"Please." The old legionnaire lifted his hands in a placating manner. "I need you to understand that it is not my decision to make." He pulled out a folder and held it out like the cardboard was a shield that could shelter him from the blond's anger. "Wulfryk Aemilius," Carsten read, though he had to know the contents of the file by heart. "What is your relationship with that man?"
"My grandmother and his mother are on the same team in their bridge club," Argis replied, and congratulated himself on his composed tone when he felt anything but calm. This... this he had not expected.
If Carsten had hoped to catch him unawares, he did not show his disappointment, though the officer studied him for a moment longer, before those piercing eyes dropped back to the stack of papers in his hands.
There weren't many advantages to having your face mutilated to the point where it was half-paralyzed, but it did make for one hell of a poker face.
"What... else... do you know about the man," the other Nord asked after a heartbeat of hesitation.
"He runs a freight business," Argis replied, knowing that he was being assessed and not giving any ground.
The corners of Carsten's mouth pulled downwards the way they had used to when he had been dealing with a particularly difficult recruit. "He has the monopoly on nearly all trade in and around the Imperial city," the soldier said with something akin to disgust.
"So?" Argis took a pull from the bottle. "Last time I looked that was a matter for the Elder Council, and not a crime."
"He has been deemed a threat to national security," Carsten continued, unperturbed. "Aemilius is suspected of subversion, illegal weapon possession and dealership, and he is known to have ties to both the Thalmor."
Argis shook his head. "Not my problem."
"It is now. Because – ," he confirmed all of Argis' earlier suspicions by pulling out a society magazine, with a picture of Wulf and Argis together on the front page, "– you seem awfully chummy together.
Argis replied with stony silence. There wasn't much he could say in his defence that wouldn't make him sound like a desperate liar.
Carsten took it as a sign to press his cause. "Get close to him. Find out what you can. Report it to the High Lord Chancellor. Do this one last mission and we'll set you up for life."
"This couldn't have been approved by the Council."
"The orders come directly from the Emperor's office."
'Not the Emperor himself, then?' Argis bit his tongue before the question could pass his lips. It was disconcerting news to be pondered over at a later time. Carsten had revealed more than he should have. The man was oblivious to his own lapse, but Argis' training allowed him to pick up on such irregularities like a bloodhound did wounded game.
He had been promised he wouldn't have to go back after the massacre that had ended his career and had led to the disbandment of their unit.
"Is that all?" the warrior asked, the now empty bottle of beer dangling loosely from his fingers, ready to be used in an instant, if the need arose. Had better weapons, but nothing rivalled the feeling of taking your opponent apart up close and personal.
"For now," Carsten said.
"Good. Then you can get the fuck out of my house now."
Argis did not see them to the door, but he did check they were gone for good before he allowed himself to collapse into a battered armchair. The couch would have been more comfortable, but it felt contaminated.
The warrior did not stir for a long time, listening to the fading noise of a car driving by, the bark of a dog a few streets down, and the tick of the grandfather clock on the far wall. Eventually he took a deep breath, and opened the folder Carsten had left behind, only to find Wulf's blue eyes looking directly at him.
Fuck beer, he was going to need something that could get him properly shitfaced.
'Get close to him,' Argis muttered an hour and a bottle of whisky later. Well, damn. Wasn't it lucky of him to get himself employed by Mr. Aemilius personally? Because Atmora would thaw and Oblivion would freeze over ere he had kept that gaudy flower bouquet.