Here's Chapter 21. The last chapter garnered 9 reviews up to the writing of this chapter (holy crap my reviewers are awesome)! I think that's the most reviews I've gotten for one chapter. Thanks to all who reviewed!
And now for a bit of news: I've decided that I'm going to cut down the length of my chapters. Since around Chapter 15 they've been all really long— 18k to 20k words per chapter. So I've decided that I want to make my chapters a bit shorter, closer to 10k words, so that updates can come sooner and so that people can take in the whole chapter at one go. If people happen to like these shorter chapters, then I'll try my best to keep them around 10k words instead of 20k.
One last thing to mention: Chapter 4 has been re-written, so please go check it out, and tell me what you all think of it in your review!
Legion: I kinda feel bad for Ulfric too, when I think about it. He's got a lot to put up with, managing his side of the civil war. No, I'm not particularly fond of Ulfric or his Stormcloaks, but I don't want to hate them, either. Every single other fic I've read involving an Argonian protagonist has painted Ulfric as evil, with no redeeming qualities, and I really don't agree with that. While I don't want to paint Tullius and the Imperials as saintly or the Stormcloaks and Ulfric as heartless, I'm still going to try and make it clear that the Empire serves Archer's interests better, which leads to his preference for the Imperials.
"Now hold on, Varan, let me get your story straight 'ere," Ghamul began, an incredulous smile still on his face. He put a finger up, giving his traveling comrade pause as the two rode down the road on their horses.
The Orc continued: "You mean ta tell me that ya just walked by this guy in the middle of the street, stabbed 'em in the heart with a dagger you had under your cloak, and continued walkin' away as he fell bleeding… and nobody saw ya?" The Orsimer could hardly contain his disbelief.
"I don't think that even my target knew he'd been stabbed until he was falling to the floor with a bleeding hole in his chest," Varan responded. That elicited a bout of howling laughter from his Orcish companion, who swayed slightly in the saddle of his horse. The stallion he rode snorted in annoyance.
"To be fair, the street was mostly empty; few eyes were about," Varan added as the Orc seemed to start regaining his composure.
"Malacath's blood, I still can't believe it," Ghamul finally managed, actually wiping a tear away from his eye. "Ah, Varan… you know how to make a good kill unlike anybody else I've ever met."
"It's not something I'd flaunt about."
"…Nah, probably not. I don't think that the guards would ever appreciate yer tales if they happened ta overhear," the Orc chuckled with his characteristic lopsided grin. "Nope. 'At's what our Family's 'ere for, right?"
"Mhm," Varan replied idly, looking down the road at the large settlement that lay just ahead. A gigantic castle sat at the very top of the hill the entire city was built on, overlooking the surrounding tundra from its lofty perch. Whiterun could have easily been the equivalent of — or could have even surpassed — many Cyrodilic cities Varan had been to. One could call it national pride, but he still felt that the White-Gold Tower, damaged though it may have been, still surpassed this giant castle in sheer size and grandeur.
Varan took the moment to ask a question. "What's that stronghold called again? The one atop that bluff. Dragons…?"
"Dragonsreach," Ghamul answered easily, eyeing the huge fortress with respect. "That there's a fine piece a woodwork, ain't it? Nords like to say that they once used that castle to hold a Dragon captive."
"Wouldn't a prison for a Dragon built out of flammable wood be counter-productive?" Varan asked with a subtle grin, one which he felt that even the Orc he'd known for so long would have trouble detecting.
"Never said 'em Nords were smart, did I?"
This time, Varan smiled earnestly — which looked almost like a snarl on his Argonian face. "No."
By the time they reached the city a half-hour later, the afternoon had fully given in to the twilight, with numerous stars already beginning to blink into existence overhead. The large number of tents and merchant's stalls situated on either side of the road that ran into the very mouth of the city was mostly vacant at this hour, with only but a few people milling about; it would have been much livelier a scene if they'd come here an hour earlier. At this time, however, most of the merchants had shut down their stalls and set their wares back into storage. Neither assassin found their target in the Caravan Market, so they continued into the city. The brawny Nords at the gate gave them suspicious looks at the sight of their Brotherhood armor, but they didn't seem to truly recognize it for what it was; something that Varan was grateful for.
The two walked down the main street, looking around at the city. Just like nearly every other one Varan had visited in Skyrim, the houses were modest affairs with wooden beams and thatched roofs, partially built under ground to conserve heat; nothing like the stone houses from Cyrodiil. He didn't know how the Nords could stand such monotony.
He quickly took his mind off the local architecture. He was still on a contract, and even if Astrid had promised him that he had no set time limit he intended to work quickly; after all, he was in Whiterun on little more than an educated guess as to where his target might be. If he wasn't here, then he had some serious hunting to do.
"My target's closed his stall down for the day," Ghamul muttered, eyeing an empty wooden stand as they made their way into the shopping area. Blood from a previous sale that hadn't been wiped off lingered on the countertop. "Contract says he's a hunter; he's probably out at this time."
"You could wait for him to come back home," Varan suggested. "Then break into his house and kill him. Do you know where he lives?"
The Orc nodded. "Yeah. In that little shop beside the city entrance, The Drunken Hunstman. It's his house as well as a shop, and apparently he lives there with his brother."
"Then you know what to do. Make sure you're not caught… and do be wary of the guards, Brother."
"I know about the guards," Ghamul replied. He thought for a moment. "Too many watchmen out at this time, though. It'll be hell to try an' sneak in at this hour. Maybe I'll wait at that pub there," he said, nodding towards a building in the distance, "see if I can't wait till it's a bit darker. The wood elf's not like to be goin' anywhere anytime soon." He grinned darkly. "Except the Void, when I'm through with 'em."
"I'll join you. My contract might just be in the tavern," Varan told him. The man he sought was a Nord named Agnar, if he remembered correctly. He'd often heard that you could usually find a Nord at a bar. In his experience, that turned out to be true most of the time.
The two of them walked towards the tavern — The Bannered Mare, apparently — and pushed open the door. The sight of an Orc and an Argonian dressed in black leather armor drew a couple of curious stares, but Varan paid them no mind. As Ghamul walked off to look for a seat, he scanned the faces in the room, keeping his eyes out for any man matching the description he'd been given: Agnar was supposed to be a male Nord, with dark brown hair and warpaint that covered one side of his face, garbed in a mix of studded leather and hide armor.
His gaze finally rested upon one such man. He was seated at the bar, trying to woo the busy Redguard serving woman with honeyed words — and evidently getting nowhere. An arming sword was sheathed at his hip. A mane of brown hair sat atop his head, and when he turned his head back towards the barkeeper to place an order, the right side of his face was entirely blue.
After being pleasantly surprised at his great luck, the Shadowscale quickly decided on a plan to kill the man. Going right up to him and laying his throat open with a dagger was always an option, but never a good one when surrounded by so many people; he'd end up dead for certain. He had to make this kill more discreet.
The Argonian reached into his pocket and drew a small vial — a frenzy poison, slow-acting but potent. It'd make it look as if the mead was making Angar aggressive. When he began to lose control, Varan could easily come up to him and accidentally provoke him into attacking. Then he could end the man with an accidentally-fatalblow.
Slipping the vial into his left hand with the cork undone, Varan slowly made his way to the bar where the boisterous Nord man sat. He looked very young, Varan realized as he neared. This Agnar could not have been older than twenty — he wasn't even a full-grown man. Still, his approach did not halt. Coolly and calmly, the Shadowscale came to stand right next to the young Nord he was expected to kill.
"Hi, what can I get you?" the Nord bartender asked him, cleaning a pewter mug with a rag.
"Just a mead, please. Whatever you have is fine," Varan asked politely as he set down a few Septims on the countertop, keeping an eye on his target. Agnar was facing the man to his right as he shared some wild story with him — apparently, one involving a headless, ghostly apparition he'd seen riding on an equally-ghostly mount around the plains of Whiterun; utter nonsense, Varan thought — so he was probably not even aware of the Argonian standing just a few inches from him.
The woman reached under the bar counter and came back up with an orange bottle of mead in her hand, labeled Honeybrew. Before she could give it to him, Varan made a show of stretching himself across the distance and grabbing the bottle with one hand. "Thank you," he told her. Nobody noticed as his left hand poured the frenzy poison into Agnar's pewter mug. The poison instantly dissolved into the drink, doing not so much as even discoloring it; just as Babette had promised. He'd have to thank her again for a good poison when he returned to the Sanctuary.
With the poison now in place, the Shadowscale scanned the room for a nearby seat. The bar which Angar sat at was completely full, and most of the other tables seemed to be too far to be convenient enough for him — he needed to be close enough to Agnar to make his plan work. There was a bench in front of the fireplace at the center of the room, however, completely vacant and just a few feet away from the bar.
Varan took the seat before anybody else could, and uncorked the bottle of mead. He brought the bottle to his lips and took a sip to look like he was just minding his own business. Off to one side, a bard was plucking out a cheery melody on the strings of his lute, and he pretended to listen for a while. The Shadowscale glanced around to see if he could find Ghamul. To Varan's surprise, the Orc was seated at another table, talking with a couple of other Orcs armored with steel and leather — caravan mercenaries, probably.
He heard footsteps approaching, along with the soft clink of armor as another bar patron came by and sat down on the bench next to him, the wood creaking under their weight. Varan kept all of his attention focused on the Nord in the bar behind him, giving almost none of it to the new presence at his side. He would rather have sat alone, but he couldn't exactly tell the stranger to leave. Knowing these Nords, he might end up starting something in the tavern if he did that, and Varan would have much rather kept things quiet.
"I almost thought I'd never see another of my kind here, so far up North," the man at his side remarked casually. Varan froze. That isn't a Nord's voice, nor an elf's. He turned his head and saw an Argonian man sitting next to him. His scales were dark green, and red warpaint ran down his face. His most prominent feature, however, was the Glass armor he was clad in.
Varan was genuinely surprised. He'd seen almost no other Argonians since he'd entered Skyrim, save for his fellow Shadowscale from the Sanctuary, Veezara. By the look of it, this Argonian must've been either a very wealthy mercenary or someone of significance; the malachite and moonstone needed to craft Glass armor, like the one he was wearing, was expensive to come buy, more costly than the creation of any single suit of Cyrodilic steel-plate. Who could this stranger be?
"Must be the cold," Varan finally said in reply, taking his eyes off the impressive armor and meeting the stranger's gaze. Eerie, blood-red paint ran over his eyes and tapered off down his neck. The Shadowscale nearly did a double take when he noticed the striking color of the other Argonian's eyes. They were gold, like his own. Not bronze or amber, as was normal for their kind, but gold — an unusual color for Argonian eyes.
Varan had always thought that he was alone in that regard; not once in his life had he met another Argonian with eyes like his own. Others Argonians he'd spoken to often found it strange, and usually pointed it out to him — even Veezara had commented about it once during one of their training sessions together. It annoyed Varan because his golden eyes made him stand out more than a normal Argonian — something that an assassin like him, who preferred to keep himself discreet more than anything, did not appreciate. Somehow, though, it comforted him to find someone who was like him in this little way, even if it was a complete stranger.
Smiling, the stranger replied: "The cold air or the cold people? Because Skyrim seems to have plenty of both."
Already, Varan could tell that he was a well-assimilated member of their species. His timbre and dialect, and his smile, gave that away; he sounded almost like an Imperial when speaking, and he smiled just as widely as a human would (which made him look almost absurd, in Varan's opinion). The fact that he smiled at all was a giveaway too; native Argonians didn't smile often — Varan himself was no different, scarcely showing any emotion. He's probably from down South. Cyrodiil, definitely. Colovian Highlander, perhaps?
"Probably both," Varan responded, uncertain of himself; he hadn't intended to initiate conversation, but he didn't feel inclined to ignore the man either.
"And you might be right," the stranger replied with his strange yet genuinely amiable grin, "but Whiterun's not quite so bad once you've lived here for a while. The people haven't seen many an Argonian before I came here, but for the most part they're quite civil and tolerant… and it hasn't snowed yet, so I'm hoping that holds out for a while longer."
"Well by the time it does, I'll probably be long gone from here," Varan responded, taking another sip of his mead. He took another glance at the stranger's armor. This Argonian was a warrior, to be sure. While the malachite had few imperfections and telling marks of combat, it was far from pristine; numerous very fine scratch marks marred the reflective blue surfaces, and he suddenly notice a very black scorch mark on the left pauldron.
"Run into trouble lately? Or is dodging fireballs a pastime of yours?" Varan asked, nodding at the scorched pauldron. He and Ghamul had had to take care of a couple of bandits on the way to Whiterun, but thankfully none of them were spellcasters. It seemed to the Shadowscale that the roads in Skyrim were not as safe as the ones he'd left down South.
The other Argonian glanced sidelong at his marred armor, and shrugged as if it were a speck of dirt that was staining the expensive malachite. "I was contracted to kill a couple of Necromancers that were fouling up a nearby cave with their undead experiments. The mages were decently-proficient with Destruction magic, and one of them caught me in the shoulder with a firebolt — a harmless blow, really. At the most, I'll have to find a wet towel to wipe off the scorch mark it left behind. Their skeletons, however… well, they didn't even have half the wits the Gods gave a mudcrab."
"For something as lacking in brain matter as a skeleton, I don't believe that wits are easy to come by."
"I suppose so," the stranger laughed, with another grin on his face that would have better fitted an Imperial. It was such an amusing sight that Varan had to grin back, in his own, more subtle manner. Varan couldn't remember the last time he'd had a casual, non-professional conversation like this. It was pleasant, actually.
"So what brings you to Whiterun, Marsh-Friend?" the stranger asked, giving his Dark Brotherhood armor a cursory glance. Thankfully he didn't seem to recognize it either; the Brotherhood had a solid but subtle foothold in this province. The Argonian's gaze caught sight of the katana sheathed at his hip, and his eyes widened by a fraction before looking back up at Varan's face. "You're not a… a Blade, are you?" he whispered.
Varan would have cocked a brow if he could. Instead, he gave him a perplexed look. "A Blade? Of course not. They've been gone for years." Why would he think I'm an agent of the Emperor? The Blades have been replaced by the Penitus Oculatus for a long time now…
"Right… of course," the other Argonian murmured, glancing to one side uncertainly. "Well in either case, you look like a fighter. Are you here for the Caravan as well? They've got quite a few good-looking weapons on sale."
Varan decided to nod. "You could say. Yes," he replied; he'd come here for Agnar, who had probably come to Whiterun for the visiting Caravan himself. Varan glanced over at Agnar now, who was still telling some stupid story of his. The young Nord adventurer had even managed to garner a small crowd of about three Nords, all listening to his tales. Had he even touched his mead this whole time? When was his poison going to work?
"Well, you're just in time," Glass Armor remarked, bringing Varan back to the conversation. "Caravan's winding down to its final days here in Whiterun. I expect it'll be gone in a couple of days. Best enjoy what you can meanwhile."
"I'll take your word for it," Varan replied distractedly, suddenly realizing that there was something… odd about the atmosphere. He checked behind him. Nothing was there but the bar filled with the rowdy, drinking Nords. He passed a quick cursory glance around the room; nothing out of the ordinary. Nobody was watching him, yet he felt that something was off. Something important. He didn't know what it was, though…
Until he noticed the scent.
Argonians had a naturally-powerful sense of smell. In day-to-day life it was used mainly for helping to identify other Argonians. Each Argonian had their own unique scent, one which pertained to them alone. It was much easier for Argonians to remember the scents of other people than names or faces; it was imprinted into their memory, a part of their subconscious mind. Now, Varan was noticing a scent that some part of his mind registered as being vaguely familiar, yet at the same time almost completely new.
He frowned, and looked around. Ghamul was nowhere in sight — probably having gone to murder that Wood Elf — and he was the only one in this city that he knew personally; besides, the Orc's scent did not come close to this new one… which, he suddenly noticed, was actually coming from the Argonian seated next to him.
He glanced at Glass Armor, who was now staring into the fireplace in front of them. There was a slight furrow to his horned brows, much like a human would do, but he seemed more confused than distressed. Does he smell it too? Varan wondered. Have I met this Argonian before?
Varan took a moment to closely inspect the Argonian seated next to him. He wracked his mind for any information, any memories of faces, names, anythingthat he might use to remember if he knew this stranger. Nothing came up. This new face was completely unrecognizable from anyone he'd ever remembered seeing, and it did not evoke any memory of a name… yet even so, he could not shake the feeling that he was supposed to know this man. Perhaps if I ask for his name, it'll remind me.
"Um… Marsh-Friend," he began, the unfamiliar title rolling off his tongue strangely, "I don't believe you gave me your name. Would you tell me?"
Glass Armor turned to look at him again, his face still etched with confusion. "Yeah. It's Archer…" he said, trailing off.
Archer… A curious name for an Argonian, and an uncommon one as well. Golden eyes and a name like that? There is no way I would have forgotten any Argonian with traits like those, Varan thought. Despite that fact, the name evoked no memories, either. Regardless, he still could not bring himself to ignore the scent. He noticed Archer staring at him, and he matched his gaze to the other Argonian's.
"Say… would you mind telling me your name?" Archer asked tentatively. "I'm sorry about my staring, but… there's something about you that makes me feel like… I should know you from somewhere."
He's thinking what I'm thinking, Varan realized. "M-my name is… Varan," he answered. He did not usually give his name out so freely, but he wanted to know if perhaps this man knew him instead.
"Varan…" the other Argonian murmured thoughtfully. He didn't seem to remember anything fully, but Varan could still see a flicker of recognition in those golden eyes of his. Golden eyes, just like his own. Who could this Argonian seated before him be? Varan knew none of his relatives, so surely, Archer could not have been some distant family member… or could he?
A thought suddenly hit Varan with such enormity that he nearly gasped. No, this could not be his brother. San-Kel had been missing for nearly twenty years, and the last time he'd seen him, they had been near the Cyrodiil-Black Marsh border, where the Shadowscales had taken the two of them to become assassins; that was nowhere near Skyrim. My brother is supposed to be either dead or safely at home in Black Marsh… Right?
His memories of the day when he and his brother had been abducted by assassins, to be made into Shadowscales, were murky and not wholly clear. Even so, Varan could call enough of it to memory to recall that night.
Varan himself had been the one to undo the ropes that bound San-Kel's arms, legs, and jaws while the kidnappers had turned their backs to rest, having thought both of them to be fully bound; but Varan's bounds had been hastily-done, loose enough for him to just barely wriggle out of.
Fate had been against them that night, unfortunately. Their captors detected them as they'd tried to flee. After being discovered, Varan himself had led their captors away, to at least increase his younger brother's chances of escaping. Just before the kidnappers had grabbed him again, he clearly remembered having seen San-Kel running back into the jungle, safely out of sight. Back to their home.This can't be my brother. He would never have ended up in Skyrim. Didn't San-Kel escape to Black Marsh, to mother and father…?
Or did he escape into Cyrodiil instead? he suddenly wondered. We were nearly at the border, after all… But then how did he end up going this far North? It doesn't make sense…
Even so, he started to see pieces of his brother in this stranger: Archer's forest-green scales, a couple of tones lighter than Varan's own, could have matched San-Kel's; Archer's horns were also straight like San-Kel's, not curved like his own; and most importantly, the two of them shared golden eyes, a unique trait for Argonians.
Something in Varan clicked. Now, faced with a scent that made parts of his mind scream family at other parts of his mind, and with the sight an Argonian bearing traits that were startlingly similar to what he remembered his brother having, the memories of that fateful night that the two of them had been kidnapped seemed to gradually become much more vivid in his mind.
He remembered the dark-green leaves of the jungly swamp plants that covered Black Marsh, remembered the lonely sounds of the nocturnal swamp creatures echoing in the rainforests. He could recall the feeling of his jaws and hands bound by thick twine, the sight of the starless night through the jungle canopy above as he and his brother were taken by their kidnappers… and he could remember the scent of his brother, mingling with the pungent smell of fear.
It matched this stranger's scent.
"San-Kel?" Varan ventured quietly, his heart thudding in his chest.
The flicker of recognition in Archer's eyes returned, like the spark of flint against steel, but this time the flicker grew into realization. He remembered. "That's… my name… my Argonian name…"
Hearing those words, Varan's heart nearly burst in his chest. Varan stared into the other Argonian's golden eyes, and saw himself reflected in them. He tried to speak, but his tongue had become a lead brick in his mouth, numb and immobile. For the first time in his life, he had become dumbstruck.
"Brother…?" the familiar stranger asked in a rasping whisper, as if his voice had left him as well.
"B-brother," Varan agreed hoarsely, without a doubt in his mind now. This was his brother. It had to be, it simply had to. The two had been separated for nearly twenty years… but now they had finally found each other. In Skyrim, of all places. The two were speechless for a moment, taking in the sight of each other and processing this new information.
After a while, San-Kel managed to find his voice. "I… I don't know what to say," he breathed, looking at him as if wondering if he were real. "I wasn't even sure I had a brother… where have you been all these years? What happened to you?"
Varan stared at him. "You mean you can't remember how we were… separated?" he asked, surprised.
San-Kel shook his head sadly. "No, I… I'd hoped that, if I were to meet you… that you would remember. My earliest memories do not go that far back."
He doesn't remember how we were separated, Varan though in astonishment. San-Kel had only been around five years old when it happened, so he figured that perhaps it shouldn't have been so surprising. But if he doesn't remember how we were separated… then he doesn't remember that we were kidnapped. And he doesn't remember that I didn't get away.
"So do you?" San-Kel asked him again. "Do you remember how we became separated?"
Varan's heart stopped beating for a moment. He couldn't tell his brother that he'd been held captive and trained by assassins, and inducted into the Dark Brotherhood as a Shadowscale. If he didn't believe him, then he would think him insane. If he did believe him… then he'd never be able to speak with his brother again.
No. He could not let San-Kel know about his life as a Shadowscale.
"I don't," Varan lied with a pained expression. "I was not much older than you when it happened, and it happened so long ago…"
"What a pity," San-Kel murmured, falling for the lie. A smile found purchase on his face quickly after. "But that doesn't really matter anymore. What matters is what's happening now — what matters is that we've found each other after so many long years. How long has it been, Egg-Brother? Twenty years?"
"Give or take. But yes…" Varan replied softly, giving him a small nod. "Almost twenty years… How old would that make us?"
"I… I'm not completely certain of my day of birth," San-Kel admitted, "but I've guessed my age to be around twenty-three years."
"I'm nearly thirty, so you would probably be correct." Varan wasn't completely certain of his own birthday — the Shadowscales had purposefully denied telling their recruits such things, as a way to enforce the idea that their only identity henceforth was their identity as an assassin — but he'd estimated that he was in his late twenties, nearly thirty. He'd been about nine years old when he'd been abducted.
"By the Hist… nearly twenty years apart, Egg-Brother," San-Kel remarked with a note of wonder. "I still cannot believe we've missed each other for so long… where have you been all this time?"
"Cyrodiil," Varan answered.
San-Kel's eyes widened in surprise. "Cyrodiil? That's where I grew up!"
"Hey! Shut up! I'm tryin' ta have a drink here!" an angry Nord in the bar behind them slurred, drunk. Varan would have turned to hiss at the jackanape, had he not been stopped by a hand to his shoulder. He turned to see San-Kel grasping it, with a stony look on his face.
"Don't pay attention to the likes of him," his brother hissed lowly, completely ignoring the offending patron. "He's just drunk; a Nord's favorite pastime, it sometimes seems like. Ignore him and he'll leave us alone."
Varan nodded, also ignoring the angry Nord at the bar without so much as even glancing at his face. "So you grew up in Cyrodiil as well?" Varan asked, returning his focus. "I'd always assumed that you were back at home in Black Marsh."
"Not really," San-Kel replied, shaking his head. "I grew up in Cyrodiil my whole life, with a human family."
It took a full two seconds for San-Kel's words to register. Varan gaped at him in shock.
"What?!" Varan uttered, taken aback. "You were raised by humans?"
"I was," his brother admitted, with a slightly-embarrassed grin. "They were good people, though. A Nord mother and a Breton father. I left them behind some time ago to travel abroad. To be an adventurer."
Staring at him for a moment longer, Varan sighed. "Well, I guess it's no wonder you act so strangely, then."
San-Kel knitted his brows, something that native Argonians rarely did. "I act strangely? How so?" he asked, confused.
"Well… you don't really act much like an Argonian," Varan explained. "You smile wide enough to show all your teeth. You speak… well, almost exactly like an Imperial, actually. You don't even have an Argonian accent when you speak." Varan himself had a propensity to softly hiss his S's when he spoke, and a tendency to roll his R's as well; San-Kel didn't do either of those things.
"Huh. I never thought about it that way," San-Kel mused. "Where in Cyrodiil did you live?"
"Kvatch," Varan answered, wondering what his brother would say of the vague answer.
"Kvatch?" the other Argonian asked. "Hm… I've never been there. I lived with my adopted parents in Cheydinhal. My father ran an inn called The Dragon's Slumber in the city."
"Really? I don't think I've been to Cheydinhal," Varan lied again — he could call at least three separate contracts to memory where he'd killed someone in that city the last few weeks before he'd left for Skyrim, but not once in all his life had he seen his brother around. Thankfully, he couldn't recall any time he'd killed anybody in that inn, either.
"Brother, I have something else to ask you," San-Kel began, with an eager lilt in his voice. "Not that it's terribly important, but… do you remember what our birth constellations were? My adopted parents never found out."
Varan felt his heart lurch again with apprehension, but once again he expressed none of it. "I do," he began cautiously; he couldn't bring himself to lie to his brother about everything. He braced himself before continuing. "You and I were both born under the sign of the Shadow."
San-Kel's eyes widened, and for a moment Varan suspected that he remembered everything. "The Shadow…" he whispered, in awe. "I never knew… I'd always assumed that I was born under the sign of the Thief…"
"No. Both you and I are Shadow-born, gifted with the Moonshadow ability."
"Moonshadow ability? What is that?"
"It allows us to… turn invisible," Varan finished in a whisper, not wanting to rouse any suspicion their way. A few other Nords were already giving him dark looks, but that might have just been because they didn't like his sinister-looking black leathers.
"Truly?" San-Kel asked. "How does it work?"
Varan thought to himself for a moment. "Well, the way I was taught was to recite a phrase, in Old Cyrodilic, that activates the power. Umbra fidelis." Loyal Shadow was its equivalent in the common tongue; just like the Shadowscales themselves, the Moonshadow always served its master without fail. Of course, since Varan was practiced with using the power he could activate the Moonshadow power without speaking it, as well as say the words without becoming invisible.
His brother, however, was not so gifted. "…Umbra fidelis?" San-Kel asked.
Then, he vanished. Immediately, he was reduced into a shimmer in the air, nearly invisible even at this close distance. Had he blinked, Varan was certain that he would have missed seeing it happen.
"What does the phrase mean? I'm not very knowledgeable concerning Old Cyrodilic," the invisible Argonian asked. Varan was surprised; San-Kel didn't even seem to notice that, for all intents and purposes, he had completely disappeared.
Oh Sithis… my brother is a loon, Varan thought, shaking his head with a half-mirthful sigh as his brother — or at least, the distorted shape of his brother sitting on the bench beside him — seemed to cock his head. "What?" he heard San-Kel ask.
Now, Varan couldn't help but actually smile at the situation. "Brother… look down at your hands."
The amorphous glimmer shifted. "What the crap?!"
His exclamation caused a few Nords to turn their heads towards them, making Varan tense up, but they quickly went back to their own things. Varan sighed with relief, but his brother refused to shut up. "I-I can't see my hands, Varan! How do I undo this?"
"You can cast a spell," Varan suggested. "The power will dispel itself when you cast it."
The next moment, San-Kel had returned, with the golden glow of Restoration magic emitting from his right hand. So he's a Healer as well? Interesting… Looking down at his visible self again, the Argonian sighed with relief.
"What a potent spell," San-Kel remarked, looking at his hands again, which had been nearly completely invisible just a few moments prior. "You know, for my line of work this might just end up being a lifesaver."
"What's your line of work?" Varan asked, intrigued.
"I'm a member of the Companions," San-Kel answered proudly. "Think of it like the Fighter's Guild from back in Cyrodiil. They do the same thing… but with more bragging, brawling, and drinking."
Varan cracked a small grin. "Is that why you came to Skyrim? To live like a Nord? It seems to me that you've been fully converted by the humans after all."
"Not exactly," his brother replied with an almost rueful chuckle. "More like I had to take the job because I came to Skyrim, not the other way around. What about you? What's your occupation?"
If his heart kept on lurching in his chest like this, Varan was certain he'd have to get himself checked by a healer. He had no backstory for himself; he'd never thought that he'd have to explain his history to someone not of the Brotherhood in such detail. He desperately thought up of something to say that did not involve him being of the Dark Brotherhood and that did not point towards him being an assassin. Unfortunately, his black leather armor and reserved demeanor made it difficult to say anything otherwise.
"Brother?" San-Kel asked, seeing as how Varan hadn't yet answered. "Is something wrong?"
Varan looked back at him, swallowing thickly. He opened his mouth to speak the best lie he'd thought up when a voice much louder than his drowned him out.
"HEY! WHERE'S MY NEXT DRINK?!" the same angry Nord from earlier bellowed, slamming what Varan assumed was his pewter mug against the bar table.
Flinching, Varan swiveled his head around to stare at the man. He saw Agnar gripping his mug tightly, fixing all those around him with a glare that sent people scurrying away. The hand gripping his mug was shaking. Varan cursed under his breath. He'd forgotten about Agnar's frenzy-poisoned drink.
A couple of men from the city's watch seated in a table nearby saw the angry Nord. After giving each other a look, one of them stood up to approach Agnar.
"Excuse me, sir, but what seems to be—"
"Get out of my face," Agnar growled with sudden fury, shaking with frenetic energy.
"Woah, there. Calm down, kinsman," the guardsman said, raising his hands placatingly. "I'm just making sure you won't cause any trouble. Perhaps you should lay off the drink for a bit, till you calm—"
With a speed that caught everyone by surprise, Agnar shot up from his seat and rounded on the man, delivering a staggering haymaker into the guard's un-helmeted head. The watchman fell with a grunt and did not stand back up. The punch shocked the rest of the tavern into silence, but it galvanized the other guardsman who'd been watching from a distance into action.
Seeing the other guardsman approaching with a cudgel to pacify him, Agnar quickly drew the arming sword at his hip. A swing of the cudgel was turned aside by the steel sword, and the larger Nord quickly followed up with a left hook into the guard's unarmored cheek. Agnar followed up with a powerful kick. The watchman fell backwards and smashed the back of his head painfully against the edge of a table. He groaned weakly, but he did not rise either.
"Hey, Nord! Back off!" Varan shouted as he shot out of his seat, catching Agnar's attention, gripping the hilt of his still-sheathed katana. The Nord tensed like a wildcat ready to pounce; he was going to round on him too. Varan prepared himself to slay the adventurer with his katana's draw-cut the moment he moved to attack — it would be an instantly mortal strike.
Just as he was about to draw his weapon to deliver the blow, he felt San-Kel grip his arm tightly and force him to stop. "Wait! Varan, don't do it!" his brother pleaded, oblivious to the fact that Agnar was already beginning his swing.
With an enraged bellow, Agnar swung his blade. Acting on instinct, Varan pushed his brother aside and leaned to avoid the attack, but he was much too close to possibly avoid the swing entirely. The blow connected, knocking Varan's head to the side, and the sword continued traveling with a thick ribbon of blood trailing after it. A pained cry escaped Varan as he felt his snout cut open and tasted the blood in his mouth. Agnar raised his sword for a finishing strike, but Varan never saw it coming.
White sparks flew as the steel edge clashed against San-Kel's malachite gauntlet. The Argonian delivered a rough shove into Agnar's chest and forced him to stumble backwards. The man recovered quickly, however, and instead of pausing he executed another diagonal slash. Seeing this, the armored Argonian stood in place and Shouted. "Fus!"
The concussion wave was enough to stagger the enraged man, causing a few watching bar patrons to stare in wonder. After stunning him, the Argonian then grabbed Agnar by his arms, positioning his lower body into a practiced throwing stance at the same time. With a loud grunt of effort, San-Kel threw the Nord to one side, using his body as a lever to send the man flying. He staggered as he lost his balance, but he managed to regain his footing. Agnar was not so lucky: a gasp went up from the spectators as he slammed against a chair, sending wood flying in all directions. He groaned weakly, but did not rise.
Varan barely saw any of it. He was too busy pressing a hand to his open wound to stem the continuous flow of blood. As he was fumbling blindly for the lone healing potion at his belt, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Before he could turn to see who it was, he felt a heady warmth traveling into his body. He stiffened as he felt his skin and scales warping, regrowing into place, until the sensation ended abruptly.
"Are you okay, brother?" San-Kel asked worriedly, now in his field of view. His features were etched with concern.
Varan might have growled something to his brother in anger, but just at that moment the doors to the tavern burst open. Three guardsmen stood at the doorway, with their weapons in their grips. Varan immediately stepped away. Who called the guards?
"What happened here?" one of the guards demanded, looking around at the scene; two Nordic guardsmen lying unconscious and injured on the floor a few feet away; Agnar lying half-conscious atop the splintered remains of a chair; Varan himself with blood on his face and hands; and San-Kel, the only other person on his feet in the room, standing right next to him.
The Shadowscale got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Ill favored by the local people, Argonians had notoriously-short life spans in Skyrim. Had he just gotten him and his brother into a prison cell for the night, or worse?
"This man went on a rampage," San-Kel answered, stepping forward as he motioned towards Agnar on the floor. "He got drunk, knocked two guards unconscious, then nearly killed my brother. So I took care of him."
What are you doing, San-Kel? Varan thought bleakly. It's useless. These guards will never listen.
The guards at the door stared at his brother for a long moment. The lead guard then looked back at his comrades beside him. "Well, men. You know what to do."
The two other guards readied their swords. Varan touched the hilt of his katana, still in its sheath, ready to defend his brother's life — he may have just met the man, but he was still his kin. Loyalty to one's kin was everything to an Argonian.
To his surprise, the armed guards hauled Agnar to his feet and began to drag him out the door, supporting the half-conscious Nord while keeping their weapons at the ready. The last guard walked up to San-Kel, unarmed, and spoke.
"We're sorry about that, Thane," the last guard said. "We'll make sure he stays locked up in a cell, where he's of no danger to anybody." Varan did a double-take. Did that Nord just call San-Kel a Thane? Without even a hint of derision, or contempt?
The two guards that Agnar had knocked out earlier had finally risen, coming to stand beside Archer. "Come on, men. We'll see about getting you two healed," the guardsman said. He walked out of the tavern with the two other injured guards following behind.
San-Kel turned back to Varan, giving him a strange look at the sight of the Shadowscale staring back at him in utter disbelief. "What?" he asked.
"You… you're a Thane?" Varan asked, unable to conceal his surprise. He'd learned that Thanes were supposed to be people of high position in Nordic society. How in the world had his brother gotten ahold of such a title? Him, an Argonian?
"I am," San-Kel affirmed with a nod.
"How?" Varan had to ask.
"Long story," San-Kel told him. "To cut it short, I slew a Dragon outside of Whiterun. As it happens, I am Dragonborn, harnessing the soul of a Dragon and the ability to use their powers as my own. For defending the city — and perhaps also because of my Dragonborn nature — the Jarl of Whiterun named me his Thane."
Varan's jaw dropped in shock. "So the Dragonborn is an Argonian?" Nazir hadn't been jesting, after all… By Sithis, the world's turned upside-down on itself! Is this The Divines' way of showing their sense of humor?
San-Kel shook his head. "The details concerning that don't matter now. Are you okay? Does anything hurt?"
Varan's mouth stung where the flesh had reknit itself and where the scales had regrown, and he was simmering with annoyance at San-Kel having botched his kill like that. "No. I'm fine," Varan answered instead, sitting back down on the bench with a slight grimace. "I'm just glad you were able to heal me back to normal."
"I wouldn't exactly say back to normal… you might have a little scar," San-Kel admitted as he sat down beside him again. "I like to think that my skill in Restoration is good, and getting better… but it still isn't perfect, unfortunately. The scar's barely noticeable, though."
"I don't care about that. I've already got a scar anyways," Varan replied, briefly tracing the scar Han-Zo had left on the side of his face. San-Kel seemed curious about the pink scar, but he didn't ask about it. "Thank for you healing me, San-Kel."
San-Kel didn't respond for a moment. Then, he gave Varan a sad look. "Varan… I'm sorry, but I don't use my native Argonian name anymore… the name I've known all my life is Archer."
"Oh." Varan's shoulders drooped slightly. "Right. I'm sorry… Archer," he remedied, almost despondently. Had his brother forgotten his true roots through his upbringing by humans?
Archer was smiling at him. "You know, I'd always wondered what my traditional Argonian name was… I'm glad that I found it out after all this time." He then seemed to think to himself. "Varan… if San-Kel is my Jel name, then what is our surname? Do we even have a surname? Forgive me for not knowing, I will confess that I don't know as much of our people's culture as I'd like…"
"It's understandable," Varan assured him. He thought for a moment. "Well, Argonians don't truly use surnames the way the warmbloods do. The closest Argonian equivalent to a surname would be our tribe name, I suppose. For you and I… I believe that our tribe's name was Istcoatl."
"So my full Jel name would be San-Kel Istcoatl?" Archer asked. His smile grew when Varan nodded. "And yours would be Varan Istcoatl, right?"
"Essentially, yes." Varan managed a small, nearly imperceptible grin. "You know, I'm impressed. You speak the words of our language quite well. I had not expected that." The language of the Argonians, Jel, was not easy to learn outside of Black Marsh. Where had Archer learned the native Argonian tongue?
"I took it upon myself to learn the speech of our people," Archer responded with a proud, Imperial grin. "I was taught by an Argonian immigrant whom I befriended in Cyrodiil. I believe I could hold my own in a conversation in Jel. Well, that's what I assume; I haven't had much practice in conversation, as you've probably guessed."
"Maybe we can fix that," Varan suggested with an Argonian smile. The thought of speaking his native language with his very brother was a warming one.
"You never answered my previous question," Archer chose to say in reply, to Varan's dread. "What did you do in Cyrodiil? You seem like Fighter's Guild material, but… if that was the case you wouldn't have left for Skyrim."
Thoughts raced through Varan's mind again. After a while he settled on a reply: "Mercenary," Varan told him. "I was a sell-sword. Kvatch was where I liked to spend most of my time, and where I picked up most of my clients. I moved to Skyrim, though, when I heard that business was better here."
"So you're a merc," Archer remarked. He seemed to dwell on the thought for a moment. After some time passed, he spoke again. "What kind?"
"Come again?" Varan asked, unsure of what he meant.
"I mean," Archer reiterated, "what type of mercenary were you? Did you just take any job that came your way? Even the more… unsavory ones, or did you refuse them?"
Varan knew where he was getting at; Archer wanted to know about his morals. His sense of morality was different from that of the common person; his time as a Dark Brotherhood assassin ensured that. There was no doubt in his mind that, if Archer knew everything that he had been called upon to do, he would have tried to smite him in that instant. He'd done things that could've made a Daedra cringe. Things that he wished he could forget.
"Sometimes it isn't always a matter of whether I could choose or not, brother," Varan replied quietly. "I've had to make hard choices. Very hard. Some that you might not be proud of." Most of them, actually.
Archer shifted uncomfortably beside him, but said nothing. "But… I did try and take what jobs I could that I believed were of a just cause," Varan added quickly. To some degree, it wasn't a lie: if he had the chance to choose his job, then he often tried picking the one that made him seem less like an evil person.
But for every one such assignment, he would undoubtedly have to take five others that were much less pleasant; some even worse than simple murder. Abductions, mutilation, torture, infanticide… he'd been called on to do it all, and he would never have the choice to refuse because it had been assigned to him. That was how things went in the Brotherhood — you never disobeyed an order from your superiors. You carried on.
If not… then your life was forfeit, just as the Shadowscales had taught him. Your own Brothers and Sisters would slay you without another thought, for disrupting the balance of things, the order under which everything functioned.
Archer was oblivious to Varan's distressing thoughts. His brother seemed relieved by his last few words, yet there was still a slightly-melancholic look to his eyes. "That's better than I'd hoped," Archer replied softly. "I won't scorn you for making your choices in life. Not every choice is easy to make… and sometimes you regret what you did, but there's nothing you can do that will change it… I know what the feeling is like."
There was a hint of guilt in Archer's voice. Varan found that odd; what sort of life had his brother been living all this time? He struck him as being much more noble than he himself; then again, that probably wasn't saying much at all. Varan wasn't very noble to begin with, after all.
The somber note in his brother's tone went away. Archer smiled, more happily this time. "Perhaps there is another path for you, brother," he said. "I think that maybe you should have a look at the Companions. They're good, honest warriors, all of them. My best friends are amongst their ranks. Perhaps you could be one of us…"
"Me?" Varan asked, startled. "No, I… I couldn't be a real warrior…"
"Why not?" Archer asked, confused.
Varan sighed. "Brother, I'm flattered that you would have me join your company," he told him, "but the life I'm used to is much different from yours, and I'm too used to my style of living to give it up. Traveling and living alone is how I'm comfortable; it's what I've done my whole life. I wouldn't fit in with your people, I wasn't meant for your type of lifestyle… do you understand?"
He could see conflict in his brother's eyes. Archer didn't know what to think. "I think so," he finally sighed, though the way he said it did not convince Varan. "But… couldn't you just stay in Whiterun for a while anyways? I… I would very much like to get to know you better."
Varan stared at him. "You want me to… stay in Whiterun?"
"Just for a short time," Archer promised him. "A few days, maybe? A week? However long you feel comfortable with. You wouldn't have to order a room in the tavern every day, I could arrange something with the Companions so that you could stay with us for the while, just as a temporary guest. The others wouldn't mind it, I assure you. Just stay long enough for us to catch up. I mean, we can hardly get through nearly twenty years of separation in one night, can we?"
Varan stared at him for a long while, giving the thought some careful consideration. There was no way that he was going to be able to stay here forever, obviously; the Mistress knew that she should expect him to be gone for a long time, but if he didn't return before too long, then Astrid would be furious anyways — something that Varan would much rather not have to face when he inevitably returned.
Yet, he could not bring himself to leave immediately, either. He hadn't even known that his brother was alive until just this day! There were still so many things he had yet to learn about him, things he wanted to ask him. He wanted to know what kind of man his brother had grown into during those nigh-twenty or so years they had been separated.
And perhaps, Varan thought, I may catch a glimpse of the kind of person I myself might have been, had I not been abducted by the Shadowscales. That thought alone was convincing enough.
"Very well," Varan said with a note of finality. "I'll stay. For a while."
Again, Archer smiled in his human-like way, so wide that it nearly made Varan laugh. "Thank you," Archer told him, inclining his head in gratitude.
The Redguard waitress came by again, but instead of taking their requests for food or drink she bent low and began to pick up the pieces of shattered chair that Agnar had left behind. After looking at her for a brief moment, Archer got up from his seat and kneeled beside the waitress. She gave him a curious look as he bent low and grabbed a splintered chair leg. "Figured I'd give you a hand, considering that I smashed the chair," he explained, tucking the piece of wood under his arm.
The woman's mouth curved up in a small smile. "Thank you," she said.
Varan watched him and the woman picking up the pieces of the chair. After a while of watching, he awkwardly rose from his seat and began to assist them as well; he didn't know why, but he felt inclined to lend a hand. Between the three of them, the majority of the chair fragments were tucked under their arms. The Redguard woman took them behind the bar counter and told them where to place the wood, thanked them again, then turned away from them to take another bar patron's mead. Varan looked to his brother to see him now speaking with the tavern owner, handing the Nord woman a small pouch of coins.
"I hope this'll cover the cost of the chair, Hulda," Archer told her, dropping the pouch into her hand. "I apologize for what happened. I didn't see the chair in the way."
"If he'd kept going the way he was, I imagine that man would've broken far more than a single chair," she replied, accepting the pouch, "but I appreciate your help, Thane Archer. Thank you."
"You're welcome," he replied with a polite nod. The Nord turned back to the bar, and Archer suddenly stretched his back with a short groan. "Hist, I'm getting tired," he murmured, turning back to Varan. "Well, I'll be taking my leave now. It's a bit late to introduce you to the Companions at this time of day, but we can get to that on the morrow. Is that okay with you?"
"It is," Varan replied with a nod. He suddenly remembered about Agnar; the Nord still needed to die tonight. "I'm going to rent a room here for the night, then."
"Alright. So tomorrow I'll swing by to pick you up and take you to the Companions's home, Jorrvaskr."
"Very well. I will see you in the morning, then. Goodbye… Archer," he said, once again feeling a bit sad that his brother had almost forgotten his true Argonian name.
"Goodbye… Varan Istcoatl," Archer replied, smiling at the way the Jel words rolled off his tongue. The sound of his Argonian name made Varan smile as well. Finally, he walked away. When the doors closed behind his armored figure, Varan let out a sigh. What a strange day this has been.
"So who was that there Argonian you were speakin' ta?" asked a gruff voice, snapping him out of his thoughts. A moment later, Ghamul sat down in the empty space that Archer had occupied earlier. The Orc's leather-clad chest had a splash of crimson that glimmered faintly in the firelight, and a familiar lopsided grin marked his expression.
Varan thought for a moment. "To tell you the truth… that was my brother I was just speaking to."
The Orsimer blinked, then twisted his face with confusion. "Brother…? Ya never mentioned havin' any kin, Varan."
"I didn't even know he was alive until just now," Varan admitted. "We were separated at an early age, and by some twist of Fate it seems that we've found each other again. I can still hardly believe it myself."
Ghamul stared at him with astonishment, before a wide grin split his features. "Well how about that? Ya happen ta meet yer long-lost brother in Skyrim of all places," he remarked with an amused chuckle. "By Sithis, this is starting to sound like some Imperial novel."
"I assume that your target has been taken care of?" Varan asked.
Ghamul nodded. "Yeah, I killed the lil Bosmer. Found 'em in his bed. The little scunner woke up somehow 'fore I reached him, but he never got the chance ta scream; my dagger found his throat before his own voice did. His brother wasn't home at the time, so I decided ta get rid of the body; I managed to sneak the corpse out of his house and dump it over a nearby city wall — thank Sithis for feather spells. How about you?"
"There were some… complications. Agnar ended up going to jail for drunken violence."
"Ah, so you did find your mark after all. Lucky," the Orc remarked. "So now what? Yer gonna go kill 'im in his jail cell?"
"I plan to, yes," Varan responded. "I could use a little help, actually."
The Orc's dark grin revealed his ivory-white, sharpened tusks. "Ye can count me in."
The two of the briskly exited the tavern. There was a chill in the air as the assassins walked down the street. Varan checked his map to find the dungeons — he had yet to visit Whiterun before, so he'd brought a map he found in the Sanctuary containing the general layout of the city.
Within a few minutes the two of them stood within sight of the outside entrance that would take them to the Dragonsreach dungeons — which also happened to be the entrance to the guard barracks in this district of the city.
"I'd rather not arouse suspicion by killing guards," Varan hissed lowly. "If we can avoid detection entirely then let's do so." The Orc grunted in reply to let him know he'd heard.
Both of them dropped to a crouch and approached the front of the barracks without being seen; their black armor made them blend in well with the night. Once they'd reached the barracks, Varan cast a Detect Life spell. Inside, he could see a single guard in a position of repose, seemingly in midair — probably asleep in his chair. Thanking Sithis for this one guard's drowsiness, Varan cast a muffle spell in his vicinity so the door's creaking hinges did not awaken the guard as he slid inside the building, with Ghamul following close behind.
Just as he'd thought, the Nord was actually asleep in his chair, leaning backwards against the wall with his feet propped up on the table in front of him. He cast another Detect Life spell, so he could see that three other guards were asleep at the end of the hall, in their beds. Varan would have kept going to find the jail room had he not spotted the plate of food on the table: a small piece of chicken and a few wedges of potato. It must've been the guard's dinner.
"Ghamul, keep this guard asleep," Varan told him as he reached into his satchel and produced a small vial of powder: another poison, but this one was ideally meant for solid foods, not drinks like Agnar's mead. Ghamul nodded and cast a spell on the sleeping watchman that would keep him asleep, while Varan pulled out the cork stopper on his vial and put some of the powder onto the chicken and potato wedges. For anybody eating the meal, it would have just looked and smelled like a cooking spice.
"I'm going into the next hall," Varan told him. "Stay here and make sure that no guards come by, while I look for Agnar."
After waiting for the Orc's nod he grabbed the trencher, cast the Moonshadow power on himself to turn invisible, and pushed through the door at the end of the room and into the next. Varan scanned the hall, quickly concluding that this was the jail. Only a few of the cells were actually taken, and most of those which were occupied were not Nords, as he'd expected. One cell in the distance was occupied by two jittery prisoners, a Bosmer and a Khajiit dressed in threadbare, roughspun garments — skooma sellers, probably — and one Redguard man sat with his back to him, a few cells away from the skooma addicts.
Another cursory scan of the room drew his gaze another cell, previously unnoticed. Agnar sat in the corner of his cell, fully-conscious. There was a grim, morose look on his heavily war-painted face as he stared at the opposite wall, and a few bruises marked the spot where he'd received injuries from being thrown. He didn't seem angry. If Varan had to guess, he looked… sad, or confused. Scared, even. Certainly not the fearless adventurer type that he'd taken the Nord to be.
Varan soundlessly approached Agnar's cell, dispelling his invisibility from the shadows before coming close enough. His feet made no sound as he came face-to-face with Agnar's jail cell. He kelt down, set the trencher with the food on the flagstones, and pushed it under the bars. "Dinner's ready."
Agnar started at the sound of his voice, whipping his head towards him. The Nord's blue eyes widened at the sight of him, but whether it was in fear or surprise Varan could not say.
"You," the Nord whispered, with a voice much smaller than the one he'd used in the tavern. "What are you doing here?" the adventurer asked, almost worriedly.
"I wanted to see the man who attacked me at the bar," Varan told him, expressionless. "The guards decided that, since I was going to be seeing you anyways, I might as well do their job of feeding you for them." He nodded at the trencher further on the floor a few feet away from Agnar.
"I attacked you…" the Nord murmured silently, his eyes widening as he remembered. "Oh, gods, I'm… I'm so sorry," he muttered, nervously running a hand through his long brown hair. "I can't believe I nearly… gods, I don't know what happened to me… I never attack people like that, even when I've been drinking," he said, looking up to Varan with a sad look in his eyes. "Forgive me for what I did, I… I was truly out of sorts."
The Argonian barely contained his surprise. Agnar was apologizing for having attacked him? Most Nords didn't care for Argonians, and wouldn't have second thoughts about brutalizing one who'd done them wrong. This one was actually humble enough to apologize to him? Truly, there are few of Agnar's like in the world, he thought in wonder.
"Perhaps you don't hold your drink as well as you thought," Varan told him evenly. He looked down at the food. "Maybe you should eat that. I'd rather not get blamed for you going hungry tonight."
Agnar glanced at the trencher for a moment, likely wondering about when they'd begun to feed the temporary inmates in the jail. Almost reluctantly, he brought himself out of his corner and sat down cross-legged before the trencher, setting it in his lap. He grabbed a cut of potato, but he stared at it instead of eating it.
"I'm sorry about what I did," Agnar reiterated, looking back up at his face. "I never meant you ill will. I just… lost control over myself. My thoughts just wouldn't clear up. I'd never thought that seeing red was more than just a figure of speech until now…"
"It's alright," Varan told him, lowering himself into a similar cross-legged sitting position in front of Agnar, with only the iron bars to separate them. "These things — they happen sometimes… I think I should be the one apologizing for what my brother did; that throw looked painful."
"It was. It's not every day you get thrown by the Dragonborn himself, huh?" Agnar replied with a rueful smile. Strangely enough, he didn't seem at all displeased or disappointed by learning of who the Dragonborn was.
"It doesn't bother you?" Varan asked curiously. "The fact that the hero of your people's legends is an Argonian, and not a Nord?"
"The Dragonborn could've been a mudcrab for all I care," Agnar responded, shrugging. "I'm a man of the Divines, and I trust in their judgement to make the Dovahkiin an Argonian. As long as he's capable in battle and a decent person, then I don't care what he happens to be… I suppose that I should have few doubts about that first part now, huh? If he can throw a man like that, then Gods only know what he can do with a blade in his hands."
He finally bit into the potato, eating the small piece in one bite. Varan watched as he chewed and swallowed his poisoned food, before sighing despondently. "I never thought that my adventuring career would kick off with me ending up in jail, though. What'll my ma and pa say about me if they find out?"
"I don't imagine they'll be too pleased," Varan admitted. "I wouldn't be surprised if they were worried about you right now, in fact… How long have you been an adventurer?"
"I first left home three weeks ago," Agnar told him, biting into the chicken now. After a short while of chewing thoughtfully, he continued: "My parents are farmers from Ivarstead. They were adamant about me leaving, but I told them that I wanted to be my own man. They wanted me to wait until I'd seen my twentieth summer, but that was going to take too long — I wanted to see all of Skyrim, not be restricted to some little chicken farm. So I saved up my gold and got myself some armor, and took my pa's old sword."
He paused, then frowned. "They looked so sad when I left them, though. I can't bring myself to forget the looks on their faces. I'd never seen my mother cry the way she did when I left… They made me promise to write them a letter as often as I could, and they wouldn't let me leave until I'd made the same promise ten times over."
"Have you written to them yet?" Varan asked.
Agnar smiled sadly, reached into a pocket, and produced a small envelope. "Wrote my first letter to them before I came to Whiterun today," he answered. He lowered the envelope onto his lap and stared at it for a moment, idly popping an entire wedge of potato into his mouth. "I'd hoped that I would have been able to… get a courier to deliver it tonight, but it seems… that's not the case anymore. I hope I get let out… s-soon enough; they might think that I'm h-hurt, or…"
Agnar coughed suddenly, bits of food flying out of his mouth as he put a hand to his chest with a pained grimace. "Gods… I don't feel so… good…" he grunted, his breathing labored. Sweat began to form on his brow. His breath began to come in short, quick breaths as his face turned red — he was asphyxiating. The poison was beginning to take effect.
After a few more moments Agnar's eyes seemed to be bulging out of his head, and even his coughing began to choke and taper off. He gripped his throat with both hands as his windpipe was cut off entirely. Realizing that he had stopped breathing he began to heave in an attempt to get air into his lungs, all for naught. He quickly lost his balance and fell onto his back as he struggled for a breath like a fish out of water, the trencher clattering noisily on the flagstones beside him, but the muffle spell Varan had cast beforehand prevented any noise within their general vicinity to slip out. Convulsing violently, the Nord's bloodshot eyes rolled in his head to look at Varan — the Shadowscale could see all the shock and fear in them.
Agnar thrashed around for about three more minutes before his struggles finally ceased.
Varan stayed where he sat, observing the warm corpse. The Nord's eyes had rolled to the back of his head; he could only see the bottoms of Agnar's irises, sky-blue slits beneath his upper eyelids. The Nord's face was halfway between red and purple, like a bruised piece of meat. His body was twisted into a horrendous, grotesque position as it lay on the damp cell floor. He had not even seen his twentieth name day. His parents had no idea of where he was, and since he'd left them they had yet to hear a word from their young boy. And now Agnar was dead, by his hand.
Someone else might have had tears stinging their eyes by this point, as the impact of what they'd done finally hit them, but Varan was a killer; his eyes were clear, and devoid of remorse.
He'd seen it all before. Agnar was just one of many people whom he had killed for the Dark Brotherhood. He'd killed targets even younger than Agnar, and he'd killed defenseless elderly targets. He'd captured and tortured targets, leaving them to die slowly or remain disfigured for life. His heart had long since hardened to a callous against the things he did. He did not cry over them… but he certainly took no pleasure from them, either.
He knew what he was doing would be considered wrong to most people, and he wanted to feel genuinely sorry. He wanted the guilt to make him physically ill, he wanted to be able to cry about all the evil he'd done… but after nearly twenty years of the same thing, he'd done this too many times for it to affect him hated that fact.
However, he never allowed himself to forget why he did these things, even if they were … unsavory. Every time he killed someone in the name of the Dark Brotherhood, he was taking care of his family, his adopted one: his Dark Brothers and Sisters. Yes, they were his family — people who accepted and respected him for everything that he truly was.
Aside from Astrid and her lapdog of a husband Arnbjorn — and Festus, with whom he rarely spoke — Varan found that he actually liked the members of the Falkreath sanctuary; Babette had quickly become his personal tutor in alchemy; Nazir was the most amiable of the assassins, always ready to make a pun or two, if also one of the more openly-martial ones; Gabriella always made for pleasant company, even though he no longer drank the Dunmer's nightshade-infused tea; and Veezara, the Sanctuary's other resident Shadowscale, had become one of those few which Varan counted as a friend. Every single one of them respected him for everything he was. When he was with them, he never felt alone. They were the only people that would genuinely welcome him with open arms as one of them, and they were the only people he felt truly close to.
One always had to sacrifice themselves for the good of their family, right? If he had to kill someone in order for his family to live and thrive, then he would do it, because he only wanted the best for his family. He killed for the Brotherhood because they were the closest thing to a true family he had left for him… and he'd sooner die than let them suffer by his actions.
What about San-Kel? He is your blood-kin. Doesn't he count? he asked himself briefly.
San-Kel struck him as a noble figure. Had Agnar not attacked first, Varan knew that he would have tried to talk things over before they got out of hand. He had acted very civilly with the guards. He had even paid for the chair that he'd smashed in self-defense. In short, his brother seemed to be on the opposite side of the moral spectrum that he inhabited.
San-Kel — no, Archer, Varan had to remind himself — was his brother, certainly a part of his blood-family… but he would never accept him for his true nature. No, only his Dark Siblings would do that; they were the only ones who accepted and respected him for what he really was — a killer — and they were the only ones who would ever do so. Without the Dark Brotherhood, he would be utterly alone and outcast. Of that, Varan had little doubt.
It was almost strange, he thought, how he felt closer to strangers than to his own kin… But the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb, he reminded himself; bonds made between other people have the capacity to be more powerful than the bond of birth.
Just as Varan was about to rise to his feet, his eyes caught sight of something white at the corner of his vision: Agnar's letter, sitting a few feet away from the Nord's corpse, where he had flung it in his desperation. Varan looked at it for a moment. Then, he reached into the cell and grabbed the letter. It was slightly damp from the moisture in the cell, but otherwise fine. Stuffing the letter into a pocket in his armor the Argonian quickly exited the jail and signaled for Ghamul to follow, and the two left the guard barracks entirely.
"So didja find 'im?" Ghamul asked once they were safely out of sight of the barracks. "You were in there a while."
"I did," Varan replied, nodding. "Agnar is no more."
"Alright, good," the Orc responded as the two made their way back to the center of Whiterun. "Lemme jes' say this: ye got lucky this time. Last time I had ta hunt an adventurer down, it took me the greater part o' a month. You found yours in the first city you come to!"
"Indeed, that was certainly lucky of me," the reptile murmured in reply.
"So I guess we head back to Falkreath now, eh?" the Orc asked as they entered the market district, mostly empty at this hour.
Varan stopped. He shook his head. "Actually… I'm staying here, in Whiterun, for a while."
Seeing the Orc's perplexed look, he continued: "Remember when I told you that I met my brother in that tavern back there? The Argonian wearing the Glass armor?"
"Aye," the Orc replied, still not understanding.
"He's a member of the Companions' order," the Argonian told him. "We were talking, and… he wanted me to stay with them for a while. So that we could get to know each other more; I got him to believe that I'm a sell-sword of some sort. He also believes that he might convince me to join the Companions entirely, but trust me, I've no intention of doing that. I don't know how long I'd be staying there, but… I won't be gone too long."
The Orc's expression had grown more and more somber as Varan kept talking. Now it looked as if the mer was reflecting deeply about something, though it wasn't especially easy to tell. After all this time, Varan still found it somewhat tricky to read the expressions of mer; to say nothing of Orcs, even his friend Ghamul.
"So yer gunna be stayin' with them Companions?" he repeated. Varan nodded. The Orc huffed out his nose. "Might not be the best idea there, Brother. They might get… nosy. Maybe accidentally learn somethin' about you they shouldn't."
"I won't be caught," Varan assured him. "The Brotherhood in this land isn't as… public, I suppose is the word, as the Brotherhood we left behind in Cyrodiil. The folk of Skyrim do not recognize our armor, and I have no intention of revealing myself; I shan't be discovered."
Ghamul stared at him for another long while, studying him. "Those are warriors yer gonna be mixing yesself up with, not assassins," he reminded Varan, "and Nords, at that; they ain't the kinda guys yer used ta bein' round. They brag, they drink, they fight… hell, if ya give 'em tusks and green skin, they're almost like Orcs. And I'm pretty sure that they don't have a very high opinion of your kind… no offense. You sure you know what yer doin'?"
After a thoughtful pause, Varan nodded. "I think I can manage. They've accepted my brother into their fold, and I'm not exactly delicate either — I have my training as a Shadowscale to thank for that. I suppose I shouldn't have much of a problem integrating myself." I hope, at any rate.
The Orc snorted. "Well, then I guess there's nothin' else fer me ta say. Word of advice, though: don't agree to a drinking contest with any Nord. I think even their women 're capable of drinking enough mead ta tranquilize a horse." He smirked. "Not that I imagine you'd ever agree to something like that anyways, given yer tolerance for alcohol…"
Varan gave him a chuckle. "I'll take your advice to heart," he said. Then, his face grew more serious. "But if you could, when you get back to the Sanctuary… don't speak of this to the Mistress. I'd rather not let Astrid know about what I'm doing."
The Orsimer nodded with understanding; Astrid had been nicer to Ghamul than to Varan, but the Orc still didn't like her much, for the way she treated his friend. "Don't worry, I've got ya. She won't hear no word of this from me."
"Thank you," the Argonian replied gratefully.
Ghamul put his hand out, and Varan shook it. "Hope things work out fer ya," the Orc said in farewell, giving Varan's hand one last, firm shake. As do I, Varan thought to himself, as he watched the other assassin go.
When he was completely alone, Varan reached into his pocket and withdrew Agnar's letter. Turning around, he made his way back to the same tavern from earlier. Several Nords were still out and drinking at this hour, but the barkeeper didn't seem too busy. He sought her out and got her attention.
"Can I help you?" the kindly woman asked him, cleaning a pewter mug with a rag.
"I'd like to order a room," Varan told her. "Just for the night." He drew a few septims from his coin purse and set them on the table.
"Very well. Here's your key," she replied, setting down an old bronze key.
"And one more thing… Do you know where I could have a letter delivered?" Varan asked, holding up the envelope.
"You could give it to me if you'd like," the Nord suggested. "I hold letters for people all the time. The next courier that comes by will see me and take it to where it needs to be."
"Alright," Varan said. He handed her the letter, but didn't let go when she grabbed it. She gave him a strange look.
"Please," he told her, looking her in the eye, "make sure this gets delivered safely… it's important."
"You have my word. I'll make certain the courier takes it," the Nordic barkeep promised with an amiable smile.
Satisfied, Varan let go of the letter. He turned and walked away from the bar, going up the stairs to his room.
You got your letter delivered, Agnar, Varan thought somberly, making his way to his bedroom. He might not have been able to spare the young Nord's life, but at least he could honor his memory in this little way.
I hope you enjoyed that. If you did, then leave a review! Let's see if this fic can break its own record and get 10 reviews for Chapter 21!