PALE

CHAPTER II

SPEAKING WITH SILENCE

{MARCELLUS'S POV}

I'm existing in a room where all I can see is a future untraceable, and I come up with a philosophy that is worth stating formally:

Everything begins where everything ends.

It sounds deep, but it's really not much of a stretch.

When you leave someplace, it's usually because you're going somewhere else. When you leave somebody, you start your new life without them. When the day ends, the night picks up. Or when you close out a paragraph, you see another one underneath it.

It's really like stripes. White space ends. Black begins. Black space ends...

I'll say it again: everything begins where everything ends.

It's worth repeating.

And I mean everything.

It all begins just so it can end. Ends just so it can begin again.

(You get it yet?)

We're born to die. We perish because we live. It's common knowledge.

Just like what we disdain. Nobody hates things just to hate. They hate because they want something better.

They want an 'end', so they can get a 'begin'.

And I'm one of those people.

You'd say I have a death wish. Most people do. And around most people, I spit. But here, I'll say no. I don't have a death wish. I have a life wish. A new life wish. One that starts off someplace else as soon as this one flickers off.

I am a risk taker who doesn't take risks.

I kill myself everyday. I walk the line between life and death. I stand at the edge of Oblivion and carelessly hop on the verge of the damned like it's nothing.

You see me as a warrior. It's almost comical, because that's exactly how I'd picture me, too. Some tortured, fighting soul whose nurturing family was slaughtered in a likely "Imperial" raid and had to watch his beautiful, limitless life shatter to conveniently fixable pieces at age four.

You picture me going on in some brooding inner monologue, silently weeping in the emotional hovel I created for myself:

"Their bloody heads rolled," I narrate. "But I single handedly killed a smirking soldier with my bare, toddler hands as the guts of my loving sister stained the hardwood floor in a gelatinous pile of crimson goo," you imagine.

"I could save the town" - the soliloquy continues - "but not my parents, so I forever walk this earth blaming myself for their tragic death, hating every aspect of my awful but noble personality because of it. I'm incredibly skilled and handsome (but I don't own a mirror and have no idea), and women flock to me as if I am fine jewelry (although I have the fine part down), yet I refuse their advances because I am emotionally unavailable and can't see the good within myself," you see me saying.

You think me as this guy. Right?

Well, I'm not.

I'm handsome. I know that.

I'm skilled. I know that.

I'm cunning. I know that better than anyone.

I'm a bad guy. But yet, there have been worse.

I do not hide any secret noble ambition. My ambition is what it is.

I don't mope about the things I think I am, because I know very well who I am - liar, cheat, addict, killer, I get it - and I don't blame myself for things I can't change.

So, sad life. Bad guy. Not a Daedra. Not a Vigilant. I'm a sob story to some. Hated by others. Some think I'm good. Some think I'm bad. Depends on the lighting.

But, right now, I'm just an ending who began somewhere. And I'm not sure where, but I know the place I'm at now is very dark literally, but very light figuratively. This is a place where I'm a tortured soul. But, I find my soul undergoing a striking lack of torture at the moment for a name like that, so now, I'm just a guy who can't see anything.

Literally. It's pitch in here.

And that's kinda like my life right now.

I reach under my mattress and feel it. There's a bottle of my messed up future against my skin at the moment. Cold, glassy. Won't be there for long if I decide I need a pick-me-up.

Er, backpedal.

I always need a pick-me-up.

Nowadays, at least. But the bottle is for the special kind of pick-me-up that I crave when I'm extra desperate, where I'll even take passing out unconscious over listening to the sound of my own breathing any longer. That used to be my favorite pastime; dying while staying alive. But being clean with exceptions, I still don't need it any less. Access is what's hard.

The whole market's gotten exceedingly more difficult for me to get a hold of. I think it's because I'm constantly monitored by the Jarl from sunrise to set in my own personal prison cell fit with a luxuriously screwed up mattress and furniture that wouldn't look out of place in a sewer tunnel. And while it's not literally a dungeon, it still feels like one for a man-boy who was decidedly an adult at fourteen.

So, I decide, as you're deciding at this very moment, that my life is pretty unbearable. And, if not unbearable, then just plain nonexistent (literally, my life is like the Snow Elves: absolutely extinct. And he was so young, too!). And that's why I save the messed up future drink for later. Because only Nocturne knows that I'll be needing it. (Heck, not even Nocturne. All the Divines and Daedric Princes and Jarls know that. A person like me needs his "pick-me-up".)

And on top of all this diary-like info I'm sharing in my signature inner-monologue, here's another fun-fact about Marcellus Mossmire: time is usually irrelevant to him. Not even time itself, but the whole abstract concept, as well. (Yes, I agree, I am quite three dimensional.)

And I guess you've got me figured out (which I dig; I'm pretty basic), so I can safely assume you get where I'm coming from. Time ticks fast, but I stay in the backlash, yadda, yadda, yadda. The main point here is that I figure it's about six in the morning, but I've been laying here awake for a few hours at the least, and couldn't tell you if that's a close estimate or not.

Heck, I hadn't even changed my clothes last night.

And of course, I'm blessed with the room with no torch and not a single damn window. Not even a tinted one. (No joke: I seriously think this place was a storage shack at some point. Or haunted. Not even kidding.)

Which means I inevitably have to get up and leave my room to check to see if there's gleam flowing from the skylight. And as soon as I lift from this bed, whether it's six in the day or six in the night, the Jarl's gonna expect something out of me. My "daily assignment", so to speak. (Sounds like some bullshit seven-thousand-steps-to-recovery ploy they make recovering addicts use to distract themselves. Probably is.)

But do I question it? (Do you care?) No. Never. Because I'm a defiant little fetcher, but not stupid. Especially when I'm getting free room and board as long as I fight off some bandits and use my wit for a purpose now and again. And I'd never beg for acceptance, but it's nice to have it. Real nice.

So, that's why I get up. I'm dizzy as my feet hit the floor, probably because I jerked up too fast, but I shake it off and head through the door without tripping once. Score one.

A few are already walking about, but the skylight's glow, an odd shade of orange, is futile, and we appear to be in the midst of a sunrise. So, whoever's walking awake here must be pretty tired, kinda like me.

Or, they're self righteous know-it-alls like Irileth, Secret-Fire, or - I cringe at the name - Delynn. Most of them like sucking up (or acting like they actually have a purpose) and they see getting up before the Nords even inhabit Skyrim as some jump-start on their pointless rise to glory. Like it even matters.

But what does matter is this: the Jarl's up and about. Which, bad enough for me, means that I have no excuse not to collect my assignment about now.

Great.

Dragonsreach. That's where I live. Also known as the center of the city of Whiterun, or the Cloud District, for reasons you can probably guess. It's an old building (obviously) created to resemble ancient Nord longhouses from back in the day (you know, when I wasn't alive to actually care), and apparently they imprisoned a dragon in here. Like, a live dragon. One that was breathing and everything. Hence the name.

Bullshit is all I can say.

It's not even worth thinking about when I have important things to do.

I'm trying to edge past this open doorway now to get to the stairs, since I see Delynn - made pretty obvious by her fiery mop of red orange hair - conversing with her uncle Thaddeus over some tea or whatever that is (probably a frenzy potion, knowing the mood she's always in), but she hasn't seen me yet, so I turn my head a little, hoping she won't recognize my slightly tilted profile if she looks my way. But, knowing her, she'll catch me like Ataxia in a matter of a second or two. She's just that in love with me.

I'm getting near the stairs now. Kind of on a balcony of sorts overlooking the ground floor of Dragonsreach, with a large fire pit and feast table in the middle. (Very castle-like, very Imperial.)

By the throne, the Jarl looks to be discussing something of 'great importance' - most likely about the civil war or dead dragons or something equally stupid - with his advisor (that I take absolutely no liking to, if you were wondering, or didn't already assume to begin with) at the front. And then there's me up here. Who almost made it to the stairs, but was approached by Delynn instead.

Definitely what I've been saving my "messed up future" for.

She's a super weird kind of girl.

(And no, no, and no. Absolutely...no. Don't think that I'm just saying she's weird because she's 'amazing' or whatever, and I secretly like her, because I don't. My last girlfriend was tall and blonde and almost life threatening in her good looks. A woman. But Delynn is like a child. From the inside and out. And, even worse, she's a mage. A mage. Can it get any worse?)

"Hello there!" she says, walking faster to match my speed.

She has short legs, so I'm sure I could outrun her, but I'm trying a change of pace today and feel like being nice.

I slow a little and walk beside her.

I don't feel any different.

She smiles.

"I have an idea."

Score negative one.

It's the point in the conversation where she's trynna gauge my interest - get me to say something back. But, truth be told, I see no need to, and keep quiet.

She has an idea. Okay. She can tell me what it is.

But, of course, she doesn't get it. (What else is new?)

So, thanks to that, I have to say, "Okay," almost sighing-ly (if that's a thing) to get her to keep going.

Tiring business, talking to people who are slow.

She straightens a little, as if she is preparing a speech of sorts. (This is where things start to get weird - when she opens her mouth.)

"Ah, so, this may come off as sort of presumptuous," she begins, and I roll my eyes. "Or, maybe not…" She stops and places her finger on her chin in a puzzled manner. "Is presumptuous the word for that? Presumptuous…" She shakes her head. "Well, it may come off as slightly rankling, as I understand this could possibly be a sensitive topic, but…you know how...well, to simply state it, you're magic skills are slightly, ah, underdeveloped?"

Am I supposed to care?

"Sure," I say.

There's really no other response.

"Well, I had just been…"

She pauses, meeting my gaze for a moment, like she's seeing if I'm still paying attention.

Which, painfully, and also unexplainably, I still am, although it takes her a second or two of creepily staring with her bulging green eyes to notice that I'm still so completely enamoured in what a lovely conversation.

Being nice sucks (the life out of me).

She goes on, although a little shaken, "I had just been conversing with my uncle Thaddeus - you know my uncle Thaddeus, such a very short, stocky man with his rugged, aged appearance and almost childlike facade to go with such-"

"I know your uncle Thaddeus," I interrupt, raising my hand slightly to silence her jabber. "Is there a point to this story?" Leaning against the railing, I glance down to Jarl Balgruuf, still discoursing with his advisor, and gesture to him. "I've got some things to do for the Jarl, and I really can't be bothered with such trivial-"

She smiles. (Idiot.)

"I'm getting there," she says with a giggle. "My uncle and I were talking about your arcane skill level - or, lack of arcane skill level, for that matter - and we were thinking that you would benefit from, as you are not quite taking to my lessons so proficiently, me teaching you a thing or two about pharmaceutical-"

I already know what she's getting at, so I shake my head and raise my hand a little again, because I know that's the way to shut her up.

"I don't need you to teach me about alchemy, Delynn. It really doesn't concern-"

"Yes, yes…" She frowns. "I understand that, but you are of the Thief birthsign, am I wrong? And many Thieves take to the skill of alchemy quite proficiently if they just-"

This whole conversation is uncomfortable for me. And not just because I'm conversing with her, but because she brings up points that I'm content in not discussing. Ever, really. Especially not with the likes of her. So the only thing for me to do here is play it curt. (As always.)

I raise my palm again.

"It doesn't interest me."

"But I have seen the way you look at the alchemy labs throughout Dragonsreach. It's as if they speak to you, and I can't leave such a connection un-"

I laugh because of how stupid that sounds, and realize I don't need to lift my hand again because it's already up.

"You're like a troll," I say, smiling. Not really because she's my friend and I like teasing her, but because the statement is true, and just as funny. "Or a tax collector."

I laugh again.

"Seriously, I don't do magic. Or alchemy. Does that answer your question?"

"Well…uh…"

She looks to her feet, at a loss. Normally, I'd run off thinking she was about to plunge into another one of those stupid speeches of hers, but I also know her well enough to tell that she's done for the day. With me, at least.

So I smile, and she says to me, deflated, but still dignified, "Yes."

"Then I'll see you later."

Hopefully not.