3. A Night Unlike Any Other

Long ago, when boys wrestled in schoolyards, each one trying to prove they were better than the other, Daniello had often considered himself flimsy. Even smaller boys could wrestle him to the ground, and the bigger of the boys could handle him like a ragdoll. If ever altercation were to arise (in the certain situations in which he'd spoken to brazenly), he knew better than to address it with brawn… but often times, it appeared it was forced upon him.
In the morning, after losing consciousness in a half-dug hole, he realized exactly what lesson the thugs intended to teach him. It might have came with the sobriety, or perhaps he'd grown tired of lying in the dirt.

The sun dawned over the mountains. He rose from the earth, battered and bloody; one check through his pockets and he knew something was missing. Both the potion and the journal were gone, as well as the rest of his money and the dagger he kept strapped to his chest.

The old witch named Anise. It must have been her. What a fool he had been! Any alchemist would notice their missing notes. Had he honestly thought he could rob a seasoned mixer? She must have hired help, someone brawny to teach the newcomer in town a painful lesson about thievery, and Daniello would not soon easily forget.
Only a few yards away, the cottage door opened. Rokon stepped out with a broom in hand, dressed in a woolen tunic. Rotund, was the word that came to mind as Daniello peered across the yard. Heavy around the waist with long, thick legs, the Orc meandered around his garden like a giant amongst mice, careful not to tread on his flowers and cloves of deathbell.

Oxen shoulders, wide enough to lug a house with, and a swarm of braided black hair decorated in feathers. He must have heard them beat me. Maybe he watched…? Does he know I broke in? Does - but those thoughts came to a halt. The Orc watched. He must have!A savage of his size could have gnawed the ruffians with his baby teeth and made out with naught but a bruised shoulder. Some hero he is. What kind of man sits around while the weak are trampled? Poison nestled in his belly, stirring the worst of hangovers he ever felt - combined with the rumbling urge to vomit, Daniello grit his teeth and charged forward against all reason. The alcohol created a simmering rage in his chest (or perhaps unlocked one?); boiling blood made his heart quicken, and as he crossed the field to Rokon the Orc, he knew his mind had lost pace with his mouth.

"You're a miserable old bastard, do you know that?" Daniello stood before the hermit, near a foot his junior, but in his heart, he felt like a lion. "You heard them beat me, and worst of it? You didn't care - what sort of man are you?"

"Fly off, boy," the Rokon said, "Pick fights with men you can win against."

"You don't even know why they attacked me!"

"Why else would they brutalize you? Because you tickled their noses, or because bratty, guttersnipe thieves are dimes a dozen?" Rokon's eyes narrowed. "Do you think me a fool? Learn from your blood, boy. Make better decisions."

"What do you know about decisions?" Fire rose up in Daniello's chest. "When was the last time you ever did anything more than exist?"

Rokon remained in silence. Upon closer inspection, Daniello saw his face in better clarity. If not for his beard, the old Orc's two chins would dangle near his collar, but it was his mouth that offended the most. An old wound, emblazoned on the top corner of his lips, peeled the flesh back, baring the white of his wolfish canines. An axe must have cleaved his ugly mug in two, Daniello thought, and what an ugly mug it is.

"Go sleep, young boy." Rokon laid a hefty hand on Daniello's shoulder. "Have a cup of tea. It will calm your mind."

"Rot in Oblivion, old man." Daniello snorted, and summoned up the nastiest wad of phlegm he could. When he spit, Rokon stood perfectly still, and let it strike his boots.
Any well-traveled fool could tell you that disrespecting an Orc was amongst the list of poorly thought out rationale, but… It appeared Rokon kept his fury - if there were any fury to tame. The hermit might as well have been fashioned from stone. Stoic Orcs, Daniello thought bitterly, how trite.

"Would you like a cup of water?"

"No," Daniello said. He stormed away, his fists clenched tight. "Keep your filthy water. I have things to collect."

"Collect? Boy - come back here!" The Orc stepped off his porch.

Sod off, savage, Daniello thought. What did it matter if he were a flimsy farm boy from south of the Jerall Mountains? He was more clever than any fox, and twice more cunning than the average snake. I can get my things back. All I need do is kill three men.

The shame of it was, regardless of his personal feelings, there could be no denying that his flimsiness came at a lack of trying. Why should he fight, when he can have soldiers fight for him? Was it so bad to ask a man how valuable his life was, and fill his pocket after the fact? Daniello had figured, when he watched Khajiit and Orc mercenaries sell their blood for gold during the Stormcloak Rebellions, that if a man were willing to price himself, who were you to deny him payment? And since when have morals conflicted with commerce, I ask you? And so he barted at the tavern for someone to fight for him. Pity him not, for the prevalence of shallow pockets irked many men, himself included, yet doubtless, one could always be sure that someone out there needed coin more than they needed life.

The Sleeping Giant Inn housed few people aside from Daniello. A dusty old Nord with sour breath, the bard whom insisted Bosmer were poorly endowed, and a crooked looking man in a leather vest. Daniello sauntered to him, and gently rapped his knuckles on the table.

"Evening, friend. How's the road treated you?"

The crooked stranger glanced up. Dunmer, with bleeding eyes that made Daniello feel naked and skinless all at once. Under an ebony hood threaded with chainmail, the stranger smiled thinly. "Not unusual, nor cruel, yet cruelly usual." He licked his lips, and turned his gaze back to his untouched meal. "And your own?"

"Riddled with misfortune, friend."

"So I can tell, Imperial. You've a bruised face. Now, why'd something like that happen, I wonder?"

"Might you like to know?" Daniello smiled, minding himself to show all his teeth. "Bandits robbed me of my goods, friend. Could I trouble you for aid?"

"Aid?" The Dunmer canted his head. "Mm, yes, I can see that. You've seen the unkinder side of life, haven't you, boy?" He raised a brow, and combed finger along his thinly braided beard. "Do you have a name?"

"Daniello Erisso, my friend."

"Caspius," the Dunmer said. "Tell me, my new friend, what have these thieving bandits stolen from you? Do you know where they are?"

"I can only imagine." Daniello grit his teeth. The old crone would know, and if she didn't, he'll at least give her a piece of his mind. I can only wait to see the bitch squirm.

"Now, now, they wouldn't have been three Nordic gentleman of unmodest stature?"

"Quite so," Daniello said. "How did you know?"

"I believe I might have caught a whiff of them." Caspius smiled, and prodded at his bowl of stew. "Fresh blood stings sour, so they say. Mm, if you found the three gentlemen, what would you do, dear Dannie?"

Daniello bared his teeth, though to others, it might have been described as a smile. "Well, dear Caspius, I would…" He lowered his voice, "Slit their throats."

Caspius drew away, his expression neutral. For a moment, Daniello thought he had said too much… until the Dunmer's thin lips found a sharp grin, and he let forth a chilled chuckle. "How terribly droll."

"I'm sorry?"

"Mother pity me, you are unashamedly amateur, sweet boy, and there is no denying the charm. Now, Dannie, when we find these men, do you promise to kill them?"

"What sort of question is that?" Daniello scoffed. "I will wield the blade myself."

Caspius smiled. "Then why do you require me?"

"I - three against one is, admittedly, poor odds to a mere boy like me."

Caspius' lips spread further, from ear to ear. "Well said, boy." He gave a soundless clap, and folded his hands on his lap. "Rather sharp mind you have, like a fine speartip."

"And even deadlier," Daniello added.

"More poisonous," Caspius said, "But… deadly? Not deadly enough to collect your stolen goods?"

"I fear not."

"Pity." The Dunmer's ear flicked, and he eyed Daniello up and down with a curious gaze. With a gentle nudge, he edged his bowl of stew to Daniello's side, and stood from the bench. Each gesture he made appeared to steal the air; his grace ran parallel with a panther's stalk weaving through jungle bush. "If you want your equipment, boy, find me on the steps to Bleak Falls Barrow later tonight. Your prey awaits."

Daniello felt his spirits soar. "Excellent!" He bit his tongue, and muttered, "How much do I owe you, my dear friend?"

"Not a coin, boy." Caspius made his way to his room along the corridor. "Merely keep your promise."
Could it be true? Hired without payment? Perhaps Zenithar's answered my prayers? As Caspius closed his room door, Daniello nearly sprinted to his own.

"Daniello!"

"Lady Delphine," Daniello bowed, stopped at his doorway.

"You gave that old hermit his basket, yes?" Delphine asked from behind the bar. "I haven't heard from him yet - "

"Of course, of course," Daniello said, "He said he adored the brandy. Excellent vintage - pungent, very much so."

Delphine narrowed her eyes. Something there, in that moment, froze, and Daniello saw a fire ignite in the old bar wench's eyes. "Those were his words?"

"Indeed, my lady."

"Aye, I see."

Daniello crept behind his door. "Until later, my lady. Tomorrow, I venture to Bleak Falls Barrow."
Delphine raised a brow, but said nothing. Already, Daniello knew he could not stay in town for long. She'll begin to question me, and the last thing I need are more questions.
Tomorrow, after he pried his things, and more things, off the men who robbed him, he would be far away from the leaky town of Riverwood and its prying barmaids, antisocial alchemists and vicious old women…

After tomorrow, he would have not only seen combat, but fought it. That stranger's confident enough, he figured. I daresay, he is quite charming.

Winter fell with gentle abandon that night. Daniello followed the road to the grim arches of Bleak Falls Barrow, his heart gripped in a vice that slowed his steps, and made his wispy breaths more and more ragged. Fighting would not be enough in the coming hours; he would have to kill. What was it like to kill a man? Did it burn a hole in one's heart to watch someone die? Could he live with himself, even?

Daniello often considered killing to be an art; he had seen many men beheaded at the chopping block, and fewer hung from the gallows. He knew what to expect as someone drew their last breaths, voided their bowels, and rolled their eyes into the back of the head, but... There could be no denial; killing with your own two hands came with a different set of feelings, none of which Daniello had ever properly confronted. I'll have to confront it tonight, he thought as the bitter winds stung his cheeks. I must spill blood.
After the sun set on the horizon, Daniello found himself wishing he could see in the dark.

Save for the blanket of white snow, he could see vague shapes before him of trees and rock, and most of all, the arches of the tomb itself, Bleak Falls barrow. The closer he came, the more it loomed, tall and menacing, forcing him to crane his neck to accept the wider vista of the ancient grave. Secunda and Masser watched him from afar upon their celestial thrones, both in waning crescents, while the sprawl of a thousand and more stars blanketed the night sky.
Bleak Falls Barrow teemed with shadows. From a small hill near the black steps of the tomb, he could see black wisps of smoke, and the outlines of tents along the platforms overlooking the mountain. Have bandits taken it as fortress? he wondered, as he watched shadows move about the camp indiscriminately. Daniello might as well have been a shadow.

"Blessed are we," a slippery, hissing voice said, "To fight on a clear night. More often than not, the snowy winds clutch the Barrows in a lover's embrace. Were the skies less clear,

I'm afraid you'd not see a foot ahead of you."

Daniello felt his heart shiver, and spun around. In the dark of night, Caspius detached himself from the shadows - a gesture as simple as taking off his cloak.

"Are you afraid, Dannie?" Caspius asked.

"Never."

A soft, musical laugh filled the night air. "Brave boy, very brave, very witty, but very stupid. Have you ever killed before?"

"It hardly matters," Daniello said quickly, "I am ready. People have killed for thousands of years - d'you mean to say I'm an anomaly of primal nature?"
Caspius' teeth glinted in the night, but Daniello could not tell if it were merely a smirk, or something more ominous.. "Mm, so I should think. Tell me, dear boy, how will we proceed?"

"We'll kill them, obviously," Daniello said, though in his heart, he felt less certain. "Are you certain these are the men who robbed me?"

"Yes." Caspius licked his lips, his thirsty eyes scanning the horizon. His ears flicked, and the Dunmer swirled, glowering at the pitless dark. "You came alone, as I asked?"

"Of course."

Caspius appeared rather unconvinced. "Follow me. Ready your dagger." The Dunmer started off, his strides long and graceful - so much so, Daniello saw no footsteps trail after him. How could someone walk so tenderly? To leave all in their path undisturbed, even the very ground they walk on?
Struggling to hug Caspius' rear, Daniello stumbled through ankle-deep pits of snow, feeling every bit less experienced and more foolish with each step.
It appeared to Daniello that it was better to describe Caspius as a shadow, rather than a person. He seemed to appear and reappear, his skin a reflection to the abyssal night; whenever Daniello lost track of him in the dark, the Dunmer took him gently by the wrist, manifesting from thin air with a pearly white sneer on his lips.

"A man sits in the taller tower - he's their lookout." Caspius whispered. "A long bow with poorly fletched arrows - but in weather this clear, he'll have no difficulty in riddling you with holes. Not before he alerts the camp, however…"

Though Daniello squinted, he could see only the vaguest shape at the elevated nest on the crook of the Barrow's platform. In one moment, he stood on two feet, and in the next, something clutched his hips tightly, and a pitless weightlessness filled him.

"What're - "

"Quite, Dannie." Caspius' fingers were an iron vice lifting Daniello up through the air - but how could such a slender man have so much strength…? The Dunmer helped Daniello climb the platform to the cold stone of Bleak Fall's Barrow. In one elegant vault, Caspius scaled the fortress' sloped walls with a tender landing on the balls of his toes.
Together, they edged closer to the nest, silence at their backs.

I'm a fool, Daniello thought bitterly as he clutched close to Caspius' rear, hugging his every step. A miserable fool, that's me, and every bit as much a coward. Of course he was a coward - no one of reasonable thought could deny that he was a coward, yet only now it would be fitting to call him a stupid coward, for here he was, long away from home, committing terrible deeds in the black of night; deeds that, even if his life depended on it, there was no certainty in his heart that he could truly commit what he intended. Indeed, of both the coward and the fool, he wore both crowns.

A narrow bridge divided the nest from the tomb, and it was now that he could finally see the archer. How could Caspius see him? It's the dead of night… Perhaps the Dunmer was a sorcerer of some sort? There had to be an acceptable reason, Daniello figured - a potion of Night-Eye, or some enchanted ring! There had to be a logical reason, but… that did not explain the man's ethereal grace…

Caspius pried Daniello's frightened fingers from his cloak, and made a sweeping gesture to the archer in the nest, now only measurable feet away. "Are you ready, sweet boy?"
Daniello nodded.

A blink later, Caspius' threw his shadow across the moonlight. In the dark of night, Daniello saw a small shadow pummel a towering one, until Caspius' glowing white teeth shone through the midnight dreary.

"Do it.' The command left Caspius' lips without its prior melody and luster, but with a cold, resounding authority. The man in Caspius' hands wheezed, yet sharp gray fingers clutched his throat into a twist of flesh.

Daniello readied his dagger. His hands were shaking (it's the cold, he told himself), and he felt the leer of feasting eyes on him. They tore through his flesh like searing-hot fish hooks. "Where?" he asked suddenly, straining to hear his own voice over the thunder of his heartbeat.

"Where?" Caspius let forth a shrill giggle. It might have been the cry of a dying animal. "Where do you think, stupid boy? Where does death begin? In the sternum? The heart? Mayhaps the throat?" The Dunmer's furious smile widened, until all that remained was the haunting glare of hungry, pearly whites.

Do it, Daniello screamed to himself. You've imagined it a hundred times - do it!
His hands refused to move.

"Tsk, tsk." Caspius' white smile began to recede. "Stupid boy.' The Dunmer's silhouette flashed, his hideous smile bared, and the man in his arms cried out. Daniello saw what might have been a kiss delivered from Caspius to his victim, yet it lingered, so very unlike a kiss, and more of a feast. Caspius released his meal, and as the drained corpse slumped to the ground, the sound of rushing water filled the air. It sounds like a fountain, something in his mind said, and Daniello's boots slowly but surely grew wet and sodden.

"What have you - " Daniello began, but never finished. How could he? Caspius' once white smile glinted crimson, and his beauty became horror. A beast, Daniello thought in panicked fright, through the thunderous sound of his own beating heart, He's a monster… a monster, oh, by the Nine, what have I -

The wounded man screamed.

"Mind your iron, boy," Caspius said, his words lisped and slurred, lips smacking with wet clap of blood."They'll skin you with it, and whip your hide into a coat. At least, I would." The Dunmer leapt from the nest, shadow sprawled out, and the night embraced him like an old friend restoring the natural order.

"Arthur? Arthur, what's wrong?" Voices, more than he could count, all nearing closer.

Daniello froze. The man on the ground twisted, convulsing with hands to his throat. It sounds like a fountain, he thought suddenly, when they bleed… it sounds like a fountain…
Golden lit lanterns embraced him, and now there were people all watching him, armed to the teeth.

"Vampire," one of the bandits shouted.

"By the Eight!"

"It's murdered Arthur!"

"Kill it! Where's the torches?"

Daniello's stood, frozen betwixt moonlight and lamplight. "Not me," he whispered, but it mattered not. He had come to kill them, and steal his belongings back. I've failed, a voice said, quivering in a way that sounded most unlike him. Why didn't I go home…? Why…? A dozen voices flooded his head, yet the loudest of them all was Caspius'own venomous words. Stupid boy, stupid, stupid, stupid… In the far reaches of Daniello's mind, he heard once more the Dunmer's cold, bloodless laughter, and somehow knew that he would get exactly what he deserved.

One of the bandits stole a step close and through the veil of midnight, Daniello could see his face in better clarity. He's the one who spoke to me this morning.

"It's the boy," the one-eyed bandit said. "The one with the golden claw."

"And he's a vampire?"

"He can't be,"

"Kill him, to be sure. Bury him in salt."

Daniello lunged forward, his dagger poised. I won't die on my back! His mind had taken leave, and all that remained was his will to live. Yet, as swiftly as he attacked, he soon found himself on his back from a single fist; his swelling lip bloodied, and his dizzy mind swimming.

"If he is a vampire, he's a fledgling one," the one-eyed bandit scoffed, wiping off his fist. "He can barely take a punch."

"Quick, let's set him alight. He'll call forth others."

The one-eyed bandit straddled Daniello's chest. Suddenly, Daniello felt the cold tip of steel against the soft of his belly. "What a sorry creature you are. Did you kill your mother, too? Drink her blood?" The blade pushed deeper and deeper, yet for all he fought, Daniello could not shake the man. Steel pierced fur and leather - then, he felt skin unsewn, and a searing pain shot up from his belly. "Speak, corpsewalker," the bandit said. "You killed your mother, didn't you?"
There were tears in Daniello's eyes, and he felt blood begin to spill from his belly. When she learns of my death, she'll die from grief. Was that the same as killing her? Did that matter anymore? He had no one left in this world, not even the embrace of his own parents. He was naught but a liar and a thief, but worst of all, he was weak. Weak when he forged a letter in his uncle's script, asking for money he could never pay back, and even weaker when he lied about it. How shamed Uncle Marelli was when they told him of my perjury… He never looked at me again. Did it matter if a lying, familyless guttersnipe died at night, wishing he could take it all back? And how many men wish, on their deathbeds, all that they could take back? Is hindsight our bittersweet clarity?

A hefty, meaty fist grappled the one-eyed man's shoulder, and with a Giant's might, flung the man off the nest, down the slope of the mountain, while his choked warble echoed for miles.

Rokon flexed his back with an audible pop, and he turned his war-axe on the bandits to his rear. With the girth of a grizzly and the snapping swiftness of a panther, the Orc brought his axe to steel against nearly eight armed men. He lumbered with each step, his grace in reckless abandon, yet when he struck… It might as well a hurl of lightning.
The first bandit slashed with a dingy iron sword, and Rokon answered with a pivot; the Orc's polished emerald axe lashed out, trailed by spurts of crimson from between a bandit's now-untethered neck. Rokon wrenched his axe free, the muscles in his arms corded like thickly woven rope, and when he brought his axe down for a second time, his foe's head split with a thunderous crack.

"Back, Orc!" One of the bandits howled. "You're outnumbered. There are seven of us, and only one of you!"

"One warrior," Rokon began, each word spoken with a livid rasp. "Seven boys. Do not contend with me."

A foolhardy boy decided to do that very thing, while another bandit aimed his spear for the Orc's knees. Rokon moved in a way unlike any man his size should; the spear's point drove into the stone, and the Orc gave a mighty stomp that split the ashewood in two. The foolish boy with higher ambitions and less intelligence whipped his warhammer, and watched as it broke naught but wind.

Rokon made a fleeting gesture, and Daniello saw the axe plunge into the side of a bandit's face, splittering shards of rotten teeth and fissures of protruding jawbone. A vertical cut sliced the air, and he watched as the width between the same man's eyes grew further and further apart, while crimson and pink poured through a valley of fractured bone.
One by one, each man aiming to end the fight, sprung. Rokon held the narrow bridge with only his axe, forcing his foes to straddle the walkway.

"Move, damn it -"

"You're in my way!"

"I can't hit the bastard!"

Then, a double-bitten war axe wrenched Rokon's shoulder downward. Blood stained the Orc's furs, and he let forth a vicious howl.

"I have him!" One man cried out.

"Move, move! He's wounded!"

Rokon's axe fell. Daniello watched, sidelong, as the Orc slouched from the weight of the steel embedded into his shoulder. He's died for me. He's fought for me, and now he's died, and… there's no one else to blame. The wound bled more, weeping profusely between his fingers.
Something changed. The Orc drew a sharp breath, and in one snap, he stood tall, unburdened by the iron embedded in his shoulder. Rokon opened his mouth.

"FUS -"
The air grew still.
"-RO DAH!"