5.
Night Forever

"Innocence, my brother." Caspius stepped out from finite darkness, into the crimson gaze of the Black Door.

"Welcome home."

The crypt's unholy door swung open, and the Listener stepped into the shadows with the ease of donning a winter coat, and proceeded down the gloomy halls. The Sanctuary had a habit of whistling at night, when the chilled winds that made up Dawnstar's unkindly weather blew in from the east. Crevices in the walls, ripe with moss and dust, would let forth a howl as Skyrim's seasonless winters rushed through, until the caverns were cold, dank, and foreboding.
Of course, he rather enjoyed the chill. Immortality came with a distaste of warmth.

"You're late," Nazir said as Caspius breezed by him, silent as a cat, his hooded shadow thrown across the dining hall. "A week. Only a week, you said, and would you look at that? Three and half, and not a single letter."

Caspius sighed. "I do not need to be interrogated when I walk in the door. The situation at Whiterun has taken a turn for the worse, I fear. Where is Babette? Why isn't she here?"

"Sifting through your letters, no doubt." Nazir took his seat at the dining hall table, where banknotes, land deeds, and contracts all sat in a messy scramble. "We're running low on funds, Listener." The title that ended Nazir's sentence came with a certain shrill, as if it tasted sour on the Redguard's lips.

Caspius found his dismay troubling. It did not do well for the Lion's pride to turn on him, for such only happened when the family grew too hungry (or gluttonous, as he feared more so). My absence has starved my pride, and perhaps they're in need of fresh meat. "Give Xander and Hjall the northernmost contracts. I shall take the southerns."

"And spend more time investigating reports of frenzied vampires?" Nazir rolled his eyes. "Three weeks you spent away from home, while we've sat on our hands waiting for you to listen. Not all of us make do with living on blood, Caspius. There needs to be work for our numbers, and only you can distribute it."

Caspius dismissed him with a wave of the hand. "Fine, Nazir. You've made your point. I shall convene with Mother tonight, and by the morrow, you shall have a stack of names. I promise."

Nazir exhaled a sharp breath through his nose. His arms folded across his chest, eyes alight with great distaste and tried patience. "And what do we do in the meantime? While these contracts are being performed?"

"Sell land." Caspius waved a hand. "Gather Babette and Cicero. I shall hear their council." As he spoke the words, he found himself laughing. I am consuled by a child and a jester. Not even the Mad God could write my story.

"There is only so much land left to sell," the Redguard pointed out. "You're missing my point."

"I see you, but I do not see Babette, nor Cicero."

Nazir grit his teeth. "Caspius - "

"I see you," Caspius began once more, "but I do not see Babette or Cicero. How transparent must I be?"

Nazir stood, and silently made his way out of the hall. By the time his presence was absent, Caspius found his attention waning. No, no, I could never kill him. He handles my finances and half my affairs. It might have been a cruel joke orchestrated by the originator of the Dark Gift. Living nocturnally often made daily matters, from banking to land management, nigh impossible. To get by even in the slightest, a vampire was chained to his thrall, for whom could manage affairs in the daylight hours.

And of course, killing a Brother would evoke the Dread-Father's wrath; these days most especially, Caspius was sure he had already earned someone's wrath.

"Good evening, my dear." Babette ghosted into the room, dressed in a lady's finery that somehow managed to avoid the Sanctuary's grime. She's been waiting for me, Caspius realized. "Has your journey left you breathless?"

"I hardly ever walk nowadays, darling. Dare I say, my arms are dangerously tired." Caspius let a smile fall upon his lips. "Where is Cicero?"

"On a contract," Babette said. She smiled, and her freshly powdered face bore a maw of fanged teeth. "Did you find anything on these attacks in Whiterun?"

Caspius began to pour his cup to the brim with a crimson liquid. "The Vampires are fledglings. They attacked the city in droves a fortnight before, but some buxom Nordic wench fended them off. Must have experience with vampires, I take it, but what I found most interesting was their use of Hounds."

"Hounds?" Babette took her seat beside him.

"Hounds, darling, hounds!" Caspius laughed, his hearty voice ringing. "I inspected the corpses they kept in the temple. Doubtless, the Hounds are dogs that have contracted Porphyric Hemophilia, and I imagine they make decent thralls, but… I cannot say I've learned anymore than when I began. My questions remain."

Babette gave a nod. "We do not know why they're attacking."

"And worse, still, the attacks continue everyday. I heard from a boisterous Nord in Riverwood that Riften saw an attack recently, as did Markarth. If this is a cult of vampires, and these attacks are organized… I find their lack of care most disconcerting. It's as if they don't care how unruly they're making our hunting grounds, or how dangerous being a vampire in Skyrim has become."

Babette ran fingers through her finely kept hair, leaving it tousled. "At first, I believed it only to be a frenzy of newborns with a death wish. To that, I still believe, but… Caspius, I find it hard to deny that these attacks are - "

"Are…?"

"Orchestrated."

Caspius reclined in his seat. "I prefer the word 'organized'."

"I am sure you do," Babette began, "And surely they carry different connotations. I do not believe there is a single organization carrying out these attacks."

"You believe it to be someone," Caspius asked.

"Whatever it is, it does not bode well for our kin. Hunting has grown more difficult, and less travelers are willing to stop in the dead of night, even for a sweet little girl." She cooed her words, and gently lay a hand on Caspius arm. "Such a frightening world it's become, when even a darling child cannot rely on the kindness of people."

Gently, Caspius slipped away from her touch. "A shame," he agreed. "Nazir cannot understand. The living could not. I shan't blame him." The thought, however, did frighten him. There had been an awaking - he could feel it. Something terrible had been unearthed in Skyrim, and though his bones were old and scarred, he could yet still feel the tremble in them. "I hear there are a group of vampire-hunters, somewhere out in the world."

"Truly?" Babette asked. She seemed to have notice his attempt break contact with her, and her tone diminished noticeably. "The fledglings have drawn so much ire, the people are rallying against our kind. What are we to do?"

We, as in, us vampires, Caspius thought. Their troubles did not bother the rest of the Brotherhood, even if their leader trembled in his boots. If they were all vampires, though… they would understand. No, it was best not to think like that. The Dark Gift had always been meant to be a choice. "There's little we can do. I must meet with whoever these vampire hunters are."

"Shameless," Babette snapped. "Are you insane?"

"One could argue, yes."

"They will kill you."

"They will try."

Babette watched him for sometime. A sadness lingered in her bloodied eyes. "If you die, I have no one." She took his sleeve in a way that was more childlike than womanly, and Caspius knew exactly what angle she played at. If she cannot sway my mind, then she will sway my heart. The err was her own. He had masoned walls around his heart long ago.

"I shall not die, darling. My night is eternal."

"You misconstrue your own mortality."

"You speak too much." Caspius stood, having never touched his drink, and began down the hallway to his bedroom. Babette's light footfalls followed closely behind.

"Perhaps you should quiet me?"

The quip, if delivered by a woman, would have stirred Caspius' lust like no other. Yet the voice that carried it came from a child - no, a woman sealed within a child's body, and when he looked back at her to respond, he saw just that; a child with more charm than she should ever own, more wisdom than any ten-year old - all which stemmed from the lips of an ageless creature. If only you were bitten as an older women… My dear, we would be so happy together. He smiled down at her, and turned his attention back to the pitless corridor before him. If only, if only…

But what he fantasized, and what was, could not be changed. Babette would forever be a child, and though she was a sophisticated woman with a passion for culture, poetry, and music, when he looked upon her there could be no denial; the very idea of it made his stomach twist.

The master bedroom had been kept clean by charmed brooms that swept daily. Dusters worked their way through his bookcases and desk, careful to leave scattered letters undisturbed, while skirting dust and cobwebs away. Caspius made for the wardrobe instantly, and as the door came apart, his impeccable fashion popped out in a series of fineries, from velvet crimsons to emeralds and violets. He began to strip from his road-worn garb, peeling muddy leathers and cloth from his body. Rather than don fineries, he chose instead for a grayed robe with silver laces, and a white fur collar.

"Where are you going?" Babette asked, her eyes following him. "Are you leaving already?"

"There's work to be done, darling." Caspius flicked open a jewelry box, and began sifting through rings, amulets, and circlets. "You wouldn't have me leave these fledgling attackers unattended, would you?"

"I'd have you stay," Babette said, her arms crossed. "At least for dinner. Caspius, dear, we haven't been to dinner in months. Or even the theater."

"The season for theater is over. No thespians are travelling to Skyrim, Babette. But… we shall have dinner soon. I'd like to go hunting, in fact."

A silence prevailed, if only for a moment. I've hurt her, he thought, as he so often did. What more could he say? How much more could she expect of him? In truth, there were nights where his mind wandered, wishing in part that Astrid had never died, wishing dreams of an eternal moon where he had no responsibilities, no Brotherhood, and no love to speak of. Only the hunt for blood, his endless hunt to be satiated, would endure... Pure fantasy. I've begun to dream again.

"How long will you be?" Babette roused him from his dream.

"Not long."

"You said a week, before." Babette held her nose high in a way that reminded Caspius only of Breton aristocracy. "Then, three weeks later, you arrive home and tell me you're leaving again.. Tell me, Caspius, how long will you delay this time?"

"I should prefer no delay at all," he said, "But if there is, then you will wait. Do not question me nor my punctuality. I've grown sick of it."

"You've grown sick of it?" the vampress hissed.

Caspius turned, and with a single swipe, found Babette's cheek with the back of his hand. It stung his heart more than it reddened her cheek, but it had to be done. Astrid had taught him, in the den of killers, there could be no disrespect, even from those you love.

In his jewelry box, he found a wooden ring settled with a prized opal. It pulsed with an arcane warmth between his fingers.

"I shall be home soon," Caspius said, his words softened for her.

"Do as you must." Babette had turned away from him, and began down the hall. Before she made it to the door, she wiped her eyes, and the embrace of shadows brought her into the crypt's abyss..

With a sigh, he summoned forth the spell of Recall, and felt his body shift through worldly planes, as simple as stepping through a doorway. The world around him became a blur of colors, swirling and twisting, until the faint chill of the Sanctuary receded, and the stench of raw sewage touched upon his senses. Darkness clutched him tight as the rest of the world formed; the distant moan of a skooma addict, a rattle of iron bars, and merriment from a pub halfway down the Ratways, where skeevers from all walks of life stood on their hinds and donned the skins of men and mer alike.

Caspius reached out into the darkness, seeing iron bars in a way no mortal could, and wrenched the gate open. He tossed curious eyes over his shoulder, down the dusty, grimy corridors, and made his way down the sewers, aptly named the Ratways. He could not let Babette linger on his conscious for long. There was work to be done.