Chapter 2: Back Behind Bars
A rat would have rejected these conditions, Castorius reflected, sitting on his bed and letting his eye wander around the cell. The floor tiles were cracked, the corners of the ceiling festooned with thick cobwebs, and the wall speckled with mildew. But then, how much could be expected of a dungeon? At least there were no rats.
Stomach growling, he reached for his trencher. All he'd been given to eat was a loaf of stale bread, which, to think on it, was not all that different from being in the service. And at least there was the consolation of a small bottle of good Cyrodiilian olive oil, which some sympathetic soldier had brought him. Troops from Cyrodiil always stocked those, for they were unaccustomed and, quite rightly so, off-put by the indigenous Nord custom of slathering their bread with butter.
Castorius ripped off a piece of the loaf, and dipped it in the oil sitting in a small bowl. The oil was nice and spicy, nearly flavorful enough to drown the dreariness of its vessel. Chewing, he scoffed internally at these barbarians, wasting perfectly good cooking-butter on their bread.
From some other cell, a long, haunted wail sounded the jail-complex, reverberating in the masonry. It was abruptly cut off by a clang, like a heavy iron pot clattering on the stone floor. Then it was quiet again. Somebody further away launched into a coughing fit.
And to think: just less than an hour ago Castorius had been ready to trade the joys of Aetherius for this. Well, at least he could be sure this place existed. There was something to be said for certainty at times.
No word of what went on outside had come to him. Had an actual war really broken out? If you'd asked him, he could've sworn a proper armed conflict between the Stormcloaks and the rightful imperial rule of Skyrim would never take place. Surely Ulfric Stormcloak was out of his mind if that was the case. Castorius had with his own eyes seen the kind of "army" the man boasted: miserable, poorly trained troops for the most part, with plenty of conviction but not any real battle experience. They could never have in a million years waged a successful war against the best-trained military in all of the known world. In fact, Ulfric should have damn well thanked his lucky stars that his actions thus far had been so well tolerated. He'd been allowed to rally people to his side, raise his own private army off the peasantry, and train them freely without getting hassled.
It had been only The High King Torygg, the nominal ruler of the province, and his heartfelt patience, completed with his prestige in the Emperor's eyes, mediating the situation and keeping the imperial forces from fully rolling in on the ill-equipped would-be rebels—from crushing their pitiful resistance before it had time to take even the first of its wobbly little baby steps.
They would hardly break a sweat doing it.
Castorius was quite offended, then, that he should have been believed to have affiliated himself with such a foolish, doomed endeavor. Sure, he'd had tentative business with Ulfric, as any man of the game sought to cover all possible bases, but to abandon his cozy position to take part in this ridiculous enterprise to "liberate" the province from the Imperial rule? Talk about trading your jewels for marbles!
Of course, Castorius knew the allegations against him to be totally disingenuous. It was part of some charade, the nature of which presently alluded him. So he'd seen best to keep his mouth shut, and just play along. Among other reasons . . .
The brief post that had gotten him to talks with Ulfric in the first place—as a member of the city guard of Windhelm, the hub of the Stormcloak movement—had been among the most miserable of his life. The cold and the wind had been even worse up there, the food largely tasteless and sparsely supplied. But worst of all, the women had all but shunned him. One might have not anticipated it, but the frigid climate actually seemed to have frozen the local womenfolk's legs permanently together.
Not to mention the men with their hard, jealous eyes. Folks up there did not like outsiders.
It had lasted until Ulfric had declared that he'd replace all guards there with his own men. That Torygg had allowed this testified once more to his forbearance. But Castorius himself had been less stunned than he'd been delighted to have been called back. Unfortunately, though, against his own fantasies of having been re-instated in his previous, very enjoyable post, he'd instead been arrested and held in custody for several weeks of uncertainty, awaiting a proper set of accusations.
It had been sheer torture. He'd even feared the King must have found out the truth.
For his previous assignment before the Windhelm gig, the one he'd been more than keen to get back to, had been as the personal sentry of the King's wife, Elisif the Fair. He though back fondly on that. Elisif, the beautiful Elisif, whom everybody quite rightly loved, but whom they all took for an innocent—that is, all those who, unlike Castorius, didn't know any better.
Elisif, Elisif, he though wistfully. The soft, pale skin, and the arches of her full bosom, her hips, and her lubricious rump. The full lips and the way they adopted a seductive, playful smile before making love, the way they twisted in the throes of climax, and the pensive little pout they assumed afterwards as she lay spent beside him. Castorius found within himself a near desperate yearning to live those days again. A warm sensation flowed through him, and a ticklish glow lit between his thighs. He would have given much to stroke those ginger locks once more, to grab them as she traced an avenue of kisses down his abdomen. He missed the way she tasted, the subtle variety of flavor in the different regions of her supple, curvaceous form.
Not that it had been love, by any means—an emotion all but entirely alien to—
Somebody cleared a throat, and Castorius startled. He reflexively dropped his hands as a visual guard about his crotch.
It was Ahtar. He stood at the door of the cell, observing Castorius from behind the rusted bars. How long had he been standing there?
"How long have you been standing there?" Castorius asked.
Ahtar snorted lightly. "Not very."
"Was there something you wanted?" This was not the right time. Castorius was hardly in a mood for chatting.
Ahtar shrugged. "Not much," he said, ever the conversationalist.
Castorius drew a breath, let it out slowly, and stood up. He had to wince, for the lack of motion had stiffened his legs. He walked by the bars. "What's going on out there?"
Ahtar shrugged. "Don't know," he said. "Been down here."
"No news, then? Are we at war?"
"Like I said, I don't know. They're not in the habit of keeping me informed, your kind."
Your kind. "You serve the Empire too," Castorius pointed out.
Ahtar's broad shoulders rose. "I guard." The shoulders fell. "I chop."
Astutely put. Instinctively, Castorius rubbed at his neck with the head still intact.
"Looks as if your fate has been postponed," Ahtar said.
"That's how it seems."
"And already I hear a rumor that Sybille got interested once the word went out to her. She's been asking about you, you know?" Ahtar's smile lacked humor. "Wondering if you're, uh, available."
Sybille Stentor. The thought of the court wizard sparked a grim foreboding in Castorius. He was not in the habit of fearing women, but that one in particular gave him the willies. Something unsavory lurked behind that dark cowl. "What does she want with me?" he asked, not prepared for any answer.
Ahtar got minimally animated. "I'll be damned if I know what that accursed woman is about!" he said. "All I know is she gives me the creeps, and I'll be glad to be wherever she is not." He gave Castorius a grave look. "Were I you, I'd think just the same." Then he smiled, and patted the bars on the door. "But then of course, you are here."
That was obviously just the problem. Castorius' mood darkened further. He turned around, said, "Unless you came here to gloat over my misery, I'd appreciate if you just left me be," walking to his bed.
When he turned back, he found Ahtar still standing there, staring. "What?"
There's something I never asked you, Castorius," said Ahtar.
"What's that?"
Ahtar looked at him, level. "Why did you do it?"
Of course. Castorius let out a sigh, and walked back to the door. "I didn't," he said.
"Ah."
Castorius frowned. "What do you mean 'ah'?"
"I figured you didn't."
"You did?"
"Yeah, makes perfect sense," Ahtar said. "Everyone here? Innocent, the lot of 'em." The corners of his dark lips twitched. "Yup, none come though here ever done anything wrong their entire lives—not a single gods-damned little thing. Clean consciences full, every cell." he barked a dry laugh. "In fact, the only guilty men I've ever seen here have been on the rack. And even those only materialize after some hours of pointless screaming and assuring of innocence." He considered that a moment. "Well, perhaps not exactly hours." Was that professional pride shining through?
"And did it never occur to you," Castorius said, "that a confession acquired though torture may not be the most reliable one?"
Ahtar cocked a thoughtful eyebrow. "No, I don't suppose it ever did." He did not appear to be particularly bothered by that.
"Why do you do it?" asked Castorius.
Ahtar grunted. "It's what they pay me for."
"Not that. Serve the Empire, I mean. After they let your people down?"
The Empire had all but utterly abandoned Hammerfell, the province from which the Redguard people hailed, by signing what was called The White-Gold Concordat with the Thalmor Dominion, ending the Great War twenty-five years ago. As a result of the treaty, Hammerfell had been partly ceded to the Dominion, leaving Hammerfell to fight its own bitter war against the Thalmor. Despite the unlikely success of that war—they had managed to drive out the high elves—the people of Hammerfell had rightfully been left with deep resentment against the Empire that had sold them out.
Ahtar remained silent for a few heartbeats. Then he shrugged. "Guess I was never much of a patriot to start with."
Castorius grunted. "Guess that would make you something of an oddity then." He could relate, of course: most people in Cyrodiil were very proud of their own people as well—and of the Empire.
But not him.
After all, what was there to feel pride for about a massive machine-like structure where individual efforts carried no weight? Quite to the contrary, the Empire was a force like that of nature, which crushed underneath it all that was unique, all that stood on its own. In short: it quelled all possibilities for true heroism, eroded every step upon which a man could rise to make his own way to the stars. It was truly the the optimal object of veneration for the sheep, for the masses consisting of men apt for working as nothing more than pinions.
Did this make Castorius a hypocrite? Quite possibly, but he excused himself of the accusation on account of only working for the machine to forward his own goals. It was for him nothing but a way station, a necessary evil that he would seek to exploit to the best of his abilities as long as was needed. What else could he do?
Castorius' comment seemed to have made Ahtar contemplative. "It's not that simple, really," he said finally. "In a way I, like all my countrymen, am a patriot. Maybe even more so than most."
"How is that?"
Ahtar smiled bitterly. "As you may know, Hammerfell has since time immemorial been a country divided."
Castorius nodded. The Crowns and the Forebears: they were the two factions that had waged war on each other for as long as anyone could remember, for reasons fantastically obscure to those whom it did not concern. The war against Thalmor had gotten them to temporarily cease hostilities, but it wasn't clear whether that was to be a lasting state of affairs.
"And as you know, there has been an uncharacteristically long period of peace ever since the Great War."
Castorius nodded again. "A permanent one?"
"Ha! When is anything permanent?" Ahtar shook his head. "Nay, ever since the war, the hostilities have slowly built anew. Stewing and stewing, like a nice pot of soup."
Don't remind me! Castorius thought. It was roughly lunchtime. Soup sounded just about right.
"And so," Ahtar went on, "it is merely a matter of time before blood of my kinsmen will once more irrigate that arid land."
"And that's why you've left? To avoid it?" It made perfect sense to Castorius.
Not so with Ahtar. He spat on the floor-tiles, visibly agitated. "Never! Rather I'd behead myself on that chopping-block than ever do anything that cowardly!"
Despite being shaken by the big man's sudden outburst—and it calling into attention the undeniably cowardly thoughts within Castorius himself—he couldn't help but be tickled by the image thus evoked. He did his best to suffocate a smile, as it could be taken wrongly.
"No," Ahtar continued, his usual calm now a memory, "I left because of what I knew to be inevitable: the failure of the cause I'd been brought up with. But not to flee, mind you! To carry the ideas within me to safety, to hopefully one day return and revive them."
"And what would that cause be?" inquired Castorius. He wanted to add: "saving your own hide?" but held his tongue. He'd escaped that axe once today, and was less likely to do so again—not in this confined space.
Ahtar straightened his already imposing posture, making himself look even huger. "Unity," he proclaimed, as if a novel, revolutionary idea that had never before known daylight.
"Of your people?"
Ahtar gave a solemn nod. "I belong to a small but sound minority, which seeks to once more reinstate a king in Hammerfell. One ruler to unite the people long divided by petty disputes and power struggles."
Castorius didn't even want to try to imagine the extent of bloodshed they'd no doubt generate trying to decide who this king was going to be. He didn't say anything, of course.
All a sudden, he felt tremendously bored with the whole subject matter. He wished he'd never brought it up. He'd heard this sort of reasoning countless times before. A king—a king would solve our problems! Stop the fighting! Feed the hungry! Assure justice! And how much of those very things had any kingdom ever seen? What purpose would such an institution ultimately serve but the individual lust and avarice of the said ruler, and of those who either thought they could benefit from him, or, alternatively, take his place?
And who was Castorius to speak? Were those not the very things, lust and avarice, that drove him also? Though, with him it was different. He'd never wanted power, simply freedom from the power of others. Was that really too much to ask?
Castorius realized Ahtar was still talking, but he had not been listening. ". . . justice and the preservation of peace . . ." the man went on. Castorius quickly tuned back out. The look on Ahtar's face betrayed that he was no longer paying attention to his audience anyway. He was on a tangent. He sounded like a pet parrot, trained to repeat word-for-word what ever it was his master had dictated. That's how they all sounded, in the end.
Finally Ahtar stopped. "And would you not agree?"
Castorius feigned a slow, thoughtful nod of agreement. "Indeed, I would," he said.
Ahtar looked satisfied.
Before the big man had a chance to continue any further on the tiresome topic, Castorius said, "So, they way I see it, like me, you are a man of opportunities."
"An opportunist, you mean?" Ahtar asked, smiling obliquely.
Castorius waved a hand. "Semantics," he said. "The bottom line is: you don't just stand around waiting the axe to drop. You're not afraid to make a call you know will get you ahead, no matter how the people around you may see it."
"Do I detect some self-extenuation?"
"No!" replied Castorius. "I mean . . . well, yes."
"So—innocent?"
"Who's ever innocent?"
Ahtar gave a slow nod. "Point taken."
Castorius let a long breath. "What I'm saying is—" he said, stepping close to the jailer, "—you get it."
Castorius could feel Ahtar's hot, heavy breath on his face. The man crunched up his brow. "And . . . ?"
Castorius peered behind the big man, ascertaining they were alone, then whispered, "You could help me." He just barely kept himself from cringing. It was a dangerous game he was playing; but then what did he have to lose?
Ahtar's nostrils flared near-imperceptibly. He regarded the shorter man through narrowed eyelids. "I could, could I?" he muttered, working his jaw.
A flicker of hope sparked within Castorius, as Ahtar seemed to be considering the insinuated proposal. It was now or never. "Yes," he said, "and nobody would need to know. I'm sure prisoners escape from here all the time."
Ahtar laughed. "I ought to feel affronted!"
Castorius bypassed that. "Especially now if there's fighting going on."
"If."
"You heard the guard! He specifically said 'Stormcloaks'. What else could it mean?"
"You'd be surprised," replied Ahtar.
I doubt that, Castorius thought. He sighed, gathering momentum for one more attempt. "Look, we don't have much time," he said urgently. "If you could—"
His words were cut off by the sound of footsteps, several pairs of boots advancing towards them. Instinctively, he pulled back from the barred door, and Ahtar himself quickly turned around to welcome whoever approached.
Castorius cursed to himself. So close! If only they hadn't squandered their time blathering about ineffectual political fancies . . .
The arrival was Captain Aldis, accompanied by three soldiers. "Captain," Ahtar said, "what's going on out there?"
Without replying to the Redguard's inquiries, Aldis pointed at the cell door. "Open, please."
Ahtar pressed the issue no further but simply turned around and started fitting a key inside the lock. He gave Castorius a brief glance that may have contained a pinch of condolence, even regret.
Once the door was open, Captain Aldis looked at Castorius, stone-faced. "Get out, prisoner."
"Aldis!" Castorius greeted with feigned joviality, stepping out and in front of his old friend. "Come to set me free, have you?"
The three soldiers apprehended him. Aldis snorted. "You wish." Then, for the first time since Castorius' arrest, the look in the guard-captain's eyes broke out from his thus-far unflappable role. There was perhaps a dash of smirk on his lips when he said, "The High King wants to see you."
At that, Castorius' face sagged in unison with his sinking heart. "Shit," he said.
This was exactly what he had feared.