Chapter 9: Ever the Charmer
If the contest between the two factions had come down to the quality of weaving in the ropes they used, the score would have been just about even. Both of them had proven themselves quite disagreeable around Castorius' wrists. Perhaps that was the whole idea?
His jaw was still sore where the Stormcloak brute had landed his blow, and he had a headache from taking a boot to the head. His requests for a healing potion had been met with mute scorn, as on the whole his presentation to the camp had fallen somewhat short of warm embrace. Despite his vehement assurance that he was not a spy, there appeared to be no second opinion on the matter that he was precisely that. "If I were a spy," he'd tried. "do you think I'd be as stupid as to dress up like this and come walking openly in your turf?"
Yes indeed, would he? They seemed to largely agree that he would. The only thing Castorius hated more than people holding a low opinion of him was when they were correct to do so.
"We'll let Ulfric decide what to do with you, once he arrives," they'd said. And by the looks on their faces, they had a pretty clear idea of what exactly that would be. Doubtless nothing Castorius himself would enjoy too much.
That last bit hardly needed adding.
Castorius worried he might be left with an ugly bruise, a scar even. Growing up, he'd never entertained the idea of being particularly pretty, but then at some point started to hear that from people—admiringly from women, with disdain from men—and slowly had started to believe it himself. Sooner than he'd realized, then, it had become a genuine concern of his that something might happen to diminish the agreeable nature of his visage. At points he'd even wondered if his appearance might be his one redeeming quality, without which it would be revealed what a reprehensible toad he truly was.
The prospect was chilling, and one he'd learned to sweep aside with steadfast resoluteness. So that's what he did now, too.
He was sitting on a wolf pelt—so something good came out of the foul beasts—inside one of the tents at the camp, hands tied behind his back and ankles together. And to make sure he would not swiftly and surreptitiously hobble away out of the middle of a military camp swarming with Stormcloaks, they'd also left behind a guard. He should have felt flattered. Flattened was more like it.
It had to be said, however, that the one thing in which the Stormcloaks one-upped the Imperials was their selection of sentry. A blond woman of stern yet alluring features stood besides a brazier, warming her hands in the orange glow. A tuft of wheat-blond hair stuck out from under her iron helmet, and, under a furrowed brow, blue eyes stared at the sizzling coals like they were part of some tough-to-break riddle she was just on the brink of solving. She had her face sideways to Castorius, offering him a good view of her nose. It was prominent and slightly hooked at the tip, the kind Castorius—being from Cyrodiil, the native land of handsome beaks—had a strange weakness for.
The woman took no notice of him staring at her.
Castorius cleared his throat to get the woman's attention, but to no avail. He tried again, slightly louder this time, saying, "So, lovely weather we're having."
Not the winning commencement, perhaps.
And, true enough, the woman simply kept staring at the brazier. But the cheek-muscles did clench a trifle under her pale skin.
"Though, I don't suppose it, uh, changes much around here."
The tick of expanding metal, the faint hiss of the coals. Other than that, silence. Castorius drew breath to say something else, playing his role entirely by ear.
"Do not speak to me!" the woman snapped, still not deigning to look at him. Castorius' line, what ever it might had been, died on his lips.
He did not, of course, take the first setback for a defeat. Pretending she'd never said anything at all, he continued, "You seem very confident. Like you really know what you're doing."
Women, they liked compliments as much as any man, he knew.
Perhaps not this one, though. If anything, her passivity looked to take on even more antipathy than before. She said nothing, nor did she look at him. But her breathing sounded angry, and her expression was the night sky shrouded by rain-clouds.
Castorius hadn't been lying, he realized. The woman did seem to know exactly what she was doing, and he did not much like it. A cold shoulder was not what he'd been used to from women, especially from young ones. Perhaps at times from some of the older, less attractive ones, but that was inconsequential as he'd never wanted anything from them anyway.
So perhaps a slightly different approach was required. "You may have to interrogate me a bit, you know," he said.
Nothing.
Castorius sighed, and leaned back against a tent-pole. "Well," he said, "any time the mood takes you. I'll be here."
He did his best not to ponder too closely on the exact significance of "here." Yes, sure! he though sourly. Ulfric's set up some sort of makeshift military camp at The Pale, your sources say? And he will be coming there himself, the man who knows me and, for all we know, will likely take me as the most poorly-disguised attempt to spy on him anybody anywhere with half a wit—if indeed that much—has ever tried? Of course I'll go throw myself at his feet! What could possibly go wrong!
He'd escaped death at least once today—possibly twice when you added the wolves—but did not know how far he could count on his good fortune. Not to mention his earlier confidence in the guiding hand of providence, or whatever in the names of the eight Divines it had been.
If a man's fate really did lie in his own hands, Castorius' seemed to have its head resting uncomfortably heavily on the goodwill of others. Was he rapidly becoming what he'd always most despised?
Revolted by the thought, he heaved himself into a forward-leaning position, trying to sweet-talk the lovely if uppity lass some more. "You know, I really think you and I—"
"What?" The woman's head snapped in his direction. Her voice was cold and sharp, enough to cause him to flinch. "What could you possibly have to say that would be of any interest to me?"
Castorius had to admit that was a tough one to reply to.
That did not keep him from trying, however. "Well, I think you and I probably have a number of things in common." Yeah, like what?
The woman sneered at him like at a jar of moldy peach jam. "Yeah," she said, "like what?"
"Um," Castorius head was rattling empty. "Well, there's the—"
The woman suddenly sprang up and darted towards him. Castorius inadvertently tried to back up when he saw she now had a knife in her hand. Not a small one, either.
The Stormcloak squatted in front of him, waving the blade in his face. "What?" she demanded. "There's the what?"
Nothing came out of Castorius' mouth, but he was only glad nothing came out of any other end, either.
The woman's smile was a bitter one. "And d'you know what I think?" she said. "Hmm?"
Castorius tried to smirk back, a pitiful attempt. "I would very much like to know," he croaked.
The woman's smile melted away. "Oh, I very much doubt that."
Castorius found a little bit of his earlier composure, as the knife's blade was still dangling in the air instead of removing anything dangling of his. Perhaps he also managed to salvage a bit of his dignity, thought certainly not by much. "Please, indulge me," he said, and didn't squeak it either, contrary to what he himself might have anticipated.
"I think, " the woman said, pressing the tip of the knife to his cheekbone, "that you're nothing but a self-serving dog. A piece of scum who would sell his own mother just to get ahead."
Castorius had a hard time not airing out his surprise. This girl had talent, it had to be admitted. He tried to think of a reply but just swallowed. Air, mostly.
"And the most gods-awful spy I've ever heard of," the woman went on.
Aha! While she'd been pretty much spot on in her initial assessment, Castorius was unable to argue with her. But this later one gave him an opening, as he was technically not a spy. After all, what sort of spy was it who was meant to cause suspicion? "I'll have disagree with you there," he said—barely getting anything out, his throat being so parched.
The Stormcloak frowned. "The dog part or the spy part?"
Castorius paused. How much could he say without giving away anything crucial? What was it even exactly that he shouldn't reveal? Complicated business, lying. "Could I get a drink, by any chance?" he inquired.
The woman raised a brow, as if he'd just asked her for a kiss. She reached behind her, however, produced a canteen, pulled the stopper out and poured some cold water in Castorius' mouth.
Drinking, he looked the woman straight in the eye. She was still all frown and scorn, but Castorius thought he might have spotted a dawning breach in her defenses. It almost felt as if they had a little moment there.
The woman then pulled away the canteen, causing Castorius to dribble on his chin and clothes. He drew water into his lungs and coughed.
So much for the moment.
"Speak," the woman said, as impatient as ever. Though she did keep her knife out of his face this time around.
Recovered, Castorius tried to smile, more or less even managed to. "So, you decided to take me up on the offer, then?"
His guard slapped him across the face. A solid blow, too. Good technique.
Castorius, cheek burning, decided to not yield. "I confess, I confess," he said in a shrill voice.
The woman was not amused. Castorius flinched, waiting for another whack.
It did not come. The woman simply sighed, starting to rise. "Why am I wasting my time?"
"I'm not a spy!" Castorius blurted. Supposedly it was the right thing to say, as it was the exactly the thing he was going to tell Ulfric, too. After all, this woman was still probably much less likely to have him hanged. Supposedly.
The Stormcloak's look was one of utter disbelief, but at least she'd stopped retreating.
"It's true," Castorius said. "They were going to execute me, the Imperials. But I ran—I escaped! And now I want to join the rebellion." He gave the woman his best earnest puppy-dog look. "I'm on your side!"
The woman raised a brow, examining Castorius. "So you're telling me you left the Empire, just to join our cause?"
Castorius nodded eagerly. I he could convince her, certainly Ulfric wouldn't be much harder.
"Do you know how many times," she said. "I've heard that before?" Something about her clearly had started to soften.
"No."
The woman shook her head sharply. "Not one single Talos-damned time!" The cold frigidity of her baring was back with a vengeance. "After all, why would you highfalutin, hoity-toity Imperial dog-buggerers, with your heads buried so deep up your own asses you're practically on the verge of implosion, care half a shit for the political status of Skyrim?" Her eyes with their dagger-sharp glare took on the hue of utter-contempt blue. "Why would you trade your cozy bunks and your regular warm meals and your legionary circle-wankeries for the discomforts and hardships taken up by those who are actually still fighting for something worthwhile? You know, something bigger than yourselves? And I don't mean your thick, over-blown skulls!"
Castorius tried for a second to arrange his words into a compelling argument, then realized it was no use, and tried, "The girls here are prettier?"
Who was to say it wasn't a lie?
The woman scoffed, and turned around. "What a waste!"
"Wait!" Castorius said. "I'm sorry!"
The woman stopped but did not turn.
"I, uh... I," Don't think, just let it come. "I apologize." Good, good. "I'm just new to this, is all."
The woman turned, hesitant.
That's it, come to daddy!
Castorius rehashed the earnest puppy-eyes. "And I'm not quite used to women of your . . . caliber." Careful, now! You don't want her to think you're calling her large. "What I mean is..." What, what, What?
Then it suddenly came to him, and he smiled freely. "The Cyrodiilian women, they are just so weak! Then I come here, up North, and lay my eyes on you ladies . . ." He nodded appreciatively. "So strong! I instantly fell in love! And to think—" his certainty faltered a touch, but he pressed on, assumed a solemn expression. "—to think of this proud people, suppressed under such a corrupt, mongrel of an Empire—the thought of it crushing underneath it the pure, rugged spirit of this land . . ." He shook his head. "I simply could not bring myself to live with the thought."
A bow, big round of applause!
Either that, or a swing of a big old axe.
It helped, Castorius had found, a lie when one injected the untruth with a healthy dose of his own genuine feelings. The Empire was a weak-minded mongrel, he entertained no doubts about that. But then he also knew it was the exact same way most Nords tended to see things.
The expression on the woman's face was all but indecipherable. For what it was worth, at least it did not strike Castorius as outright dismissive. "So, what you're saying—" she said, her voice softer now. She walked back to him, kneeling down. "—what you're saying is that in a way it was love that changed your mind? Your new-found love for our simple, honest, hard-working people?"
Well, perhaps not the people, exactly, Castorius thought. He nodded and said "Yes!" his voice a whisper.
The woman's eyes went wide. She blinked. "Well, that's . . ." she looked down for a second, then back to Castorius. In her gaze genuine delight teemed with warm endearment. "That's . . ." Her eyes hardened anew, and, fast as a viper, she grabbed Castorius' face in a firm hold—surprisingly strong. "That's by far the single biggest, stinkiest load of mammoth-shit I have ever heard coming out of anybody's mouth!" She was speaking, or growling, between clenched teeth. "And, believe me: I've had a fair share come my way!" The look in her eyes now was just about fierce enough to set a weaker man aflame.
Castorius felt rather hot himself. "It's true!" he tried to say, though his cheeks being pinched together by the woman's iron grip reduced his words to nothing but some spittle with vowels in it.
The woman said nothing, just stared at him hard with those hateful eyes. Castorius was overtaken by an acute inability to think of anything redeeming to say.
Right then, somebody peaked their head through the tent door.
His face still in the woman's hold, Castorius' eyes flicked to a chubby flat-faced man with placid and beady brown eyes, who, upon having taken in the scene, broke into a jovial smirk.
"Kirsten," the man said. Even his voice sounded pudgy. "Hate to interrupt you, as I can see you're, er, having a moment here."
The woman—Kirsten, apparently—did not let go, nor release Castorius from her wrathful stare. "What is it, Hans?"
"Well," said Hans. "Nothing much, I suppose. Just, it seems as though Ulfric has arrived."
Castorius suddenly felt like a fox with its leg caught in a trap. Again. He raised his brows to Kirsten. She held him a moment longer, than let out a contemptuous scoff and pushed his face back, letting go. She wiped her hand on her trousers, scrunching up her nose, and rose.
Hans pointed at Castorius. "Bring the spy."
"The spy" no longer felt the inclination to argue.
Kristen used her knife to cut the rope around Castorius' ankles. She lifted him up easily, much stronger than she looked, then pushed him towards the door.
"You two are about to be real embarrassed." Castorius said with feigned self-confidence, voice not even breaking too much.
Hans slapped him in the back of his head. "Shut up, you!"
Castorius bit back a reply he did not have, and took a deep breath as he was led outside to meet his fate.
Here we go, then. Moment of truth.