Chapter 23: A Scarlet Letter

Castorius was in a hurry. And it was all thanks to that giant cosmic nincompoop, Sanguine.

Once he had stepped through the void to return from Oblivion, reasonably expecting to reappear in the dusty cellar of Nightgate Inn, he'd come damn close to crapping himself nearly falling off the mountainside onto which the portal had sporadically decided to relocate itself.

He realized now his mistake all along had been to take anything the erratic Daedric Prince said or did at face value. It wasn't a habit of Castorius' to ask too much of people. Regarding their general quality, he'd always thought himself equipped with a degree of expectation realistic enough to verge on downright cynical. What he hadcome to ask of them, however, was some basic level of reliability, the most diminutive of abilities to at least try and follow through and to live up to their word.

Generally, he'd found he might as well have asked for the moons.

Little surprise, then, that a being the likes of which the world was for the most part unanimously wary of, should turn out every little bit as unreliable as his mundane counterparts.

But it wasn't the inconvenient location of his return that had caused this hurry. It wasn't, after all, as if he'd appeared on the other side of the Empire—in Elsweyr or something—and had even after a brief reorientation figured out that he was still at the Pale. The problem was that even though he'd originally arrived at the Inn a good while before noon, and that the time he'd spent at Misty Grove couldn't have been more than half an hour, the first thing he'd realized after barely stopping himself from flying off the cliff was that the dusk had already descended.

That in itself might have been acceptable in other circumstances. The thing was, though, that the other reason he'd gone to fetch his Imperial attire—besides avoiding embarrassment returning to Dawnstar, and and to get another go at Kirsten—was that he'd had every intention to stay good to his word and to go have a word with Commodore Fair-Shield like he'd promised Roggie. Tell the man to look the other way in case any word of dealings with pirates happened to come to him.

Or, as his instincts screamed at him to do, to warn the man, to tell him to take his family and get as far away from the Pale as possible. Likely it would be wisest for him to flee Skyrim altogether.

It hardly needed emphasizing that Castorius had zero trust in Jaree-Ra's word to start with. But now, in the case that the Argonian had indeed survived the demise of his ship, he had even less reason to doubt the pirate would refrain from taking measures into his own scaly hands.

In any case, Castorius had—after a few moments of fervid planning—decided not to go to the Commodore as one Stormcloak sympathizer to another. He suspected this was a stubborn man, as older military people oft proved to be; and as a stubborn old military man, he might not give the time of day to some low-ranking whippersnapper's warnings.

So Castorius had devised another sort of cover story. He would not, in fact, directly warn the man at all. Instead, what he would do was pretend to be paying the man some sort of "routine" Imperial call, making it appear as fishy as he possibly could. He'd assure to the man—trying to come out totally insincere—that the Empire had no plans whatsoever to go after anyone for supporting rebellious activities. But in the same breath he'd in some roundabout way make it clear that the High King would very soon increase his military presence in the area.

He would somehow need to plant the idea in the Commodore's head that it at any moment the Imperial forces might roll in on the area and persecute anyone it considered to be giving aid to the Stormcloaks. It was Castorius' hope that this would get the Commodore to immediately go to Ulfric in search of protection. He wasn't sure about what might happen then . . .

If he was perfectly honest with himself—though it wasn't something he was particularly fond of—he had to admit to not having given this plan as much thought as he perhaps should have. But time was limited—especially now, thanks the Daedric Buffoon's bungling. So he had to make do.

It was once again time to rely on the two greatest gifts in his possession: his ability to improvise in tough situations, and—of course—that famous Janus Castorius charm.

An uncomfortable burning in his lungs after the fast-paced hike, he arrived at Fair-Shield's house. It was right where his map told him it should be. So at least it seemed Roggie was competent in something, even if he did bear other, obvious, imperfections on his person.

The house resided between Morthal and the seashore where they'd met Captain Malaney, on the Hjaalmarch side of the border between it and the Pale. It was a modestly sized two story log house, sitting at a comfortable distance from the marshes southeast of it, and at an elevation out of reach of the the rotten-egg smell.

The light of Masser, the larger of the two moons hanging above, caught the trees surrounding the house, casting it with scraggly shadows. The shadows danced on the walls and on the ridge of the roof, as the branches swayed in the wind.

Castorius felt a strange relief as he stopped to regard the sight for a minute. It looked very peaceful. He almost could see it, then, the appeal. To just settle down, to build something lasting. To be a part of something bigger than yourself. To maybe leave something behind. Continuation, he supposed, was the thing. He'd never given it much thought before.

What would be left of him, when the time came?

He gave his head a soft shake, mildly amused by this sudden touch of sentimentality. Don't tell me you're becoming a good man, now. He shrugged such a thought off.

Having gotten a moment of rest, he felt sufficiently recovered to continue on his mission. He stepped up on the porch, rolled his head and shoulders around to loosen up, and took some quick breaths to steady his nerves. He'd originally intended this visit to happen during the day, but perhaps the late hour would prove to add to the dramatic effect.

"Sir, Imperial business," he practiced quietly. Should he call it official Imperial business?

Go with the flow! He raised his fist to knock. Alright, time to—

As his fist contacted the wood, the door creaked ajar. Nothing but darkness leaked out through the narrow opening.

Oh.

Castorius blinked. No sound from the inside. He poked his head inside, but saw no sign of life. Were they in bed? Or had they left?

After a second of hesitation, Castorius cleared his throat. "Hello?"

There was no reply, and no sound besides the wind in the trees.

Carefully, Castorius opened the door all the way and stepped inside. The floor groaned under his boot, and in the surrounding silence the noise was nearly intolerable.

The downstairs was empty and dark. The moonlight bleeding though the narrow windows was not enough to improve the visibility. Castorius quietly closed the door behind him, and waited for his eyes to adjust. Slowly, the room took on some shape, but he still couldn't make out details.

"Hello?" he tried again, louder this time. Still nothing.

In the corner to his left, he saw a glimmer, like light reflecting off glass. He squinted and saw a lantern sitting on a table there. That could certainly prove useful.

Castorius started walking slowly with light steps, though he figured now there was nobody home. The floor felt sticky under his heel, like it hadn't seen a mop in a good while.

He picked up the lantern; there was a stub of a candle inside. He then felt around the table for flint and tinder, but could not find any. Luckily he always carried some with him. A torch would have been even smarter to have, but there was only so much stuff one could realistically carry.

Getting the lamp lit, he lifted it up above his head to get a better look at the room.

There was nothing there to jump at him: the usual furnishing of your average well-off but not overly affluent person, tables filled with everyday household items, a pair of bookshelves at the back. Some crates and barrels lay around, and hanging from the ceiling around the cold fireplace were onions, garlic, and a few fish.

All in all, the place looked very much lived in; though, based on the fact that it was so cold, no one had been around for at least a day. Castorius' breath came out as vapor in the lantern light.

At the back was a flight of wooden steps leading upstairs. Might as well check.

As he started walking, he felt a drop of water on his face. He wiped it off, mildly irritated. Damn these leaky roofs! Would it kill them to hire a proper—

He stopped. It wasn't the roof that was above him, but the upstairs to which he was headed.

He looked at the hand he'd used to wipe his face. There was a red streak on it.

As he slowly lifted his gaze to the ceiling above him, he felt a constriction in his throat. There, around the cracks, the planks were stained dark red. It was completely dry, so the one drop of blood on Castorius must have been mixed with the moisture on the surface of the wood.

He looked down. On his feet there was more blood. So that's why the floor had felt sticky. The blood stuck to the soles of his boots as he lifted them, making a squeaking sound. He felt sick to his stomach.

Something else caught his attention then. A couple steps up, half in a pool of dried blood, there was a crumpled-up piece of paper. Castorius numbly picked it up. The paper was stuck together a bit by the gore, but he managed to carefully unfold it.

It was partly obscured by the staining, but the message in the note was simple enough. It said only:

Take care of 'em all. Captain's orders.

At that moment, Castorius' belly felt as if it were filled with lead. He felt woozy, and his vision blurred. He had to reach out and lean on the fireplace in order not to collapse on the sticky floor. After catching his breath for a couple seconds, he looked again at the letter. The message therein was as brutally simple as the first time.

"Oh gods, please," he whispered.

Castorius looked at the stained ceiling again, then at the stairs. He could just leave . . .

No! He shook his head sharply. I have to see this through. I have to know.

Taking a slow, tattered breath, Castorius started towards the stairs. His legs were numb, and moved only with the greatest of reluctance. He felt as if he were made wood stalking up the steps, his entire body tensed up. Each excruciatingly slow creaking step felt like a short lifetime, and with each one the chill on his insides felt increasingly solidified. By the time he reached upstairs, he felt more numb than anything.

With a shaking hand, he lifted the lamp up. Everything was more unreal now than ever during his visit in Oblivion. It was a strangely distant feeling, like peering into someone else's nightmare.

Though at first glance, he didn't see anything too horrible. Like the downstairs, the upper floor was only one, large room. There were two small beds at the eastern wall, empty and made neatly. Seeing them like that was almost relieving. Maybe . . .

He closed his eyes, feeling the jab of terror through the gauze of deadened frost. Then he opened them again, and lifted the lantern higher to light up the rest of the room. Still nothing there to cause alarm. Furnished minimally, the hall was mostly in good order, apart for some scattered books on the tables, and a pile of cloth on the middle of the floor. The bed—

Castorius froze.

The bed stood at the northwestern corner of the room. Nothing out of the ordinary about the furniture itself; just your typical wood-framed double bed. But what stopped his blood cold was that there was someone lying on it. Or most likely was, at least; though all he saw was that the blanket was elevated, obviously in the shape of a person.

Biting his teeth together and drawing in a frayed lungful of cold air, he walked to it. Ten hammering heartbeats went with each painstaking footstep. Then, all of a sudden, he was there. Without him making any conscious choice about it, his hand went for the blanket. Tensing his entire body, and holding his breath, he pulled the blanket back in a quick jerking motion.

And there it was. Seeing it was almost anticlimactic.

A man somewhere in his mid-fifties lay supine on the bed, arms slightly spread with palms upwards. His mouth was hanging open, and he had his eyes half closed like he was in trance. But this was no trance. The man's entire body from head to toe was rigid, as if carved out of wood. Around the corners of his mouth, dribbles of blood had crusted on the hairs of his profuse beard. His chest was completely covered in it. Castorius could count up to a dozen stab wounds all over the man's torso, spread out in no particular pattern.

It was obvious he had not had the chance to defend himself, or even raise himself up before meeting his fate.

Commodore Fair-Shield, I presume.

For what felt like a good part of an hour, Castorius simply stared at the corpse. After all the dread, he felt surprisingly little, now that it was actually there. "Peaceful" was the word he'd often heard people use when describing the dead. The man did not look peaceful. He did not look particularly disturbed, either. He looked dead. And that, it turned out, did not look like much in the end.

Castorius pressed a hand against one of the lacerations, not giving the action much of a thought. The Commodore would not mind, and he could not bring himself to care much about it, either. The blood had mostly dried around the wound, but pressing on it, some fresh blood gashed out of the opening.

He pulled back his hand, stared at it all bloodied for a short moment. He then absentmindedly wiped it on the bedding, like it was just some dirt off the ground. His hand still stayed red, and was left feeling sticky.

Now, wasn't there something else—

And just like that, the horror returned, billowing though him as a wave of nausea. The Commodore's family . . .

Slowly, Castorius lifted the lamp, turning toward the pile of cloth he'd all but passed by earlier . He saw it clearly now: the large sheet, as it now reveled itself to be, was also adorned with a giant, red stain.

"Oh, please, no," he mouthed, getting no sound out.

His feet started to take him toward the bundle like they had a mind of their own. The room was completely silent aside from the the buzzing in his ears. He went down on one knee, grabbed the corner of the sheet, and, same as earlier, pulled it off in one swift motion—like a magician revealing that the person he'd just covered with it had disappeared.

But Castorius was no magician. And this was no illusion. And neither was the surge of bile that rushed up into his esophagus when he saw what was underneath.

It was another body curled up on the floor, that of a woman perhaps a decade younger than the Commodore. Though with all the blood having drained from their faces, they both looked oddly ageless. She was down on her knees with her forehead against the floor and arms wrapped up underneath her, like she was protecting something.

And only after the first fraction of a second did he notice that there underneath was yet another person. The cobalt eyes of a small boy not much older than five years of age stared at him from under the dead woman that had doubtless been his mother. The eyes themselves had no life left in them, just the faded yet bewildered stare of someone who scarcely had any understanding of being in the world, let alone the time now having arrived to depart it. Though now there was only the frozen memory of horror left in them, taken over by the glazed indifference of someone whom it no longer concerned.

An even more scattered cluster of stab wounds went across the woman's back. Many of them were deep enough to have gone right though her, and to have dispatched the little boy at the same go. A long secondary smile running from ear to ear underneath her chin had made it sure once and for all no tale of what had gone on would escape her lips. A large red patch formed underneath the bodies, the dried blood he'd seen from downstairs.

He turned his face away. He let the lantern drop, and pressed the hand that had held it to his mouth. He had to breathe deep and slow, trying to keep in what was trying to force its way up his throat. He had an even harder time suffocating the other sort of flow out of his eyes. He closed them and attempted to decide which one in the bundle of feelings bubbling inside him he should most focus on holding down.

Then he heard a noise in the middle of the dead silence, and was startled back onto his feet.

The room was still as empty as ever. There was only his shadow, creeping all across the floor and up the wall, clinging to the ceiling. It was spread as thin as Castorius felt.

I must have imagined it.

Then there it was again. A faint shuffling sound. His eyes were drawn to a tall cupboard standing against the wall in the middle of the room. More rustling, clearly coming from within.

Castorius looked back, at the two bodies bundled up. A wife and two children. Roggie's words playing in his head.

He turned to regard the cupboard, and sighed a tattered sigh. I don't want to.

He reached for the lantern, and soon his feet were taking him towards the closet. Oh, please don't let it be—

What?

He didn't really want there to be anything inside.

Setting the lantern down on the floor, he took the last two steps toward the wardrobe. Slowly, he reached out his hand, laced his fingers around the rings of handles. Five heartbeats.

He yanked the doors open.

A feral scream sent him backwards, dropped him on his behind. He hit the lantern on his way down, knocking it over. There was the chink of breaking glass. Before the light went out, Castorius caught a fleeting sight of a small person inside the closet.

He fumbled for the flint and tinder in his satchel, and fished the candle out of the the broken lantern. Getting it to reignite took him about a hundred years.

When he finally lifted up the candle in front of his face, he half expected to find the closet empty.

But not so. In there, amid the hanging dresses and coats, hunched a child—a little girl a couple of years older than the dead boy. This one was still alive, however. The same cobalt-blue eyes stared at him with animal intensity, wide as saucer-plates. Around her some of the clothes had fallen off the rack, explaining the sounds he'd heard.

The child's long blonde hair was disheveled, matted to frame her blanched features. In the middle of them, the large eyes burned with sheer terror. Castorius could see strength in them, but it was all currently drowned out by fear. Her hair had some blood caked in it, and more of it was on her clothes. It wasn't clear whether it was her own or not. Brown and red streaks ran down her round cheeks, and with her little hands she was squeezing something against her chest. A doll.

Castorius blinked, staring into those frightened eyes, his mouth opening and closing without any content to fill the silence with.

Then, after recovering a little, he reached his hand towards the girl. He tried his best to look reassuring.

"Please," he whispered.

What was he begging to her for?

The girl backed up tighter against the back panel, squeezing the doll closer against her chest.

I'm not going to hurt you, was what he wanted to say, but the words were lost before they reached his lips. Instead, he just had his hand hanging impotently in the air between them. It was shaking.

The girl's eyes then shifted to the hand, and, if possible, went even wider.

At first he didn't understand, but then looked himself. The hand was still covered in blood. The blood of the child's family. Her blood.

"Uh," he said.

He looked up to the the girl, who now stared at his Imperial uniform. "It wasn't . . . " He turned to regard the corpses, then looked back at his hand, then at the little girl. She met his gaze, and for a moment Castorius' eyes were locked on to hers. He nearly shivered at the fury of emotion in them.

"I didn't . . . "

Something else flashed in the blue eyes, then. Something as ancient as the primitive terror, but something much, much stronger.

Hatred.

"I . . ." Castorius tried.

The girl bolted onto her feet. Clothes were sent flying around as she stormed out of the closet.

"Wait!" He said, reaching his hand lamely after the dashing off child.

But she was fast. In a flash, she'd disappeared through the hole on the floor. The sound of her bare feet slapping at the stairs, at the floor downstairs, then the slamming of the door.

Afterwards, it was silent again.

He stared after her, long after she'd gone, his lips still futilely attempting to form words.

". . . Sorry," he mouthed.

He looked on the floor beside his feet. The girl's doll lay there, left behind in all the commotion, like a decoy. He picked it up. It was a cheap, raggedy old thing with buttons for eyes and strands of yellow yarn as hair hanging down to its shoulders. In the middle of its chest there was a patch where someone had fixed up a hole. The mother, perhaps. Or maybe the Commodore himself.

Castorius looked at the girl's dead family once more. There was no patching them up.

"Sorry," he whispered.

There had already been some blood stains on the doll as he'd picked it up, but more had rubbed on from his hand.

"I'm sorry," he told the doll.

He dropped it on the floor, then looked at the empty wardrobe where the child had been just seconds before, at the scattered clothes on the floor, at the candle in his hand with its flickering flame.

A long ragged breath deflating his lungs, he hung his head between his knees. The candle slipped out of his fingers and rolled on the floor. The light died.

Castorius started to shake all over, and couldn't stop. Didn't try.

There in the dark, surrounded by pressing silence and death, he buried his face in his hands and cried.