Chapter 26: Last Stop: Square One

Castorius took a deep breath.

He briefly reviewed what his training might've offered in the way of guidance for situations like this, but soon gave that up. After all, that was just a reaction, a conditioned response. Did it not belong to some other man entirely? Someone likely hundreds of years dead. It no longer concerned him, if it truly ever had.

Where was that man now? Where was that disjointed series of images, views, desires, and events he had called his life? The uncontrollable chain of bad decisions that had led him here today?

Had he been sleeping? Had it all been just a dream?

In any case, this wasn't. If he'd been sleeping, he was wide awake now. This was his reality. For better or worse.

Worse, as it would seem.

Here now, at last, he faced his adversary; his judge, his killer. And it wasn't the man sitting the throne in the Blue Palace, the one who called himself the High King. It wasn't the Emperor, nor was it any of those who wrote his laws and kept their letter. It was not even the big, black-skinned man beside Castorius, holding that big old frightening axe.

No, his real judge and executioner was right in front of him. It was the people. The Empire of Tamriel, as they were called. The Empire was the people. How had he not seen it before?

He saw it clearly enough now.

He let his breath flow out, slow and steady. The crowd was slowly starting to look like a full assembly. Faces all around: curious, eager, mirthful, disinterested, sleepy. The plebs, here for a reminder of their own mortality, of their own good fortune. Such as it was. Instinctively, he searched the throng for something to ease his eyes on; soft, beautiful features to bring him comfort, even at the risk of only ending up staring callow cruelty in the face.

Instead his gaze settled upon a robed figure at the front of the audience. The figure tilted back its cowled head, just enough for him to see its eyes. A chilling, malignant stare, making Castorius' heart skip a beat. Sybille Stentor looked straight at him, revealing a mouthful of pearly white teeth. A smile of sorts. She winked at him.

Castorius simply spent a few seconds staring at the eldrich woman, somehow knowing he should feel more terrified, but not really knowing how to. So eventually he simply looked away, continuing to browse through the crowd.

At the back, next to the Inn, the Winking Skeever, stood another cowled figure, this one in worn-out robes. As Castorius studied it, the figure peeled its hood back. A man with neatly combed dark-brown hair and one droopy eye was revealed from underneath. The man lifted his chin in greeting.

Sam Guevenne this time. Not Sanguine.

Sam reached under his robe, and when he brought his hand out there was something in it. It was a staff, which he raised high in the air for Castorius to see. The staff's shaft was green, and at the end of it was the inflorescence of a rose. Thick and sharp-looking thorns grew at the top part of the handle. Castorius stared at the thing numbly. It had caused him so much grief, he should probably be thinking. Might have been the reason he was here now. But he knew that would be a lie.

"I might have even saved your life . . ."

For what it was worth.

Sam then put the staff back under his coat and raised his chin again for farewell. He pulled his cowl back on and started walking to his right. Within seconds he'd simply vanished, and though Castorius tried to catch sight of him again, he couldn't.

His eyes caught another familiar figure there, leaning on one of the pillars of the inn with his arms crossed. The saurian features twisted into a sneer in which utter contempt and pure joy over someone else's misfortune mixed perfectly, making them one seamless compound of emotion.

In other words, Jaree-Ra did not look too friendly.

Castorius stared at the Argonian with the same deadened detachedness he had at Sanguine's "rose". The pirate lifted one scaly hand and drew it horizontally across his throat. He completed the gesture with a gleeful grin. But it did not matter to Castorius in the least, so he just looked away.

Seizing to scope the crowd, he then looked around him instead. Ahtar to his right, with the axe, met his gaze. Not much emotion in those dark eyes. As usual, what he might have felt or thought was anybody's guess. He gave Castorius a small, near imperceptible nod, and Castorius returned it. Captain Aldis, standing in rigid pose behind the headsman, took notice of this minor exchange and, judging by the frown across his brow, did not much care for it. He looked from Castorius to Ahtar and then, as the large Redguard did nothing to acknowledge him, back to Castorius. When he got no reaction from the prisoner either, he simply faced ahead, muscles clenching underneath his dark beard.

Indifferent, Castorius slid his gaze from the guard captain to another Nord, this one standing at the right side of the scaffold and facing the center. A sullen man with his hands behind his back, staring at the ground in front of him.

Roggie.

There were dark circles underneath the man's eyes, and an altogether gauntness to his whole being. Yet there was something else, too. A sort of peacefulness that had not been there before. As Castorius regarded the man, Roggie finally lifted his gaze to meet his. For a few utterly silent seconds, they stared at each other over the execution block. Roggie's eyes then flashed from the block to Ahtar, to Aldis, and then back again. An emotion ignited in his blue eyes, one Castorius knew already. There was a pleading look in them.

He nodded at the Nord, keeping his face impassive. A sense of relief was plain to read in Roggie's visage, and he mouthed a word. "Thanks," most likely.

Then the steel shield of one of the Imperial guards caught a ray of the early morning sun, and the beam was reflected in Roggie's face. He took one hand from behind his back to shield his eyes, the talisman—the amulet of Talos, which he now kept in plain sight—swinging around his neck.

Castorius looked away.

Yeah, he'd made a promise. And he intended to keep it. After all: why not? He had nothing left to gain, and only his soul to lose.

Such as it was.

"Please, Castorius!" The words of Roggie—or Roggvir, as he said he'd now rather be called—still fresh in his mind. The desperation in those eyes as they'd regarded each other through the bars of the cell under Castle Dour. One of them on the outside, the other in.

Roggie—Roggvir, had explained how he'd managed to convince them of his innocence. Used the whole might of his clever mind to assure them it had been his plan all along. That Castorius, the crooked and corrupt Imperial soldier, had approached him while they'd both been on an espionage mission pretending to work for Ulfric, and tried to convince him to join him in the business he was doing with pirate cut-throats. That Roggvir had done what he thought he'd have to in order to not only bring Castorius to justice, but to stop Ulfric's plan to acquire a fleet and at the same time bring down a pirate gang.

"I led them to believe," he'd confided to Castorius, "that the moment you came to me, I realized I couldn't go to the High King before I had more information—before I' d ascertained the whereabouts of the pirates so that the Company could take them out."

Castorius could not believe they'd swallowed the story. But so they had seemed to. Had treated Roggvir as a regular hero, they had; even offered him a promotion to Captain—which our modest hero had then declined. Told them he'd like nothing better than to continue as a humble servant of His Majesty.

And they'd believed that too.

So it really seemed like the man was able to slither away from this. There was just one thing that could bring down all of his plans. And that that thing was, of course, Castorius.

"Please!" Roggvir had pleaded. "Don't say anything. They'd only execute us both."

"Why should only I lose my head over this?" Castorius had asked.

Even at the moment he'd not been able to invest much zeal in the question. After all, why should they both have to die?

"Something's different now," the Nord had continued. "I've changed. Remember when you asked me if I believed in anything?" He'd pulled the amulet out of his shirt then. "Well, I think I may just believe in something again." There had been absolutely no dishonesty in those eyes. "That ship, I could have died on it. Should have, perhaps. But I didn't. It's a miracle of some sort."

As he'd spoken, he'd fiddled the amulet between his fingers. So suppose he now thought it was Talos himself who'd saved his life. As a kind of thanks for wearing his lucky charm around his neck.

Castorius had said nothing to that.

Then Roggvir leaned closer, looking around, and whispering, "Despite everything, I'm starting to think Ulfric may be right!"

That had been all he'd said about the subject, but in his eyes Castorius had been able to read more. This may no longer have been a man who put his own self-interest above everything, but neither was he someone who obediently served his emperor, either. The dawning light of fanaticism—that was what Castorius thought he could read in that bright stare. If obsessive self-love was a kind of sickness of the mind, this was one of the other kinds.

The events in the Pale had apparently given Ulfric a good scare. It had been nigh that his troops had clashed with the Imperials, which would have certainly sent rolling a series of uncontrollable events. Such an unfortunate chain reaction would have been slated to ignite a civil war. So, daunted by the uncontrolled circumstances, he'd recalled all his forces in the area, dismantled any military camps around the holds sympathetic to him, and retreated to Windhelm, the city wherein he ruled as Jarl. Roggvir had managed to be in contact with him, and apparently convince him of his innocence and loyalty as well. It had taken Ulfric a while to accept that Castorius could have so quickly devised a plot of his own, but he had, according to Roggvir, then conceded that he was ready to believe almost anything about the wily Imperials.

How his old friend had managed to get all this information already, Castorius would never know.

According to Roggvir, Torygg had been pleased to hear about Ulfric's change of note. He'd taken it as an encouraging sign that the man was indeed getting ready to be reined in. He'd seemed convinced that the Stormcloak was now regretting harboring any rebellious sentiments, and would soon come to the High King in person to admit as much. But looking at Roggie's eyes, listening to the tone of his voice as he was telling him all this, Castorius had had to wonder. It didn't seem to him that it was over at all. Far from it.

And Roggvir, for one, had clearly decided his allegiances.

But what did that matter, either?

"And another thing," the Nord had gone on, changing the subject. "I've been getting closer with my sister again. We've sort of been at odds with with each other for a few years now, but now it's gotten better. And what's more, it's gotten me into closer contact with my niece Svari—a delightful little girl! Wouldn't you know it, she's always thought fondly of me, even if I haven't really been there for her. " The man's smile had lacked all calculation and cynicism. "Can you believe that? Me? I've never been responsible for anyone but myself, but now it almost feels like I am. I'm sure she'd be sad if I went away now. She likes me, Janus. Likes me for who I am. Do you know what that's like? To be looked up to by someone?"

Castorius had stared at his old friend in silence, then admitted quietly, "No, I don't suppose I do."

"Please!" Roggvir had repeated. "I have something to fight for now!"

Castorius did not. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

So he'd agreed.

Roggvir had been nearly in tears then, thanking him so ardently he'd ultimately had to tell the man to just please stop. Roggvir had promised, assured, and vouched—sworn the most solemn of vows—that he would put in the good word for Castorius. He'd use whatever leverage he now had over the High King to have him pardoned, or in the least kept from execution.

Well, so much for that, it seemed.

For if he'd been pardoned, if his execution had been called off, the word hadn't traveled here. Things were rigged up and ready for his head to roll, no room for doubt about it. And it wasn't likely the crowd would take kindly to another let-down, either. For all he knew, they'd climb up and take care of it themselves if they had to.

Tiring of the sight of the blood-hungry press, Castorius closed his eyes. In a way they were going to pardon him: pardon him from the life long sentence that was his existence. And while in the past he would have been amused by such a pathetic sentiment resembling the moodiest of school-boy poetry, things were different now. But it wasn't that he was depressed; nothing like that. In fact, he didn't remember feeling lighter in a long, long time. If ever.

But the lightness he experienced was something less than a feeling. And that was just the thing: he didn't really feel anything at all. There didn't seem to be much point to it anymore.

For he had seen it.

Whatever it might have been. But it had been there when he'd looked into the eyes of Captain Malaney. All he could think of in trying to describe it was "Absolute Darkness". Yet, at the same time, it had been perpetual change; constantly shifting and oscillating in a way that it never became anything. Complete Nothingness. He'd somehow been able to use it, to defeat Malaney with it. But he'd managed that only once, only when he'd been in direct contact with it. Afterwards, he couldn't even say what it had been he'd done at all. He'd never done the simplest of magic, had always assumed himself to be one of those individuals who lacked the ability.

Perhaps he was. Perhaps it had been something else entirely.

What was more, in addition to the darkness he'd seen something else, if only through just the briefest of glimpses. So brief, in fact, that it had taken a few days to for it to really sink in that he'd seen anything at all. But somewhere behind the Deep Darkness there had been its opposite. Completely different in nature but just as unfathomable, if not more so. Absolute Light. Total stillness. The utter lack of existence. It had been completely devoid of any change, any movement; nothing coming, nothing going. Perfection—static, dead. If anything, it was even more terrifying.

Of course, he realized words such as "light" and "dark" were mere metaphors for something which escaped definition. Approximations, presenting the matter in the only way his mind could conceive it. But he knew that what he'd seen had been real. More real than anything he'd seen before.

Somewhere between the two extremes, then, between the Absolute Light and the Absolute Dark, had been this world, the Mundus—his world, the one he knew. Had thought he'd known, anyway. It was neither of the two, but contained something of each. Balanced between the two kinds of Nothings, it itself was . . . something. Maybe.

In any case, it was where he was. This was Nirn, a blaring and chaotic arena for the millions of little plays of drama and conflict taking place on it day by day. Ambition, jealousy, conquest, war, love; intertwined and entangled into each other, weaving this mesh of contradiction and ambivalence, constantly teetering at the brink of dissolution, at the edge of Oblivion. Everyone toiling tirelessly over this worthy goal or that, all with the same desire: to convince themselves and each other it was all real. That they were all real. That any of it mattered, if only for a split second.

Castorius, of course, had been one of them, as deluded as any, if not more so. But that was all in the past. What did it concern him anymore? At any rate, it wouldn't much longer. It already didn't. He was done with it, had seen through it and found it profoundly empty, nothing in it really worth adhering to. The axe might as well have already dropped on him. Perhaps it had.

For though he could not tell what it was he'd seen looking into the otherworldly pirate's bottomless dark pits of eyes, he knew one would not be able to see it and continue unchanged. Nothing had felt the same since. In fact, nothing had felt like much at all—scary, interesting, or arousing. Everything felt more or less equal: life, death . . . what was the difference? But it wasn't a feeling of despair or abjection. Rather, there was strange sort of joy in it. Like all the things he used to fear and all the things he'd been so hung up on attaining, none of it had the same power over him anymore. He felt almost unfettered.

Almost.

He drew another long breath, then let it flow out slowly and freely. There was no longer any trepidation left in him. He was calm.

Might as well get on with it.

Captain Aldis, now standing at the front of the scaffold, cleared his throat. "Prisoner, step up," he said, his voice loud and clear.

The prisoner opened his eyes. The people were watching. Waiting. Anticipating. Thirsty for blood. His blood.

Let them get what they want. Let's make them happy.

For what it was worth.

He looked at them one and all, searched their eyes; saw their faces, scowling, grinning, timid, impassive, tense. Their desires. Their will. Their world. The brittle order of their little lives, the hopes and dreams that ran them. Their fears. Their whole pathetic little reality. They were all in this together, for all their separateness, united. One of mind. Of One Mind. The light and the dark, balanced.

For now.

He looked and saw it all. And he smiled at them. There was no malice in the gesture, no anger. He was beyond all that now, it seemed. Seeing it, some of the people frowned. But most did not even notice.

He then did as told and stepped forward.

The morning had broken sunny and clear, and looked to be turning out exactly the way he liked them. A clear sky loomed above, and the balmy wind tousled his curly, flaxen hair. He would have likely chosen different conditions for the start of his day, if he'd been free to choose them. If he could have bent reality to his will.

He wasn't. And he couldn't. There was no more use in pretending, no reason to fight it.

Just a regular mortal, after all.

The sun beamed down, indifferent. Shining down on the just and the wicked alike. Just as it always had. Just as it always would.

Castorius closed his eyes.

Yup, he thought.

It was just another one of those days.

So there we have it. Thanks for reading!