Interlude 6 - The Inner Eyes

Commander Lucius Maro, the supreme ranking officer of the Penitus Oculatus in the Imperial Province of Skyrim, is not having a particularly good day.

It all started with the Thalmor.

As it often does. Only the Divines know how many times that phrase has been uttered.

He chuckles sardonically and sets aside a sheaf of papers detailing his division's current logistical situation. The legionary captain of Neugrad is complaining about their supplies being requisitioned for the third time this week. Maro couldn't be bothered to care, frankly. He isn't pleased with their present circumstances either. Everyone involved will just have to tighten their belts and make ends meet as best they can.

His command center – to use the term loosely – is located in the burned-out skeleton of a two-story tavern not far from what used to be this town's central garrison. He's hoping this will be a temporary affair, and for that reason has directed his men to work on constructing other critical facilities like barracks and latrines before wasting time making his abode a little more comfortable.

He's currently seated on a warped bench with his back leaning against the edge of a splintered and charred table. The crooked wooden floorboards are littered with cutlery, dead leaves, fallen shingles, and other miscellaneous debris. Portions of the roof and the second story have been destroyed, giving him a nice view of the sky through jagged holes in the ceiling.

He reaches across the table, grasps a cracked clay mug full of golden liquid, and indulges in a brief sip. Nearby rests a battered keg, the pitiful remnant of the local alcohol supply. "Hmm. This mead is good. Tastes like juniper."

As he drinks, he tries to ignore the sounds of a heated argument taking place just beyond the front door. Two of the participating voices are those of his men who were assigned to guard the entrance of the tavern-turned-office.

The third voice clearly belongs to an Altmer. The haughty Summerset accent gives it away.

One of the downsides to being a member of the Empire's uppermost hierarchy of intelligence officials is that Maro is often required to work with individuals who aren't fellow Imperial citizens bound by ties of common loyalty and brotherhood. Understandably, this can sometimes be difficult for a born-and-bred Cyrod from the Imperial heartland. He'll do his duty, make no mistake. But that doesn't always mean he enjoys it.

During his career, he's served the Empire all across mainland Tamriel. He's collaborated with Dunmer loyalists in the alien landscape of Morrowind. He's enacted clandestine operations alongside Redguard guerillas in rugged Hammerfell. He's aided Bosmer dissidents in their shadowy struggle against the Aldmeri Dominion beneath the towering boughs of Valenwood.

And, he's been forced to tolerate the presence of Thalmor justicars as he does his damndest to fulfill his responsibilities to the Empire and its subjects as a Commander of the Penitus Oculatus.

Here in what was once a town called Helgen, he's found himself stuck in that exact situation for the past three weeks.

At present, there are personnel from both the Penitus Oculatus and the Thalmor conducting a joint investigation in the ruins of Helgen. Maro was ordered to oversee this inquiry into the aftermath of the dragon attack that wiped an entire town off the map, which unfortunately means he's supervising quite a few Altmer in addition to his own men.

Needless to say, he isn't very happy about that. He would've preferred for the Thalmor to never set foot in Skyrim in the first place, much less become involved in an internal operation of the utmost importance to national security, but nobody thought to ask for his opinion on the matter. These days, if the Thamor want something, they usually get it.

High Elves are a handful at the best of times, and not for the usual reasons where soldiers are involved. They aren't overeager, boisterous, or rowdy in the ways that grunt legionaries tend to be – they're typically the opposite, in fact – but they are disobedient in their own uniquely snobbish manner. Tensions have been running high between his men and the Thalmor, and Maro doesn't think that's likely to change anytime soon.

He sighs and runs a hand through his wavy brown hair as the voices outside suddenly rise in volume. They're practically shouting at each other now. This is why I've been finding new grey hairs every morning. Damn Elves.

It wasn't so bad at first. When he first arrived at Helgen, he and his men had discovered a group of Nord clansmen poking around the devastation. Looters, most likely. They were driven away in short order, though they were tenacious fighters as Nords often tend to be. Many of them joined the people of Helgen in death as a result of their obstinance. It was a short and bloody fight, but also blessedly straightforward and simple. The delineation between ally and enemy was plain to see.

And to think that was the easy part of this whole mess. Once the Thalmor started to get involved, it was all downhill from there.

He doesn't disagree with the idea of going through the aftermath of the dragon attack with a fine-tooth comb, and he certainly doesn't disagree with maintaining an Imperial presence here. Both are sound ideas, as Helgen is an economically and strategically important crossroads. North is Whiterun Hold, west is Falkreath, east is Steelhead Pass into he Rift, and south is Neugrad and the Pale Pass to Cyrodiil. As the nexus of such an important supply line, it's vital that the Empire retain control the site, even if Helgen doesn't exist as such anymore.

But he really wishes he didn't have to be the one to do it.

He sighs again as a loud thump emanates from the doorframe. Probably somebody punching the wall, or maybe a head being grabbed and slammed against it. It's difficult to tell sometimes.

He's already looking forward to returning to his Tehall in Dragon Bridge and seeing his son Gaius, a junior officer of exceptional talent – if he does say so himself – who he chose to leave in temporary command. He doesn't expect to receive permission to leave Helgen for another couple of months, especially with the rapid approach of Skyrim's harsh winter, but he's already eagerly anticipating the day he'll be freed from this steaming mess of a deployment.

(AN: A Tehall is a dormitory for members of the Penitus Oculatus, as stated in Gregory Keyes' book 'The Infernal City'.)

There was a Penitus Oculatus Tehall in Helgen, as a matter of fact. Some of his men examined the site, but it was burnt to a crisp down to its very foundations and they couldn't recover many articles of value. At least that means the Thalmor won't be able to steal any of our secrets, he thinks grimly. I suppose we should thank the dragon for its thoroughness.

And speak of the daedra…

The highest-ranking agent of the Thalmor contingent, a wizard named Lorcalin, shoves open the front door and waltzes into the gutted tavern like he owns the place. Maro's men must not have been able to stonewall him into giving up and leaving. They rarely are, but it's always worth trying.

The Elf looks around with obvious distaste at the ash-coated interior of the building, or what's left of it. Several support columns have fallen into piles of blackened charcoal and one entire corner of the tavern has collapsed beneath its own weight.

"Commander Maro," he greets with a languid nod. "Still skulking in your decrepit hovel, I see. For shame. This shack is hardly fitting for a man of your… caliber."

Maro stands and rests a hand against the tabletop. "What do you want, Lorcalin?" he irritably asks. He's already learned that there's no point in trying to play nice with these Altmer. If you do, they'll run you around in circles and laugh behind your back all the while. It's best to be firm and get straight to the point.

"Agent Lorcalin," he corrects offhandedly. "You're always so eager to bypass the pleasantries. Oh well. I suppose I'd be remiss to expect anything different."

He settles into a casual posture with his hands clasped behind his back. His heavy black robes inlaid with golden trim are draped loosely around his lanky frame.

"You see Maro, I've begun to hear strange rumors circulating among my mer regarding their treatment by your junior officers. It appears that they're attempting to conscript my justicars into drudgerous work gangs, as if they're common rabble to be handed a shovel and told to start digging. These are among the finest minds and stoutest sword-arms of Alinor's younger generations! Now why would noble-hearted men such as yourselves be trying to subject them to something like that?"

"Because I've explicitly ordered that all able-bodied men and mer should take part in our recovery efforts until the last of the bodies have been properly interred," he blandly replies. "Which you're already be aware of, since I'm sure you've received my written missive explaining this in detail."

"Ah, yes. That." Lorcalin smirks in an infuriatingly self-satisfied manner. "You should know that I'm a very busy mer. I am the recipient of many messages, all vying equally for my attention, and it isn't uncommon for one to slip through the proverbial cracks now and again. I'm afraid I don't recall this missive of yours, so perhaps that is what happened. An unfortunate case of mistaken priority."

Maro doesn't bother responding and instead graces the Elf with a dull glare. It's almost impressive the lengths these justicars will go to, to be nuisances to him in the most ridiculous ways. It goes without saying that Lorcalin is lying through his teeth. That's standard practice where the Thalmor are concerned.

"Whatever the case, my agents never received these orders and so could hardly be expected to act upon them. You should tell your officers to stand down, Maro. They're like rabid dogs out there, seeking to pressgang us against our will. I've always heard tales about the purported belligerency of men, but to see it with my own eyes firsthand is nothing short of astonishing to someone of my delicate sensibilities."

"But now that you have finally heard these orders of mine," Maro interjects before the Altmer can continue with his taunting. "You should have no problem organizing a reallocation of manpower to our excavation and burial details. We all have a part to play, agent, and that includes your task force. We need you to pull your weight. Your sorcerers should have the capacity to greatly speed along the salvaging process with their spells. Each of them can accomplish in an hour what would take three of my men an entire day. That's why you are here, if you remember."

Lorcalin looks him dead in the eye. His irises are golden and slitted vertically like those of a cat, unquestioningly inhuman.

"No." He draws out the word, as if tasting the flavor it leaves behind on his bloodless lips. "I refuse to go along with your pointless wishes. My agents have much more suitable things to be doing with their talents and their magicka. They are not myrmidons for you to toss about at your own whim."

Maro clenches his fists. He can't say he wasn't expecting that response, but it still makes him rightfully furious. "You are standing within the sovereign borders of the Empire, in my province, in my town, embedded with my men only with my express permission." Permission that was forced out of him by his boot-licking superiors in the Imperial City, but that detail is irrelevant. "You have no authority here other than that which I've provisionally agreed to grant you. You are not allowed to say no."

"We are allies, Man. There is a clear distinction between a subordinate and an ally. Do not forget that."

That isn't technically true by the letter of the law, but always leave it to a High Elf to flaunt authority whenever said authority is an inconvenience for them.

I've tried the carrot, Elf. If it's the stick you want, then I'll give it to you.

"You're wholly dependent on our supply lines," Maro grinds out. "Our logistical personnel have full control over your rations, and I have full control over them. Don't make me cut you off. We're running a tight operation in these mountains, and we don't have the means to care for personnel who refuse to adequately contribute. I'm not sure how you do things in the Dominion, but here in the Empire we do not tolerate insubordination." Disobedience of this magnitude is usually a capital offense in the Legion, but he can't go around executing Thalmor agents just because he doesn't like their attitudes. That would create a diplomatic incident, and nobody likes those.

Lorcalin grins, but his scrunched eyebrows betray his anger. "Is that a threat, Imperial? Then allow me to respond in kind. If my justicars are deprived of the resources necessary for their survival, then they will surely be forced to turn to the surrounding countryside for the fulfillment of their needs. Farmsteads will be looted and villages will be stripped bare. I wouldn't be able to control them if their very lives were at stake due to impending starvation. I could hardly be blamed for such an outcome, could I?"

The Elf hangs his head and theatrically groans.

"I should be out hunting heretics in the name of Auri-El the almighty, but here I am stuck bickering with you in this cesspool. We both know the wicked worshipers of Talos are the greatest threat to your Empire at this time. I suppose it shouldn't be surprising that you men aren't able to maintain control over your own subjects. And yet here we both are, chasing after shadows and rumors."

Maro grits his teeth so tightly that they start to hurt, but he holds his tongue. The people he calls heretics are those who still dare to revere Talos Stormcrown. If anything, we're the heretics for casting away our Hero-God and numbering the Divines as Eight instead of Nine. He's an Elf. What does he know of our beliefs? But of course, he would never voice that opinion out loud.

"I've said my piece," Lorcalin states with finality. "Unless you have any further objections, I will now take my leave. There are other tasks that must be seen to, all of which are a more worthy usage of my time than this charade."

"I could say something similar." The Imperial commander sits back down on his bench and tiredly waves for the Elf to go. And good riddance.

The Altmer sneers as he turns on his heel and strides out the door. The clicking of his polished boots steadily recedes until being cut off entirely as the door swings shut.

Maro leans back, rubs his calloused hands across his face, and closes his eyes. He's tempted to fill another tankard with juniper mead and guzzle it down, but grudgingly decides against it. Today isn't over quite yet and there are still things he needs to do. Besides, he has an image to uphold.

He stands from his bench, curses as his knees twinge painfully, and sets about gathering his effects. He picks up his helmet, an unremarkable piece of legionary equipment, and settles it firmly on his head. Next follows his sword and scabbard, which he clips onto his belt. He's already wearing his armor, wrought of dark grey steel and accentuated with silver highlights. The symbol of the Imperial red diamond protrudes from the center of his chestplate, overlayed with a silver eye denoting him as a member of the Penitus Oculatus.

After stooping to tighten his boots, he takes one last look around the desolate tavern before exiting to do his daily rounds. He needs to cool off after that wonderful discussion. He likes to think of himself as a level-headed man – he wouldn't have gotten far in this career if he weren't – but even he has his limits, and the Thalmor have been pushing and prodding at them for the duration of this deployment without reprieve.

He steps outside into a forlorn graveyard that was once a town, ignoring the two guards saluting on either side of him. Emaciated vestiges of blackened timber house-frames and soot-tarnished chimneys are all that remain of this particular neighborhood, the grim aftermath of a ravaging firestorm. It isn't exceptional in that regard. The majority of Helgen is much the same.

All around him are ominous signs of the dragon's onslaught. Everywhere he looks, there are mounds of melted stone, fortifications shattered like they were made of ice, and patches of unnaturally frostbitten earth. Scattered haphazardly are scorched craters formed by falling stars and pillars of flame – meteors, his mages called them – which were themselves seemingly obliterated on impact and thus left behind nothing useful for his subordinates to study. Their efforts have mostly been in vain so far, except to document the dragon's various magical abilities. Which admittedly is a valuable thing in and of itself.

The only part of this once-thriving settlement that survived in anything close to a complete state is the legionary fortress and its immediate environs – and even they didn't escape the wrath of the heavens unscathed. Significant portions of the garrison walls are now little more than scattered heaps of pulverized gravel, rendering the fortifications unfit for military service. Several of its watchtowers have been toppled as well, spilling blocks of worked stone and crenellations across wide swathes of ground. Two of them fell directly atop nearby houses, crushing them utterly.

Helgen is a sight to behold, and not at all in a good way. This degree of apocalyptic destruction hasn't been seen within the borders of Skyrim since the dark times of the Oblivion Crisis two centuries ago. It's sobering, to say nothing else of the matter.

The only signs of life amidst these otherwise lifeless ruins are the red- and grey-clad forms of his men, as well as a handful of gold-armored Thalmor dispersed among them.

He marches to the nearest group, a trio of his agents laboring within the stubbly foundations of what was once a house. They're standing over a mass grave filled with bodies in various states of decomposition, some with skin turned grey like ash and others already black and green with rot. This is the fruit of their labor over these past few days.

The three men are downcast, unable to tear their gazes away from the grim sight before them. They do their best to hide their discomfort as befitting the professionalism of the Penitus Oculatus, but the morose dullness of their haunted eyes is indicative of their true emotions. To their credit, it's a remarkably dismal sight to behold even by Maro's exceedingly high standards. He's seen many gruesome things over the course of his life, but the casualties of Helgen are certainly up there on his list of nightmare-inducing catastrophes.

When he arrived here all those weeks ago with the first groups of preliminary investigators, what they found waiting for them was horrific. There's no other word for it. Thousands were killed within these walls, and that statistic is only based on the number of bodies they've been able to dig up so far. There's no doubt in his mind that there are thousands more still buried beneath the rubble.

The Great War consisted of countless events that were comparable to this tragedy, but something about this one in particular is especially dreadful to him. Maybe it's the fact that an entire town and much of its legionary complement were wiped off the face of Nirn with the figurative snap of a finger, here one day and reduced to an empty necropolis the next.

If a dragon truly was responsible for this massacre, as the survivors have vehemently insisted down to the smallest child, then how could the townspeople have realistically been expected to defend against something like that – the arrival of a hostile mythical creature, practically a natural disaster? During the War, there was always something that could've been done to prevent the terrible things that happened.

Here, nothing could've been done. There was no possibility of preparation. These poor people were helpless to avoid their own inevitable deaths.

Some of those same survivors have actually been extradited and interrogated by the Thalmor. There weren't many of them, but somehow the devious Elves managed to get their hands on a few and wring them for all they were worth. Maro still isn't sure how that was justified by the Legion's hierarchy, since they effectively gave over Imperial citizens into the custody of foreign agents, but evidently those things are above his pay grade – yes, even his. And that's saying a lot, which should be telling.

Casting aside his ruminations, he stops next to the mass grave and shakes his head when the three dejected agents sluggishly acknowledge him with fists pressed against their chests.

"None of that, boys. If anything, I'm the one who should be saluting you. You've been doing all the hard work out here. I'm just an old man riding on the backs of you youngsters."

They each grin tiredly, and one of them chuckles under his breath. That's good. That was his intention.

"How long have you been at it today?" He gestures at the pit of decaying bodies with a hint of a sad frown.

"Since first light this morning, Commander. We've made steady progress, and we're nearly ready to finish entombing this batch. We only need to gather heavy debris for the top layer to keep scavengers from interfering with the burial."

Maro tsks. "Good. It makes me proud to hear that. But there's something I've been thinking, and I believe I could use your help with this. As it happens, there's a whole barrel-full of mead sitting in the command post just waiting for someone to drink it. Like I said, I'm an old man. I doesn't do me any good to be quaffing down gallons of that stuff. My stomach can't handle it anymore. But you three, on the other hand…"

The agents visible brighten and exchange hopeful glances. Their pallor of gloom seems to fall away at the mere mention of large quantities of alcohol.

"You'd be able to do me a favor with this, wouldn't you?"

"…Are you sure, sir?" the youngest of the three asks worriedly. "We wouldn't want to shirk our duty."

"There's a time for duty and there's a time for rest," he firmly states. "You've done plenty of digging and hauling today. If you ask me, now's as good a time as any for you to sit down and do some resting. So get over there and sample that mead. My only directive is this – that you should give me your honest opinion about the flavor later tonight. I personally thought it was a mite too bitter, but perhaps you three can convince me that I was mistaken."

The agents reach a silent accord and salute him again. Their flinty expressions soften as they gaze at him with respect. Leaving behind their tools, they begin trotting towards the tavern while calling over their shoulders to thank him again.

A smile tugs at his own lips as he continues along town's main avenue. He didn't do that for purely altruistic reasons, but it does make him feel better to have made today a bit less grim for those boys. They deserve it.

As he walks around Helgen, he finds many similar scenes of sullen men laboring over the corpses of the deceased, some in the process of being interred and others being excavated for a proper tally. General Tullius, the Military Governor of Skyrim, has insisted that every dead citizen should be accounted for.

There are also a few sullen mer, though their bad attitudes are for a different reason entirely. The Elves don't like that they've been posted all the way out here in the heart of distant Skyrim.

Maro doesn't give a shit what they think. They could all drop dead this instant and he'd be a happier man for it.

Once he's talked with a few more of his agents and otherwise done his due diligence, he turns around and heads back in the direction of the command post. That isn't his actual destination, but he wants it to seem that way to any prying eyes.

Lorcalin has already visited today. I've finished my usual patrol, so nothing should seem amiss to the casual observer. It's time. He's been cooking up this scheme for a while now, and today the last of the pieces have been arranged on the board.

As he approaches the tavern, he hears those three young agents talking and laughing loudly from inside. It looks like his plan worked. His hope is that any Thalmor walking nearby will assume he's in there carousing with his men. He's doesn't want them to know his whereabouts for the next half hour or so.

Instead of stopping when he reaches the front door, he covertly hangs a sharp left and cuts through a narrow street. A few minutes later, he emerges from the maze of collapsed houses near the town's eastern gatehouse – now little more than a rampart.

He's greeted there by two men wearing ordinary wool cloaks with heavy packs slung across their shoulders, stuffed to the brim with all the gear they'll need for hard traveling through the mountains. Their cowls are drawn up, but their thick beards and pale skin mark them as Nords, which was a conscious decision on Maro's part. They'll be able to blend into the general populace of rural Ivarstead better than a Cyrod or a Breton.

He nods curtly and they nod back. No words are exchanged, as they've already been given their orders. All that remains now is for Maro to give them a formal go-ahead and see them off. For the sake of confidentiality, he's the only one who's come to say farewell.

In the past few months, he's dispatched agents to Whiterun and Riften with instructions to look into reported sightings of dragons and if possible to authenticate them. For this pair of agents however, he has a slightly different task in mind.

A while back, Maro instructed his officers to begin purposefully leaking information regarding these two men's upcoming mission to Lorcalin and the Thalmor, insinuating that they'll be going to Riften to assist the undercover Penitus Oculatus agents already stationed there with resolving unspecified difficulties. That's a lie fabricated for the sake of operational security.

In actuality, they'll be going to monitor the Seven Thousand Steps in a rural hamlet called Ivarstead.

All the cloak and dagger is an annoyance, but it's crucial as well. Even in this destroyed town, in these rugged highlands, in this backwater northern province, he's still obligated to play the game of shadows.

Although we're in the geographic center of the Empire, I still can't always trust those who are around me. What is Nirn coming to? The White-Gold Concordat was a necessary evil, and he firmly believes the Empire had no other recourse if its citizens were to survive the Great War with their freedoms relatively intact. But it definitely wasn't ideal. Not at all.

With a strained smile, he slowly lays his hand against his chestplate. The two Nords return the gesture with stern expressions born of nervousness and pride.

"Even should the skies fall or the oceans rise, we will not fail," one of them intones. With that solemn and quintessentially Nordic declaration, they hitch their packs and begin their journey along the road to Steelhead Pass and the highlands of the Rift beyond.

Butterflies flutter restlessly in Maro's stomach as he watches their departure. It isn't an exaggeration to say that this mission is one of the most important he's ever overseen in his capacity as a Commander of the Penitus Oculatus. They know it and he knows it. As much as he truly wishes to do what little he can to honor the dead of Helgen, he's willing to admit that this task in Ivarstead is potentially much more significant.

The High Elves know very little about Cyrodiilic and Nordic traditions regarding the Dragonborn, and they're ignorant of the true meaning of the Greybeards' Call. That will undoubtedly change sooner rather than later, given the Altmeri propensity for ferreting out knowledge like a fox would a grounded squirrel, but for now there's still a window of opportunity. A chance to get one step ahead of his Elven hangers-on. He won't allow it to slip through his fingers.

He stares intently at the steadily receding backs of his two agents, on whose shoulders rests the responsibility of identifying Tamriel's newest Dragonborn Hero. He only prays that they aren't too late, and that the Dragonborn hasn't already reached the Throat of the World, or worse yet departed and eluded their grasp forever. Opinions regarding the Dragonborn are sharply divided in all levels of Imperial administration, but there's one thing that has been unanimously agreed upon.

For the good of the Empire, the Dragonborn must be found.

"Godspeed," he mutters to the wind. "And may the Divines guide your steps."