Chapter 28 – The Fingers of Justice
Darkness had just begun to yield to the first pale light of dawn, casting diffuse shadows on the familiar walls of the room. Aventus half-opened his eyes, still heavy with sleep, his breath steady, his body wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and quiet comfort. His mind lingered at the threshold between dream and waking, suspended between two worlds. The dream was still there, somewhere within him—elusive, like a reflection on water. Snow, laughter, a carefree game upon a hill of pristine white. And at the center of that winter landscape, a golden figure. Hunfen. That radiant smile, those sparkling eyes, his hand extended, inviting him to join.
Aventus closed his eyes again, his lips curling ever so slightly in a faint smile, and let himself sink back into the softness of the memory, a sweetness he hadn't known in a long time. His thoughts wandered, carried on the echo of the dream; a faint trace of a tender embrace. A warmth, unfamiliar but comforting, slowly spread through him, and he didn't quite understand why. His hand drifted lazily, searching for some continuation of that pleasant vision, a phantom caress to prolong the peace. Just for a moment—just for a little comfort.
Then the moment shattered.
The sensation of his own hand, innocent a heartbeat earlier, twisted into a brutal recollection. Another hand—rough and invasive—the bandit's. The one that had violated the very same place, that same forbidden place. The memory crashed over him like a wave of ice.
His heart skipped. He yanked his hand away as if scorched, breath cut short by a sudden panic. His fingers trembled, clutching at the sheet. Cold sweat beaded at the nape of his neck. And then another face surfaced. Another voice—sharp, shrill, unforgiving—rising from a deeper past. Grelod.
"Good boys keep their hands above the covers!"
Aventus obeyed at once, arms stiff at his sides, unmoving, breath tight, throat constricted, cheeks burning with a shame he couldn't name. The voice still echoed in him, coiling around his thoughts like a snake. A slow nausea crept in. Was she right? He shook his head, trying to shake it loose. No. No, that was ridiculous. That was Grelod. She had always imposed twisted rules. She broke children, twisted them, drove them mad with her cruelty. But then… why was his heart pounding like this? Why did that rule, in this instant, feel like a shield against something vile?
He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to breathe slowly. He had to forget. Push it all away. It was nothing—just a bad dream, a fleeting lapse. Nothing important. He closed his eyes again, searching for a mental refuge. He found an image. A thought.
The work.
Yes. His work. His mission. He was an assassin. He delivered justice—against monsters like that. That was where his focus belonged. On what truly mattered. He sat up suddenly, throwing off the blanket as if he could cast off the lingering sickness with it. He would not let his mind drift there. He had to be strong. He had to stay sharp.
Without a backward glance at the bed he'd just left, he pulled on his tunic and stepped out of the room, leaving behind the dawn and its uncertain shadows.
oOo
The air in Windhelm was bitter cold, as it always was in the early morning—sharp as a blade against the skin. Snow crunched beneath their boots as Aventus and Babette made their way through the nearly deserted streets, skirting the final passes of the night patrols. They had to leave the city before the sun climbed too high. Babette had insisted they catch the first departing cart, but Aventus walked on in silence, his thoughts heavy.
His mind spun relentlessly, dragging him back again and again to that terrifying moment of waking—the warm hollow of his own bed, the trembling in his hands, that fleeting sweetness torn apart by violent, sudden memories. He clenched his fists, trying to anchor himself in the sting of the cold, in the pain of fingernails digging into his palms. He wanted to burn it out—everything he was feeling—burn it clean with a fire greater than his fear, nobler than his shame.
A shadow moved. They were not alone.
A thin figure trudged ahead, clutching a makeshift basket from which peeked a few sad flowers, shivering in the wind. She looked so small, so fragile beneath her threadbare rags. Aventus vaguely recognized her—another memory from a time he once thought golden. Her name was Sofie. She'd always been among the children dressed in thinner layers than him and his companions. And yet, he recalled her parents—proud Stormcloak supporters, ready to follow Jarl Ulfric to the ends of the world. But one day, during the height of the rebellion, they never returned.
Aventus slowed. It struck him as strange. He had never questioned it before. Why hadn't she been sent to Honorhall, like him? Not that he would've wished it upon her—no one deserved what Grelod had inflicted—but why had the Jarl left her to fend for herself, despite the sacrifice her parents had made?
He didn't have time to dwell on it. His eyes had caught a second figure: a man trailing behind her. He didn't walk like a passerby. The hour was too early, his pace too deliberate. His gaze slid over Sofie like a snake sizing up a mouse. There was something in his stance, in the silence around him, that set every alarm ringing in Aventus's head.
Babette hadn't yet noticed he'd stopped walking. When she turned, he was gone.
In the dim alley, Sofie had paused. The man had too. He was speaking—low, coaxing, too sweet to be safe.
"…out here all alone selling flowers, huh? Must be hard to make a living."
"I… I do my best," she replied, voice small, clutching the basket tighter. "Would you… would you like to buy one, sir?"
The man chuckled softly.
"Oh, sweetheart, I know a way you could make a lot more money if you took care of this instead of those flowers."
Aventus narrowed his eyes. He could only see the man's back—his stance too close, the tension in Sofie's shoulders, the way her breath hitched. She glanced down at whatever the man was pointing to—and turned white.
"No…" she whispered, stepping back. "I… no!"
The man stepped forward. One step. Then another.
Panic surged in Aventus. This was wrong. This was foul. This was evil. His mind snapped. A dull throb pounded in his skull, heat surging through him hotter than any fire. His breath stopped. His body moved before he could think.
The dagger flashed and struck.
A strangled gurgle. The man collapsed, heavy, sinking into the soiled snow.
Aventus was panting, fingers locked around the hilt of his blade. He could have stopped. He should have stopped. But he didn't. He struck again. And again. A low, feral growl escaped his throat—a sound barely human, a sound born of fury too long caged.
The body stilled.
Aventus didn't look away. Sofie was just a blur in his peripheral vision, collapsed to her knees, shaking. But the only thing that existed in that moment was the man at his feet. He still saw those filthy hands, reaching. He still heard the bandit's voice from his past, whispering things that had poisoned his mind.
And then, he saw it. The thing the man had exposed, hadn't had time to hide. A vile, shameful corruption abandoned to everyone' sight. Aventus flinched and turned away, sickened. Bile rose in his throat, and with it, a deep, confused rage. He dropped the dagger and fell to his knees. His fingers—stained with the man's blood and the dried ink from the day before—found the still-warm forehead of the dead.
He pressed down.
Until his knuckles turned white. Until the mark burned into bone.
It wasn't just a seal of justice. It was a curse. A brand carved into the flesh of the wicked—a punishment that would outlast snow, time, memory. Even if no living soul ever found the corpse, even if it was buried beneath winter's silence, the Night Mother would know. Sithis would know. This man would carry his shame into the Void itself. Aventus pressed harder, nails digging deep, ensuring the mark could never be erased.
He was an assassin, not a monster. This—this man—was the monster.
Aventus was Justice.
And the Fingers of Justice would be merciless.
Silence seeped back into the alley like morning mist, heavy and cold. At last, Aventus withdrew his hand and looked up.
Sofie hadn't moved. She stood only a few paces away, clutching her basket like a makeshift shield. Her wide eyes shimmered with a mix of terror and confusion. She took a step back, and the simple sound of her foot sliding through snow cut through Aventus like a blade.
She was afraid of him.
He wanted to speak. To explain. To find something, anything, to make her understand—but he had no time. A dry laugh broke the hush. Babette stood nearby, arms folded, her eyes gleaming with cutting amusement. She shook her head with a long sigh, her smile stretching into a wicked smirk.
"Well done, kid. That's how an execution should be—no monologues, no dramatic flair. Just a quick knife where it counts. Swift, clean, effective. At last, a bit of instinct!"
Aventus, still on his knees, barely heard her. His muscles were taut beneath the storm brewing inside him. He didn't regret what he had done. He couldn't. The man deserved to die. And yet...
Babette stepped closer, letting her gaze lazily trace the scene. She eyed the corpse, then looked back at Aventus with a squint.
"By Sithis' bones! You've bathed in the blood like a novice wielding a blade for the first time! Planning to kill people by splashing around like a butcher now? Should I knit you a bib while I'm at it?"
She sighed theatrically, rolling her eyes as if deeply disappointed. Then, deliberately, she produced a dark cloth from a hidden pocket and tossed it toward him with a snap.
"Wipe yourself off before someone thinks you're some lunatic slitting throats at random. And please, stop doing that silly little ritual. You really want to leave the Fingers of Justice at every crime scene? What's next, writing your manifestos on their backs?"
Aventus flushed with anger, but before he could snap back, a soft crunch of snow drew his attention—Sofie. She hadn't fled. She was still there, trembling, mute. Babette glanced toward her, one brow arched.
"Oh, lovely. A witness."
She studied the girl a moment, then sighed again.
"Well, let's keep her from running to the guards yelling about a blood-covered boy stabbing people in the alleys."
She crouched down to Sofie's level, and to Aventus's astonishment, her entire demeanor changed. All sharpness vanished from her face, replaced by something small, gentle—almost timid. Her gaze softened, her voice turned light, her smile shy, like a girl trying to comfort a frightened friend.
"Hey… Sofie, right?" she whispered, tilting her head sweetly.
Sofie flinched at her name, clutching her flower basket tighter. She gave the faintest of nods, her brown eyes glistening.
Babette didn't flinch. She edged forward, her small frame and calm posture no threat at all. She pressed her lips together like she was nervous too, then murmured:
"I was scared the first time, too. It's okay, you know."
Aventus shivered. Babette lied with terrifying ease, slipping into a mask of innocence she hadn't worn in centuries. Now, she was just a lost girl, understanding and kind—someone who knew what fear felt like.
"That man… he was bad, wasn't he?" she asked gently.
Sofie swallowed hard. Tears welled in her eyes. She nodded, tiny and trembling. Babette smiled, soft and patient. Slowly, she extended her hand—not too fast, not too sudden. Just a quiet, safe gesture.
"Aventus saved you, you know? He wouldn't let anyone hurt you. I wouldn't either. You're safe with us."
Aventus felt a knot twist in his gut. He knew exactly what Babette was doing. He saw Sofie ease her grip on the basket, her shoulders loosening slightly. The shock and fear weren't gone—but Babette's voice, her presence, wove a false sense of comfort. A false sanctuary. Then Babette added, like a conspiratorial whisper:
"But you mustn't tell the guards, okay? Because…" She dropped her voice even lower, casting a wary glance around them. "If people find out what we did, they'll ask lots of questions. They'll ask you questions. And we might not be able to help other children next time…"
Aventus flinched. This was far subtler than he expected. No threats, no chilling stare. Just warmth and shared secrecy. Sofie hesitated. She sniffled. Her gaze flicked to the corpse, then away. She nodded frantically.
Babette's smile turned genuine.
"You're a good girl, Sofie."
Then, without another word, she took the child's hand and rose to her feet, guiding her gently away.
"Come on, we can't stay here. Aventus, move."
Aventus blinked and rose, following them numbly. Sofie walked beside Babette, still trembling, but no longer fleeing. He knew Babette had ensured her silence, but the crawling unease inside him didn't fade. Babette hadn't needed to threaten or command. She had simply crept into the girl's heart, wrapped her in sweetness, and whispered safety.
Behind them, the city was waking, oblivious to the death in its streets—and to the boy trying to understand what he was becoming.
oOo
The Windhelm docks stretched out before them, dark and silent beneath the icy dawn. The air reeked of salt and frost—a sharp blend that stung Aventus's nostrils with every breath. He walked with heavy steps, shoulders stiff, the man's blood still tacky beneath his fingernails despite the cloth Babette had tossed at him. The rush of the kill had faded, leaving behind a dull exhaustion, a bitter cold that crept under his skin.
They had left the city through the back alleys of the Gray Quarter, skimming the shaded walls where the crunch of their steps melted into the fresh snow. Sofie trotted behind them, quiet as a shadow, arms wrapped tightly around her basket of wilted flowers. Babette walked with careless ease, as if their flight was nothing more than a casual morning stroll.
Aventus tried not to think. He didn't want to replay what he'd done. He didn't want to dwell on Sofie's terrified gaze, or the mocking gleam in Babette's eyes. He just wanted the blood off his tunic before daylight betrayed him.
They emerged onto the frozen riverbank where the Argonian dockhands had not yet braved the biting cold. Only a few hunched silhouettes huddled around a weak fire—beggars cloaked in rags, their faces hidden beneath frost-stiffened scarves. Chunks of ice drifted down the river, slow and immense, heading toward the sea. The water was pitch-black, fathomless, ready to swallow anything that dared approach.
Aventus didn't hesitate. He yanked off his tunic and knelt by the water's edge. His fingers were already numb as he plunged the fabric into the frigid current.
The cold hit him like a blow.
A sharp breath escaped his lips, hissing between clenched teeth. His hands clenched on instinct, but he forced them open, scrubbing the cloth against the riverbank stones. The blood began to fade—slowly—crimson trails dissolving into the stream. He had to get it all out. Every last trace. The cold crept up his arms, into his chest, wrapping around his ribs, seizing his heart. But he didn't stop. He couldn't.
Babette's voice cracked like a whip behind him.
"Aventus! By Sithis, are you trying to freeze yourself to death?"
He didn't answer. He scrubbed harder, as if effort alone could erase his guilt. His body trembled, his nails scraped at fabric gone stiff with frost. And still he persisted. A sudden weight fell on his shoulder. Babette grabbed him and yanked him back with a sharp tug.
"That's enough. You're about to turn into an ice sculpture."
He tried to argue, but his lips were numb, his voice swallowed by the cold. Babette rolled her eyes, exasperated, snatched the tunic from his hands, and tossed him a rough cloth.
"Dry off, idiot. You're turning blue."
Aventus looked down at his hands. The skin was pale—nearly translucent under the morning light. He clenched his fists, trying to summon some warmth, but there was nothing left.
Behind them, an old Argonian swaddled in a patched linen cloak puffed feebly at a dying fire. Babette approached without hesitation, stretched out a hand, and let a brief jet of flame flicker from her fingers. The embers flared to life, casting the Argonian's startled but silent face in golden light. He gave her a cautious look but said nothing, scooting aside to make room for the newcomers.
"Come here. Warm up. Put this on."
Babette draped the tunic over a nearby crate to dry, then tossed her own cloak at Aventus. He caught it clumsily, his hands nearly insensible, and pulled it awkwardly around his bare shoulders. The fabric smelled strange—earthy, smoky, and tinged with the indistinct scent of alchemical tinctures from the Sanctuary.
Seated by the fire, he extended his trembling hands to the flames. After a few seconds, sensation returned—violently. A piercing, bone-deep ache seized his fingers, wringing a groan from his throat.
Babette knelt beside him and pulled a small jar of salve from her pocket. She scooped a thick glob of the pungent cream and smeared it unceremoniously across his skin, heedless of his pain. The scent was sharp—resin, bitter herbs.
"Hold still. Unless you want to lose a finger or two."
Aventus winced but stayed still, breathing through the pain, blinking back a tear as she worked with clinical efficiency.
"Honestly. Dunking your arms in river ice in the dead of winter. Were you hoping for a lesson in amputation?"
He dropped his gaze, ashamed.
"I just… I wanted it gone. All of it…" he murmured.
Babette let out a long, exasperated sigh.
"Washing off blood, sure. But you can't rinse away everything else, kid."
He bit his lip and didn't reply. Silence settled over them, broken only by the crackle of fire and the distant moan of wind off the water. Sofie, still curled up nearby, watched the scene in silence. Her basket rested on her knees, fingers gently stroking the bruised petals of her flowers.
Babette's gaze drifted toward the basket. She frowned, noting the unusual mix of blooms.
"Where'd you find that one?" she asked suddenly, pointing to a dark-stemmed flower with violet petals. "That's belladonna. Doesn't grow just anywhere—especially not in this cold."
Sofie flushed slightly. Her hands tightened on the basket, as if guarding it.
"Near here… under the bridge," she whispered. "There's a crack in the stone, just wide enough for dirt to gather. Wind barely reaches it. I noticed the flower liked the shade… so I bring melted snow every morning to help it grow."
Babette raised an intrigued eyebrow, running her fingers over a bright red flower with flaming edges.
"Dragon's Tongue? In Windhelm?"
"Oh… that one's from near the forge," Sofie murmured, glancing nervously at her feet. "Hot ashes fall there sometimes. It can grow, even in the cold. But I have to move it, or the blacksmith steps on it…"
Babette, her eyes now alight with genuine interest, dug further into the basket and uncovered a strange dark flower with petals so deep a blue they were nearly black.
"A Deathbell…?" she breathed. "This doesn't grow just anywhere either. Where'd you get it?"
"It's… sort of a secret," Sofie said, a little louder now—embarrassed, but with a flicker of pride. "There's a crack in the palace wall. No one pays attention to it, but it's warm on the other side. I think it's a chimney. The flower grows right there, hidden from the frost."
Babette smiled, impressed despite herself.
"These aren't just flowers, you know. They're alchemical ingredients. Pretty rare in these parts."
Sofie blinked, unsure.
"If you take care of them—and sell them to an alchemist—you'd earn a lot more than just a few septims."
The girl opened her mouth, then closed it again, glancing down at her flowers. The idea was clearly new to her. Aventus, still silent, watched her from the corner of his eye. She had become a ghost in the snow—quiet, overlooked. A forgotten child. Much like him.
Babette stood and held out her hand.
"Come on. We've lingered here long enough."
He obeyed, shrugging on his half-dry tunic and wrapping the cloak tighter around himself to block the biting wind. Babette cast one last glance at Sofie, then turned and walked away, her steps light and confident. Aventus followed, but paused for just a moment. He turned back toward Sofie, raising a hand in a small wave.
She didn't answer.
He didn't wait.
He turned and followed Babette, leaving behind the snow-covered city, the fading embers of a beggar's fire, and a little girl with hands full of flowers.