Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
Chapter 13
"I knew we would eventually have this discussion. I just never thought it would be at this point in time."
Castle Dour was newly livened with faces not unknown to it but rarely seen. The morning breeze brought drifting scents of freshly baked bread and smoking meats each time the great door was opened. Hunger gnawed at each of the four in the map room, though Maro and his lieutenant were the two least concerned with hiding their anxiety for breakfast. It was a beautiful sunny morning in Solitude, the winds blowing cool and gentle. Maro and his subordinate had made the short trip from Dragon Bridge just before first light. Their horses were particularly eager to reach their destination as sounds of lingering night creatures groaned and grunted.
Maro was unsure what the present discussion would entail, given the general's brevity in the summons and his characteristic caution with details. He knew it was something quite grave, something requiring a convention of both the Legion's highest ranks in Skyrim and the Penitus Oculatus. It would be news that promised to strike him cold, of that he had little doubt. It was the anticipation, the waiting that he found difficult to bear - that, and an empty stomach.
"Alright, General, you got us. What's going on and what does the Oculatus have to do with it? You know we don't make a habit of crossing paths so plainly."
Impatience and want of food made him greatly restless, triggering him to pace. Tullius of course noticed and found himself little impressed, his voice indicating as much.
"I think you'll find that it's very much worth your while, Commander. That is, if you're still pursuing the Dark Brotherhood."
Maro crossed his arms. "Hmpf. Well, the General need not trouble himself with such matters, we have it all entirely under control. You've got your hands full with this war, leave such peripherals to us."
"I would hardly call it peripheral, Commander. And if I were you, I would mind my tone. We are all bound by the same code, do not pretend that the Oculatus is at liberty to run wild in this province without my knowledge."
Maro abruptly ceased his pacing. "I'm afraid I don't catch your true meaning, General."
"Well, then, allow me to make myself perfectly clear: I have been left in the dark to an unacceptable extent regarding your men's operations here. Recent actions undertaken by the Oculatus have put my Legionnaires in the way of further and far graver harm than you likely realize."
"'Further and graver harm'?" Maro scoffed, "Come now, no need for dramatics, the rebels are your standard fare. But surely you didn't think all of this would be a walk in the park-"
"I am not talking about the rebels, Commander. And I care not at all for your flippancy!"
Tullius' own brown eyes fixed upon those of Maro, alight with expiring patience. He did not like losing even the most miniscule level of control of his normally even temper. But the severity of the situation granted him leeway, just this once. All present needed to be reminded of the significance of the present circumstances. Maro, initially taken aback by the conversation's escalation, found his own frustration.
"With all due respect, General, I am not understanding the real reason why we've been summoned here. It seems as though you wish for me to outline every single operation and plan of attack we have executed, plan to execute or are currently executing. And you know as well as I that the fewer the people who know what we do here, the better. Both Ulfric and the Thalmor have spies cleverly hidden away in every corner of this province. We cannot afford to be too liberal with our information. I doubt that you would find it necessary to inform us of your every strategy for regaining the Holds?"
"Of course not, nor do I expect or demand a thorough report from you on your men's activities here. I am not a fool, nor am I that naive. I thought you would know better than to suspect that. However, I do not find it at all to be an excessive demand to be informed of matters such as your neutralization of the Dark Brotherhood."
Maro blinked and released howling, nervous laughter. Did he really just hear what he thought he had heard?
"Now that's...ahahahaha, that's an excellent joke, sir! To be honest, I didn't think you ever partook of such levity!"
But he hushed himself as he saw the immovable Tullius still staring back at him, as well as Legate Rikke. Their expressions had not changed. There was no sign of smiles or laughter - not even the smallest curl of the lip.
"You're...you're actually serious?!"
"Either your men have undertaken operations without your knowledge or we have someone else out there who has had a clear interest in seeing them destroyed - because they have in fact been neutralized."
Maro just stared, mouth gaping. Though she stood by, Legate Rikke remained quiet and observant. She had already been informed of the news about the assassins' destruction. In fact, she was the one first contacted about the event. It still sincerely surprised her. She honestly never thought she would see the day it would happen - not with such finality. And she listened as Maro eventually overcame his awestruck state and stammered in reply.
"Buh...what!? That's impossible! We...we would have heard, would have gotten word from someone-"
"Our sources are reliable. We have no reason to believe otherwise. News of their demise has reached most taverns in the province already. What strikes me is how shocked you appear to be. I trust it's genuine."
"I assure you, General, it is quite genuine. I can't believe it's happened. It's finished. Remarkable-"
"You must immediately look to your men and your sources, Commander. If this has happened under your nose without you knowing until a summons to Solitude, you have many other causes for concern at this late hour."
"Understood, General. You have my word, there will be a full investigation."
"Indeed." Tullius paused as Maro nodded. He awaited something more, something he knew Maro bore with him. The test was seeing whether or not he would offer it up without encouragement. He had his doubts as the other Imperial only cleared his throat amid the tense silence. Thus the general continued.
"Well, now, I suppose you can return to Cyrodiil at your earliest convenience, as your task is done. I'll personally see to it that preparations are made and your return is secured."
"Pardon? Ah, ah yes. I...I should look to that..." His usually strident voice trailed off to little more than a whisper. His eyes lowered to the floor.
Tullius in turn crossed his arms, the faintest of what may be called a grin sneaking across his face. Maro realized the trap and sighed as Tullius chose not to relent.
"Commander, you know that I know what the other half of your objective has been here since the start. I do not honestly think you should be so surprised, and in any case you were to report to me if you completed any portion of your goal in Skyrim."
"General, you know it's classified, even among ranks as elevated as your own. It is not my doing-"
"Roscius Avienus, Commander."
Maro slammed both hands down upon the map table, disturbing the parchment. "I...I cannot comment on the status of that traitor and exile!"
Rikke's very curious glance darted between the two men and she could not suppress a "Sir?" as she watched her superior suddenly uncross his arms in new determination. Maro just rubbed his forehead in dismay, half-covering his eyes. His lieutenant remained taciturn, not even entirely sure of what he should say.
Tullius also said not a word, but turned to take something from a chest in a far corner of the room. Rikke, Maro and the lieutenant looked on while the general opened the chest and gingerly removed a large heap of red cloth from it. Brows furrowed and eyes squinted to observe. But as the cloth was quickly unfurled and the length of it stretched toward the stone floor, there was an audible and collective gasp in the room. Its design was identical to that found and recovered by the Imperial scouts near Bthalft, featuring the same black dragon with the red and bleeding or weeping eye upon crimson cloth. And it bore the same mysterious initials.
"This was retrieved by Legionnaires stationed outside of Ivarstead quite recently. What do you see?"
Maro's face was washed over with a sickly gray, his dark eyes uncharacteristically wide and his mouth hanging open. His young lieutenant looked on with much more confusion than shock. Rikke's eyes poured over the distorted emblem, searching it.
No one spoke for several seconds after Tullius asked his question, having little ability to articulate their thoughts and subsequent questions. But Legate Rikke was the first to try.
"Sir...the Legion's symbol...what does 'M.I.' stand for?
But it instead was Maro who quickly and meekly answered. "Manes Imperii. It's the banner of the Manes Imperii."
"The...Manes Imperii?" Rikke repeated, unsure.
"Divines pity us." The Penitus Oculatus commander shook his head in sad disbelief. He crossed his arms behind him and walked quietly to the opposite side of the room to face the wall. Rikke watched him move aside so very sorrowfully, in such visible shock. She didn't want to ask what knowledge prompted such a reaction.
"One of the Legion's best-kept secrets. And one of its worst nightmares." Tullius returned to the chest to pluck another object from it. This time it was a book, bound in black leather and with some pages loose. He very carefully handed the tome to the Nord soldier, sighing heavily just before doing so. "Legate, I do believe it's time that you read this."
She opened the book with guarded hands, unsettled by the general's ominous tone and by Maro's retreat to the distant half of the chamber. Even Tullius moved backward in spite of himself as she turned the first page.
"It's...a history book, sir? The Great War?"
Tullius only nodded and gestured for the legate to continue reading on. As her eyes scanned the page, her brows knit more and more tightly. A couple more minutes and two more pages found her staring back at the general in obvious astonishment. No words were uttered by any present. And the painted, ruby eye of the dragon on the spattered banner stared out from the black.
Looking warily from his far corner of the room, Maro swore to himself that for a half-second, the eye seemed to glow.
Ever since the gruesome discovery near Bthalft and then the letter from Tullius that arrived so swiftly after, Carius had been wide awake. Even now two days later, frequent yawns attested to his underlying fatigue. But he merely shook them off and returned his focus to the matters at hand. Or rather, he tried to do so. He was still very much caught in an odd trance, his eyes exceedingly distant in their stare and his body slumped back in his seat in front of the fire pit. Some of the soldiers had asked why he looked so pensive, so concerned, so shocked, and if he was in need of food and water. He was all of those things and he gladly took the water with quaking hands.
Two days having passed, he was interested in speaking with some of his men about the new developments. He provided hardly any details of course, but rather roundabout questions about rumors and any particularly intriguing gossip regarding the man named Roscius. The mischievous blond recruit, always eager to impress his commander, wasted no time in volunteering the little he had heard. Given that he was a Nord, a young farm boy born and raised near Rorikstead, he had no real context for the utterances he had caught. What he had heard came amid semi-coded discussions between Cyrodiil-born infantrymen, those who had grown up listening to and sharing the tales around fires on especially dark nights. Carius took a drink of water while the recruit spoke.
"I've heard that name before, sir. It...well, I uh...I heard some others talking about him."
With that admission, Carius raised an eyebrow. His sarcastic grin unnerved the youthful Nord, who recalled the day he had been called out by his commanding officer for stealing glances at his letter from a friend.
"Prepping for a career in espionage again are we, Legionnaire Liulfr?" Carius chuckled.
"Oh, no, sir. It wasn't like that. We were all sitting around the fire and they just started talking about it. No sneaking necessary, honest!"
"Mmhm. Well, that's good to hear." He smiled, urging the Nord to continue.
"Well...the men who talked about him were saying something about the Great War and 'the evils of the elves' and how this Roscius guy went mad because of them. And then, they said something about how 'the stories are all true' and we all better 'watch our backs'. I don't know at all who or what they were talking about, but...hopefully that helps?"
"It does...it does, soldier. In this case, I must thank you for your ever-acute ears." Carius winked to the great relief of Liulfr, who promptly saluted.
"My pleasure, sir!"
The Nord watched the Imperial rise from his seat and walk slowly over to the camp's edge. The Praefect stood alone in distant and shifting thoughts, arms crossed. The valley surrounding their position was quite lovely, especially in the morning hours. And he often found himself able to stare off ahead at the horizon, lost in all manner of musings. This morning was one for such quiet contemplation. He sighed.
The name "Roscius Avienus" still bore such resonance, such unfailing strength and gravity to match. The stories he had heard since childhood, not least of all from a devious Heron, were strange in their apparent reality. This Roscius was enough of a threat to compel a dire letter from Tullius. Not to mention one sent in conjunction with news and instructions about Penelope and her "personal mission". He still had no real idea of what that phrase could be referring to, but was resolved to carry out his orders as faithfully as possible. And that included making sure the young woman remained in the safest hands whenever she arrived.
Carius had been friends of Penelope's family for decades - since they were all very young children and constant playmates. His father, Lucius Serenus, had been a Legionnaire for about as long as Penelope's father Adrianus - the parents' friendship was equal in its longevity. And as such, he knew that her father was a member of the Penitus Oculatus. He wondered if the orders from Tullius pointed to something relating to that fact, hoping that whatever it was it was not horrific news. Adrianus had been something not unlike a godfather to him and news of his injury or gods forbid, his death, would be unspeakably difficult for him.
He had to wonder additionally why Heron had not said a word to him about Penelope's reason for being in the province. And then, he thought some more about the grisly discovery of the massacre's aftermath near the old ruins to the east and questioned whether this "Roscius" might have had something to do with that. It all was so coincidental, far too much so for it to be dismissed. His gut told him it was all connected in ways stranger than he could currently conceive of, and he grew more unsettled with each idea.
And so he shifted his thoughts again, noticing the rustic structures dotting the countryside some distance from the camp. He smiled as small children scampered about the greenery, pestering the cows and horses while adults chopped wood and sharpened weapons. Indeed, growing up in Cyrodiil was a world apart from what he suspected life was like in Skyrim. As he had looked around his contingent in the Rift, he noticed the numbers of humble farmers, fletchers, butchers and even some restless veterans. The Nords were a proud, robust people and he respected their courage and persistence. Civil war was always tragic and he regarded his Nord comrades-in-arms every bit as much his countrymen, his neighbors, as he did the other Cyrodiil-born Imperials.
The perhaps even sadder and still more ironic thing of course was the state of Talos: even in his own homeland, there were many who worshipped Tiber Septim, not least of all for being the founder of the Empire itself. Even the statue in the Arboretum remained, though the official line was one of secular reverence for his historical role and persona. All offerings to his divinity were promptly removed from the site as per the Concordat. But many continued to defy those terms. It seemed that it was not worth it to the Thalmor to police the locations on a daily basis. But when enough incense and flowers and gold trinkets and notes scribbled with prayers began to pile up at his feet, the shrine was hastily cleared.
Carius had always counted himself a devotee of Julianos and an amulet given to him by one of the priests in the chapel in Skingrad remained around his neck since he received it all of those very many years prior. It gave him some measure of comfort in such times. And it was a lasting reminder of home. Home. Normalcy. Warmth. All of the things he had had to leave behind in the name of the oath he swore to the Legion and the Emperor. He had sympathy for the Nords who fought most vigorously against what they and others regarded as the injustice of the treaty. But he like many others maintained that it was a necessary and impermanent concession. And he would fight for the future he believed Mede was trying to preserve with the Concordat's signature. Still, he clutched his amulet and thought to himself what he would do and feel if the Thalmor ever decided that his patron deity or any other of the rest of the pantheon needed to be dispatched as well. It would never happen. Not after Hammerfell and now Skyrim. Not again. Never.
Times were different now. It felt in every way like the calm before a great storm and he presently found himself facing the cutting winds and murmuring thunder. The cacophonous cracks, brilliant flashes of lightning and walls of pelting rain were on their way. And he wondered if this Roscius was a harbinger of sorts. Given his history in the Great War and his sinister reputation all of these years later, Carius could not help but perceive an odd parallel between the two things. The past had a rather nasty way of catching up and whatever happened with this mad soldier back in those years of appalling bloodshed and atrocities, it almost seemed poetic that he would resurface now. If the stories were true, they were amazing tales to be told. He would resurface in the time of another Great War veteran who sought to confound the Empire. One who had also been subjected to the oft-named 'evils of the elves'.
This Roscius was one who may well have some tie to the family of his two oldest friends, one of whom being the young woman he was charged with protecting at any cost from unknown threat. The young woman who was never far from his thoughts, even though he was not keen to admit as much. And his happy-go-lucky partner in crime for all of his life was also to receive special protection as a result of this very real, albeit faceless menace. The Breton's brilliant smile never wavered; the Imperial could sense it in every single one of his letters. Heron continued to share his mirth even amid these darkest of times, never selfish with private gloom. And Carius loved his dear friend for that for as long as they had known one another.
As images of a long-lost life in Cyrodiil blended with those of the strange, blood-spattered banner and the dead little girl's face, Carius shook his head sadly. And then looked up to the sky.
"Tell me," He asked softly, his ordinarily clear voice now nearly breaking, "...is this...punishment?"
The lapping waters reminded him of home. Rather, what he would call home, if he still felt obliged to call it that. Echoes of Cyrodiil emerged from the cool and briny breeze, the thumps of boats at distant docks and squawking seabirds overhead. He breathed it all in deeply, in spite of himself. But the pleasant chills were short-lived. Roscius had wandered along the murky coast near Solitude, humming softly and grinning at well-guarded secrets. The once clear blue sky had amassed clouds throughout the day and now, on the edge of evening, the heavens were hazy. Eyes, ever ghost-like in their gray depths, shone with the bits of light dancing on the waves. In the dimness the sea was wine dark, and the silhouette of Elisif's fair city upon the hill was a steadfast shadow in the fog. Those eyes narrowed and his teeth clenched as he glared at it, letting slip a small hiss.
He turned back toward the water, perched out on a cluster of rocks in front of the Solitude lighthouse. He stared off into the choppy waves, his grip tightening around an object in one hand. It caught the light, a chain falling loose from his fist. He held it up close to his face for a moment, to examine it with a scowl. Before long that scowl slackened into a frown. It was the pendant of the Legion, the same he had worn under his garments. The same silver dragon that he grabbed hold of that night in Falkreath, the night of that strange dog. And that disembodied voice. He grunted in sudden anger and raised his fist high in preparation to cast it into the waves, into final obscurity. Teeth clenched again and he pulled his fist back more, winding up for the toss. But his hand caught itself in mid-throw. As soon as it began to thrust forward, it stopped.
And he stood there, entire hand holding fast to the pendant, refusing to let it go despite all of the desperate urgings from his mind. Heart or soul or both would not allow it to fly free from his grip. Stinging tears formed in those ghost eyes and he trembled. And after a few moments holding it in the air, threatening the sea with it, he finally brought his fist down. He had clutched the pendant so tightly that the edges drew blood from his palm. And the crimson coated the metal here and there. He snickered to himself at the fittingness of it.
After glowering at the silver dragon, he sighed and returned it to its place around his neck and under his clothing. It would return to another kind of obscurity, this time. And he stared out at the sea, watching the dark waves shuffle under a shaded and faltering sun.
"One day I'll be rid of the cursed thing. When it's all done, I'll at last know freedom...no! Before it's done! Why delay deliverance?" He angrily muttered to himself.
He stepped closer to the water, treading carefully upon the jagged coastal rocks. His long cloak flapped behind him in the wind, and his hood followed. Dark hair streaked with grays whipped about, and his skin was very soon kissed by the moisture of the sea breeze. His glance became fixed upon his reflection in the waves, which seemed to calm as he approached. And he stared back at his gloomy image. As he looked, he saw his present reflection suddenly shimmer and shift. He watched with amazement and confusion as it was replaced with that of a much younger dark-haired man, the same striking eyes of slate and tanned complexion. The new and very familiar face gazed back, countenance devoid of life.
Before he completed a bewildered blink, the image melted away and changed again, this time reflecting an altogether different visage: that of a smirking, golden-haired High Elf woman. This face summoned fresh rage from the Imperial and he shook where he stood, summarily drawing his blade to use it on the image. But before he could make his way even closer for such a purpose, the reflection changed again. The kindly, careworn face of an older man replaced that of the Altmer woman. The particular collar of very fine robes pointed to a royal identity - and it was clearly a face that Roscius had never forgotten. The warm, gentle smile of the regal man was enough to again stop him in his tracks, his blade raised high but unable to be brought down. More tears stung his eyes, but still no weeping - though his lips did quiver ever so slightly at the sight of the elder man.
The power of the reflection in the water soon was enough to compel the Imperial to drop his sword at his side. It clinked and clattered onto the rocks, falling into a crevice. But Roscius was unconcerned. He knelt down, his already bloody palm smearing the sharp boulders as he positioned himself nearer to the water and the smiling face. But just as soon as he had, the image shimmered and dissipated. And he once again was met with his own haggard features.
Frustration grew and he growled, scrambling back to his feet and fumbling to retrieve his sword from between two rocks. He sheathed it and stood upon the boulders, snarling at the ever changeable waters and then at the struggling sun. He drew a deep breath, once more briefly reveling in the comforting scent. Shaking his head in muted protest or mockery, he shifted his gaze again to the smoky silhouette of Solitude. And chuckled. He imagined the spoiled, gilded residents in panic, screaming and running in desperation for their very lives - in undiluted terror. And the images pleased him: the bitter smoke, the brilliant fire and all under a stormy sky that would not aid them with rain but merely blasting thunder and deadly lightning. He could hope for the last; but the first was certain. Sure to come. The only question was that of timing.
Scraping of feet and jangling of metal off to the side triggered him to spin around and draw his blade. But his demeanor eased as he noticed certain details of the figure that had joined him by the water. Another man, about the same height and build and also wrapped in a long cloaked coat stood by grinning. An ebony sash around his waist snapped in the quickening breeze and Roscius could see the familiar initials painted upon it in brightest red: "M.I."
Roscius stepped forward to pose a question he had long been anxious to ask but nearly lacked the courage to - as he half-feared the answer.
"We...are returned, my brother?"
As the other man slowly nodded, his own very dark brown hair blowing across his face, Roscius beamed and turned to look up at Solitude a final time.
The two stood silently upon the rocks, waves lapping and spraying behind them. And then, the low murmur of rolling thunder.
"I knew we would eventually have this discussion. I just never thought it would be at this point in time."
Castle Dour was newly livened with faces not unknown to it but rarely seen. The morning breeze brought drifting scents of freshly baked bread and smoking meats each time the great door was opened. Hunger gnawed at each of the four in the map room, though Maro and his lieutenant were the two least concerned with hiding their anxiety for breakfast. It was a beautiful sunny morning in Solitude, the winds blowing cool and gentle. Maro and his subordinate had made the short trip from Dragon Bridge just before first light. Their horses were particularly eager to reach their destination as sounds of lingering night creatures groaned and grunted.
Maro was unsure what the present discussion would entail, given the general's brevity in the summons and his characteristic caution with details. He knew it was something quite grave, something requiring a convention of both the Legion's highest ranks in Skyrim and the Penitus Oculatus. It would be news that promised to strike him cold, of that he had little doubt. It was the anticipation, the waiting that he found difficult to bear - that, and an empty stomach.
"Alright, General, you got us. What's going on and what does the Oculatus have to do with it? You know we don't make a habit of crossing paths so plainly."
Impatience and want of food made him greatly restless, triggering him to pace. Tullius of course noticed and found himself little impressed, his voice indicating as much.
"I think you'll find that it's very much worth your while, Commander. That is, if you're still pursuing the Dark Brotherhood."
Maro crossed his arms. "Hmpf. Well, the General need not trouble himself with such matters, we have it all entirely under control. You've got your hands full with this war, leave such peripherals to us."
"I would hardly call it peripheral, Commander. And if I were you, I would mind my tone. We are all bound by the same code, do not pretend that the Oculatus is at liberty to run wild in this province without my knowledge."
Maro abruptly ceased his pacing. "I'm afraid I don't catch your true meaning, General."
"Well, then, allow me to make myself perfectly clear: I have been left in the dark to an unacceptable extent regarding your men's operations here. Recent actions undertaken by the Oculatus have put my Legionnaires in the way of further and far graver harm than you likely realize."
"'Further and graver harm'?" Maro scoffed, "Come now, no need for dramatics, the rebels are your standard fare. But surely you didn't think all of this would be a walk in the park-"
"I am not talking about the rebels, Commander. And I care not at all for your flippancy!"
Tullius' own brown eyes fixed upon those of Maro, alight with expiring patience. He did not like losing even the most miniscule level of control of his normally even temper. But the severity of the situation granted him leeway, just this once. All present needed to be reminded of the significance of the present circumstances. Maro, initially taken aback by the conversation's escalation, found his own frustration.
"With all due respect, General, I am not understanding the real reason why we've been summoned here. It seems as though you wish for me to outline every single operation and plan of attack we have executed, plan to execute or are currently executing. And you know as well as I that the fewer the people who know what we do here, the better. Both Ulfric and the Thalmor have spies cleverly hidden away in every corner of this province. We cannot afford to be too liberal with our information. I doubt that you would find it necessary to inform us of your every strategy for regaining the Holds?"
"Of course not, nor do I expect or demand a thorough report from you on your men's activities here. I am not a fool, nor am I that naive. I thought you would know better than to suspect that. However, I do not find it at all to be an excessive demand to be informed of matters such as your neutralization of the Dark Brotherhood."
Maro blinked and released howling, nervous laughter. Did he really just hear what he thought he had heard?
"Now that's...ahahahaha, that's an excellent joke, sir! To be honest, I didn't think you ever partook of such levity!"
But he hushed himself as he saw the immovable Tullius still staring back at him, as well as Legate Rikke. Their expressions had not changed. There was no sign of smiles or laughter - not even the smallest curl of the lip.
"You're...you're actually serious?!"
"Either your men have undertaken operations without your knowledge or we have someone else out there who has had a clear interest in seeing them destroyed - because they have in fact been neutralized."
Maro just stared, mouth gaping. Though she stood by, Legate Rikke remained quiet and observant. She had already been informed of the news about the assassins' destruction. In fact, she was the one first contacted about the event. It still sincerely surprised her. She honestly never thought she would see the day it would happen - not with such finality. And she listened as Maro eventually overcame his awestruck state and stammered in reply.
"Buh...what!? That's impossible! We...we would have heard, would have gotten word from someone-"
"Our sources are reliable. We have no reason to believe otherwise. News of their demise has reached most taverns in the province already. What strikes me is how shocked you appear to be. I trust it's genuine."
"I assure you, General, it is quite genuine. I can't believe it's happened. It's finished. Remarkable-"
"You must immediately look to your men and your sources, Commander. If this has happened under your nose without you knowing until a summons to Solitude, you have many other causes for concern at this late hour."
"Understood, General. You have my word, there will be a full investigation."
"Indeed." Tullius paused as Maro nodded. He awaited something more, something he knew Maro bore with him. The test was seeing whether or not he would offer it up without encouragement. He had his doubts as the other Imperial only cleared his throat amid the tense silence. Thus the general continued.
"Well, now, I suppose you can return to Cyrodiil at your earliest convenience, as your task is done. I'll personally see to it that preparations are made and your return is secured."
"Pardon? Ah, ah yes. I...I should look to that..." His usually strident voice trailed off to little more than a whisper. His eyes lowered to the floor.
Tullius in turn crossed his arms, the faintest of what may be called a grin sneaking across his face. Maro realized the trap and sighed as Tullius chose not to relent.
"Commander, you know that I know what the other half of your objective has been here since the start. I do not honestly think you should be so surprised, and in any case you were to report to me if you completed any portion of your goal in Skyrim."
"General, you know it's classified, even among ranks as elevated as your own. It is not my doing-"
"Roscius Avienus, Commander."
Maro slammed both hands down upon the map table, disturbing the parchment. "I...I cannot comment on the status of that traitor and exile!"
Rikke's very curious glance darted between the two men and she could not suppress a "Sir?" as she watched her superior suddenly uncross his arms in new determination. Maro just rubbed his forehead in dismay, half-covering his eyes. His lieutenant remained taciturn, not even entirely sure of what he should say.
Tullius also said not a word, but turned to take something from a chest in a far corner of the room. Rikke, Maro and the lieutenant looked on while the general opened the chest and gingerly removed a large heap of red cloth from it. Brows furrowed and eyes squinted to observe. But as the cloth was quickly unfurled and the length of it stretched toward the stone floor, there was an audible and collective gasp in the room. Its design was identical to that found and recovered by the Imperial scouts near Bthalft, featuring the same black dragon with the red and bleeding or weeping eye upon crimson cloth. And it bore the same mysterious initials.
"This was retrieved by Legionnaires stationed outside of Ivarstead quite recently. What do you see?"
Maro's face was washed over with a sickly gray, his dark eyes uncharacteristically wide and his mouth hanging open. His young lieutenant looked on with much more confusion than shock. Rikke's eyes poured over the distorted emblem, searching it.
No one spoke for several seconds after Tullius asked his question, having little ability to articulate their thoughts and subsequent questions. But Legate Rikke was the first to try.
"Sir...the Legion's symbol...what does 'M.I.' stand for?
But it instead was Maro who quickly and meekly answered. "Manes Imperii. It's the banner of the Manes Imperii."
"The...Manes Imperii?" Rikke repeated, unsure.
"Divines pity us." The Penitus Oculatus commander shook his head in sad disbelief. He crossed his arms behind him and walked quietly to the opposite side of the room to face the wall. Rikke watched him move aside so very sorrowfully, in such visible shock. She didn't want to ask what knowledge prompted such a reaction.
"One of the Legion's best-kept secrets. And one of its worst nightmares." Tullius returned to the chest to pluck another object from it. This time it was a book, bound in black leather and with some pages loose. He very carefully handed the tome to the Nord soldier, sighing heavily just before doing so. "Legate, I do believe it's time that you read this."
She opened the book with guarded hands, unsettled by the general's ominous tone and by Maro's retreat to the distant half of the chamber. Even Tullius moved backward in spite of himself as she turned the first page.
"It's...a history book, sir? The Great War?"
Tullius only nodded and gestured for the legate to continue reading on. As her eyes scanned the page, her brows knit more and more tightly. A couple more minutes and two more pages found her staring back at the general in obvious astonishment. No words were uttered by any present. And the painted, ruby eye of the dragon on the spattered banner stared out from the black.
Looking warily from his far corner of the room, Maro swore to himself that for a half-second, the eye seemed to glow.
…………..
Ever since the gruesome discovery near Bthalft and then the letter from Tullius that arrived so swiftly after, Carius had been wide awake. Even now two days later, frequent yawns attested to his underlying fatigue. But he merely shook them off and returned his focus to the matters at hand. Or rather, he tried to do so. He was still very much caught in an odd trance, his eyes exceedingly distant in their stare and his body slumped back in his seat in front of the fire pit. Some of the soldiers had asked why he looked so pensive, so concerned, so shocked, and if he was in need of food and water. He was all of those things and he gladly took the water with quaking hands.
Two days having passed, he was interested in speaking with some of his men about the new developments. He provided hardly any details of course, but rather roundabout questions about rumors and any particularly intriguing gossip regarding the man named Roscius. The mischievous blond recruit, always eager to impress his commander, wasted no time in volunteering the little he had heard. Given that he was a Nord, a young farm boy born and raised near Rorikstead, he had no real context for the utterances he had caught. What he had heard came amid semi-coded discussions between Cyrodiil-born infantrymen, those who had grown up listening to and sharing the tales around fires on especially dark nights. Carius took a drink of water while the recruit spoke.
"I've heard that name before, sir. It...well, I uh...I heard some others talking about him."
With that admission, Carius raised an eyebrow. His sarcastic grin unnerved the youthful Nord, who recalled the day he had been called out by his commanding officer for stealing glances at his letter from a friend.
"Prepping for a career in espionage again are we, Legionnaire Liulfr?" Carius chuckled.
"Oh, no, sir. It wasn't like that. We were all sitting around the fire and they just started talking about it. No sneaking necessary, honest!"
"Mmhm. Well, that's good to hear." He smiled, urging the Nord to continue.
"Well...the men who talked about him were saying something about the Great War and 'the evils of the elves' and how this Roscius guy went mad because of them. And then, they said something about how 'the stories are all true' and we all better 'watch our backs'. I don't know at all who or what they were talking about, but...hopefully that helps?"
"It does...it does, soldier. In this case, I must thank you for your ever-acute ears." Carius winked to the great relief of Liulfr, who promptly saluted.
"My pleasure, sir!"
The Nord watched the Imperial rise from his seat and walk slowly over to the camp's edge. The Praefect stood alone in distant and shifting thoughts, arms crossed. The valley surrounding their position was quite lovely, especially in the morning hours. And he often found himself able to stare off ahead at the horizon, lost in all manner of musings. This morning was one for such quiet contemplation. He sighed.
The name "Roscius Avienus" still bore such resonance, such unfailing strength and gravity to match. The stories he had heard since childhood, not least of all from a devious Heron, were strange in their apparent reality. This Roscius was enough of a threat to compel a dire letter from Tullius. Not to mention one sent in conjunction with news and instructions about Penelope and her "personal mission". He still had no real idea of what that phrase could be referring to, but was resolved to carry out his orders as faithfully as possible. And that included making sure the young woman remained in the safest hands whenever she arrived.
Carius had been friends of Penelope's family for decades - since they were all very young children and constant playmates. His father, Lucius Serenus, had been a Legionnaire for about as long as Penelope's father Adrianus - the parents' friendship was equal in its longevity. And as such, he knew that her father was a member of the Penitus Oculatus. He wondered if the orders from Tullius pointed to something relating to that fact, hoping that whatever it was it was not horrific news. Adrianus had been something not unlike a godfather to him and news of his injury or gods forbid, his death, would be unspeakably difficult for him.
He had to wonder additionally why Heron had not said a word to him about Penelope's reason for being in the province. And then, he thought some more about the grisly discovery of the massacre's aftermath near the old ruins to the east and questioned whether this "Roscius" might have had something to do with that. It all was so coincidental, far too much so for it to be dismissed. His gut told him it was all connected in ways stranger than he could currently conceive of, and he grew more unsettled with each idea.
And so he shifted his thoughts again, noticing the rustic structures dotting the countryside some distance from the camp. He smiled as small children scampered about the greenery, pestering the cows and horses while adults chopped wood and sharpened weapons. Indeed, growing up in Cyrodiil was a world apart from what he suspected life was like in Skyrim. As he had looked around his contingent in the Rift, he noticed the numbers of humble farmers, fletchers, butchers and even some restless veterans. The Nords were a proud, robust people and he respected their courage and persistence. Civil war was always tragic and he regarded his Nord comrades-in-arms every bit as much his countrymen, his neighbors, as he did the other Cyrodiil-born Imperials.
The perhaps even sadder and still more ironic thing of course was the state of Talos: even in his own homeland, there were many who worshipped Tiber Septim, not least of all for being the founder of the Empire itself. Even the statue in the Arboretum remained, though the official line was one of secular reverence for his historical role and persona. All offerings to his divinity were promptly removed from the site as per the Concordat. But many continued to defy those terms. It seemed that it was not worth it to the Thalmor to police the locations on a daily basis. But when enough incense and flowers and gold trinkets and notes scribbled with prayers began to pile up at his feet, the shrine was hastily cleared.
Carius had always counted himself a devotee of Julianos and an amulet given to him by one of the priests in the chapel in Skingrad remained around his neck since he received it all of those very many years prior. It gave him some measure of comfort in such times. And it was a lasting reminder of home. Home. Normalcy. Warmth. All of the things he had had to leave behind in the name of the oath he swore to the Legion and the Emperor. He had sympathy for the Nords who fought most vigorously against what they and others regarded as the injustice of the treaty. But he like many others maintained that it was a necessary and impermanent concession. And he would fight for the future he believed Mede was trying to preserve with the Concordat's signature. Still, he clutched his amulet and thought to himself what he would do and feel if the Thalmor ever decided that his patron deity or any other of the rest of the pantheon needed to be dispatched as well. It would never happen. Not after Hammerfell and now Skyrim. Not again. Never.
Times were different now. It felt in every way like the calm before a great storm and he presently found himself facing the cutting winds and murmuring thunder. The cacophonous cracks, brilliant flashes of lightning and walls of pelting rain were on their way. And he wondered if this Roscius was a harbinger of sorts. Given his history in the Great War and his sinister reputation all of these years later, Carius could not help but perceive an odd parallel between the two things. The past had a rather nasty way of catching up and whatever happened with this mad soldier back in those years of appalling bloodshed and atrocities, it almost seemed poetic that he would resurface now. If the stories were true, they were amazing tales to be told. He would resurface in the time of another Great War veteran who sought to confound the Empire. One who had also been subjected to the oft-named 'evils of the elves'.
This Roscius was one who may well have some tie to the family of his two oldest friends, one of whom being the young woman he was charged with protecting at any cost from unknown threat. The young woman who was never far from his thoughts, even though he was not keen to admit as much. And his happy-go-lucky partner in crime for all of his life was also to receive special protection as a result of this very real, albeit faceless menace. The Breton's brilliant smile never wavered; the Imperial could sense it in every single one of his letters. Heron continued to share his mirth even amid these darkest of times, never selfish with private gloom. And Carius loved his dear friend for that for as long as they had known one another.
As images of a long-lost life in Cyrodiil blended with those of the strange, blood-spattered banner and the dead little girl's face, Carius shook his head sadly. And then looked up to the sky.
"Tell me," He asked softly, his ordinarily clear voice now nearly breaking, "...is this...punishment?"
…………..
The lapping waters reminded him of home. Rather, what he would call home, if he still felt obliged to call it that. Echoes of Cyrodiil emerged from the cool and briny breeze, the thumps of boats at distant docks and squawking seabirds overhead. He breathed it all in deeply, in spite of himself. But the pleasant chills were short-lived. Roscius had wandered along the murky coast near Solitude, humming softly and grinning at well-guarded secrets. The once clear blue sky had amassed clouds throughout the day and now, on the edge of evening, the heavens were hazy. Eyes, ever ghost-like in their gray depths, shone with the bits of light dancing on the waves. In the dimness the sea was wine dark, and the silhouette of Elisif's fair city upon the hill was a steadfast shadow in the fog. Those eyes narrowed and his teeth clenched as he glared at it, letting slip a small hiss.
He turned back toward the water, perched out on a cluster of rocks in front of the Solitude lighthouse. He stared off into the choppy waves, his grip tightening around an object in one hand. It caught the light, a chain falling loose from his fist. He held it up close to his face for a moment, to examine it with a scowl. Before long that scowl slackened into a frown. It was the pendant of the Legion, the same he had worn under his garments. The same silver dragon that he grabbed hold of that night in Falkreath, the night of that strange dog. And that disembodied voice. He grunted in sudden anger and raised his fist high in preparation to cast it into the waves, into final obscurity. Teeth clenched again and he pulled his fist back more, winding up for the toss. But his hand caught itself in mid-throw. As soon as it began to thrust forward, it stopped.
And he stood there, entire hand holding fast to the pendant, refusing to let it go despite all of the desperate urgings from his mind. Heart or soul or both would not allow it to fly free from his grip. Stinging tears formed in those ghost eyes and he trembled. And after a few moments holding it in the air, threatening the sea with it, he finally brought his fist down. He had clutched the pendant so tightly that the edges drew blood from his palm. And the crimson coated the metal here and there. He snickered to himself at the fittingness of it.
After glowering at the silver dragon, he sighed and returned it to its place around his neck and under his clothing. It would return to another kind of obscurity, this time. And he stared out at the sea, watching the dark waves shuffle under a shaded and faltering sun.
"One day I'll be rid of the cursed thing. When it's all done, I'll at last know freedom...no! Before it's done! Why delay deliverance?" He angrily muttered to himself.
He stepped closer to the water, treading carefully upon the jagged coastal rocks. His long cloak flapped behind him in the wind, and his hood followed. Dark hair streaked with grays whipped about, and his skin was very soon kissed by the moisture of the sea breeze. His glance became fixed upon his reflection in the waves, which seemed to calm as he approached. And he stared back at his gloomy image. As he looked, he saw his present reflection suddenly shimmer and shift. He watched with amazement and confusion as it was replaced with that of a much younger dark-haired man, the same striking eyes of slate and tanned complexion. The new and very familiar face gazed back, countenance devoid of life.
Before he completed a bewildered blink, the image melted away and changed again, this time reflecting an altogether different visage: that of a smirking, golden-haired High Elf woman. This face summoned fresh rage from the Imperial and he shook where he stood, summarily drawing his blade to use it on the image. But before he could make his way even closer for such a purpose, the reflection changed again. The kindly, careworn face of an older man replaced that of the Altmer woman. The particular collar of very fine robes pointed to a royal identity - and it was clearly a face that Roscius had never forgotten. The warm, gentle smile of the regal man was enough to again stop him in his tracks, his blade raised high but unable to be brought down. More tears stung his eyes, but still no weeping - though his lips did quiver ever so slightly at the sight of the elder man.
The power of the reflection in the water soon was enough to compel the Imperial to drop his sword at his side. It clinked and clattered onto the rocks, falling into a crevice. But Roscius was unconcerned. He knelt down, his already bloody palm smearing the sharp boulders as he positioned himself nearer to the water and the smiling face. But just as soon as he had, the image shimmered and dissipated. And he once again was met with his own haggard features.
Frustration grew and he growled, scrambling back to his feet and fumbling to retrieve his sword from between two rocks. He sheathed it and stood upon the boulders, snarling at the ever changeable waters and then at the struggling sun. He drew a deep breath, once more briefly reveling in the comforting scent. Shaking his head in muted protest or mockery, he shifted his gaze again to the smoky silhouette of Solitude. And chuckled. He imagined the spoiled, gilded residents in panic, screaming and running in desperation for their very lives - in undiluted terror. And the images pleased him: the bitter smoke, the brilliant fire and all under a stormy sky that would not aid them with rain but merely blasting thunder and deadly lightning. He could hope for the last; but the first was certain. Sure to come. The only question was that of timing.
Scraping of feet and jangling of metal off to the side triggered him to spin around and draw his blade. But his demeanor eased as he noticed certain details of the figure that had joined him by the water. Another man, about the same height and build and also wrapped in a long cloaked coat stood by grinning. An ebony sash around his waist snapped in the quickening breeze and Roscius could see the familiar initials painted upon it in brightest red: "M.I."
Roscius stepped forward to pose a question he had long been anxious to ask but nearly lacked the courage to - as he half-feared the answer.
"We...are returned, my brother?"
As the other man slowly nodded, his own very dark brown hair blowing across his face, Roscius beamed and turned to look up at Solitude a final time.
The two stood silently upon the rocks, waves lapping and spraying behind them. And then, the low murmur of rolling thunder.
No one really knows the whole story of any of it. Except me, of course. 
