As he ran along the road from Riften to Windhelm, the litany that had been the music of his life for more than two years played out once more in his head. He would have closed his eyes against it, except that the skooma blurred his vision so much that it had nearly the same effect.
I call myself… Andante.
I am deliberate. Measured.
I call myself Andante because I do not know my real name.
I do not know who I am. Somehow my life was taken from me.
And I will have my revenge.
I will have my revenge.
___
The first thing he was aware of was waking in pain in the dim, foggy light of an early morning. He was beaten, half-starved, wearing nothing but the tattered remnants of prisoner’s pants, and had been cast into a depression in the side of a mountain. He stood, blinking in confusion for just a moment until the sounds of pursuit behind him shocked him into action. It was all he could do to escape, barely ahead of the arrows, hurtling down the mountains toward the water he could hear in the distance – because water, he knew, would keep him alive.
He lost track of how long he sat there at the banks of the river under the cover of a hollowed-out dirt embankment, his muscles quivering in exhaustion, staring at his emaciated arms and legs in confusion, creeping out every so often to drink the water and scuttle back into the shadows. The water helped. He’d been dehydrated, and with every small sip he felt just slightly better.
But he would look around at the unfamiliar landscape as he emerged from his hidey-hole and feel anxiety sinking its icy claws into his chest.
Where am I?
What am I doing here?
WHO am I?
He remembered nothing about himself aside from what had happened since he escaped from the mountainside. He knew that he was of Imperial blood, but he wasn’t sure how he knew that. He knew how to do things, but not how he had learned them, or why, or when, or from whom. Judging from the way the rags hung on his frame he assumed that once he might have had a bigger, more powerful build and that he could regain that power if only he was able to survive.
That was the key. Survival. He needed food; he could likely fish. He needed clothing, something that didn’t point fingers at him and accuse him of being a prisoner. He needed to hunt; but first he needed tools.
Once it was dark he slid out of his concealment to the nearest stubby trees and found a suitable branch, from which he fashioned a rude stone axe. He used that to collect materials to build a tiny fire in as sheltered a place as he could find, just enough to cook a few fish snagged from the river. The food helped almost as much as the water had; he rested, and ate, and drank, and the trembling of his muscles began to subside. He wandered along the edges of the river, eyeing the elk that came to its bank to drink, wishing there were some way to kill one for its hide and its meat and knowing that his tiny stone axe would not do the job, especially in his weakened condition. He heard snarling in the distance and froze, waiting, until he heard it no longer; creeping forward he found the carcass of a goat. Its neck had been broken, pierced by fangs, but its hide was largely intact, and he used his axe to harvest it for thin strips of sinew and leathery lacing. With those, and pieces of deadwood he found along the way, he fashioned a long bow and stone arrows.
And he drank, and fished, and fed, and rested.
And then he began to hunt.
It took days, weeks; he lost track of how much time went by. As he hunted, his strength returned. The apparel he first fashioned from animal skins was soon too small for the frame regaining its bulk. He replaced it. He cut his hair, hoping to avoid recognition.
He skulked about the shadows, keeping out of sight of the various patrols on the roads and in the hills. Stormcloaks. Imperial legionnaires. Forsworn. Thalmor. He knew their names. But he did not know his own. What might he have done in the past? Who might care whether he was alive or dead? What might have moved him, made his life worth living? He knew nothing about any of that, and felt no affinity for the soldiers he saw on their rounds or anyone else, for that matter. All he knew was that he was angry. And more than that, something in him craved something besides knowledge, something he couldn’t identify. He felt as though he should know what it was that he wanted – but he didn’t.
Eventually, he was strong enough to slip into a mine, steal a pickaxe, and gather ore to sell by mingling with the other workers. With the coin he made from the ore, he purchased good leather armor and a real weapon, an iron war axe. And he continued to hunt, looking for the thing that would ease the gnawing hunger that food would not satisfy.
___
Andante crossed the bridge heading west from Windhelm and grinned as he spotted the small patrol of Stormcloak soldiers ahead of him. He was still hungry, having not found the hunting especially fruitful on his way north from Riften. He dropped into a crouch and slid forward as swiftly as he could, moving silently into place behind the last soldier in line. Then he rose, grabbed the man by the head with one hand and the shoulder with the other, pushed his head to the side, and sank his fangs into the man’s neck. His mouth flooded with the sweet taste of the blood he’d been craving, and he drained the man dry. His victim crumpled to the ground. The others in the patrol kept walking, having never heard a single thing.
He looked at the receding patrol and considered his options. He’d been known to take out an entire line of soldiers, one by one, never alerting any of them until they were being bitten. This night, though, he decided against it.
One was enough. You all got lucky.
He moved into his normal jog and caught up to the patrol, nodding and smiling to them as he passed.
___
Stormcloaks. Imperial legionnaires. Forsworn. Thalmor.
I do not remember what happened to me before I woke on that mountainside, but I do know that whoever was the cause of it took my life from me. They will pay. It may take years. It may take decades. It may take lifetimes. But I am deliberate. Measured. And I now have lifetimes to spend.
I will call myself Andante.
And I will have my revenge.
I will have my revenge.
That was the song that played itself out, over and over in his head, whenever he ran. It hadn’t stopped through all the days in which he’d done small favors for Jarls and innkeepers, in which he’d raided barrows and cleared out encampments of bandits, gathered gems and hides and stolen weapons and armor to smelt down for their metals, all in the name of generating coin. It had played in his head as he’d discovered that he had a talent for the arts of love, and that he could use that to his advantage as well as his own enjoyment. It had been playing as he’d discovered that he was able to make people laugh, usually by using himself as the butt of a joke, and that laughter got him things and places that other methods did not.
The litany had been playing in his head on the day he met the Khajiit on the road. He had been just standing still, looking up and down the road as though waiting for someone; odd behavior given how far away from any likely meeting point he was. Andante had snuck up behind him and carefully lifted a small bottle from his pocket, and he had looked at it and begun to tremble.
This. This is what I’ve been craving. And this Khajiit will have more of it.
He hadn’t thought for more than a moment. He’d reached around the Khajiit’s neck with his knife and slit it open, and the Khajiit had never been aware of his presence. He took the rest of the moon sugar and skooma from the corpse and scuttled away to a secluded spot, to drain one of the small bottles, and his entire body had rejoiced along with him as nerves that had been dull sprang back to life, and parts of his mind that had been aching relaxed, and felt, and thrilled.
Later he’d had misgivings; but those were dispelled when a large Redguard man had approached him and quietly explained that he’d been impressed by Andante’s technique with a knife. The litany of revenge had been playing louder and louder when, at the Redguard’s invitation, he had joined the Dark Brotherhood, where jobs carried a larger price than Jarl’s errands and afforded a greater thrill, and where the Listener recognized him for what he could do and reveled in his accomplishments almost as much as he did himself. He didn’t much like the red-and-black armor of the Dark Brotherhood, so he made his own. She didn’t mind, so long as he eliminated his targets.
The recital in his mind had still been playing later when a nighttime attack had left him victorious over a minor vampire but infected with Vampiris Sanguinaire. I can use this, he’d thought.
He had stumbled to the cabin he had taken over as his own, and waited. It was hard. There were small vials in the cabinet by the door, vials that would cure him of this dread disease. They were right there. He could have healed himself at any moment he cared to. But becoming a vampire would give him power, and, he decided, he would have it. He paced the floors, willing himself to wait it out, sick in body and spirit, shunning the light more and more and the hunger growing until three days later he had rested. After that his blurred reflection in a glass had revealed fangs where once there were canines, a pinched, pale face, and glowing, golden eyes where once there had been startlingly blue orbs.
I call myself Andante, and I will have my revenge.
The problem, of course, was that he didn’t know where he should direct his rage.
I will have my revenge, therefore … on all of them.
He would never forget that first time, creeping up behind an unsuspecting hunter whose heartbeat was as clear to him as the beating of a war drum, his warm scent alluring, irresistible. Piercing the man’s skin with his teeth, his fangs unerringly finding the vein, his mouth filling with the warmth, the sweet metallic bite of his blood. Oh, had he fed that night. He had drained the man dry, taken everything of value from his corpse, and then run as though the gates of Oblivion had opened behind him, trembling with the gravity of what he had done to himself and yet thrilled by his new abilities, the sheer speed with which he covered the terrain. He had wondered if it was like this for the shape-shifters as they howled to Hircine after a kill. Were they joyful? Did they celebrate their victories, the taste of the raw flesh, their speed and power? Surely they must.
He remembered learning how truly strong he was now, when he was attacked by a Vigilant of Stendarr on the road, and his one-handed, off-balance counterattack with a simple steel war axe had neatly removed the man’s head and sent it flying down the road. He hadn’t been expecting that at all. He’d been a strong man before, he could tell that by the muscles that responded so quickly to food and care and by the respectable skill he had with an axe and a sword. He’d trained his strength, since then; but this strength, this was something he’d never imagined for himself. It was heady; he was greedy for it and more. Oh yes, he’d thought. I shall most definitely have my revenge.
And yet, Andante thought with a sigh as he slowed, approaching Dawnstar, I still have no idea who I am or upon whom my revenge should really be taken. It matters not. I will continue to be the thing I have become. That accursed litany in my brain will accompany me wherever I go. I will have my revenge. I will have my revenge.
He slowed to a walk as his vision returned to normal, and stopped to be certain his illusion was in place. Appearing to others as a blue-eyed Imperial man was possibly the most important of his great powers. For, over the time that had passed since he had traded his blue eyes for gold, he had taken his place among the strongest of vampires, capable of defeating most adversaries with ease and the most dangerous – the dragons – with the good fortune of great speed, strength, and a daedric axe. He had lost count of how many soft, warm necks he had kissed, slowly, driving their owners mad with desire until his teeth had found their mark and fed his insatiable appetite. If he was seen for what he was, he would be driven from their company, hunted with fire and silver-coated bolts fired from crossbows. The illusion spell was vital, and he had practiced it until he could maintain it with little effort.
Yes, now he was strong. And in spite of it, the one thing he had been unable to accomplish was to secure the attentions of the man back in Riften. It was maddening. It was incomprehensible. It was fascinating.
He remembered Brynjolf as he had met him out in the marketplace of Riften, not long before he’d become a vampire, on a day when he’d pulled off the most delicious bit of pickpocketing out of sheer boredom. He’d even sold the gem back to the mark he’d stolen it from. Brynjolf had approached him from behind and murmured “Well done, lad. That little escapade is worthy of some celebration. Come with me and I’ll buy you a drink.” Andante had been startled that he’d been observed. He had turned to look, found himself staring into the most brilliant green eyes he’d ever seen, and from that moment on he’d been caught, caught like a fish on a hook, completely unable to set himself free, wanting nothing more than to get closer. He’d taken the big redhead up on his offer of a drink and followed him under the city, to a place called the Ragged Flagon, where he explained that he was second-in-command in the Thieves Guild.
He’d offered Andante a place in the Guild and gotten him started on jobs, and deftly avoided every overture Andante had made without so much as once making him feel rejected. Brynjolf had been a happy man back then, truly happy, quick with a laugh and a smile. He spent much of his time with the other senior members, Delvin and Vex, and with a Redguard woman who occasionally visited the Cistern; but he also made sure to speak to everyone, even the newest and lowliest of recruits, and seemed to have a natural gift for making people feel welcome. Andante wanted desperately to get under the man’s skin, but couldn’t seem to do it. Still, he kept trying, and his persistence had been rewarded by what felt like a growing friendship with Brynjolf.
Something had happened, though, one day when Andante had been off on a job. He didn’t know what had happened, but when he returned people had whispered that Brynjolf was holed up in his house, drinking himself into a stupor, and wouldn’t come out. Andante hadn’t been in a position to go check, not long enough or high enough in the Guild. He’d never found out what had happened or how Brynjolf had recovered. All he knew was that not long afterward Honeyside had been his, and Brynjolf had become the sour man he was now, seemingly running the Guild against his will.
And I’m still caught. I’m never going to be free again. What a fine life I shall have, unable to stop thinking about a person I’ll never have for my own. Lives. Many lives. It’s going to be a long time.
He sighed, approaching the grove that concealed a weather-beaten cover, so old and gray that it was nearly invisible in the shadows, behind a bank of snow. He opened it and dropped down into the Sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood.
