I will have my revenge.
He ran, as fast as he could run giving his state of fatigue. He ran as hard as he could, up the side of the mountains, toward the pass, his heart pounding in his chest, in his ears, his thoughts rushing in time to the slapping of his feet against the snow. He felt the tickle between his shoulder blades, waiting for the bolt, the arrow, the blow from behind that would take him back once more to the cage.
He ran, and he remembered.
He remembered year after year of casually approaching people from behind and reaching around them, drawing the sharp blade across their throats and walking away as though nothing about them had ever been alive, and thinking nothing of it at all. The memories blurred together, of course; there were far too many of them to separate out any faces. There were just eyes, terrified eyes that dimmed as the life left them. And none of them had mattered to him at all. Some of them he had killed because he was paid to do so; others he had killed because he wanted to. He remembered wondering why they even ought to matter, because he surely didn’t matter to them.
He remembered the knives, and the screws, and the beatings. Over and over they had come while he fought to keep from crying out, while his stomach had wept in empty, gnawing pain and his body had shaken with the unfulfilled need of his addiction, while the Thalmor voices had whispered “tell us. Tell us who sent you and we’ll make the pain stop,” even though he couldn’t tell them because he couldn’t remember, because his head hurt far too much to remember, because he was afraid to remember.
He remembered now. He didn’t know who had sent him to kill Ondolemar, of course; he would never know that. He remembered the courier, and the note, and killing Alessia Previa just before he finished his last contract and began his trip to Skyrim.
But back then, back in the cell, he’d been confused, and lost, and hadn’t even known who he was.
I am Andante, he had told himself. And I will have my revenge.
He remembered now. He remembered almost everything. There were a few gaps, here and there, things that he might not have recalled ever, anyway; but the rest of it he knew, with the cold, hard, uncaring anger that was Vitus Perdeti.
And he was afraid. He was afraid because they had every reason to want him dead.
He’d waited in that cage, and watched, and fashioned the crudest possible weapon from a bone leftover from one of the meager meals they’d given him, using tiny strips torn from the already-threadbare clothing he wore. And one day he’d reached through the bars in movements he’d made a thousand times before but didn’t remember and silently ripped the man’s throat open, stealing his life and the cell key. He had left, killing the guards and the interrogators one by one, making his shaky but practiced way out of his confinement and running, running, until finally he’d come to himself on the side of a mountain.
I thought they dumped me there but they didn’t. It was me. I simply didn’t wake up until I was almost safe.
He had thought it was all over, once he had his health back. He had thought becoming wealthy and joining both the Dark Brotherhood and the Thieves Guild in Skyrim had made him safe; and the fear and anger over having no self more than two years old had subsided, faded into the background. He had thought becoming one of the most powerful vampires in Tamriel would ensure his continued existence. He had thought that having Brynjolf let him get close would heal the wounds. But he had been wrong.
They’ve made me afraid.
Ondolemar would never give up. He had been embarrassed, humiliated by having a would-be assassin walk right into his headquarters and fail only because of his own weaknesses. He’d been further humiliated by having a retired interrogator steal evidence that they should have kept just to have the appearance of a trial before they put the assassin to death. The Thalmor Embassy itself had seen Ondolemar’s failure and badgered him about it, and he would never give up until he could watch the man die who was the cause of that humiliation. Andante knew that as well as he knew that his real name was Vitus Perdeti; and while he was relieved that they’d never learned about Roggi’s part in Ondolemar’s humiliation, he knew what kind of fate awaited him at their hands. He was afraid.
They’ve made me afraid.
They’ve made me run because I’m afraid. But I will have my revenge.
He heard movement ahead of him and stopped, crouching out of sight, only to have Brynjolf hurtle past him into the bushes beside the road and launch a silent, overwhelming attack against a bandit who had appeared out of nowhere. Brynjolf seized the woman and wrapped his fangs around her throat. Vitus couldn’t hear the sounds she made but he saw the blood spurting as Brynjolf tore her apart, and he smiled.
Well done, my love. Well done.
They all need to die. All of them. I will make blood of their sun, and make night of their day, and rain fear down on all of them. I will be the Dread Lord of Harkon’s prophecy. And then I will kill them, one by one. I will have my revenge.
But first I need to get away.
Brynjolf approached him, licking his lips clean.
“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.
“No. We need to get out of Cyrodiil.”
“Aye, but I mean you, Andante.” Brynjolf reached out to touch his shoulder and he flinched, remembering the touches that had ended in pain.
This is Brynjolf. He isn’t going to hurt me. I need to calm down.
“No, Brynjolf. I’m not alright. Maybe once we’re someplace out of sight and safe.” He looked back down the road, straining for any sign of movement but seeing nothing. They won’t be running, not uphill; and even if they were they can’t match our pace. I need to stop panicking.
“Where do you want to go, lad?”
“I want…” I want to go back. To before any of this happened. To before… before I joined the Dark Brotherhood. Before I was old enough to be on my own. Before I learned to kill. Before I learned that nobody in this world would ever truly care for me. Not even you, Brynjolf, the only person who matters. “We need to get back to Volkihar, but I can’t possibly last that long. Maybe we can stop off at Dardeh’s house?”
Brynjolf nodded. “That’s a good idea. We can stay there and rest. I need to talk to you, Andante, but this isn’t the place.”
Andante looked back down the road toward Cyrodiil and wondered whether he’d ever see it again, or whether the warm, languid afternoon entangled with Brynjolf next to a whispering stream would be the last memory he’d carry of his home. At least it’s a good memory to carry, he thought, smiling wanly.
“Right. Let’s go before they have a chance to close the distance.”
When they reached the border crossing gate, Andante kept his face neutral – or at least as neutral as he could manage it. Brynjolf spoke to the guards, told them they were on their way home to Windhelm. It was a brilliant off-the-cuff lie, and Andante suspected that it might also have been reinforced by the tiniest nudges from Brynjolf’s mind. Whether that was the case or not, the gates swung open and they stepped through into Skyrim, walking briskly past the large patches of red that had yet to be covered with fresh snow.
Andante was too lost in his memories, too focused on listening behind them for the sounds of pursuit, and took a wrong turn. He realized it when they rounded a corner and he saw Fort Neugrad ahead of them, a pitched battle going on outside it between Imperials and Stormcloaks.
Damn. I wanted to take the other turn. I wanted to avoid these people. But I’m hungry.
He slipped quietly up to the nearest soldier, an Imperial, and fed from him, dropping him carefully to the ground while the rest of his fellows were preoccupied with killing the Stormcloaks facing them. Then he circled around to the other side of the road and found a Stormcloak soldier and took his blood as well. Can’t be seen taking sides, he thought, laughing.
Once he was past the fort he ran well ahead and then stopped to wait for Brynjolf.
“I was hungry, too,” Brynjolf smirked as he shimmered into visibility beside Andante. “That was a good idea.”
“I’d love to take credit for it, loverboy, but it was more a happy accident than anything else.” He squinted up at the sky. The clouds were rapidly burning off, and as usual he felt sluggish and cranky in the sun. “As soon as we find a place with decent visibility, I’m going to take care of that,” he said.
“Alright,” Brynjolf said. “But let’s keep moving. I don’t know about you but I’m exhausted.”
“That’s what you get for the time we spent beside the creek,” Andante smirked. “Not that I minded, you know.”
“Yes, I do know,” Brynjolf laughed. “I’d stop and remind you of it right now but we need to keep moving.”
The day was snowy, on both sides of the pass, but even so the sun made their movements slower. As they approached Helgen at long last Brynjolf finally spoke.
“I hate this time of day. I feel like I have weights around my ankles.”
“Yes, and it’s far too cloudy to guess where I should shoot to dim the sun.”
“You probably shouldn’t do that anyway,” Brynjolf said.
Andante turned to him with what he knew was a grim smile. “Oh but I will, just as soon as I can see. I will do it as many times as we need to get where we want to go, and I will do it to make them all afraid.”
“Lad.”
“Yes. You heard me.”
Brynjolf sighed, but didn’t press the issue further. Still, Andante caught him slipping curious, concerned glances at him every so often.
I’m afraid, Brynjolf, and I’m angry, and I will make them all pay.
By the time they got to Helgen, the sun was blinding and directly overhead. Andante ran up to the top of one of the remaining towers before Brynjolf could stop him, and drew Auriel’s Bow. For once it was an easy matter to find the sun. Once again its disc went black, then red; once again the muffled explosions split the air around him. And once again he felt his power returning to him as the comforting darkness spread across the sky.
He smiled to himself, knowing that it was the cruel smile that belonged to Vitus, and came down from the tower. He found Brynjolf and they continued down the road, this time faster.
They weren’t far outside Falkreath when a man stepped out of a group of three, all clearly inebriated, into the road in front of them and smiled.
“Hail, friend! It’s good to see another hearty soul enjoying this fine day!”
Andante swapped a surprised look with Brynjolf, who grinned at him.
“And a fine day it is. What can I do for you?” he said, hoping that the dim light and his hood obscured the golden glint of his eyes.
“Ah, you look tired. Come, share a bottle of Honingbrew Mead with me!”
I haven’t the time for this, and you’re in my way.
Andante reached into his pack and pulled out a bottle of Honingbrew that he had stashed in it sometime earlier. He offered it to the man with a smile.
“Here, take this. Why settle for only one bottle when you can have two? My drink of choice is brandy. I’m happy to give this to you.”
“Ysmir’s beard!” the man cried, earning a chuckle from Brynjolf. “You’re one after my own heart. I would love another bottle! This good deed should not go unrewarded. Here, take this!” He handed Andante a necklace, one which had some sort of enchantment that Andante couldn’t determine with a casual glance. “Cheers, my friend,” he continued. “May your adventures find you fame and fortune.”
“Thank you,” Andante said, nodding to him.
The man began lurching his way back toward his companions.
“Sadly,” Andante continued, “my current circumstances argue against fame, any kind of fame. In fact, it would be very much against my best interests to have anyone remember that I’ve been by.” He circled around behind the man, grabbed him, and sank his fangs into his neck. His blood carried the fragrance and taste of mead, and Andante enjoyed it a great deal before he ran ahead to the second farmer and repeated the process. He looked back to see Brynjolf finishing off the third man.
At long last they reached Dardeh and Roggi’s home. Andante had been paralleling the road rather than running along it, hoping at least to keep prying eyes away from their destination. He crept up to the door and knocked.
There was no response. He frowned, and knocked again.
Brynjolf came up behind him. “I don’t see any light through the windows. I think they’re not home, lad.”
Andante sighed. “I think you’re right.”
“They wouldn’t mind if we let ourselves in, I think,” Brynjolf said, kneeling to pick the lock. “After all, we’ve shared hospitality with them before in Riften.”
“Oh good,” Andante murmured. “I was hoping you would say that. I’m completely exhausted.”
“So am I.” The lock clicked open and they slipped inside.
As the door clicked shut Andante heaved an enormous sigh and stood for a moment, watching numbly as Brynjolf walked to the fireplace and began laying a fire. Safe. At least for the moment we’re safe. And if Dardeh and Roggi return, well, we’ll have it nice and toasty warm for them.
“I wonder where they all are,” Brynjolf said.
Andante moved toward the table. At one end of it was a folded piece of paper; as he got closer he saw the name “Dardeh” written across it in a feminine hand. It wasn’t a sealed note, so he picked it up and flipped it open.
“Here we are,” he said, skimming the page quickly. “Lydia left a note. It says ‘Dardeh, in case you and Roggi get back from Riften before we’re home, the girls and I have decided to spend several days at Breezehome. Send word once you’re home.’ What do you suppose took them to Riften again? That’s hardly their favorite place, either of them.” He refolded the page and placed it back where Lydia had left it.
“Hard to say,” Brynjolf said, standing and looking around. “Hmm. I see they have plenty of mead. Want one?”
Andante shook his head. “No, I’ll pass. I have my own entertainment,” he said, pointing at his pockets. The weariness suddenly hit him hard, and he found himself slowly sinking into one of the fireside chairs. He closed his eyes and took stock of his body for a moment, each sore muscle making its presence known and the crushing fatigue rising up around him, into his head, behind his eyes. He opened them, and frowned.
“On second thought, Bryn, if I have one of these small bottles I’ll be out cold for days. A mead? If you would be so kind? I don’t think I can lift myself out of the chair.”
Brynjolf smiled and brought two of the amber bottles with him, handing one to Andante and taking a seat beside him. They sipped their drinks in silence for a few moments. Then Brynjolf spoke.
“I need to ask you something.”
Oh no. Now what?
“Very well. What is it?”
“Remember the night you came home and I was in your bath in Honeyside? The first time?”
Andante smiled at him. “You’re actually asking me that question? I will never forget that night, Brynjolf, not as long as I live. It’s one of the very best memories I have.”
Brynjolf smiled back at him. “I’m glad. Well here’s the thing. I keep thinking about that note from the Listener.”
Uh-oh.
“It said ‘she’s alive,’ and that refers to Dagnell. But here’s what I don’t understand. How does she know that, Andante? How? And if she knows that Dag is still alive, why is it that she couldn’t tell me?”
“I, uh…”
“I didn’t think much about it at the time, because I was too busy being angry and relieved at the same time, thinking that Dag is still here; but the longer I think about it the more I wonder. Even if she had that information from someone else, she knows who that someone is. Why didn’t she tell me that? What does she know? And why haven’t I heard anything else since then? Do you know anything about it?”
“Well,” Andante stalled. Gods, I don’t want to lie about this too but what choice do I have? I can’t say anything before Roggi and Delvin…
“Oh!”
“What?”
“I wonder whether Delvin called Roggi to Riften. Maybe that’s why they went. Maybe he learned something that we don’t know about yet.”
Brynjolf’s brow furrowed as he considered that possibility. “That might well be.” He leaned back in his chair, stretched his feet out in front of him and sighed. “I suppose I’ll just have to think it through a little more.”
Then something happened that completely surprised Andante. Brynjolf reached across the space between their chairs and took his hand, and squeezed it gently. Andante stared at him in shock, trying to keep his face from showing that shock, and yet feeling his heart rise up at the sweetness of that simple gesture. Brynjolf didn’t even seem to realize what he was doing, or at least not how it might seem to Andante; he simply continued to stare toward the fireplace, deep in thought.
Andante closed his eyes tightly for just a moment, savoring all the bittersweet nuances of what he was feeling. I wish I could save this moment forever, he thought. I can almost pretend that he really cares about me, even though I know he’s really thinking about her. I will just pretend that we’re like… like Roggi and Dardeh, sitting in front of the fireplace, two people in love with each other holding hands.
Who am I fooling. He opened his eyes and took a drink, then looked at Brynjolf’s hand holding his. Brynjolf was running his thumb back and forth across Andante’s in a mindless, affectionate gesture Andante had seen between other people before, but had never had displayed toward himself.
“I need to know, lad,” Brynjolf said quietly. “It wouldn’t change a single thing but I need to know how the Listener knows she’s alive. I want to go see her.”
Andante sighed. I should have known it wasn’t real. He just wants something from me again. And I’m a fool and will try to figure out a way to give it to him even though I know she’s his wife, and I know that it’s not mine to tell him that.
“Maybe we could do that,” he said slowly. “Maybe there’s a way. I can’t picture her letting me bring you into the Sanctuary.”
Brynjolf shook his head. “Of course not, and that wouldn’t be proper.”
“But maybe I can get her to agree to meet us at her house or something. She has a house outside of town. I don’t know what she’ll be willing to share but we could try.”
Brynjolf’s eyes lit up. “Do you think she would? Meet us, that is?”
Not in a million years, if she knows who wants the meeting. But I might be able to trick her.
“I don’t really know, Bryn, but I’m willing to give it a shot for you.”
He couldn’t interpret the look on Brynjolf’s face at that moment. It involved a smile, and something else, but he couldn’t tell what.
Brynjolf tipped back his bottle and drained it, then set it down on the floor beside his chair. He heaved himself up out of the chair, but didn’t let go of Andante’s hand.
“Come on,” he said quietly.
Andante looked up at him in confusion, not wanting to let go of his hand but not knowing what was going on.
“Where?”
“Upstairs,” Brynjolf said. “I’m tired, you’re tired, and we need a little quiet time in a comfortable place. I’m sure they won’t mind.”
Andante nodded. Of course. Quiet time. He smiled. Quiet time will be fine.
They went up the stairs to the big, private room that Roggi and Dardeh shared. As Brynjolf was peeling himself out of his red armor, Andante noticed a note atop the bedroom safe. Without thinking, he picked it up and flipped it open.
“Huh.”
“What?”
“It says ‘We need to talk – D.M.’ And it’s addressed to…” he folded the paper again and flipped it over to read the name – “Roggi. They must have left after getting this.”
“So you were right, lad.” Brynjolf walked over to him and took the note from him, dropping it back onto the safe. “But we can talk about that later. Get out of that armor for once, yes?”
“Sure. Right.” Andante sighed and started working on the fastenings of his cuirass.
“Here, let me help.” Brynjolf reached up and covered Andante’s hands with his own, smiling, and pushed Andante’s aside.
“What are you…”
He was interrupted by Brynjolf’s mouth on his own, gentle and sweet, and he closed his eyes and drank it in.
“Lad,” Brynjolf said a moment later, working at Andante’s armor.
“Yes?”
“Come to bed with me.” He looked up from the armor to meet Andante’s gaze, and Andante saw only the smile that went from Brynjolf’s mouth up to his eyes.
“Yes.”
For some time thereafter Andante lay quietly, his eyes closed, trying to make sure that he would always remember the feeling of Brynjolf’s hand caressing his skin gently, his soft, undemanding kisses, and the sound of his voice murmuring quiet nothings. For a time, he forgot all the anger, and the killing, and the coldness. For at time he forgot all of the people who had hurt him, or had willingly made use of him but then turned away. For a time, he forgot that he was afraid.
It is almost like two people who love each other.
And finally, they fell into a long-overdue, peaceful sleep.