“So where is this place, again?” Brynjolf asked as they trudged down the snow-covered road on the far side of Pale Pass.
It was so cold that their footsteps made an odd, squeaking noise against the snow, the kind of cold that froze the moisture in a man’s nostrils and kept him from picking up scents. Andante was glad that the two of them were vampires, and thus had a certain degree of natural resistance to the cold, but even so he was uncomfortable.
“It’s called Whitewood Creek, Bryn. I don’t know what’s down there, all I know is that it’s south of the city. It doesn’t matter though. We really ought to go during the day when we can see what’s going on. I’m not keen on running into ogres in the dark or something equally unpalatable.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing you say that, but alright. We’ll go to the inn in Bruma first.” Brynjolf was silent for a few moments, a few steps, and then cleared his throat. “I hate to bring this up but…”
“What?”
“You know, you probably could have just told the gate guard that you were with the Imperial army. With your accent, you could have pulled it off.”
Andante frowned. “And the two of us in what is clearly vampire armor? I’m certain that would have worked.”
They’d reached the guard gate at Pale Pass not long before, and had been stopped by one of the Legion guards. One look had told Andante that this particular man took his job very seriously; unlike the highly bribable men Brynjolf had posted at the north gate of Riften, there was no potential for slipping him a few coins for passage.
“We need to go to Bruma,” Andante had told him, trying to sound as official as possible.
“Nobody gets through without the Legate’s permission,” the guard had said, puffed up and with a superior expression on his face.
Andante had leaned forward and smiled. Or, rather, Vitus had smiled, that unpleasant and threatening smile that seemed to put absolutely everyone on edge. “Well let me speak to the Legate, then. You’re wasting my time.”
Perhaps his vampiric power shone out even through the illusion spell. The guard had gulped, nodded, and gone to get the Legate.
“I can’t let just anyone through the border, citizen,” the Legate told them. “There’s a war on. You need to provide official papers or show some other valid justification for your passage.”
Andante had turned to smile at Brynjolf. “Well, we don’t have any papers,” he’d said, winking at his companion. “We do have a justification, though. At least it justifies passage for us in my mind.”
And he had transformed, shouting, “We want. To go. To Bruma!” and had attacked the Legate with claws.
“Shit,” Brynjolf said. Then he, too, transformed.
It had been complete pandemonium, accompanied by bloody carnage, for a short while after that. Andante’s spells exploded over and over; guards rushed forward, shouting death threats, only to slump over lifeless. Others found their chests or necks ripped open either by Brynjolf’s claws or by his teeth. The archers atop the watchtower had been absolutely certain that the vampires would die. They were wrong. Both Andante and Brynjolf had flown up into the tower and begun casting life-draining spells on them simultaneously; one of them somersaulted backward out of the tower and fell to his death and the other died shortly thereafter.
Finally it had fallen silent around the border gate. Andante reverted to his human form, fed on the Legate, and then straightened up, brushing himself off and opening the gate with the Legate’s key.
“Shall we?” he said, grinning at Brynjolf, who reverted and sighed.
“Yes, lad. After all that, I think we’d better move along. I wouldn’t want to be here in the morning. The Legion is not going to be happy about the cleanup.”
They were on their way to Whitewood Creek in Bruma County, Cyrodiil, to retrieve an amulet. Feran Sadri, another of the Dunmer vampires in Volkihar Castle, had told Andante that he had discovered the locations of two amulets that were known to enhance a vampire lord’s power. Andante wasn’t particularly interested in retrieving them, even though he would be able to keep the amulets for himself, but Feran insisted that they be found so as not to linger in lesser hands.
“Of course you may keep them for yourself,” he’d said. “And then revel in your power.”
He’d fumed to himself, silently, that they’d become the errand boys of the Volkihar vampires but had agreed to take on the task. It really wasn’t appropriate for amulets of vampiric power to be in hands other than theirs, after all, and the two of them were in fact the best-equipped to deal with the issue. He’d gotten a barely-civil Serana to coat a few more arrows for him, and they had left.
The first of the amulets was easy to retrieve. The Forsworn of Druadach Redoubt had it tucked away in a chest in their cave; and while Andante might once have been fearful of going near a Forsworn encampment, those days were long behind him. It had taken no time at all to dispatch everyone in the cavern, scoop the amulet from its resting place and continue along the path south and east toward Falkreath Hold.
The second amulet, though – the one they were currently on their way to retrieve – was in Cyrodiil.
Andante hadn’t wanted to go.
“We don’t need it, Bryn. And we have other things to do, don’t we?”
“Aren’t you from Cyrodiil, Andante? This should be a quick and easy thing for you,” Brynjolf asked as they made their way toward Falkreath Hold.
Andante had stopped and taken Brynjolf by the shoulders, turning him to face him. “Bryn. I don’t remember. I have a few memories of Bravil and the area around it, I’ve told you that; but that’s all. I’m sure I’ve been through Bruma before – I must have been – but as far as my memory is concerned this may as well be my very first time there. I’m really uncomfortable about taking on a job in completely unfamiliar territory.”
I must have looked sad, he thought as Brynjolf gave him a quick one-armed hug.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think. It must be hard for you. I don’t remember much about Falskaar but I do remember it; to have no recollection at all, well… I’m sorry.”
Andante shrugged. “It’s fine, Bryn. Just don’t expect much in the way of directions once we get to the border. We’ll both need to keep our eyes peeled and our ears sharp.”
Now, as they worked their way around a long curve through a heavily wooded part of the pass, tucked between high cliffs on either side, Brynjolf chuckled. “You know, I distinctly remember you being the one to tell me that these getups did not scream vampire. But that was your excuse for …”
“Well, well, look what we have here,” came a heavily-accented voice from ahead of them. Three figures rushed at them from the darkness of what looked to be a cave or a mine just down the road.
Andante sighed, and pulled his axe and the Razor.
“What we have here, my fine fellows, is the end of your lives.” He stepped forward and hacked angrily at the first man to reach him. The man’s torso clumped to the road as his head hurtled down the side of the Jeralls. Brynjolf dashed past Andante and took out the second man in line with a few efficient sword strikes; then they both set upon the last of the assailants.
When they were all dead Andante frowned, looking around. In addition to the three men they’d dispatched there were other corpses: two farmers and their horse. Their wagon was upended just down the hill from the bodies. “Cutters.”
“Hmm?”
“That’s what they call themselves. Cutters. I don’t know why I know that, but I’m sure it’s true.”
“So you have been here before.”
“I don’t know, Bryn,” he said, looking around, and then continuing around the corner of the switchback. The road crossed a bridge high over the river that rushed down the side of the mountains, and then made yet another sharp turn, this one to their right. They were emerging from the pass itself; the trees, no longer crowded by cliffs on either side, swept away in great drifts that spread outward and down toward the flatter lands beyond. Toward the middle of this stretch of road was a monument, a statue of a man standing sentinel over the pass to and from this province of Cyrodiil. They passed the statue and around another great, sweeping turn.
Andante looked at Brynjolf and shrugged. “It feels slightly familiar. I really wish I could tell you for certain, but I…”
He stopped, dumbstruck, and stared out across the expanse that opened up before them.
It’s… It’s… Oh my.
He stepped forward, off the road and toward the edge of the cliff beyond it. What he saw had memories flooding out from behind whatever gate had held them back, and he found his throat constricting with emotion.
“What is it?”
“It’s the Imperial City, Brynjolf. Look.” He pointed out across the sky, down the side of the mountains, toward the water surrounding Cyrodiil’s capital, the capital of the Empire. At its center, the slender spire of the White-Gold Tower reached for the clouds, the same as it had done the last time he’d seen it. I don’t know when that was, or what I was doing, but there it is.
He knew that once it was day, what he was looking at would be green, and alive, and beautiful, and the air would carry the sounds of hundreds of birds and beasts, of the rivers rippling down through the hillsides, and even of the trees whispering among themselves as the breezes blew through their leaves. Unbidden, his mind presented him with the scents of the warmer climate, of growing things, of the fragrances of flowers.
It wasn’t that there were no growing things in Skyrim, no rushing rivers, no birds calling to each other in the golden leaves of the Rift’s aspens. But these, the things he knew were in the place he could see before him, would be the sounds and smells of his home.
He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, and turned to look toward his right. Atop the next ridge over, but at a lower elevation than the spot where they currently stood, was a walled city, its many towers dotting the hillside. “And over there, see? It’s Bruma.”
He was suddenly overwhelmed by an unfamiliar surge of emotions. He turned to his companion and grabbed him by the arms, staring earnestly into Brynjolf’s golden eyes. “It’s home, Bryn.” He looked back at Bruma and shook his head. “Well, not home – Bravil is home – but Brynjolf, I remember this. I remember it. I…”
His voice broke, and he wiped at his eyes. “I’m… I’m sorry, I don’t…”
“Lad,” Brynjolf said softly, smiling. He pulled Andante close. “It’s alright.”
It was too much for Andante.
For the next few moments he found himself clinging to Brynjolf, sobbing.
Part of his mind observed himself.
What is this? What in Oblivion is going on here? I don’t cry. Why am I crying? Have I ever cried before? No, I’m sure I haven’t. I’ve come close, but I’ve never cried.
But now he was crying, and he couldn’t seem to get control over himself.
It didn’t make any sense to him that the sight of a place that hadn’t even been his residence would make him cry. He was fairly certain that whatever else went along with remembering Cyrodiil probably wasn’t something to be proud of, or nostalgic for. But he remembered, and that made him cry.
They took it away from me. For years. They took it away, and they’ve turned me into some sort of blubbering idiot now that it’s back. I want that time back. I want to have been whole, for all this time since I woke on the hillside. I hate them all.
Tears of anger. That’s what these are. I’ve heard of them before and now I understand.
He pushed himself away from Brynjolf, roughly scrubbing at his eyes.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I feel like an idiot.”
“Andante,” Brynjolf said. “There’s nothing to feel bad about.” He pointed out over the vista. “Whatever happened to you robbed you of this for a long time, and now you have it back. I think I’d be emotional, too.” He dropped his gaze to the ground, and his voice softened. “Heh. Who am I fooling? I know I would be emotional. It’s hard to lose something important.”
There were a few moments of silence, as Andante struggled to get himself under control and Brynjolf waited, patiently, his own thoughts held close to his own vest. Then, when Andante felt calm again and nodded, Brynjolf started back toward the road.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got a way to go, if I remember correctly. Bruma isn’t as close as it looks from here.”
Andante’s head snapped up.
“So you have been here before?”
Brynjolf chuckled, walking down the roadway.
“Of course I have.”
Andante stared after him for a few moments, astonished. Then he laughed out loud.
“You bastard. I’ll get you for this.”
“Have to catch me first, lad,” Brynjolf called back to him, breaking into the blindingly fast sprint of a vampire, and careening down the road into the valley below.
Andante laughed again and took off after him.
It took them some time, but not as long as Brynjolf’s comment might have suggested, to reach the steep slopes leading up into the city of Bruma. At the crossroads, just where the road into the city peeled off to climb directly up the mountainside, they met a Khajiit dressed in warm Colovian fur clothing. Andante’s eyes narrowed; there was something familiar in the look of the man. Hmm. If I’m right about this…
The Khajiit waited, patiently, as they approached, and then stepped forward.
“Greetings. This one has something sweet for the fellow traveler, if it entices.” He smiled his toothy grin at Andante, awaiting the reaction.
“Oh,” Andante said, turning to Brynjolf and grinning. “Do you know that they make the very best skooma in Cyrodiil? None of that watered-down stuff that makes its way across the border into Skyrim.”
Brynjolf looked from Andante to the Khajiit and back again, puzzled. “I… had heard that, but I would have thought that…”
Andante cut him off. “Ah, yes, that. You see, my dear Khajiit,” he said, turning to the merchant, “It happens that I am something of a connoisseur of fine skooma. I’d like to sample some of your stock.”
The Khajiit frowned. “Sample? This one does not give out samples, traveler. Payment is expected.”
Andante stepped up to the Khajiit and placed one arm around his shoulder, a gesture that clearly had the merchant uncomfortable. “You see,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in close to the Khajiit’s face, “I’m from Bravil. I’ve been making my own for a very long time. Learned from the best. I like to keep up on the competition, to see whether my game is still up to scratch.”
The Khajiit pulled back and hissed at him. “No, sir. This one does not believe you and he does not give out free samples. You may pay for his wares or you may continue along the road.”
Andante stepped back, smiling, and shrugged. “Well that’s a shame. I had hoped there might be some pity for the poor footsore travelers. Another time, perhaps.” He turned back to Brynjolf and nodded toward the road, then half-bowed to the Khajiit. “Safe journeys.”
They’d not walked too far up the slope when Brynjolf said, “Andante.”
Andante grinned. “Yes?”
“What was that?”
“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. Oh wait, I meant to give this to you. A little something to enjoy later on.” He clasped Brynjolf’s hands in his own, slipping the bottle of Cyrodiilian skooma into the big redhead’s possession. Then he chuckled. “Took one for myself, too. I promise you it’s good stuff, probably not as overpowering as that batch of mine we’ve been working through.”
Brynjolf looked into his palm and then burst out laughing. “You took it right out of his pockets?”
“I did. It’s been a long time since I’ve had such a good reason to practice. So there you go.”
Brynjolf grinned. “You would have thought I’d have noticed what you were up to. Well done, lad. By the way.”
“Yes?”
“I want you to teach me how to make it, sometime soon. Your idea for a side business is a good one, but if only one person knows how to do a thing, that makes the business a very risky one.”
“That’s an excellent idea, loverboy. When we get back to Volkihar, I’ll… Oh!”
Andante had been looking at either Brynjolf or the slick stones of the road in front of him, but stopped short as he caught sight of the city before them. He took stock of the well-kept masonry, the golden banners hug on either side of the archway, the enormous braziers lighting and warming passage into the city. The closer they got to the outermost gate, the more familiar it felt; and he turned to find Brynjolf smiling at him.
“Been here before, lad?” Brynjolf asked.
“Yes, I’m fairly certain of it,” he said. “I’m not completely sure, but it feels familiar. I think we need to go up the hill and… stairs? To the inn.”
“Right,” Brynjolf said. “The Jerall View. I’ve never stayed here but I’ve heard it’s a fine place. We can rent a room there and head out once it’s light.”
“Right.”
The city of Bruma was encircled by a thick curtain wall, its outer and inner gates forming a stout defense for most of its residents. Andante stepped through the gate, nodding to the guard as he passed. Between the two openings the pathway was mounded, whether by natural terrain or by design he couldn’t tell. They continued through the second gate, beyond which on either side was a row of low-lying homes, hugging the inner wall. Carts and barrels lined the street, and a large, roaring brazier warmed the evening for the guard stationed there. Beyond it, though, was a sight that stopped Andante in his tracks.
“Wow.”
At the top of the steep roadway and to his left rose the massive edifice that was the Church of Saint Martin, the circular stained glass windows beneath its steeple a distinctive feature that he knew instantly. He looked around, and realized that everything was familiar. There, just there, beyond the church, they would find a plaza with a short staircase leading to the next level of the city; there they would find the inn, and shops, and the smith at the far right of the street. Above that he could see the tower that he knew belonged to Castle Bruma.
I know this. I’ve been here before. I’ve spent time here.
“What is it, Andante?”
He pointed up the hill. “I want to go into the Church.”
Brynjolf had come to stand beside him, and was watching him carefully.
“You remember this, then?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Not completely, not everything, but…” He pointed ahead of them. “The inn is up there. The good inn, that is.” He thought hard. There’s something else here. Another place. Something important about it, but… He shook his head. “I know there’s another inn here but I don’t remember where. But I do know there’s something important about the church. I want to go in.”
Brynjolf grinned. “Never took you to be the religious type, but let’s go.”
Andante snorted, the joke having shaken him out of his dazed state just a bit. “And you were right. It’s just that I’m remembering.”
Brynjolf chuckled. “I know. It’s good that you’re remembering.”
I hope so. But I have a bad feeling.
They stepped through the massive doors and into the cathedral. Andante stood in the atrium, transfixed. He recognized it; its tranquility, its stained glass windows with the names of the deities inscribed. He recognized the immaculate condition of the place, the ancient but pristine stonework, the old polished wooden pews, and the quiet of it. He recognized the shrines to the Eight divines, each on its own low table, spaced along both aisles. He remembered the basin in the octagonal stone surround, at the front of the church. And the sense of foreboding he’d felt walking up the hill increased.
This is the place. This. There’s something… It’s down this way.
Brynjolf strolled casually down the nave, looking as though it was the most common thing in the world for a Vampire Lord to be in a cathedral that wasn’t one dedicated to Molag Bal. Andante smiled, and continued silently down the steps from the atrium into the left aisle. He walked slowly down it, looking around for anything that would give him a clue as to why this place seemed so familiar and so significant. Julianos, Akatosh, Arkay, Dibella – these were the gods placed along the left, each shrine before the window bearing the same name. When he reached Dibella he turned to look at Brynjolf.
And he froze.
Brynjolf had reached the front row of pews and taken a seat in one of them, nearest the aisle where Andante stood. His head was inclined slightly, the weight of his upper body on the arm propped across his thighs, and with his hood on it was impossible to tell whether he was smiling, weeping, or resting his eyes. But Andante saw something else.
He saw a woman, slender, in black, her long red hair falling forward over her shoulders as she sighed, quietly mourning her parents in the still of the church.
Andante’s throat clenched into a knot so tight that he had to fight to breathe.
By all the gods. I remember.
The girl. With red hair. I saw her here and I thought – I thought she was Alisanne Dupre. I was so certain that it was her and all I wanted in the world was for her to notice me and… And she wouldn’t look at me. She wouldn’t turn; she didn’t acknowledge me even though I knew that she was aware of my presence.
Listener, please look at me, please…
“Hmm?” Brynjolf turned and glanced at him. “Is everything alright, lad?”
Andante fought to focus. It’s not the girl. It’s Brynjolf. And we have a job to do. It will be fine. And I’m not Vitus Perdeti, I am Andante.
He drew a breath. He felt his heart beating. He shook his head.
I am Vitus Perdeti.
He forced his voice out between his teeth.
“Yes, it’s fine. Let’s go. I must have been imagining things.”
“Alright. I could use a drink. Let’s go find that inn.” Brynjolf smiled at him and rose to leave the church, and Andante followed slowly behind, trying desperately to bring himself back to the present. He mounted the steps back to the atrium, and then turned to look back at the front pew one more time.
Alessia Previa. I remember her now.
She wasn’t the Listener.
He pushed open the door into Bruma, certain that his expression must be set in the most grim lines possible. Almost without thinking, he turned left. The Jerall View would be directly in front of them if they took the staircase just ahead. He’d almost reached the bottom of the steps when he frowned, and turned his head to the left again, looking down the alley that ran alongside the church. There’s something about this spot.
He turned and made his way down the darkened street, almost as though he was being led.
“Lad?” he heard behind him. “The inn’s not that way.”
“Yes, I know,” he murmured. “But there’s something…”
The area widened out into a dismal little market area with weeds growing up between the cobbles. The stones upon which the city’s terraces rested pushed out, roughly, into the marketplace. The vendor’s stalls were surrounded by carts and barrels with goods left out in the open. Everything was unguarded. The whole area was dark, and in spite of the gaily colored string of pennants trying to keep up a brave front, the entire area was imbued with an air of neglect.
Andante’s heart started racing as he stepped past the well in the marketplace’s center and circled right. He turned to his left, slightly, and was caught completely by surprise by the full force of the memory of an assassination.
No. It wasn’t an assassination. It was a murder. I followed her here, at night, and I slit her throat because she wasn’t Alisanne Dupre. I had no other reason for doing it. Nobody was paying me to do it. It was just a murder.
He stared, horrified, at the spot where it had happened. He remembered how it felt. A dance, each step unique, perfect and elegant, its climax a gaping wound, a limp form, the light slowly fading from a pair of exquisite eyes.
“I… don’t feel well,” he murmured, lurching to a secluded spot behind one of the stony outcroppings. His stomach emptied itself of what little it held. His eyes were closed but he heard Brynjolf, behind him, making concerned and comforting sounds.
I knew this was me. I knew that I’m Vitus. But how could I have done such a horrendous thing? I kill as a business, for pay, for other people’s reasons, not for my own. Or for self-protection, in a battle. She didn’t do anything to me. She had no reason to die. She was a beautiful woman who just happened to be in the church when I was and I killed her for no reason at all.
What kind of monster am I? Why am I allowed to be here?
He coughed, his head swimming, and stood back from the stone, trying to catch his breath. He wiped an arm across the forehead that was slick with cold sweat and blinked to clear his eyes.
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t…
“Andante. It’s all right. Let’s go find a room and get you some rest. Come on. Let’s go.”
Andante was vaguely aware of Brynjolf’s comforting arm wrapping around his shoulder, guiding him out of the marketplace and up the stairs toward the inn. It took several long moments before he came back to himself enough to turn his head and look at Brynjolf.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said faintly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened to me.”
And thus, I lie to you once again. I’m sorry.
Brynjolf smiled, but Andante could see worry in his eyes in spite of it. “I’m sure it has to be hard to have all these things coming back at once. It’s normal. And you need to cast your illusion spell, right now,” he said, lowering his voice. “Yellow eyes.”
“Of course.” Andante shook his head and stepped away from Brynjolf, casting the spell, the familiarity of the routine bringing him back to himself a bit. He grinned at Brynjolf. “I’m certain you haven’t had enough experience with amnesia victims to know whether becoming violently ill in the middle of a marketplace is normal.”
“Don’t give me a hard time, lad,” Brynjolf told him, not sounding at all amused. “I’m not talking about amnesia, I’m talking about shock. I’ll have you know that I lost at least one of my meals if not more after Dynny died.”
“Oh. Of course. How stupid of me.”
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get indoors. It’s cold out here.”
“It is. It’s very cold.”
They were just about to open the doors of the Jerall View when Andante looked up at the nearby rooftops, not certain why he was doing so. Cold up there, too, I’ll wager. He pushed open the door of the inn, thinking about a warm drink and a warm bed.
As distracted as he had been by the crush of his own returning memories, Andante was taken out of himself, rudely, the moment they stepped through the door. At the far end of the long bar stood a man wearing fine clothing and a ridiculous fur hat of a style from a bygone age, making the most horrendous sounds Andante had ever heard. By the fact that he was strumming a lute, Andante took him to be a bard, or at least a man who fancied himself a bard.
Andante stared at Brynjolf, his mouth dropping open as the man soared to a note that might have been glorious coming from the throat of a person who could sing but which in this case sounded like a shattered glass being ground, slowly, beneath a millstone, shrieking and wailing as it went. Brynjolf looked back at him, astonished, and then snorted, his head dipping as he stifled a laugh. He slipped onto a barstool, facing away from the musician, and Andante walked in shock to stand by his side.
“Renod, you’re distressing the customers,” the innkeeper said, a remark which led the man to launch a long, pompous, and mostly unintelligible rant about the inn impugning his honor. He moved toward the door, pronouncing that he would henceforth take his talent to the other establishment in town. At least that’s what Andante thought he said.
“Ye gods,” Brynjolf snickered from beneath his hood. “I can sing better than that.”
Andante laughed. “I can’t, but I know enough to keep it to myself when I’m too inebriated to stop. One moment.”
He stepped up to the man in the absurd hat and sighed. “You are?”
“Renod Even-Toned, trained at the Bard’s College in Solitude.”
Andante looked at the floor for a moment, smirking, running through the several choice things he wished to say. Then he raised his head and gave the man a look. It must be one of Vitus’ looks, he thought as he saw Renod flinch and swallow hard.
“You were no more trained at the Bard’s College than I was, my good sir, and I should know; I own a home next to the Bard’s College. But I’ll tell you what. I shall give you a great deal of gold right here, right now, if you will leave this fine establishment and pursue your training there, and a strenuous pursuit it’s likely to be. You may be able to begin in a week or so if you get a good head start on the trip.”
He reached into the depths of his pocket and pulled out a fat coin purse, handing it to the erstwhile Bard. Renod stood, dumbfounded, his mouth slightly open; then he turned on his heel and swept out the door, slamming it behind him.
The laugh Brynjolf had been suppressing during Renod’s performance broke loose, and both Andante and the innkeeper joined him.
Much later in the evening Andante sat on the floor before the fire, in a room that he knew, leaning back against the side of the bed in which he remembered sleeping once before, listening to Brynjolf snoring softly. He sipped his brandy, sorting through memories that he’d been longing to recover and now wished had stayed buried beneath the wall that the Jarl of Markarth’s housecarl had built when she’d brought her mace down onto his skull.
I don’t deserve Brynjolf. I don’t deserve Volkihar Castle.
I am not simply a thief, or an assassin, or even a pitiable skooma addict. I am a monster. I haven’t a single redeeming quality about me.
I don’t deserve to be alive. But I will be forced to live forever.