Hybrid - Chapter 8

• Posted by Exuro January 3, 2016 - 1,200 views

  Where am I? Why am I here of all places? Flavius thought. His memory still did this from time to time and it wasn’t becoming any less frustrating.
  
  Here was amid a circle of some really prissy looking folk talking about some political issue he really did not care about. The crystal glass in his hand did interest him though, for it was filled with a delicious looking red wine. As he took a sip, he noticed an emblem of a white on blue horse head upon the cufflink of his sleeve, a rather nice sleeve he might add.
  
  These aren’t my clothes and this isn’t from my home’s lord; this is…  Whiterun’s emblem. 
  
  With that his memories came rushing back and he was in General Tulius’s quarters once more:
  
  "You might want to rethink your thanks, soldier. I have a special task for you, one that is uniquely suited to your 'skills'.
  
  Now pay attention.”
  
  By the time the general finished, Flavius needed more than a drink; he needed the whole bottle.
  
  “So, you want me to impersonate a delegate, crash a party at the Thalmor Embassy, and what? Negotiate for the unity of Skyrim?! You do realize I know nothing about politics!”
  
  “Yes, I want you to negotiate, the way you know best. This isn’t about you, me, or even Skyrim; this is about the Empire, about Tamriel! Every Imperial that dies, every Nord that dies plays into the Thalmor’s hands. They haven’t given up; they only use the White-Gold Concordant to lick their wounds while they bleed the Empire with this petty war. You think I give a damn who these Northerners worship! I tried to quell the rebellion by cutting off the head, but the fates intervened at Helga.
  
  These Nord’s are too proud to surrender and they know this land like us Imperials never will. Eventually the Empire will win this war, but it will be slow and Skyrim will forever be stained in its blood. Yet that will not be the end, the Thalmor will sweep through our depleted countries and then not even Hammerfell will be able to resist them.
  
  You fell into my hands at an ideal time; I had just finished meeting with a delegation of high ranking officers straight from the Summerset Isles when I interrupted your execution and they will all be at the upcoming embassy’s party.”
  
  Flavius let out a long, completely overwhelmed breath. He was just a simple soldier; he’d never thought far beyond the next battle or patrol.
  
  “This will break the treaty… this… this is treason!” He went to lift the wine they had been drinking from and saw that it was empty.
  
  “Aye, aye, it is,” the general agreed with a solemn nod, then looked to the empty bottle as well, “we need something stronger.”
  
  He reached under his desk and pulled out an amber bottle of brandy, “A taste of home; A Dyonsius Hors D’Age Cyrodillic. I have forgot how long I have been saving this, but what better occasion than a plot of high treason?
  
  To the Empire.”
  
  Flavius silently nodded and they clinked glasses. He drained the glass and felt the liquid run through him like a smooth fire. The smoky, earthen tones and aroma of spices filled him with nostalgia of the grassy knolls of the Heartlands, of simpler times.
  
  “Why Whiterun? Why am I to impersonate their delegate?”
  
  “A red herring for the investigators and Whiterun has remained neutral far too long; this will force their hand.”
  
  “To the Stormcloaks.” Flavius retoted.
  
  “Ideally once the treaty is broken the Empire will be able to bring Skyrim and Hammerfell back into the fold, but even if they remain independent we share a common enemy. It will still be better to have our countries as an un-bled coalition against the Thalmor than a single Empire, weak and bleeding.”
  
  “It’ll be the Great War all over again! So many deaths; we barely survived the last one…”
  
   “I know.” Tulius appeared ancient with the weight he spoke those two words. “We still haven’t fully recovered. All I know is that every day this treaty stands the Empire grows weaker and the Thalmor stronger.”

  ***

  
  Flavius wished he hadn’t remembered. He looked around the embassy: dandy nobles currying favor, black and gold robed Thalmor, wait staff, and guards donned in full elven; and he was here to slaughter them all. He felt sickened to his stomach. His master had changed, the words had changed, but he was still the same mad dog the bandits had used. A beast to prod into rage, a beast to sow chaos among your enemies, a beast that was expendable.
  
  “So, what is your impression?” The First Emissary of the Thalmor, Elenwen, asked.
  
  It took until the whole circle of people started staring at him to realize she was addressing him. What had they been talking about? He had no idea, but did it really matter?
  
  “Terrible! The very idea disgusts me!” He decided to go with.
  
  The circle flinched back and put delicate hands to their mouths. Even Elenwen blinked in surprise.
  
  “I must say I did not expect such a strong reaction; most find it a quite pleasing solution, especially considering the gusto in which you have seemed to take to it. I shall have a servant show you the list of our stores to see if we carry something more to your taste than the Arenthia Red.”
  
  They were talking about wine? Flavius actually rather liked what he’d been drinking, but can’t tell her that now!
  
  “A sacrifice to prevent others from suffering at its hands. Please Excuse me, I need some fresh air.”
  
  He downed the last of his glass and left the circle before they could ask him anything else. It didn’t take long for him to get lost within the building and he eventually found himself standing in a courtyard surrounded by a softly falling snow. He shivered out of reflex before realizing he actually hadn’t felt cold since his patrol was ambushed all those - what? Years? - ago. No; not years, though it did feel that way. One thing was different than before with the bandits: then he was forced into rage, but this time he had to bring it upon himself, he had to choose to massacre these people.
  
  He trudged through the snow, silently pleased with how his boots marred the pristine surface and soon found himself stopped in front of a solar. The door was slightly ajar, as if someone had come through in a hurry and not checked whether it had fully closed. Curiosity overtook him and wedged the door open to peer inside.
  
  Two Justicators were rapidly hissing at each other in low whispers as they briskly walked down the hallway. Flavius couldn’t make out the words, so he slipped inside and carefully shut the door. The latch snapped close with an echoing clang and he froze. The two Justicators spun about and caught him red-handed in the entryway.
  
  “What are you doing in here?! This region is off limits! A spy he must be a spy!”
  
  “I’m not a spy!” Much worse actually. “I’m lost; I was looking for the lavatories.”
  
  “Hmph. A likely story,” said the first Thalmor as he charged a ball of lighting in his palm.
  
  The second one stopped the first with a hand across the chest.
  
  “A misunderstanding is all this is, I am sure.”
  
  Flavius nodded in agreement, but he didn’t like how that thin smile never reached the Mer’s almond eyes.
  
  The second Justicator continued, “This one is one of our guests. Come, we shall escort you. The lavatories are along our path anyway.”
  
  Before he could refuse, Flavius found himself flanked by the charitable Mer and being graciously led deeper into the solar. His unease only grew when they opened a hatch revealing a dank staircase descending into darkness.
  
  “Um, never mind. I don’t need to go anymore,” Flavius protested.
  
  “Of course you do,” the first Thalmor insisted and then shoved him headfirst down the stairwell.
  
  Flavius tumbled end over end and came to stop in a sprawled heap at the bottom. He blearily sent his spinning gaze upward and first saw another Thalmor looking down on him with annoyance while he held a dripping skin flaying knife, then he saw the subject: a stripped Orc female. Memories of Gro-Bag's muscular curves and musky scent came unbidden to Flavius’s mind and the rage filled him; whether at the torturer or himself, he didn’t know. All he knew as the red clouded his vision was that there was no turning back now.
   
                                                                       TOC:    Hybrid