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It had been a great long while since Ancano had encountered thundersnow. That was a phenomenon more suited to the north side of the rock that called itself Solstheim. The weather in Skyrim was, while disagreeable, generally less chaotic than all that. It was, in its own way, predictable. Cold. Quiet—especially here in Winterhold. He could think—really check in with himself if the posting he was being assigned to was worth the effort.
The College of Winterhold needed supervision, apparently. That’s what Elenwen had said, and so he’d been plucked from his cozy, low-effort office job in Cyrodiil and pushed into a position of leadership without the chance to speak for himself on the matter.
Long, long ago, he had resigned himself to obscurity. It was safer that way, despite what his dreams had been when he’d been younger and more foolish. He’d lost too many friends and family in the Great War, and even more in the skirmishes happening here in Skyrim against the brutish Stormcloaks. Any position of power brought one into the awareness of forces he’d rather wash his hands clean of—but one did not have such freedom within the structure of the Aldmeri Dominion.
One did exactly as one was ordered to. Second-guessing those higher up in the ranks than you was simply not done—not if one valued one’s life. His own life, Ancano determined, was just about the only thing of value in this Godsforsaken place, but even this was not his to bargain with. He glanced around the room at the two other patrons, eating their dinner in relative peace, unbothered by the storm outside.
How nice, he thought, to be allowed to make the choice of what to do with one’s existence.
Ancano sighed, the sound breaking the odd, muffled half-silence of the inn at this late hour. The storm in question raged over the Frozen Hearth as if determined to scrape the rest of the settlement off the face of Nirn. Most of it had fallen into the sea not long ago—and to be perfectly honest, it would have been better if the entire city had collapsed. Winterhold’s derelict state would be considered an embarrassment to the Thalmor, had they full control of the Province. All of these years since the disaster, and nothing had changed in any significant way. Nords had no sense of priority. Alinor would never have let it get this bad.
Ancano swirled the mead he’d been given around in its glass bottle. He still wasn’t used to its sickly sweet flavor, but it was a local custom, and often all that was available. His posting would start as soon as it was safe to leave the inn. As it happened, the innkeep had not long ago informed them that the Jarl had declared the weather as causing a state of emergency. It was unsafe to remain outdoors, what with the storm pulling down worse cold than already settled here on a good day.
So here he was, sat parallel to an odd assortment of drifters, stuck here for better or worse, until the Gods saw fit to let them leave. To his right, the most unnerving of the group sat talking to himself and rolling cigarettes—this one a mage from the college, meant to collect him. Enthir, his name was. Alone, thank you his preference was for sitting out the storm. Power rolled off of him in waves, unmistakeable. He was half-Altmer, half-Bosmer—an abomination by any Aldmeri standards. Anacano tried not to care about things like that, but he did have to put on a show. The Thalmor had eyes everywhere, and he was new to positions of relative power. So he had turned his nose up in disgust like a good officer would, and settled at his own table, leaving Enthir to his anger and muttering.
The other patron had bothered the innkeeper enough that Ancano had decided it was best not to acknowledge him directly. This one, too, was talking to himself with the kind of voice that grated on one’s nerves near-instantaneously. Subtly, Ancano had the innkeeper send over more and more mead in the hopes that drunkenness would quiet the man—a jester, oddly, and one who was dressed in a shade of red that seemed vaguely familiar for reasons Ancano hadn’t been able to remember. Imperial, too. On business, likely, though he could not decipher enough of the mad ramblings to determine exactly what the jester was here to do. Hopefully nothing to do with the college.
The trick with the mead did seem to work—the little jester’s words slurred together and his volume softened as his chin tilted down toward his chest, arms resting limply on the table, encircling his near-empty dishes.
“Mother never told Cicero it would be this…difficult,” the man sighed.
There was a rumble beneath their tables, followed by a strange shifting of clutter following his words, as if his breath alone was powerful enough to repel items around him. Ancano glanced over. He’d heard rumors of something like this—Skyrim was rife with legends, in fact, and the Nords were wont to carry on about them ceaselessly. Had there been a bard here, they’d have played the same incessant song—something about the arrival of a Dragonborn. Ancano had heard the news, and the shouting from the mountaintops in Southern Skyrim, near Whiterun, however. Maybe these weren’t simple rumors.
Best, however, not to get ahead of one’s self. He could have been hearing things. But oh, wouldn’t that be rich—the Dragonborn being a strange little Imperial jester, rather than a Nord. That, and he had wandered right into the clutches of the Thalmor, should Ancano care to report this information to his betters.
Good thing he didn’t.
All it would buy him would be a commendation, and perhaps even more work, which was the opposite of what he needed right now. That, and it wasn’t listed amongst his new responsibilities—finding the Dragonborn was relegated to other poor sods. Let it be someone else’s concern.
“Cicero, was it?” asked Enthir, gruff voice laced with irritation.
The jester wearily turned his head, and leaned back unsteadily to peer past Ancano. He only nodded.
“Cicero,” Enthir said, nodding as well. He frowned, a spark of fire in his eyes. “Shut the hell up, would you?”
“Oh! The Altmer half-breed is ever so rude,” Cicero said, grasping at his chest in mock-indignation. He smiled, tilting his head sharply to the side at the same time. The expression was anything but friendly. “Cicero will say exactly as much as he pleases.”
Enthir turned, lighting his cigarette with a tiny Flames spell on the tip of his index finger. He shook his hand to extinguish it and took a deep drag. He exhaled while glaring sidelong at the jester. The stench of burning imported tobacco filled the air like a curse. Ancano coughed. Cicero stared—still grinning—as if things were becoming some kind of challenge. Enthir got up, brushing past Ancano’s shoulder none too gently, almost as if he didn’t notice another person there. The innkeeper raised his eyebrows in disbelief, but did not actually look up from the mug he was drying. The air seemed filled with static, as it always did to Ancano before a good conflict was about to happen.
Enthir stopped and leaned against a pillar next to Cicero’s table and took another drag of his cigarette. He ashed it into the empty stew bowl without taking his gaze away from the jester. The silence stretched out for a beat, then a second one. Enthir finally exhaled a cloud of smoke like some kind of dragon.
“What did you call me?” he asked. His voice had gone cold as ice.
“Cicero apologizes—he thought you were listening,” the jester said, voice sickly-sweet. “He said, ‘Altmer half-breed.’ Did you catch it this time, or shall I repeat it again?”
There was another subtle rumble under the floorboards of the inn, each wave of it in time with the words the jester was speaking. Not a good sign. Ancano eyed Enthir as the mer grit his teeth and took another drag of his cigarette. He blew the smoke out right in Cicero’s face. The jester just kept grinning, unblinking. Ancano sighed again and leaned his chin on his hand. One would think civilized Mer and Imperials wouldn’t be prone to the same kind of brutish violent nonsense as the local Nords—but a fight was about to start. There was no doubt about it.
At least he wouldn’t have to say it had been a boring journey to his new posting.
Enthir, the one who was supposed to be this professional figure from the College, leaned over and put out the butt of his cigarette in the bread end that Cicero had left on his plate. The jester eyed him, still grinning in a way most would describe as unsettling. Enthir stood up straight again and cracked the bones in his neck.
“And just where do you get off insulting the locals? You’re not from around here. You don’t know the half of what you’ve stepped into.”
Ancano had to say Enthir’s ability to keep his tone even—regardless of how enraged he obviously was—was particularly impressive. He picked up a wedge of cheese and took an absent bite as he watched the fight begin to boil over.
“Oh, but Cicero does, that’s where Enthir is incorrect,” the jester laughed.
“I didn’t tell you my name,” the mer said through gritted teeth. Ancano heard the slight hesitation.
“You needn’t have! I already had it. You see, Cicero is here for a reason—unpleasant though it is. And drat this storm, but it was to be somewhat more quiet than all this.” The jester smirked. “But we cannot always have everything our way, now can we? You would know better than most.”
Enthir was quiet for a moment. He folded his arms over his chest and paced a short way around Cicero’s table, as if scrutinizing the odd Imperial. He rolled his eyes and exhaled sharply through his nose, then swore under his breath. “Astrid sent you, didn’t she?”
“Quite right, quite right!!” Cicero answered, laughing.
“We had a deal, you know,” Enthir said, tone sounding sarcastically amused. “The Brotherhood and the Guild have been allied for time out of mind. What she’s doing constitutes war.” He paused, letting out an almost-inaudible laugh. “Poor choice on her part, all things considered.”
“Oh, but that was before,” Cicero said, all teeth. There was that same strange rumbling under the floorboards of the inn again, right as the jester shifted to cross one leg over the other knee. “Our new clients are paying handsomely for you to be removed from the game.”
Cicero turned his head ever so slightly in Ancano’s direction. The one eye that wasn’t hidden in shadow seemed to sparkle with something other than madness, though Ancano couldn’t determine just what. He chewed the heel of his bread in silence and opted to let the questions potentially answer themselves. This was getting more interesting than the most recent Leotelli novel.
“She would betray everyone just for a little money, wouldn’t she?” Enthir mused. Ancano saw Cicero draw a Skyforge Steel dagger from within the folds of his jester’s jacket. Enthir seemed to notice, too, and laughed quietly, the sound low in his throat, like he was holding back. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
The air filled with a whiff of ash and ozone—Enthir was pulling Magicka for a couple of powerful spells. Ancano sipped his mead in quiet agreement.
“What good are your little magic tricks under the weight of good steel?” Cicero sang, shrill voice pitching high enough to cause Ancano to grimace and rub the pain from his ears. “Small blades still slip soundly between spells and between ribs!”
The innkeeper started to protest the noise and disturbance, but Ancano sighed and gestured lazily in his direction, casting an old Silence spell that was wholly illegal these days—but nobody would be around to check his work or attempt to arrest him. A net of fine, shimmering silver threads settled around the Nord’s neck, then disappeared into his skin. The innkeeper clawed at his throat for a few moments, jaw working and face red with the effort of shouting, but no sound came out. He gave up before too long and flopped in defeat back onto his barstool. Ancano returned his attention to the scene splayed out before him as if a book had come to life right before his eyes.
The jester unfolded from his table. Somehow he had produced three more knives, all of varying make—one daedric, one elven, and one glass. He held them expertly between his fingers, poised to throw. Ancano took the moment to shift to the other side of his own table, and squeezed into the shadows by the wall, minimizing himself as a potential accidental target. Enthir and the jester did not even seem to notice. That was all well and good—the vantage point was better from this side. Ancano pulled an apple from a wooden bowl, bit into it, and leaned on his hand as he watched, chewing thoughtfully.
Enthir was the first to go on the offensive, letting loose his spells. He clenched his jaw, and flicked both his wrists in the jester’s direction, first creating a gout of Flames to sear the air between them, then guiding a particularly powerful casting of Chain Lightning to wrap itself around the blades Cicero held. Cicero had dodged the fire, but in his distraction, could not escape the shock.
The Imperial yelped, dropping the Skyforge Steel dagger. It clattered to the floor in a way that seemed to echo worse than it should have. Ancano crunched another bite of his apple.
“Ouch! That hurt!” Cicero complained. Enthir grinned, looking entirely more Bosmeri than he had before what with his pointed incisors showing. The mer approached the jester, one slow step at a time, spells flaring in both palms.
“Do you know why they haven’t been successful in catching me yet?” Enthir asked.
Cicero did not answer. Instead, he cackled and tossed two of his daggers at the mer in rapid succession.
Strange words of a spell were muttered by someone under their breath. The floor of the inn rumbled again, and there was a cacophony as a great deal of dishes broke in the back room where they might have been stacked precariously on the sink. Ancano had been distracted by it, but only just. He turned his attention back to the fight. Miraculously, in that spare second, Enthir had dodged the blades and regained his position—the daggers stuck in the pillar across from Ancano. He was close enough to notice the drips of poison which were soaking into the wood. He raised an eyebrow, but still opted to say nothing.
“Because Cicero’s brothers and sisters are useless?” Cicero answered, as if Enthir had truly wanted an answer. “That would make sense. Mother said as much before we even got here.”
Enthir laughed. Cicero poised to lunge, daedric dagger gripped tightly. The mer whispered something under his breath. Ancano didn’t recognize the language, nor the spell. The floor of the inn shook again as Cicero rushed forward with a high-pitched scream.
Somehow, the dagger flew from Cicero’s fingers, which seemed impossible. Ancano had determined his form to be flawless. Well, nearly flawless, apparently. This dagger, too, clattered to the ground.
“No. It’s because none of you idiots are powerful enough to kill a demi-god,” Enthir said matter-of-factly.
Now just what does he mean by that? Ancano thought, chewing a particularly crusty bit of bread. He washed it down with more mead.
The College was fond of picking up mages with delusions of grandeur—usually Conjurors with more ambition than brains. But Enthir was a Destruction expert, wasn’t he? Ancano couldn’t quite remember the briefing, and didn’t intend to leave his prime seat to go shuffle through paperwork in his room.
Cicero didn’t stop his advance. He produced another steel dagger from somewhere Ancano couldn’t determine and continued rushing toward Enthir.
“WULD!” Enthir Shouted. The air seemed to crack in time with the thunder outside. But no—it wasn’t the air. It had actually been the sound of Enthir's body colliding with the oncoming jester. Ancano’s eyes hadn’t been able to follow. He paused mid-bite, half-eaten apple inches from his face. He raised his eyebrows—this time in surprise—jaw hanging open just so.
Well, that was certainly unexpected, Ancano thought. I would have put a great deal of coin on it being the jester.
Cicero was flat on the floor, breathing raggedly, the wind all knocked out of him. Enthir towered above him. Cicero complained in half-words, none of which sounded like any kind of Common. Ancano wondered if the jester’s ribs had been shattered by the force of the Shout. Wouldn’t that be something?
“Are you fucking done?” Enthir asked, voice taking on that low, slightly-evil tone again.
Cicero answered, “Yes, yes. You understand Cicero had to try.”
“Fuck you, and fuck Astrid and the entire Brotherhood,” Enthir grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighed, the floor of the inn rumbling again. He glanced over his shoulder directly at Ancano who only frowned. “I don’t care how much you’re being paid or by who—none of you are going to complete the contract. Ever. Get it in your head.” He put his hands on his hips. “Brynjolf is going to hate this. I should just finish you, after all, and be done with this. But what the hell.”
He walked to the front door and pulled it open, letting a swirl of snow and rain into the inn. Cicero groaned as, bruised and dazed, he sat up and shivered from the draft. His weird hat was askew, and he didn’t bother to adjust it. Shameful.
Enthir stuck his head out the door into the terrible weather and Shouted, “Lok Vah Koor!”
He looked visibly paler afterward, and rubbed at the base of his throat like he’d just dealt with a bout of severe indigestion.
“Fucking hate that one,” he muttered to himself, casting Heal on his throat to seemingly little effect. He dropped the spell and turned to Cicero. “You’ve got about a quarter of an hour before the storm rolls back in. Get out of here. Go tell Astrid to knock it off or I’ll go to Falkreath and put an end to this bullshit myself.” He laughed sarcastically. “And I won’t be in the mood to spare anyone if I have to do that.”
Cicero eyed Enthir warily as he stood with some difficulty. He walked on unsteady feet toward the door.
“NO KNIVES!” Enthir shouted. Ancano flinched. The entire inn seemed to quake under the power of his voice. Cicero yelped and his hands fluttered away from the daggers still sticking out of the wooden pillar near Ancano’s table. “Go! Get out of here!”
“Fine, fine!”
Ancano’s eyebrows were still raised—his expression hadn’t relaxed. Enthir slammed the door behind the jester with all the anger he hadn’t released during their fisticuffs.
He turned to Ancano and took out another cigarette. He lit it and took a deep drag, then let the smoke billow out into the silence between them.
“Are we going to have a problem?” he asked, oddly calm.
Ancano shook his head and smiled. It wasn’t necessarily friendly, but he kept his tone as light as he could. “None at all. As you well know, I am here only to serve as an advisor to Arch-Mage Aren. My briefing had nothing whatsoever to do with…one such as yourself.”