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Being a deep cover quadruple agent had its disadvantages. For example, the quarters – Caius’ room was always horribly messy and dirty, and hardness of the mattress on the bunk he offered could compete with the prison’s ones; for what Viralia Alcaem, aforementioned poor quadruple agent remembered, prison ones also tend to be clean for at least one-three days after the mandatory change. She doubted Caius changed his at all.
Honest laziness, or total dedication to maintain your cover? Who knows. Either way, Viralia put her own travel coat on that bed before sitting or laying down on it and after, she meticulously threw it out outside. And she refused to have sex on that thing – Caius had to rent a room in South Wall Comerclub, stand through the whole intercourse or use the floor. After washing it and kicking the bottles under the bed, of course. Which he did, pretty enthusiastically, even.
So, this part of spying problems Viralia had sorted out. However, other, irritating things remained. The King you had been sent to protect and keep an eye on misunderstanding your role and sending the assassins to kill you. Old, powerful prophecies finding a way into your dreams and body, marring with illness, as though you hadn’t been one of Aldmeri’s forever faithful children, but a feeble men or a changed mer. Self-made gods and devils trying to flirt with you via cryptic messages and nightmares, ending in migraine worse than the one brought by flint. Vvardenfell lacking any good theatres, with the probably exception of a Mournhold, but this was where the sorely mistaken about you king resided and, for now, facing him didn’t seem like a wise choice of action. What could Viralia offer him? You Majesty, your sister and mother are worried about you –- please, could you answer the former’s letters more promptly and talk to the latter more? – and so she sent me to ensure the power of your family wouldn’t be put in any hazard. Without any decent success to back her up, she’d only get herself killed by some “bandits”, if only for Helseth to avoid explaining his mistake to Morgiah.
Oh, and then there was a matter of falling in love with your handler. The handler – she already had outgrown her previous ones, becoming an independent agent of, ha, let’s count, Mannicomarco, in exchange for her careless, wannabe necromance brother; Psychjis, because their teachings convinced her; Morgiah, because her plan for Summerset Isles sounded better than anything their politician’s spouted – and Psyjics didn’t say no, not directly – and then, after one bloody encounter in the alley too many she’d finally landed in prison and, apparently, convincing Tiber Septim his dreams are prophetic and linked to Viralia was, for Morgiah, thanks to Barenziah, the easiest way to get her agent out of the prison – and, accidentally, actually, great, sent her straight to Vvardenfell with a new, nanny- and monk-like political mission! – so, after setting foot in Vvardenfell, Viralia became one of the Blades, the agents of the Emperor, and a subordinate to that mess of a human being – even for a human being – Caius Cosades.
And now, she’d ended falling in love with him. Falling in a love with a man who hadn’t got any political plan and advised her to focus on the local matters, like any local matters could be kept safe from the general political trends. The Almers had experienced this on themselves, with the fall of Aldmeri Dominium and later War of the Isle. Even the damn sea hadn’t been enough to keep “general trends” from coming to their door.
(‘What good would even the best leader of a village, managing it perfectly for decades, do when the war between empires came to his region and burn down everything?’, she’d argued with Caius one evening, just at the beginning.
‘Oh, nothing. But what good would worrying about future possible war between great empires do to him? He wouldn’t be able to stop it either way. He’d just lose his life and poison his soul, and end overdrinking skooma and ruining his village and his people long before the empires and war would ever come. It’s not great games between high and mighty is a lie or doesn’t appear in the lives of common people, like you and me, to wreck a total havoc. It’s just hiiiigh above our paygrade level, so.’ Caius shrugged one arm.
“It's not above mine,” Viralia had thought then, not without pride, licking the rest of alcohol from her lips. “It’s not quite above mine, because Barenziah obviously thought my mission important enough to influence the Emperor for my sake. But it’s not above yours, either.’ And she hadn’t been disappointed that he’d lied to her, because why would she have loved an agent so silly he’d spill the true beans to his first, tenth or hundredth lover?
‘It’s better to focus on what you can control,’ continued Caius, this time putting his arm, the one without the half-empty flin’s bottle, over her shoulders, in the theatratically intimate gesture. ‘Like, I can control my life and my cover, and let me tell you, once you’ll high enough monthly expenses budget, there’s no cover nicer and easier than a drunkard’s cover.’
‘A drunkard and an addict,’ she said, pretending to supress a giggle.
‘You mean sugar? This, I am not. It’s all a cover… and it’s a very helpful little substance, once you know how to use it. Especially in battle… or bar brawls.’ He winked at her. ‘Just balance smoking and drinking. Never drink more than you smoke.’
‘So as long as I smoke more, I can drink more? I like this logic.’ Viralia had taken one of the empty bottles, put it on the table and spun it. ‘Now, o Old and Wise Grand Spymaster, tell me, what’s better to choose: truth or dare?’
Caius’ laugh had been loud and long, accompanied by claps on his knees. Neighbours must have hated them now, but Viralia had been sure it was on a purpose. Once your neighbourhood got accustomed to the noises, you could kill a man in your flat without raising question or much interest. ‘Oh, it’s Caius, he’s drunk, again, and stumbles on his own furniture. Ooops, that must be the bed!"
‘Neither,’ said Caius. ‘A spy avoids the truth, especially in the silence of their own heart; the dares are too unpredictable. Now, bets with drunkards, that’s different; you can reasonably deduce what their price would be and you agree to the terms before.’
‘You say so only because you love to win the bets in South Wall Comerclub. Newcomers always underestimates the strength of your hand.’ Viralia caressed his forearm. ‘And you win free drink.’
‘And this way, I can save enough to give you a reward and money for expenses, from time to time. While I love the Empire, I have to admit it’s pretty stinky when it comes to budgeting their intelligence assets. The soldiers, though! Oh, they’re always finding some money for the soldiers, no matter how silly the demands. Polishing of the armous every day? Sure! New, untested and probably unusable weapon? Absolutely! Golden boots? Of course, of course, don’t you want a set of diamond pins to it, too, boys?’ When Caius got really irritated, he voice was becoming thinner, and yet louder. ‘Ha! They would never be able to find a way to the toiler, let alone enemy’s camps, if not for the agents? And what do we get in return?’
‘A comfortable second part of life in a nice, cosy city over the beautiful river?’
‘An exile to the backwater town of the backwater island of the backwater country!’ He smiled ironically, like he’d already try to distance himself from the story. ‘But at least it’s a town when a reasonably productive man can easily get decent alcohol and excellent skooma. To sweet dreams!’ He rose his bottle triumphantly; his had wavered, though, and some of the alcohol landed on in hair and back.
Viralia had been sure it’d been all an act, especially that carefully not-quite-hidden resentment in Caius’ voice.)
The more Viralia thought about it, the mor she realised her mission, from most of all invested parties, was actually even easier than keeping an eye on the little unhinged, paranoid ruler. No, what everybody, probably including Mannicomarco, wanted, was the fall – or at least weakening – of the Tribunal. Which suggested The Living Dunmer Gods held real power, more precious than just long, endless life and golden skin… And therefore, so must Dagoth Ur. They’d have just killed or banished him long time ago, otherwise.
Pretty unsettling thought for somebody who was supposed, according to their moral and supernatural, recently pretty impatient guides, act as a banner against them all. Very unsettling thought for someone plagued by strange dreams, full of Dagoth Ur’s whispers, pleas and promises.
Caius had nightmares of his own. He never talked about them, but they were hard to miss; he wasn’t one of these silent sleepers. He screamed and thrashed before waking up, blinking for a moment and then immediately reaching for a bottle or a skooma pipe.
(She had stopped his hand, once, curled her fingers around his wrist, leaned in and kissed him. He had responded immediately, hunger, hot, furious, and pulled her atop of him, had let her ride him the whole night, fuck the anger, fear and regret out of his body – no, she’d had no illusions about putting it out of his brain – until the sun had set Balmora and citizens had filled the streets.
He'd swore in four different languages and called for the divine beings of six different panteons, putting Auriel between Mara and Mephala, but even at the beginning, half-awake, half-asleep, he hadn’t mixed up her name)
The fates in Nirn are twisted, ever-changing things. They seemed especially whimsical and fragile in Vvardenfell, because it was that useless mage, Surane Leoriane, who helped Viralia with her little “heart problem”.
Caldera Mining Company were, indeed, a pretty corrupt business endeavour – Viralia knew it, thanks to nice, inside information supplied by Vedam Dren, one of the Helseth’s and therefore Barenziah’s, natural supporters, to his oh so idealistic daughter. And Ilmeni might be indeed idealistic enough to give free books to the common people, but not so much not to realise that a certain someone, an agent of so many powers she might as well be considered a freelancer, was better suited to deal with it then mers with a reputation at stake.
In a way, it was an easy, clean job. Viralia helped slaves. Killed bad guys. Kicked that irritating buffoon, Orvas, right when it hurt. And got a lot of juicy material about business relationship of Cunius Pelelius. No so juicy as she had made it, though, forging a signature here and there – Jobasha had happily helped her with trickier letters and even lent her Twin Lamp’s printing press – and giving back Caius a nice, shiny proof that Caldera Mining Company was not only stealing and cheating on taxes, but smuggling resources for illegal military groups in the very Cyrodiil. The military groups which, if one read between the lines, seemed… irritated with the stasis on the Emperor’s throne and intended to bring some change actively.
Viralia didn’t bother much with checking if any said group actually existed. Unhappy people, ambitious politicians and fierce, hot-headed youths lived in any country under the sky – and once special agents would start to look for the conspiracy, they’d find a conspiracy. The only innocent people are badly interrogated ones, as Elysana – according to Morgiah – liked to put it.
And, what was the most important, after Caius would sent the material of such an importance, he’d be surely called back to the capital. A promotion and, more importantly, more work rooting out the conspirators would be order. He’d leave Vvardenfell, Morrowind, that “local place” he’d come to care so much about… And his leave would put Viralia as the highest ranking member of the Blades on the whole island. She’d get to work independently, steering the future of the province according to Altmeri political vision, the vision of mers, finally united again, this time accepting their difference and welcoming the discussion…
The outcome almost too perfect to be true. The outcome Viralia bought with that damn migraines, illness, surviving meeting with Fyr, ruthlessly mocking her dear Psyjics beliefs and methods, and first and foremost, these damn nightmares, the proof of interest old and new self-made gods had in her. And this, she knew, could make her powerful over any imagination, let her influence the history of the continent as directly as queens and kings…
Or could get her killed. Either way, it wouldn’t do for Caius to be there to witness it. The interest of the Empire and Summerset Islands and Firsthold weren’t exactly identical. Viralia’s destiny, whatever it was, seemed too big for an older, tired, addicted mortal to handle, no matter how tightly he could seal his lips.
(He just left. Promoted her. Celebrated the promotion with her and the amount of alcohol so high it put her down like a kid – and when she opened her eyes again, it was already an afternoon and Caius, oh, well, Caius – already gone, down to the smallest crumb of the moon sugar.)