Chapter I
She Sells Sanctuary
Pain. It was all the prisoner knew as he sat huddled against the wall, listening intently for any sounds that pierced through the darkness. The only thing he heard were the tormented screams of the others reverberating through the halls. He would be safe as long as there weren't any footsteps. Footsteps meant Thalmor. Thalmor meant more pain. They would take him, again, and torture him, again, hoping he would give up more information. The cell was too dark to see and the prisoner had lost any track of time. Faintly he tried to cling to memories of a better place and a better time, to preserve a sense of self, but ever since Elenwen had blinded one of his eyes he had lost all hope, only wondering when he would go mad from the constant pain. Taunting words, spoken by people in the past, echoed through his mind. You will scream, mortal. You're going to die in there. The latter was for sure. The longer he stayed here, the closer his death would finally come, and he was condemned to waiting for it in this broken, useless body that was covered in his own filth and blood.
As always, the footsteps came eventually and a thin ray of light fell into his cell as the door opened. The prisoner tried to shy away from his captors, but the chains that held his wrists to the wall were too short for him to move. One of the Thalmor kicked him in the side, the point of the boot hitting exactly between two ribs. Unable to defend himself, he merely winced as they unlocked the restraints and shackled his wrists in front of him. The metal bit into his bruised, bloodied flesh, sending agonizing jolts of pain through his nerves whenever he moved the slightest. A glove, covered with metal plates, hit the swollen and burned side of his face and the guards laughed when he buckled over, his body twisting in agony. The guards came in a pair. There were always two of them, a precaution in case one of the prisoners somehow managed to break free of one. He had tried it, hoping that the second guard would kill him, but the Thalmor had not allowed him to die. Limply he hung between the two, letting himself being dragged away to the questioning rooms. He counted the flagstones on the floor, already knowing each little crack and groove. From the corner of his eye he saw the grey leather coat of the Thalmor and the filthy strands of his own long hair trailing over the ground. The amount of stones was wrong, he thought. They were taking him somewhere different. The prisoner heard the sound of a door being unlocked and opened, and suddenly the freezing wind from outside washed over him. He shivered, instinctively closing his eyes against the dim lamps around the courtyard of Northwatch Keep. He could hear horses, and smell them too, and Thalmor talking to each other. The guards dropped him in the snow and left. Was it still winter then? Or had a year passed already? He squinted at the Thalmor surrounding him, too afraid to move. He cringed when someone near started yelling, agitated and loud.
“I don't care what she says! If he dies from the cold, the boys over in Alinor will blame us, and not her. Get some boots and a coat on him before you head off to Solitude.”
The man was speaking Altmeris, but the prisoner understood some of it. Apparently, a ship had arrived from the Summerset Isles and was now moored in Solitude. He was to be brought aboard and then taken to Alinor for further questioning. Perhaps he would die before he got there? Maybe the gods would be kind enough to wreck the ship?
Someone freed his hands and ankles and threw him clothes, looming over him to make sure he didn't try anything. The prisoner couldn't stop shaking, using his good hand to put them on, the warmth more than welcome but the cloth sticking painfully to his open wounds. The Thalmor then pulled him to his feet, and he would have screamed if he could when his weight landed on his broken foot. There were threads wiring his mouth shut however, cutting deep in his lips, an idea of Elenwen. He couldn't talk when she didn't want him to, but her main reason had probably been to take one more thing away from him, to try and humiliate him even more. He was taken to a horse, a hood pulled over his head and when one of the Thalmor had helped him in the saddle his wrists were shackled together again. The chain rattled against the saddle when he huddled in his new cloak, fear gnawing away at his insides. Azura? He called upon the daedra by force of habit, but she remained silent as always. Black-handed Mephala? Boethiah-who-grants-no-mercy? Anyone?
Hours must have passed since they had left the Keep. The prisoner had almost grown used to the riding when the horses suddenly halted and his guards started to shout and yell. He wished he could see what was going on, especially when an arrow whistled past his head and landed in the Thalmor next to him, making a squishing noise when it passed through flesh. The mer fell from his horse, thudding when he hit the ground, while the horse neighed in panic. The prisoner ducked forward, trying to hold on to his saddle. The cold had numbed his hands and fingers, keeping some of the pain away. There was another thud and the cries in Altmeris made place for busy chattering in Tamrielic. There had been an ambush, but why? Were these Stormcloaks? He desperately wished he knew what was going on and in whose hands he had fallen now. If they were friendly, he might have a chance to survive, but instead he was dragged from the horse, passing out from the pain of his back hitting the ground.
A few times he regained his consciousness but he slipped back into oblivion almost immediately. He was lying on a cart, disoriented and sick. Vaguely he recalled someone forcing him to drink and eat, but his memory was hazy. When he found himself able to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time the prisoner concluded he was no longer travelling, because he was lying curled up on a wooden floor and he could not feel any movement around him. His hands were still chained together, he still was unable to see and when he tried to move his lips the threads stitched across them stung in the half-healed gashes, ripping them open once more. Dried blood had left the distinctive taste of iron in his mouth. Each time he took a breath, the burns on the side of his ribcage flared up. His back was worse, the countless welts and lashes making it feel like it was on fire and when he moved his head slightly his hair stuck to the open wounds, but nothing of it compared to the excruciating pain in his face and skull. For a long time the prisoner didn't move and focused on his breathing, in and out through his nose, until he heard people talking. It was hard to concentrate on their words, but he forced himself to listen in and try to understand what they were saying, hoping to find out what in Oblivion was happening to him.
One of the voices seemed to come from high up, near the roof: a woman who spoke with a harsh Nordic accent and who sounded rather amused. The other voice was a woman as well, who seemed confused, but the prisoner couldn't place her accent. It wouldn't have been out of place in Valenwood, so for now he addressed the two in his head as the Nord and the Bosmer. It was mostly the Nord who was doing the talking, explaining to the Bosmer that the latter owed a kill to the Dark Brotherhood, laughing as she talked about the murder on "an old hag, butchered in her own orphanage." The prisoner shifted his weight slightly, his mind trying to explore the possibilities of the situation. So, he had fallen into the hands of the illustrious assassin's guild. He had not even known they still existed and had in fact presumed them to be wiped out after the Great War. He lifted his head a little, trying to ignore the pain that jabbed like a needle just behind his right eyeball. The Nord, who clearly was in charge, was adamant about the repaying of her kill.
"You see, one person cannot leave this room alive. But... which one? Go on, see if you can figure it out. Make your choice. Make your kill. I just want to observe... and admire."
He heard how the Bosmer started to walk around the room, talking to different people. He concluded there were others as well, and from their reactions and muffled voices he made out they were also held captive. The Bosmer must have been inexperienced, he thought. She was asking everyone in the room who they were and why someone would want to kill them, listening eagerly to what seemed to be the entire life stories of the people around him. He didn't see the sense in it, not when it was just as easy to slide a dagger between two ribs or slice a throat and be done with it. He was unable to answer her questions when she reached him, but the sound of her voice gave him a good idea where she stood and where her head was. The prisoner took a deep breath through his nose and pushed himself onto his knees, trying to keep the contents of his stomach down as pain flared through his body. One person cannot leave this room alive. Now that he was no longer in the clutches of the Thalmor, he wondered if he could somehow force the situation to his hand. The idea that came into his mind was a dangerous one, but with it came a faint glimmer of determination, and if he could pull it off he wouldn't be the one to die in here today. And if he did, it would be a blessing.
The Bosmer crouched in front of him. He could hear her breathing and the way her voice faded as she turned her head away from him, complaining loudly to the Nord about his silence. He decided it was now or never and grabbed his chance. Gritting his teeth against the sudden surge of pain he lifted his hands and pulled them over the Bosmer's head, causing the chain between his shackles to lay taut against her throat. He leaned back with all of his weight as he tried to choke her. She started to panic almost immediately, struggling and calling out for help to the other woman. When she fell backwards, his back slamming against the floor, he would have screamed too, had he been able to. With her hands she pawed at the chain and at his own hands and broken fingers, her boots scraping in vain over the floor. The pain in his hands and wrists was debilitating and the strain the prisoner was putting on them was making everything so much worse, but he felt how the woman’s motions became slower. Only when her body went limp did he release his grip, crawling away from under her. He fell to his side, drawing his knees to his chest, his body trembling. Blood was dripping down his hands and seeped on the floor, the pain nearly made him pass out. What had he been thinking? He breathed in and out through his nose, too exhausted to defend himself when the other woman jumped down from something and walked towards him. At the very least, it was a good sign that she hadn't interrupted him earlier. Roughly, the Nord removed the hood, dragging it over the burns. He cowered and then blinked against the sudden light that stung his eye. He was in a shack, dimly lit by a fire burning in the hearth. On the ground, very close to him, lay the Bosmer, her head turned purple and her eyes bulging out.
"Sithis," the Nord said, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.
The prisoner rolled his left eye upwards, glancing at her. She was clad in leather armour, dyed black and red. Under her hooded face she wore a mask, leaving only her blue eyes visible, which betrayed a certain amount of surprise. When she withdrew a knife and grasped his chin he started shivering uncontrollably, afraid of what would follow, but all she did was cut through the threads that held his mouth closed.
"Explain," she demanded.
The prisoner spat out blood, struggling to regain his voice.
"Water," he managed to grate out, his throat dry and raw. He watched in silence how the woman stepped back to the other side of the shack and returned with a goblet, lifting it to his mouth and allowing him to drink when she saw he was unable to lift his hands. The water was cool and refreshing and above all clean, but it tasted odd. Mountain flower, he thought, recognizing it. While it was by far not enough to repair the extensive damage done to his body it dulled the pain temporarily, clearing up some of the clouds in his head. He took it as a hopeful sign that the Nord hadn't killed him at the spot.
"Explain yourself," the woman said again. "Why?"
"I repaid your kill," he managed to grind out. It was really hard to find the words he was looking for and even harder to form a coherent sentence, and his voice sounded so different to his ears that it was as if someone else was speaking.
The woman snorted. "She was about to become my initiate."
"She was stupid." The words had left his mouth before he could stop them and his face flushed as he realized his mistake. The woman chuckled and with some difficulty he lifted up one hand slightly from the floor, slick with his own blood. "If I could kill her in this state she can't have been any good." He closed his eyes, struggling to keep conscious.
The Brotherhood assassin laughed out loud. "And here I thought this was going to be just another simple initiation. What is your name, Dark Elf?"
"Veryn," he answered.
"Surname?"
"Uvirith." He let his head hang down limply. It was hard to remember even something as simple as that.
"What did the Thalmor want with you?"
He lowered his head even further at the question. It was something he didn't want to think about and surely didn't wish to answer. The assassin gripped his chin and forced his head up, drawing her finger across some of the burns that ran down from his right eye, causing him to scream.
"Please," he heard himself gasp. "Please don't. Please stop." Once he had thought himself to be above begging, but that was before his capture. Everything was different now. He was different now. The woman withdrew her hand, but still held up his head.
"Just answer the question." She didn't seem to be a person of much words or elaborate speech.
Refusing to answer would just cause him more pain and, almost as important, it would antagonize her. He didn't fear her, yet, not like he feared Elenwen, but he knew she could do everything Elenwen did. Maybe he could throw her a bone and hope she'd gnaw on that and didn't ask further.
"I'm a Daedra worshipper," he said.
The Nord gave him a deadpan stare and then released his head before she sat down on the ground next to him, chuckling.
"Nice try," she said, tucking away some stray tresses of blonde hair under her hood. "But almost all of you Dark Elves are. The Thalmor care about Talos instead of your odd gods."
She reached out again with her hand and Veryn froze in dread as he anticipated the pain that certainly would come again, but the assassin seemed to have changed her mind. "Where do you live?"
"Whiterun."
When he saw her eyes lighten up he knew he made a mistake. Under her mask, the Nord was probably smirking. She leant back, tapping her fingers on the ground as she pondered his answer.
"I think that you might be the Dragonborn," she said eventually.
He lifted his head too fast. His sight blurred, the room spun and some of the wounds of his back ripped open as his hair pulled away from them. He cringed, cowering on the ground, when he realized his reaction had just given him away.
"How...?" He coughed, felt fresh blood trickle into his mouth. "Why would you think that?"
"A variety of reasons. You just happened to be a Dark Elf from Whiterun as well, held in custody of the Thalmor. But mostly because of this." She pensively touched the holes and gashes around his mouth, causing him to jerk his head away in pain. "They must have wanted to make sure you did not kill them with your voice."
Veryn tried to return her gaze evenly, but he was shaking too much to keep his eye steady.
"And what if that's true?"
"Then you would be of use to me," she answered. "Even if it's not true, you still might be of use. Your kill was admirable and if I am honest, you intrigue me. Now tell me, is it true?"
He nodded.
"Prove it then." She gestured around the room. Veryn slowly followed her movements with his head. There were three other prisoners, kneeling on the ground. They were hooded, a black bag cast over their head, and their hands were bound behind their back. "Kill one of them for me, to make up for the dead Wood Elf."
Despite the numbing effect of the healing potion tears ran down his face when he crawled around the floor. The sight of his raw flesh, torn open nearly to the bone, filled him with nausea and disgust. He gritted his teeth, slowly steadying his breath, all the while aware of the assassin watching him. Now was not the time to break down. Not yet. He could do this. He had to. He had no idea if he was even able to Shout at this moment, but he sat down next to one of the other prisoners and tried to recall the lessons of the Greybeards. The other prisoner grunted and struggled against his bonds, yelling for mercy before soiling himself.
Breath and focus.
Veryn directed his thoughts inward and repeated some of the simple meditations he had learned, detaching himself from everything. He had managed to drive the pain away for short periods of time during his imprisonment this way. He could do so now as well. In his mind he formed the words he needed for the Shout, shaping them like images and feeling, experiencing their meaning. Force. Balance. Push.
"Fus Ro Dah!"
He became one with the Shout, and his hoarse voice became raw power, pushing everything in his way aside. The unfortunate prisoner flew backwards, his body arching under an unnatural angle as he hung in the air for a second. When the man landed again the cracking of vertebrae could be heard, and when his head hit the ground with a dull thud he would never move again. Veryn heard the assassin whistle appreciatively in the distance, but he was too tired to react. Exhaustion and fatigue finally caught up with him when the world started spinning around and he lost consciousness.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
He couldn't say how much time had passed when he woke up again, aching over his whole body. He was still on the floor in the shack, but the assassin had removed the manacles. They were lying nearby, stained with blood and skin. They were foul to the touch when his finger brushed against the steel; enchanted to drain away one's magicka. His own reserves were entirely gone and while he could feel the raw energies around him it was impossible to keep a grasp on them, let alone harness the magicka into something useful.
"Good. You're awake," the assassin interrupted his thoughts. "You're free to go. I'll give you the key to the shack so you can leave, although in this state you'd probably just die." She crouched next to him and almost tenderly brushed his hair away from his face. He held his breath, trying to move his head away. "I say that we take our relationship to the next level. You have no qualms about killing and easily value your own life higher than that of an innocent bystander." For a moment she halted, no doubt for the dramatic effect. "I would like to officially extend an invitation to you to join my family. The Dark Brotherhood. You may refuse, of course. However, if you do join, I can patch you up. Within a few days you'll be able to function again, and then your new life begins."
Veryn had been sure his gods had forsaken him, but now he recognized the meddling black hand of Mephala that steered this situation. Once, a lifetime ago, before his world had broken apart, he had worked as an assassin himself for a while, taking on the occasional writ from the Morag Tong. At the thought of Mephala, the Daedric Prince of deceit and paradox standing at his side, he started laughing.
"Fine," he said, managing a wry and painful grimace as he looked up at the Brotherhood member standing over him. "I'll take on your offer."
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Comments
If his mouth was sown shut how did they force him to eat and drink?