Chained Shadows: Chapter 4

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    Shitshitshitshit! Sticker cursed as he peeled off the elven assassin and rushed through the shadows into the tunnels below the slums. He was right on the slavers’ heels. There were four of them - not as many as he’d feared, but even one would be enough to cause problems if they found the safehouse.

     

    They were in the same tunnel Lash and the slaves had used. Tuskin’ bastards… It’s mostly just luck, they are simply searchin’ the tunnels, nothin’ more… But what if they really were on a trail?

     

    Tusk! If we left one-

     

    He hurried past them, searching ahead, just making sure if there was nothing and-

     

    There was a footprint on the tunnel floor, a small one, belonging to a child. Shit!

     

    It wasn’t too far ahead before he found a piece of clothing.

     

    Alright, alright, that’s not enough to say for certain it belongs to the slaves, anyone could use the tunnels, like… smugglers or… tusk if I know! Shit! It sounded more like he was trying to convince himself otherwise and even he could see it wasn’t exactly working. They can follow the tunnel, pick up a few clues and all that, but if they can’t hit the right exit, it won’t matter. Right? Right? Shit!

     

    He sped right to the hole Lash and the slaves had climbed out of only to realise he’d gotten lost for a second and didn’t remember the exact spot. And so he was forced to zigzag through the tunnels before he managed to find that exit - which suppressed his panic a little bit. If even he had problems finding the exit then how easy could it be for the search party?

     

    He focused on the immediate area. Faint footprints on the floor, mostly mud and shit. A few drops of blood, maybe from scrapes and such - some of the slaves had been barefoot after all. He focused on the ladder and noticed the same marks. Mud and blood.

     

    Then he froze when he noticed something right at the foot of the ladder. A headband. A mothertuskin’ headband! Mothertusker! he cursed as he rushed towards it, taking on a smoke-like form with hands. He focused all his willpower, trying to grab the headband with his wispy fingers, but they passed through the matter every time no matter how hard he tried. It has to work! Concentrate, ya asshole, concentrate! There has to be a way to manipulate this world even in this tuskin’ form! Concentrate!

     

    But nothing, simply nothing. He cursed, letting his form melt, becoming one with the shadows again and he focused on the tunnel past the ladder. The floor was pretty much unmarked. It was clear that if the slavers stumbled on this damn ladder they would easily put two and two together.

     

    It was too risky to rely on pure chance that they wouldn’t find this exit. And if they found it... the safehouse wasn’t that far away. It would certainly narrow down the area of their search. Something had to be done, and quick.

     

    If he revealed himself to the slavers he could lead them off the trail. That could work. Or it might simply delay the inevitable. Once he’d lead them far enough and disappeared they would mostly likely figure out it was a distraction and they would return to the spot they’d left.

     

    No, a more permanent solution was required.

     

    Tuskin’ hate permanent solutions… he mumbled in his mind. But hey, who gives a shit? This world ain’t mine, right? Nothin’ in here really matters to me. Nothin’ matters… Sounded like a tuskin’ mantra from someone hopped up on Moon Sugar, but still… A permanent solution was required. And he couldn’t risk having Lash coming down here, he would most likely get himself killed. No, there was just one option.

     

    Oh for tusk’s sake…

     

    He rushed up to the surface again, spreading his awareness over the slums, looking for that damn assassin. It took him a few moments, but he finally found him, crouched on the roof of the safehouse like a much less ugly gargoyle. Well, he’s definitely fast if he got here before ya. But good, no time to lose.

     

    He latched onto Doll’s shadow and spoke without announcing his presence. ‘Get up, we have a problem! There are-’

     

    ‘Ah, Mister Sticker. Opening up after watching me for so long? Finally ready to take the next step in our relationship...’

     

    ‘What? No! Who gives a shit about that now? There’s a search party, right below the slums, goin’ through the same tunnel we had used to escape the auction. And there’s enough clues around to lead them to the safehouse’s vicinity.’

     

    The elf simply looked at him. ‘I see. And since you are coming to me after observing this much, I take it you wish them… removed. If they find the safehouse, our deal is off. Correct?’

     

    ‘Smart… whatever ya are. So will ya get off yer arse already?’

     

    ‘It also means,’ Doll said quietly as he rose on his haunches. ‘That you were likely incapable of dealing with them yourself.’

     

    Ah, shit. Yeah, ya just gave away too much. Now he knows ya can’t really do anything. Oh well… ‘That’s what ya care about? If a spyglass can touch a tree from a distance? Oh, what the blazes am I babblin’ about now… I can see, hear and sadly even smell everythin’. Can’t touch anythin’ though. Satisfied that ya know so much about me now? Now shoo, go kill or whatever.’

     

    ‘Hmm...’ Doll smiled. At the mention of the word ‘kill’, Sticker sensed a strange… something emanating off his person. His smile now almost seemed genuine, and it wasn’t a pretty smile. ‘All right, spyglass. Direct me to my targets.’

     

    ‘Hurry,’ Sticker said as the elf kicked off from his perch and launched himself over to another rooftop. ‘They’re barely a quarter-mile from the exit we took.’

     

    ‘How many?’ Doll asked calmly as he leapt across another gap, over an oblivious pair of homeless vagrants.

     

    ‘Four.’

     

    ‘Gear and weapons?’ Doll vaulted down from a clothesline, then began traversing the narrow walls of the slums’ back alleys, rebounding off the vertical surfaces with catlike movements.

     

    ‘Leather armour, all bearing torches, two of them have swords, two others have clubs.’  It certainly did remind him of the old days in Riften’s sewers, though the difference was that it had been wiser to avoid these bruisers instead going toe to toe with them. Those times seemed so much simpler right now.

     

    ‘Are there any other entrances to the tunnels that allow me to approach from behind?’

     

    Sticker surged ahead to search for a moment. ‘Yeah, about three hundred feet to your left.’

     

    ‘Understood,’ Doll said, changing his direction without losing a lick of speed. It took him a minute to find the manhole.

     

    ‘Yeah, it’s a sewer pipe. Sorry, but the sewers are the fastest route and there’s a side exit right into the tunnel system-’

     

    The boy uncovered the manhole and leapt in without a single word of protest, not even using the ladder. He landed feet-first in the foul water underneath without producing any splashes, running on the liquid surface as if he was still on dry land.

     

    ‘Commence operation,’ Sticker felt him whisper under his breath, in a voice so low that ordinary people couldn’t have heard. Was it directed at him? No… more likely it was a habit of someone who was used to working with teammates. Y’are not the only one who can play Inspector Vale, Doll. Ya definitely have allies, even superiors, maybe even people exactly like ya.

     

    ‘Turn here,’ he instructed. ‘Through the opening in the wall there.’

     

    Doll swerved to the right as he followed the directions, and the two of them found themselves in the same tunnel system they had been in just the day before.

     

    ‘What is their current position?’ the assassin asked, still in the same fatally quiet tones.

     

    To yer right, about… ninety feet away. There’s an intersection between ya, but just go straight after a right turn and ya will be right behind them.’

     

    Having said that, he peeled himself off and watched.

     

    All right, Doll. Let’s see what ya can do.

     

    Lowering his profile, the assassin stalked forward, drawing the spearhead-shaped dagger from his boot. As he turned the corner and saw the hunting party’s torches flickering in the tunnels, he spun the blade a hundred and eighty degrees around with the ring and brought it up into a grip with the tip slanting up.

     

    ‘Blood. A day old or less. More ripped pieces from their clothes…’ one of the slavers was saying. ‘Hey, look. Isn’t that from one of the girls?’

     

    The Imperial - all four in the party were Imperials - had found the headband.

     

    ‘All right,’ the hunter in the lead breathed. ‘We’re closing in.’

     

    And so was Doll. He was forty steps behind them. Then twenty. Then ten, just out of reach of the flickering torchlight, his body taut and his legs bent as he waited for an opportunity.

     

    The Imperials seemed a bit less stupid than the rest of the thugs Sticker had seen him face so far, though. They didn’t travel in single file and were forming a square instead, with each person looking and searching in one direction. Even the discovery of the headband didn’t break their formation.

     

    Narrowing his eyes, Doll reached into his pouch and pulled out one of the round capsules inside. After a moment, he took a single step forward.

     

    The slaver heading up the rear squinted, leaning forward. ‘Hey, I think there’s something over-’

     

    Doll tossed the capsule straight into the middle of the hunting party. There was a loud pop and a hiss, and that entire section of the tunnel filled with thick smoke. The Imperials shouted in shock, coughing.

     

    Smoke, aha. So that’s what the pellets are for.

     

    ‘What the fuck-’

     

    Doll sprang forward, closing the distance in a massive, surging motion. The slaver who had noticed him earlier was still coughing. His watering eyes widened as the smoke in front of him parted. He tried to shout out a warning, but then the elf was upon him, clapping a hand over his mouth as he rammed the dagger into his head through his temple. There was a muted crack as Doll yanked the blade out, and the other hunters turned around.

     

    ‘Enemy!’

     

    Where?’

     

    ‘Calm down,’ the leader yelled. ‘Throw your torches, front and back!’

     

    Again, smart. Not many places to hide in a narrow space like this.

     

    As the slavers threw their torches down around them and produced their weapons, the smoke thinned and the slavers saw the body.

     

    ‘Shit, Antonius is-’

     

    Focus!’

     

    The torches were illuminating a greater stretch of the tunnels now, but Doll had leapt up to the ceiling, clinging to it with one hand and his feet like some bizzare humanoid spider. The Imperials spread out. They didn’t look up. Doll claimed his second victim - the slaver who had formed the right side of the square. He dropped down, burying the dagger hilt-deep into the man’s skull as he landed lightly on top of his shoulders.

     

    ‘Over there!’

     

    ‘I’ve got him-’

     

    The remaining half of the party turned and faced their assailant. One Imperial had a club, the other had a sword.

     

    Doll stretched his hands out and an intense arc of lightning burst between his fingertips. The slavers’ eyes had acclimated to the darkness of the tunnel and they reeled back from the flash, confused and disoriented.

     

    Owww. Little bitch.

     

    And then the elf was moving again, positioning himself once more into a darker corner of the tunnels. Half-blind, the pair of Imperials placed themselves back to back, holding out their weapons in front of them as they tried to locate the assassin.

     

    Slipping one of his strange metal stars into his palm, Doll shifted, flinging it forward at an angle. The dart cut across a hunter’s cheek from the right, and the Imperial whirled, raising his club, distracted and expecting an attack from that direction.

     

    Doll rushed him before he could turn back around, one hand on the hilt of his sword. He drew and slashed in one rapid horizontal movement, and the first three inches of the blade bit into the man’s midsection. The slaver’s leather jerkin protected him from the worst of the blow, but Doll wasn’t done yet. Taking five short steps back, he retreated from a series of retaliatory blows, then reached out with his left hand.

     

    Sticker felt the magicka shift and braced himself.

     

    Lightning sparked again, this time in a continuous sweeping barrage. The slavers groaned and jittered in place as the crackling energy enveloped them. Cutting off the spell after two seconds, Doll reengaged, sprinting forward once again. Before the wounded Imperial could recover, he stabbed him in the liver, through the gash in the leather that his first strike had left. Twisting, he ripped the blade out and pushed him onto the last hunter, who staggered. Doll hurled another one of his stars into his eye and the man screeched, scrabbling at his face.

     

    To his credit, the Imperial kept fighting even with a piece of sharp metal lodged in his eyeball. He swung his arming sword at the elven assassin, bringing it down in a diagonal chop to open him from shoulder to hip. Deflecting the blow, the elf stepped to the side. The slave hunter grunted, twisting his waist as he slashed again from the left.

     

    Doll adjusted his footwork and dodged, spinning past the Imperial’s flank and hamstringing him from behind. Crying out, he stumbled and fell flat on his back.

     

    Turning his sword around, Doll climbed on top of the man, straddling him. There were a dozen serrated notches on the back end of the blade near the hilt and he pressed them hard into the Imperial’s throat, sawing back and forth, back and forth, until the cartilage was fully severed.

     

    And that was that. Problem solved. All the hunters had been removed in less than a minute. Very permanently removed. A part of Sticker was glad that he couldn’t vomit.

     

    ‘Ah,’ Doll said, looking down at the corpse between his legs. ‘One of the former Legionnaires.’

     

    ‘And you can tell… how?’

     

    ‘Stance, tactics, and the way he swung his sword made it evident that he is used to having the weight of a shield on his other arm,’ the elf replied. ‘Muscle memory is quite telling. Well, think nothing of it. Shall we return?’

     

    Sticker paused, looking around. ‘Didn’t yer parents teach ya to clean up yer mess? These sorry buggers won’t be reporting back, so what if the others come lookin’ for them and they stumble on the same trail? They could find these bodies and then what? We’re at square one again - no, worse, they’ll know for sure to search the slums.’

     

    ‘They will eventually come across the safehouse anyway,’ Doll said, getting up and walking towards another corpse - the one he had stabbed through the skull and left his dagger in. ‘It is only a matter of time. So perhaps, Mister Sticker, you ought to start searching the city instead of following me?’

     

    ‘Oh for tusk’s sake. Not everythin’ revolves around ya. I stumbled on these bunglers while searchin’ the city, ya know. Not followin’ ya. I have better things to do than that.’

     

    ‘Evidently.’ The pale Altmer youth propped up the Imperial’s corpse, stuck his index finger through the dagger’s ring sticking out from the top of his head, and pulled it out like he was popping a wine cork. ‘Then please, by all means continue, so that we can move the slaves as soon as possible.’

     

    Think y’are so clever, eh? Keep tryin’, matey, keep tryin’, he thought. ‘Just tell the runt about the slavers and get him to prepare the slaves to move,’ Sticker growled and rushed away without waiting for a response.

     

    The air whistled as the whip sang its cruel song, landing on Grulmar’s back with a loud crack. He let out a single groan as his back screamed in agony.

     

    One.

     

    The fourteen-year-old Orc was strapped to a pole, his hands pulled up by chains, keeping him upright. It was right in front of the mansion and all the slaves were gathered around, forced to observe the ordeal. As a reminder, a warning of what happened when they broke the rules.

     

    Grulmar could hear the rasp of the kagoutihide whip as it was slowly pulled back to its owner over the ground, and he could hear overseer Aven Dres making loud clicking noise with his tongue. ‘Let this be a lesson for all of you,’ the overseer raised his voice, every word pronounced with contempt. ‘You are nothing. You are less than nothing. The only reason for your miserable existence is to work for the glory of Great House Dres. We own you. We own your lives.’

     

    ‘If he doesn’t shut up I’m goin’ to-’

     

    ‘Be silent, shadow,’ Grulmar whispered.

     

    ‘We give you food! Shelter!’ Aven Dres kept shouting. ‘And you follow rules! And this happens when you break them!’

     

    The whip cracked and lashed Grulmar over his back, splitting his skin like dry paper and he choked back a scream.

     

    Two.

     

    He wouldn’t scream, he wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction of screaming, that’s what he told himself. He would show him and everyone else that he was a true Orc.

     

    ‘All you filth have to do is do what you’re told. Without objections, without complaint. You don’t think, you work.’

     

    The next strike came as a surprise and Grulmar gasped, a painful moan escaping his lips.

     

    Three.

     

    ‘I’m sorry, runt. I didn’t want this,’ the voice said with regret.

     

    ‘I don’t care. It’s your fault,’ Grulmar hissed, barely standing now. The only thing keeping him on his feet were the chains. ‘So shut up, just for once.’

     

    And it wasn’t a hateful accusation, it was fact. The shadow was the sole reason for his current situation, simply because the shadow had peeled off him in broad daylight and one of the Khajiit slaves had noticed it. She had alerted the guards, but the shadow had already returned. So the guards had started beating down the Khajiit - as they did - and because she had done nothing wrong Grulmar had stepped in. He had broken a guard’s jaw.

     

    ‘And you don’t raise your hand to your masters!’

     

    This strike felt like red-hot iron cutting Grulmar’s back to ribbons and this time a scream of pain clawed its way out through his throat. His vision blurred.

     

    Four.

     

    ‘You are less than nix-hounds! And when nix-hounds nip, they have to be disciplined!

     

    Grulmar screamed again, this time from the top of his lungs as the whip opened him horizontally across the previous wounds.

     

    Five.

     

    ‘Burn in Oblivion!’ he growled quietly, not even sure who it was directed at. His eyes were closing, his consciousness slowly slipping away, away from the pain.

     

    ‘You are property. You work when you are told to, you sweat when you are told to, you bleed when you are told to! You - are - nothing!’

     

    His eyes snapped open when another strike landed on his back.

     

    Six.

     

    After that strike the darkness came, a mercy, and he was allowed to escape the pain. His consciousness flickered and he passed out, not feeling the remaining four lashes anymore.

     

    When he woke up he found himself in an impossibly tight space, and even though his back felt like on fire and his mind was hazy, he immediately recognized where he was. He was in the Box.

     

    That was what the slaves called it. Just a wooden box, one step long, one step wide, one step tall, reinforced by metal. There was no visible way out, only the chinks between the planks that let a few stray beams of sunlight inside.

     

    This was the worst punishment a slave could receive. A whipping, and then several days in the box. No food, no water, wallowing in their own piss and shit, burning under the sun’s heat, shivering with cold during the night. Grulmar had seen what the box could do with slaves. Some died of fever, some died when their ripped backs got infected, and some went mad. It all depended on the time they spent there.

     

    And he was fairly sure that overseer Aven Dres wasn’t about let him out anytime soon.

     

    ‘I’m sorry,’ the shadow spoke and Grulmar clenched his jaw. Of course the shadow was sorry, he was always sorry, always repeating it as if saying it out loud could change anything.

     

    ‘Save it. Just leave me alone. Let me die in silence.’ Even though he was most likely slowly getting delirious, he still managed to pour as much hate into those words as he could.

     

    ‘I can’t. I won’t let ya die.’

     

    Grulmar snorted. ‘Why? Because you might die too? Is death so terrible, I wonder... I think I am looking forward to dying. Death is stillness, and stillness is silence,’ he murmured, closing his eyes, feeling the cold stinking wood of the box against his cheek. ‘I want everything to be silent, finally and forever.’

     

    ‘I won’t let ya die, ‘cause ya don’t deserve it!’ the shadow almost shouted, not allowing him to fall asleep, denying him silence yet again.

     

    ‘Since when does it matter? What someone deserves or doesn’t deserve,’ he replied slowly.

     

    ‘It doesn’t. Not really. It’s merely a matter of perspective. The Dunmer take away people’s freedom, reducin’ them to somethin’ close to animals, constantly repeatin’ the slaves are not even people. In the slaves’ eyes - at least at first - they don’t deserve such treatment. But in the Dunmer’s eyes the slaves deserve it.’

     

    ‘The box,’ Grulmar opened his eyes lazily, looking at his small prison. His vision was blurry and everything seemed to be swinging from one side to another and so he closed his eyes again. ‘It’s meant to reduce us even more. Persuade us that we do actually deserve this, that we are… nothing.’

     

    ‘They are wrong. Ya don’t deserve this, not in my eyes.’

     

    ‘I don’t care what you think, shadow. You are just that. A shadow. A voice. You understand nothing of pain. You are hollow and already dead, like a rotten tree struck by lightning.’

     

    Silence followed, blissful, wonderful, and Grulmar had no idea how long it lasted. Maybe he passed out. It could have been minutes or days, but the voice certainly did come back.

     

    ‘I understand. Too well. Your hate. I’ve felt it too, very often, for exactly the same reasons-’

     

    ‘Hate?’ Grulmar interrupted him, shifting his position when the wood began to press a little too hard against his skin. Two dozen splinters had already found their way into his side. ‘I do hate you, yes. This is entirely your fault, after all. My family torn away from me just like my freedom, so yes, I have every reason to hate you. But more than anything… I pity you, because you keep repeating how sorry you are, that you understand, like you’ve actually convinced yourself you are capable of such things. But you’re not. You’re really not.’

     

    A sound echoed between Grulmar’s ears, something closely resembling the growl of a wounded animal. A growl of anger and pain at the injustice of the world that wounded it. ‘Ya know nothin’ about what I’ve had to endure!’ came an angry shout.

     

    ‘Because it’s always about you,’ the Orc let out a dry chuckle. ‘Words and nothing but words, repeated over and over, hollow and meaningless. Is that everything you can do, shadow?’

     

    A long and exasperated sigh was the answer to that. Grulmar thought that was his answer, but then the shadow spoke again, his tone now somewhat distant, almost nostalgic. ‘I wasn’t always like this… I used to be innocent too. But then the voices came. And visions and dreams. I was younger than ya were, much younger and I didn’t understand them just like ya didn’t understand when I first spoke. These voices… they demanded somethin’, always kept pushin’ me somewhere, towards somethin’. As a pawn.’

     

    Grulmar narrowed his eyes, somewhat surprised by it. He never really considered the option the shadow had been anything else but shadow, that he could actually have been a real person. He was about to say something, find a way to hurt the voice even more, but for some reason words weren’t coming to him. He didn’t know what to say.

     

    ‘These voices shaped me and moulded me for their purposes and the more I resisted the more they pushed. I never had a free will, not really. I was a slave my whole life, the slave of fate. Only ever meant to be used as a means to an end. So believe me, I understand perfectly how ya feel. I understand the hate and the anger quite well. The pain too. I’ve lived it.’

     

    Something cold and cruel swelled inside Grulmar, tearing its way to the surface, and he wasn’t one to stop it. ‘If that is true… How does it feel then to become that which you hate the most?’

     

    ‘As if everythin’ I have ever done, endured and achieved has lost its meanin’, been reduced to ash.’

     

    ‘Good.’

     

    ‘Good? Yes, I do deserve yer scorn, I guess. But it was never my intent to influence ya, change who ya are. Change the course of yer life. My crime was not one of malice or intent, but a crime of ignorance. Which makes it even worse I suppose.’

     

    ‘You are like a child playing at being a god, and everywhere you go you bring chaos and ruin.’

     

    ‘Would it better if I did it on purpose?!’ the shadow spat. ‘Would it better if I was Malacath and told ya there was a plan, that all this has a meanin’?! That yer sufferin’ has a purpose in the grand scheme of things?!’ He paused and when he continued his voice was calm again, but dangerously low. ‘Tell me. If everythin’ that happened to ya was done on purpose, by Malacath or any other dipshit ya worship, would that make ya feel better?’

     

    He was barely awake, his mind hazy, but he still gave the question thought, somewhat taken aback by the shadow’s outburst. If this was Malacath’s plan, or even Malacath’s punishment for him, then… The God of Curses would have a reason for that. ‘It would be just,’ he replied. ‘It would better than this injustice of randomness and chance.’

     

    ‘Then where is he? Where is yer tuskin’ god to make this right? Or maybe this is his plan, a plan to make ya strong and I’m part if it. But he ain’t here so that we could ask him, right? Right?!’ the shadow snorted. ‘It makes ya nothin’ but a sheep, blindly followin’ the herd that doesn’t even have their herdsman there to show them the way. Don’t do that. But don’t do what I do either. Be better.’

     

    ‘Better? Hah!’ Grulmar let out a dry chuckle. ‘Better than a shadow ruining people’s lives by accident or on purpose? Don’t worry. I’ll probably die before it can get to that.’

     

    ‘Y’are too young to be such a spiteful cynic,’ the voice snickered. ‘But then again, so was I. We are more alike that ya’d think.’

     

    ‘We are nothing alike,’ Grulmar snarled.

     

    ‘Well, y’are right. Ya can be better than me. Ya can be more, so much more than I ever could be, but not if ya die here. Not if ya won’t fight for yer freedom.’

     

    Freedom. It was difficult to imagine such a concept after four years slaving under the whips of Dres. His life before that was a distant memory and he realized he couldn’t even picture the face of his own mother anymore. It was blurry, beaten out of him with the efficient cruelty of his Dunmer masters. ‘How am I supposed to do that when my life is gone? There is no coming back to that.’

     

    The shadow sighed. ‘There never is. Ya just have to move forward. But first, ya have to survive. And I will help ya, help ya break yer shackles and earn yer freedom.’

     

    ‘And what do you want in return?’ Nothing was ever free after all.

     

    ‘A good question. A logical question. That’s what they do, ya know. Help ya so that ya start feelin’ obliged to do somethin’ for them in return. But no. Even though I wanted somethin’ from ya in the beginning it no longer matters. Even if I have to spend an eternity in this world, I will help ya fix my mistake. I will help ya gain yer freedom because that is what ya deserve. I will never force ya into anythin’ again, and only ya can decide where we go and maybe one day I’ll earn yer respect. I swear on… on the Code. On Strength and Honour.’

     

    Grulmar was silent, his mind slowly slipping away into the waiting arms of delirium, but the words loudly echoed in his mind. The Code. Strength and honour. He’d almost forgotten that too. It used to be one of the most important things in his life, in his culture. It had given meaning and purpose to his life.

     

    ‘Swearing on the Code. That is… a serious vow.’

     

    ‘I know.’

     

    ‘Let’s see if you can keep it then.’

     

    ‘Ya have to survive first.’

     

    Yes. Survive.

     

    Lash stirred in his sleep, his haunting dreams swirling into one jumbled mess. He stared into the darkness of his room for a moment, unable to separate dream from reality at first. Then he groaned and rubbed his eyes, the chains on his wrists rattling. So much for sleep tonight.

     

    He rose from the bed, grimacing when he felt a stab of pain in his back and walked over to the window, staring into the night of Anvil. The streets were mostly dark and empty, but he could hear voices nearby and he leant a bit closer to the window, noticing two people in the alley, hiding in the shadows. It took him a moment to realise they weren’t exactly hiding - the two pale legs of the woman were curled around the man’s back and they were moving with rhythm.

     

    ‘Good evening, Mister Grulmar,’ a soft, tinkling voice rang out close to him, snaking into his ear, a bit muffled. Doll. His lips twitched. The shadow and his nicknames.

     

    ‘Where are you?’ Lash murmured.

     

    ‘Why, right here.’

     

    It came from outside and Lash opened the window, poked his head out and saw the assassin standing on the narrow ledge right next to the frame, having changed into a strange grey tunic. A cowl obscured every part of the elf’s face but the eyes. Those eyes stared down at him now, like a pair of stars plucked from the heavens.

     

    ‘Uhm… Would you like to come in?’

     

    Doll crouched, taking the cowl off with one delicate finger and bending close to Lash. A light, flowery scent drifted into his nostrils and he recognised it from last night, when she - he - was sewing up his cut. ‘Only if you want me to...’ The boy was close enough for him to see each of his long, dark eyelashes.

     

    Again with the flirting? Lash didn’t swing that way and he was pretty sure Doll knew it, no matter how much like a girl he looked. The shadow would probably say that it was a tactic to throw them off-guard, move them out of their comfort zone, see how they react and… Great, now I’m thinking like him.

     

    ‘By all means,’ he said out loud and stepped away from the window, stumbling in the dark room towards the desk where he’d left the lantern. It took him a moment before he managed to light it and then he turned around, noticing the boy standing by the window, watching him. He frowned and rubbed his eyes. ‘Could you… sit down, maybe? It’s making me nervous,’ he pointed at the chair, the chains on his wrists clinking.

     

    Doll tilted his head slightly and nodded. ‘If it puts you at ease.’ He walked to the chair and sat down elegantly, as if he was doing Lash an immense favor. The Orc sighed and sat on the bed, staring at the elf, his thumb tracing the chain links wrapped around his hands.

     

    It was an uncomfortable silence. The elf now really looked like an assassin, that shy mask from before was truly gone, and Lash had no idea how to feel about that. There was something highly unnerving about the Altmer, and he had noticed in the morning, but now with all the different clothes and the blade on his hip it became even more prominent.

     

    ‘Do you sleep with those?’ Doll broke the silence, pointing.

     

    Lash followed his gaze to his hands, to the chain hanging between his wrists, to the polished chain links without a trace of rust. His chin worked. He unwrapped the chain from his right hand and then wrapped it back around his left forearm. A ten-pertan chain, all of it coiled around his arm. His only possession, his constant reminder. It was his weapon of choice, while at the same time it was a prison of his own making, both physically and mentally. ‘Sadly yes. Helps me fall asleep. Doesn’t help with maintaining the sleep though.’

     

    He shook his head. Part of him knew he should be careful around the assassin, vigilant even, and yet there was nothing threatening about the Altmer now. He seemed almost… open. But he knew the elf was dangerous. He could feel it in his bones. It didn’t make much sense. He cleared his throat. ‘How did it go with the...misdirection, Dol-’ he paused, almost saying the name the shadow gave to the boy and then he snorted. ‘No, not going to call you that. Sounds so… unseemly. You must have an actual name - or is that something I’m not supposed to know?’

     

    ‘That misdirection went according to plan, but there were complications later.’ Doll looked him straight in the eye, completely sidestepping the second question. ‘Mister Sticker told me to inform you that there was a hunting party in the tunnels, following the trail.’

     

    Lash froze, clenching his hands into fists. Shit! The slaves! We can’t let… He paused, repeating that sentence in his mind. ‘Was?’ he asked out loud and the boy smiled just a little.

     

    ‘Yes. They have been dealt with. Mister Sticker said, however, that you should prepare the slaves for departure. The slavers will eventually find this place and Mister Sticker seems to hope he will find this… Baker first. My appearance today should still draw a substantial number of the hunters towards the port district, but they will likely notice the absence of one hunting party.’

     

    Lash looked at his fists and slowly opened them, staring at his open hands, part of him hoping he would find some kind of answer there, some kind of map or instructions telling him what to do or where to go. Because he felt like he was about to jump out of his skin. Restless. This waiting was slowly becoming more and more problematic for him than he’d expected. All he could do was stay with the slaves while the shadow and this assassin did all the work. Because of his mistake. He felt useless, redundant.

     

    'It must be so hard holding the lives of these slaves in your hands..,’ the boy said gently, leaning forward a bit. ‘Such responsibility can be quite a heavy burden.’

     

    ‘Maybe it was a mistake,’ Lash muttered, sighing. ‘What I did. But it still was the right thing to do. Maybe I’m just trying to convince myself, or maybe it is simply the truth. None of them,’ he pointed towards the door out of his room, to where the freed slaves were sleeping, ‘deserved what the slavers had in store for them. Nobody deserves that,’ he added in almost a whisper. ‘We have freed them, and I believe - I have to believe - that it was the right thing to do, that it was right for them and… right for me.’ He then shook his head and chuckled. ‘The shadow would be laughing into my face by now.’

     

    At the mention of the shadow the boy’s eyes darted to the wall behind Lash, which was completely devoid of the Orc’s shadow even though the lantern on the desk was right in front of him. He lifted his hand and wiggled his fingers, watching the wall out of the corner of his eye. ‘Strange, I know. It used to unsettle me, when even my own shadow was taken away from me.’

     

    ‘And now?’ the elf asked. Lash looked at him, smirking.

     

    ‘Now when I cast a shadow I know I’m not alone.’

     

    ‘Being alone…’ the boy murmured, a flicker of something appearing in the deepest point of his eyes. ‘...really is the worst feeling in the world, isn’t it?’

     

    ‘Alone and living a life without meaning.’ Lash nodded, quite surprised by himself. He was about to explain his reasoning and opened his mouth, but then he paused, closing it again. He frowned and looked at the elf. ‘I have seen broken people before - even considered myself one too, once upon a time. But you… What happened to you?’

     

    There was the tiniest reaction, almost like a spasm running over the elf’s facial muscles. If he hadn’t been looking for it he wouldn’t have noticed. It made Lash wonder. And then it faded, along with whatever spark had been fizzling in his eyes.

     

    ‘Broken?’ the boy said. ‘Ah, yes. You were a slave once, were you not?’

     

    Avoiding the question again. ‘I think you can guess that from the whip marks on my back pretty easily. But yes, I was. And I had been broken once. Even hollow for a time, swallowed by this void inside me, dousing the fire that made me who I was. And when you treated my wound, I now know it was just an act. Is this another act? A mask? How many masks are there, I wonder.’

     

    ‘Only slightly more than the average individual, Mister Grulmar,’ the elf said, smiling. Again, the smile was pleasant enough to look at, but-

     

    ‘You know, what’s the point of smiling if you don’t mean it?’ Lash said, a little irritated.

     

    Doll tilted his head the other way, absolutely nothing on his face now as he studied him like a particularly interesting stuffed animal,. Lash was beginning to see how apt the name was. Unfeeling and static, like a porcelain doll one could find hanging on display in a store window. ‘A smile is a useful tool in a conversation, indicating vary degrees of respect and intimacy. I was simply being polite, Mister Grulmar.’

     

    The Orc blinked a few times and rubbed his temples, frustrated. Excessive politeness could get on people’s nerves as easily as outright rudeness. ‘A tool,’ he murmured. ‘A tool is not so different from a slave. Except that the tool can’t think for itself, form thoughts or emotions, while the slave can. The slave just decides not to do that - out of fear. Fear of punishment, fear of...abandonment. Fear of his purpose being taken away from him. Do you see yourself as a tool then? As a slave?’

     

    Doll continued looking at him, still without a trace of emotion. ‘Mister Grulmar,’ he said. ‘You are remarkably astute.’

     

    ‘And you are extraordinarily evasive,’ Lash snorted, shaking his head. ‘No wonder the shadow doesn’t trust you.’ He could feel his own eyes widen right after he said that, realising that his mouth had been faster than his mind. Shit! You are turning into Sticker.

     

    ‘He talks with you often,’ the elf stated.

     

    The Orc looked away and grunted.

     

    ‘Mhmm. We may have known each other for barely a day, but I find myself becoming rapidly entranced by your eloquence,’ Doll said dryly.

     

    Lash grunted again, just to see if that perfect porcelain sheen might finally crack.

     

    ‘I see Mister Sticker is the more coherent one.’

     

    ‘Apparently,’ the Orc bared his tusks, leaning a bit closer. He could feel the sutures on his back stretching and eventually splitting, but that only made him grimace even more. ‘Why don’t you ask him about that? I’m sure he would have plenty to say.’

     

    ‘Mister Sticker is rather busy at the moment. It’s just the two of us now…’ Doll’s voice was coy. He got up from the chair and sat down on the bed next to Lash, their thighs brushing together.

     

    ‘Uh,’ he said, quite uncomfortable with how close they were. ‘What the tusk are you doing?’ The elf laid a soft palm on his shoulder, his unnatural fragrance surrounding him as he slid his smooth hand down- ‘H-Hey! What’s your-’

     

    ‘Your wound has reopened,’ Doll said serenely, his breath making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in alarm. ‘You’re bleeding.’

     

    Oh.

     

    ‘What did you think I was about to do?’ The elf sounded amused.

     

    ‘Kill me?!’

     

    ‘Mhmm.’ Doll made that sound again, with the back of his throat and his nose. It was a sensual noise, almost seductive. The couple in the alley leapt unbidden to his thoughts and he found himself wondering if they were still going at it. ‘How delightfully innocent. Now turn around… and hold still.’ He pulled Lash’s shirt off.

     

    ‘What the tusk-’

     

    The elf poked his back a couple of times, then tore out the stitches.

     

    ‘Gah! You could’ve said something-’

     

    Then the elf gave the small of his back a hard slap. He was much stronger than he looked.

     

    ‘Ahhh! What was that for?’ He twisted and glared at him, his eyes smarting.

     

    ‘Oh, nothing,’ Doll said innocuously. ‘It’s just that you have such firm muscles. It makes me want to-’

     

    ‘Don’t say it!’ the Orc growled. This couldn’t get any more awkward…

     

    ‘Yes, yes. Now don’t move, I’m about to put my finger in you.’

     

    What?!’

     

    ‘Don’t worry, Mister Grulmar, I promise it only hurts a little in the beginning.’

     

    ‘Now hold on just a minute-’

     

    Doll stuck a finger right into the wound and he winced. Then a curious tingling spread across his back and he twitched.

     

    ‘Keep… still,’ the elf said, apparently concentrating. ‘This shouldn’t take too long; the cut is quite shallow.’

     

    It was getting hard to keep himself from scratching, but the Orc endured the sensation - he could actually feel his flesh knitting back together, almost as if something was forcing them to. Whatever Doll was doing was different from a healer’s soothing magic, and Lash didn’t like it. It felt invasive and wrong.

     

    ‘So tell me. How long have you and Mister Sticker been… together?’

     

    Lash bared his tusks, forcing himself not to turn around. The way the elf said it, it was obviously just another provocation. And it worked. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’ he growled again.

     

    ‘Mister Sticker talks a great deal, but says very little. Since I am healing your wound we could keep the conversation going, and this is as good a topic as any other.’

     

    Well, Sticker must have had his reasons not to explain things about himself to this assassin. But the truth was that if they didn’t start trusting each other at least a little, this… alliance could crumble before it even started. He sighed. ‘Six years. Maybe seven,’ he answered Doll’s question.

     

    ‘Is it difficult to remember the exact time?’

     

    ‘No, not exactly that. It’s… It’s been a bit over six years since he talked to me at first, but he did mention he was stuck here a while before that. It just took him quite some time until he learned how to talk, and even when he did it wasn’t exactly easy to understand.’ Yes, nowadays it was definitely an improvement from the early months of Sticker screaming and whispering at the same time.

     

    ‘That seems to imply that he did not really know what he was doing. So the way he moves between shadows, how he can manipulate his own form into three-dimensional constructs... he needed to learn that. Is there anything else he can do? What about the way he sees or hears? Did he ever explain that?’

     

    ‘He’s not exactly sharing in this regard,’ Lash grunted, trying not to move. ‘All I know is that he doesn’t have to sleep, requires no food, and is capable of seeing everything in his immediate vicinity, in all directions, at the same time.’

     

    ‘And has Mister Sticker ever touched upon the subject how he came to be… whatever he is?’

     

    ‘Oh, yes. Several times,’ Lash snickered. ‘He said that he bungled up something yet again. And that’s pretty much everything he said.’

     

    ‘He sounds like an Orc. That seems to suggest he was not always in this state, that he had...existed in a humanoid body. Could he be some sort of a wraith or a ghost?’ The elf’s voice was changing, sounding more thoughtful, inquisitive, even. Not just an assassin… but probably some kind of scholar as well.

     

    ‘The result of a curse?’ Doll continued. ‘No, no such case has ever been documented by any of the major Tamriellian research institutions… But he said it happened by accident, yes? Maybe a failed experiment of some kind? Or a spell backfiring? Has he ever mentioned if he studied arcane techniques?’

     

    ‘No,’ Lash frowned, twitching a little as the wound began itching even more now. ‘But he seems to know a great deal about magic. And most of everything else. Like a person who reads… read a lot of books. And then there are these strange… mentions or hints - not sure what to call them. He keeps repeating things like: “Not from here,” or “Where I’m from,” or sometimes even “This world,” when he finds something strange.’

     

    ‘Curious... it could imply he is from one of the planes of Oblivion. Perhaps he is a daedra? But that does not correspond with his Orcish speech patterns. Very little about him suggests he is an immortal being from outer planes. Indeed, his behaviour seems consistent with that of a conventional Tamriellian.’

     

    ‘Whatever you say,’ Lash said, still resisting the urge to scratch. ‘Hey, are you almost done yet?’

     

    ‘The wound?’ Doll said. ‘I was done three minutes ago.’

     

    ‘...eh?’

     

    ‘Here, your shirt, Mister Grulmar.’

     

    Lash grunted and pulled it back over his head. ‘Thanks.’

     

    ‘You are welcome. Now your mobility is unrestricted.’

     

    ‘Right,’ Lash drew in a breath, got off the bed - Doll made a show of being disappointed - and stood up, his arms crossed. ‘So. Your turn. I’ve told you quite a bit about myself and the shadow, it’s only fair.’

     

    ‘Fair?’ The boy almost sounded like he was scoffing. ‘After all that you have seen of the world, Mister Grulmar, you still have it in you to demand fairness?’

     

    ‘Yes,’ Lash said defiantly, almost daring him to argue. ‘We are cooperating, after all. There has to be some give-and-take. And no more misdirections, distractions, or avoiding the question. Let’s start with your name.’

     

    The elf tapped his chin for a while, chewing on his lower lip.

     

    ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You may call me Alois.’

     

    Lash scowled. ‘Is that your real name? It doesn’t sound like it.’

     

    ‘It is one of my real names. And it is a name I can use for legal purposes.’

     

    ‘All right, fine,’ Lash grumbled, unsatisfied. ‘Let’s try something else, then. Who are you working for?’

     

    ‘I…’ And then the elf smiled. It might have been a trick of the light, and nothing he had seen of the assassin so far seemed to suggest he was even capable of feeling anything like that, but for a brief moment, what might have been happiness and pride flashed through Alois’ eyes. ‘We are working with the Empire.’

     

    Lash stood there as he processed the information. ‘We’. There were more of them. And ‘with’. Not ‘for’.

     

    ‘Who… are you?’ he wondered.

     

    The assassin glided over to the window, a low chuckle building in his throat.

     

    ‘Stick around, Mister Grulmar,’ he said. ‘You may just find out.’

     

    And then he was gone, leaving only the chill night breeze blowing in his wake.

     

    Lash looked around the room and narrowed his eyes. All right. That was something. But speaking of sticking around…

     

    ‘Alois’ hadn’t come in just to flirt and heal his back. It was time to get the slaves ready to move.

     

    Sighing, he shrugged on his coat and pushed out of his room.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

Comments

2 Comments   |   Justiciar Thorien and 1 other like this.
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  November 9, 2018
    Great read, gentlemen. Harrow was appropriately creepy with Lash and I enjoyed their interactions. Lash is like an awesome hybrid of Grulmar and Aelberon and it's quite cool. Mr. Sticker is his typical bungling self but damn, how poingant was that scene i...  more
    • Karver the Lorc
      Karver the Lorc
      The Long-Chapper
      The Long-Chapper
      The Long-Chapper
      Great read, gentlemen. Harrow was appropriately creepy with Lash and I enjoyed their interactions. Lash is like an awesome hybrid of Grulmar and Aelberon and it's quite cool. Mr. Sticker is his typical bungling self but damn, how poingant was that scene i...  more
        ·  November 11, 2018
      Glad you enjoying the mix of characters, Lis. And thank you. :)
      How many chapters? Hmm. I think that we shouldn't go over 10. I think. We'll see, I guess. :)