Elder Scroll series 1. Shackled Hell

**A story I've had in my mind for a while now, which I hope you'll like.**

He'd always felt safe in the Flagon.

The feeling was ridiculous, he knew. But the Flagon and the dank, dripping tunnels of the Ratway had never failed to fill him with a sense of, if not comfort, then at least security.

Among thieves and vermin in the dark, you knew the score. You made enemies, or you made temporary allies. Sometimes both at the same time, in the same exchange.

You didn't waste time praying to deaf Divines who didn't give a damn about you or your suffering.

He hadn't spared a moment to think of the gods above in years. The odd curse or relieved expulsion of gratitude didn't exactly count as devotion. Nothing about the Divines had called to him since he was a child begging for scraps.

Either way, the filth of the Ratway was home.

Maybe the darkness had always drawn him in. Maybe it was the freedom to come and go as he pleased. Maybe it was because he could always hear someone coming from the wet splash they made on the ground.

Well, _almost_ always.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Honestly, for all his skills and experience, he'd never seen the bastards coming.

How three Altmer, two in gleaming golden armor, had snuck into the Ratway, unnoticed by anyone, was beyond him. How they came into Riften without word spreading like wildfire was a mystery to him. It hadn't made sense at the time.

No, it wasn't until he'd been hanging by his wrists for what he assumed to be days that he began to figure it out.

Altmer would have never been allowed to walk about Riften unchecked if someone wasn't protecting them. Just like _someone_ protected the Thieves Guild. The same someone who regularly boasted about how many connections she had in the Empire and other regions. The same someone who _owned_ Riften and the entire hold.

He didn't have to think long, but still felt foolish for not seeing it immediately.

Then again, it was amazing he realized it as soon as he did. The frequent knocks to the head and blood loss weren't helping his head.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

An old man in the Ratway? How in Oblivion was he supposed to know if some loon in the sewers was the man they wanted?

He asked them that himself, but was quickly informed that answering a question with another question wasn't polite. The punishment for it was a kick in the stomach.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

It seemed impossible that the knife could still hurt at this point. Shouldn't he have developed immunity to the pain by now?

Why did every slash have to feel like the first time he'd ever been cut?

"You know the rules…"

Yes, yes. He knew the rules.

"You only speak to answer the question…"

He'd just _given_ them the answer.

"…lack of cooperation..."

_I can't tell you what I don't know!_

"…next time…"

_Please…please… Akatosh, Mara, Arkay..._

_"_...do better..."

_Stendarr, oh gods, merciful Stendarr, please..._

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

How did he still have enough blood to keep his body going?

Oh yes, that's right. They had an infinite supply of weak healing potions and salty, mushy bread to keep him alive.

He liked it when they let him sleep. He dreamed about the Flagon. He dreamed about the beautiful lake and mountains near Riften.

Sometimes, after a particularly awful session, he would dream about the dragons.

It had been shortly before he was taken that the dragons had returned. He'd heard the old men on the mountain call down for some Dragonborn or other Nordic nonsense.

He'd heard rumors that it had turned out to be a woman. And not only that, but she was of mixed race.

All the Stormcloak supporters and die-hard Nords in Riften and eastern Skyrim had nearly suffered heart attacks at the news.

But whether or not the Dragonborn was real, the dragons definitely were.

Had it been two, or three days before they took him that he saw one? He couldn't remember. Maybe it had been longer. His sense of time wasn't particularly great at this point.

But he could remember the creature's black outline against the bright blue sky, and he could remember the shriek it gave that reached all the way to Riften.

Luckily for them all the beast had stayed away.

Though sometimes, in his dreams, a strange, silent dragon would swoop down upon him, and watch him as he lay helpless. It never cried out, and it never blinked.

He was surrounded by nine glowing figures, each hazy and blurred. The dragon was the only thing that stayed in focus, the only thing that approached.

The figures all seemed to nod in agreement, and then the dragon would react.

And always, he would reach out as it opened its maw, wide and terrible, to engulf him in darkness…


	2. Desperate Entreaties

_Divines…the Eight…_

"Stop. _Please._ I don't know anything else. Don't you think I'd have told you already?"

He was rewarded with a quick punch to the face for his plea.

_The Nine…_

"Silence. You know the rules. Do not speak unless spoken to. Master Rulindil will ask the questions."

The aforementioned Master sat where he always did. His quill twirled in his fingers as he wrote.

"Let's begin again."

He let out a strangled gasp as his jaw pulsed painfully.

_Whichever you really are…_

"No… for pity's sake," he moaned.

"You know the rules."

"I've already told you everything," he pleaded as the armored elf approached him again. "_No!_"

_I know I haven't kept you as I should have…but please…_

His screams mattered little as the elf smash his head back against the wall.

_Mercy… judgment…anything…_

He slumped forward, stars dancing in front of his eyes. His head ached, and his hands felt numb from the constant suspension. Even if they let him down one day, he doubted he would ever be able to pick a lock again. Surely the cuffs had done permanent damage.

"Start at the beginning, as usual."

He inhaled a shaky breath, trying to collect his thoughts. His jaw was so sore he doubted they would be able to understand him.

He heard the interrogator sigh.

"If you persist in this stubbornness," he began.

"No! Wait! I was just," he paused to inhale, "catching my breath."

"I'll have to-"

"Why wouldn't I tell you again? I don't even _know_ anything…"

_Anything but this…_

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

He hated them all. Every time the armored elf approached him with his little dagger he wanted to spit on him. But he'd already done that once, and having a dagger plunged into your stomach wasn't an experience he wanted to repeat. Luckily, or unluckily, he supposed, they were quite adept at healing spells.

Healing spells and potions don't take away the memory of pain, however.

He spoke haltingly, hating his own weakness as tears and sweat traveled down his face.

He'd told them the story _over_ and _over_ again. Why wouldn't they just leave him be? Free him or kill him?

He sobbed as the Altmer came after him with the dagger again, this time carving his left side. Blood wept from the side of his ribs and coated his rags, already heavily saturated from previous sessions.

"That will be all for now. I must say I continue to be disappointed in your lack of cooperation. I hope next time you will do better."

Desperation crawled up his throat, and for a moment he felt that he would be sick.

"What else do you want from me?" he wept, trying not to pull on his left side. They hadn't bothered to heal him yet. Maybe this time they'd let him die. "I've already told you everything. Listen," he entreated as the Master began to leave, "if you let me go I can take you to Riften, show you where-"

A choke yell echoed around the chamber as the knife swiped across his left side again, creating a grotesque X with the previous cut.

"_Silence_, prisoner."

The damned Altmer both left, splashing a healing potion across his side. He grunted at the burning sensation.

_Death, freedom, Oblivion, anything!_

He tried to hold back his tears, born of both pain and misery. They fell uselessly onto the ripped and bloodied trousers his tormentors allowed him.

His chest and back were littered with slashes and scars, scabs overlapping and tearing if he moved too much.

He was hoping to have a few moments to sleep before someone came back. An hour's rest would feel like heaven.

As he took a final, shuddering breath to get control of himself, he heard it.

A gentle, light footstep traversing the room.

Glancing up slightly, he nearly wept to see a pair of golden, pointed boots moving quickly, and quietly, across the floor.

He pretended to be asleep as he heard what sounded like a chest opening, and a ruffle of paper.

Finally, he heard the boots approach him, and held his breath when a hand went for his neck.

The bare fingers were warm, and rested at his pulse for a few moments before withdrawing.

_Oh yes, dog, I'm still alive. The Divines won't just take me already._

The figure's armor whined quietly as they crouched in front of him.

"I told you," he sighed, "I don't know anything else about it."

_Maybe they'll finally kill me._

"I'm not here to torture you."

He looked up hesitantly, his eyelids drooping and head rushing slightly from the effort.

"What?"

Focusing on their face, he gaped stupidly for a moment, his mouth open in confusion.

The figure, despite wearing a full ensemble of elven armor, was most definitely not a mer.

Her pale face was framed by the elven helmet, but dark hair flowed out the back. Her eyes, though he could not make out the color, were distinctly human.

His vision swam and he dropped his head once more.

"Who… what do you want then?"

He was having trouble staying conscious. He needed another healing potion, another spell, some food, something!

"No time to explain," the woman whisper, and he felt vibrations travel through the shackle on his right arm. It gave way with a click, and his arm fell limp at his side. The left soon followed suit, and he pitched forward into the imposter's arms. He stared at the woman in disbelief for a few moments as she leaned him back against the wall, terrified to even hope.

"We have to get out of here," she clarified slowly, as if he were a child. He flinched into the wall when her bare hands touched his chest, so used to pain and knives that everything else seemed foreign. He watched a golden glow appear around her fingers, and when the magic reached out to caress his side, he sank back against the wooden paneling in relief.

She tended to him for a few moments longer, and suddenly the tip of a bottle was pressing against his lips. He drank it after a moment's hesitation, recognizing the sweet taste of a healing remedy.

"Can you walk?"

He stretched out a leg, testing both it and his arms as he climbed up the wall.

"I-I think so."

He stumbled toward the cage door, nearly collapsing until she caught him around the waist.

"Let's get out of here," she mumbled, pushing the door open and leading him toward the stairs.

"No, go that way," he whispered, pointing past his former cell. I've seen the guards use it to get rid of bodies." She looked at him with one eyebrow raised, and he shrugged helplessly. "It must lead somewhere."

"Possibly. Or it's just a pit full of corpses, and we'll be cornered like rats."

She leaned him against a wall for a moment, and he found, to his relief, that he could steady himself without her assistance.

She replaced her elven gloves, carefully drawing her bow.

"You might need to run on your own. How are your legs?"

"They'll do. I'm not staying here another minute."

The woman merely nodded. She turned to face the upper landing, quickly shooing him with her hand.

Disturbed and anxious, he moved toward the small wooden opening, tugging the iron handle.

"Oblivion take us, we need to unlock the door," he hissed, leaning back around the corner.

His eyes became very wide when he saw the two Altmer and a wood elf leaning over the railing.

"Listen up, _spy_. You're trapped in here, and _we_ have your accomplice."

Panicking, he ducked back behind the wall, slipping slightly in the mess of blood and bones beneath his feet. He fought down the urge to retch, holding his breath as he considered his options.

"Surrender immediately, or you both die!"

"Stay back there," he heard her whisper, and shortly after he heard the distinctive _swish_ of an arrow flying from its string.

A voice cried out, followed by an ominous thud.

"_Malborn, run!"_

He angled his head around the corner, watching as the woman unleashed a bolt of lightning toward the landing.

_Divines help me…_


	3. Hell Hole

He watched as the Altmer in the Thalmor robes stumbled into the wall, struggling to move past the force of the lightening spell. His partner launched a frost spell into the room below, and he ducked away into the inlet once more.

There were a series of crashes and shouts as lightening and frost blew past him, ripping and freezing the door to his cage and wooden floorboards.

_I'm going to die here after all, _he cursed, trying to call on his old skills in magic to defend himself.

But potions and healing spells aside, he was still horribly weak. The flames that sparked in his hands held steady, but he felt his magicka draining rapidly.

Destruction magic had never been his _forte_.

He cut the flames, readying his fists for a fight.

He wasn't going to Oblivion now, not when he'd started to hope.

At least, he wasn't going without a fight.

The sounds of battle drew closer, and with a quick glance, he saw the dark haired woman fighting both a Thalmor wizard and soldier.

Whipping his head back around the corner, he heard a loud scream of agony, the voice distinctly female.

His fists twitched spastically, eyes clenching shut for a moment in despair.

It had been two against one. Surely his rescuer had just met her end.

He heard a voice shout out, and his throat clenched at her words.

"Over there, beyond that wall!"

He backed up against the wall, readying himself for the end.

Moments later, a wood elf flew into view, landing with a thud atop the trapdoor.

The elf scrambled to his feet, crying out in disgust when he realized what he was lying in.

"Oh, _gods_. These monsters…"

Looking around, the elf finally noticed him standing there.

The Bosmer leapt back with a cry, fumbling for a dagger he'd dropped onto the ground.

Flames burst into his hands, causing the wood elf to leap back in fear before he took a closer look at the apparent mage.

"Wait a second, you're human!"

"That's right, _elf_, and I'm not going back into that cage without a _fight-"_

"No, no, I'm not one of them!" The elf replied, hurriedly holding up his empty hands. "I just made the stupid mistake of helping _her._" He jerked his thumb behind him, where a few, lingering movements could be heard.

"Why would you-" he began, but was cut off by another voice.

"Both of you, out of my way!"

He wanted to weep in relief when he saw his savior come around the corner, armor bloodied and scratched, but very much alive.

_Maybe I'm getting out of here after all. Maybe the gods listened…_

"Take these," she said, shoving something into his chest.

He grunted and looked down, grimacing when he realized what she'd given him were a pair of boots worn by Thalmor wizards and a white tunic.

He slid the boots on, ignoring the fact that they were still warm.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

He backed away into the wall again, watching as she knelt in front of the door. A brass key glinted in her hand.

"By the gods, you killed them both and looted them for a key," he breathed, his knees giving out as he crawled to the opening.

The door gave out with a resounding click, springing open when she heaved.

"Malborn, you first. Don't wander far. We don't know what's down there."

The wood elf, Malborn, didn't hesitate to leap into the pit.

The woman looked at him, putting a hand on his arm.

"You next. Put on the shirt once you're down. And don't attack each other."

He nodded slightly as he fell down, landing with an aching thud at the bottom.

The smell was the first thing that hit him. He was surrounded by the overpowering aroma of decaying flesh.

He groaned, rising unsteadily to his knees. He slipped the shirt on over his shoulders, grunting as his wounds were pulled.

The gentle sound of boots hitting rock next to him, followed by the resounding bang of the trap door, alerted him that the woman was in as well.

It was dark, eerily so, and the ground was damp. He could only assume what it was.

Firm hands gripped his waist and shoulder, hauling him to his feet. He landed unsteadily, but didn't fall again.

"Now what?" Malborn whispered from somewhere in front of him.

He squinted into the darkness for a moment before a light appeared on his right.

Turning, he saw that the woman had cast a candlelight spell, illuminating them all in a white light.

He made the mistake of looking around for a moment, bile rising in his throat.

The ground was littered with bones and corpses. The trapdoor fell upon an incline, causing most of the bodies to roll away, but some hadn't gotten far.

"We move forward and hope this lets out somewhere," the woman said, pushing past them both into the tunnel.

He and the wood elf moved more slowly, carefully trying to avoid stepping on the dead. They weren't always successful.

"Divines, I can't- this is…" he stuttered, refusing to lower his gaze to the ground. He hustled after the woman, walking directly behind her where the light wasn't shining so brightly.

He couldn't imagine some of the realms in Oblivion being much worse than this.

"It'll be alright," she whispered, and he noticed that she hadn't glanced down for more than a moment.

Before long, they saw a faint orange glow at the end of the tunnel, illuminating a drop off in the path.

This revelation was closely followed by a deep roar which echoed around them.

"Gods, that's a-" Malborn stuttered, leaping against the wall as if he shield himself.

"Troll," the woman finished bitterly, reaching behind her for her crossbow. "Here, she said," and he felt the hilt of a dagger being pressed into his hands. "It won't do you much good against a troll, but it's better than nothing. Malborn, do you still have the dagger you took?"

"Y-yeah, I've got it," Malborn whispered, drawing up an elven dagger. "But, against a troll-"

"Both of you," she whispered so quietly he could barely hear her," are going to stay here until I give the word. I'll try to kill it with my bow. If it's in here, that means there's an exit. When I've got it weak, my magicka should finish it off. If it's particularly strong, I'll yell for you to run for it. Understand?"

He nodded weakly, brandishing the dagger in front of him. It was elven, like Malborn's, he noticed, and he assumed she lifted it off of one of the bodies as well. He swallowed tightly.

"Alright, follow me. Quietly."

She crept forward slowly, bow in hand and arrow across it, as they came closer to the bellows and the light.

After moving at an agonizing pace, they reached the overlook.

Sure enough, a frost troll thundered about the cave, its fists crashing against the rocks in a frenzy. Something long was sticking out of its maw.

"Oh gods…" Malborn moaned. "Woman, are you sure this is-"

"Shh!" she hissed sharply, her elbow bumping his left arm lightly.

He watched as she scanned the cave, barely visible from the light of a torch burning on the ground below. The snow and rocks were painted with something dark and wet.

Bile rose in his throat again, and he wheeled away from the sight, fighting the gorge and failing.

He retched a few feet from them, the sound echoing in the cave.

"Oh gods, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he moaned resting his head against the cool stone wall.

"Shh, calm down. Shh…" Her voice was in his right ear, and her hand found his back. He felt her hand stir with magicka, and his body relaxed. At first he thought she was healing him again, but as his body regained control of itself, he realized she was using illusion magicka. A low level calming spell, most likely.

"Is he going to make it?" Malborn inquired, coming to crouch beside them.

"He'll be fine," she muttered, lifting her hand from his spine.

He stood, his mind at ease, and turned to crouch with the woman and elf again.

The troll stomped and waved its arms, spitting out whatever it had been gnawing on previously. It charged the cliff wall, fists hammering at the ice below them.

"There," she whispered," gesturing to the right of the troll. "I can feel the cold air coming from that direction. It's blowing the flames, see?"

Both men looked down, watching as the flames on the torch flickered and nearly died.

"He's not going to go down easy. And he's not going to let us pass without a fight."

The woman smirked at him, carefully positioning her palm in front of them.

"He might if he's distracted," she muttered, and her palm started to glow."

Alarmed, but not as much as Malborn due to the lingering effects of her spell, he watched as she launched a sphere of light away from them, catching the troll's attention as it flew across the cavern. It landed lightly on a far wall, hovering against it.

The troll bellowed again and ran after it, leaving their immediate drop zone.

"Go, _go!_"

Neither needed to be told twice. All three landed as quietly as they could, slipping slightly on the icy rocks.

"Go up this path, quick!" she ordered, shoving both of them ahead of her.

Malborn ran ahead, panting slightly.

He followed after him, turning back a moment to see the woman readying her bow.

"Are you insane?" he hissed, never pausing as he ran. "Just run!"

The ice beneath him dipped sharply, a dent in the rock formation creating a puddle which had subsequently frozen.

His right leg flew out from underneath him. He did not realize what was happening until his already battered body slammed into the unyielding ice and stone beneath him. The impact caused him to cry out, and deep, resonating sound that drew that attention of the white beast from the luminescent orb above it.

He lay on the ground in a daze for half a second before he realize his body was shifting once again. His back and head had not struck the hard earth because they had landed over the edge of the path. Aforementioned edge was terribly slick with ice and snow, and when he tried to bend his waist and rise, what little balance he'd had was lost.

Yelling out once more in terror, he rolled upside down off the ledge. His back scraped the slope as he rolled, the uneven surface digging painfully into his poorly covered torso. Smacking the back of his head on large chunk of ice at the bottom, his body finally stopped.

Stars exploded before his eyes as he shuddered. Dazed and barely conscious, the woman's light cast rainbows around the cavern.

He tried to focus on it, on something still, when her spell was blocked by a large, hulking mass quickly charging at him.

He shivered once in the icy puddle as blackness swam across his vision.

_I'm going to die in this hell hole_, he realized, tears filling his limited vision. _I will be just another corpse to feed this beast…_

He thought he heard a distant yell, and the terrible creature before him seemed to flinch away, exposing the light once more.

The last thing he saw before the darkness closed in was an enormous wave of fire rushing over him.


	4. Turbulent Sleep

The throbbing of blood rushing in his head woke him.

The waking world steadily became clearer as sounds came into existence and smells wafted through the air.

It took him many minutes to decipher the sounds around him. His head had an agonizing pulse crashing against his skull, and his entire body felt as though it had been trampled by horses.

A particularly nasty spike of pain shot through his side, and he moaned before he could help himself.

Footsteps approached him. He heard the distinctive sound of metaled heels hitting the ground.

_Not again_, he begged, _please, just leave me be_…

He flinched when a warm hand touched his forehead, fingers brushing back his hair.

His body gave a long shudder when something cold and wet fell across brow, giving such blessed relief he shakily exhaled an exclamation of gratitude to the gods.

"I'm sure you're welcome," someone said in reply, so quietly he thought he'd imagined it, until they continued in a soft feminine voice. "At least someone's grateful when they're assisted."

Another voice, one distinctly lower, snapped back.

"Oh, because I should be grateful that you ruined what was left of my life, Miss Almighty Dragonborn?"

The feminine voice sighed.

"I have already said that I am sorry for the way things turned out. And please, keep your voice down. I don't want to alarm him."

There was a scoff from somewhere in front of him, but the room fell silent again.

Gentle fingers were brushing along his side, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He inhaled deeply as the ache in his body began to fade.

"How long do you plan to hide out here?"

It was the male voice from before.

The woman sighed again, and he felt two hands cup the back of his head.

He tensed momentarily out of instinct, until the delicate stirrings of restoration magic caressed his throbbing cranium. He exhaled shakily and shivered.

"I'm hardly in hiding here, Malborn. This is my home. I am Thane of this hold. I may go anywhere I please within this city."

One of the hands left the back of his head to focus on his left ribs.

"_You_, as my guest, are also extended that courtesy. Besides," the woman added lightly, "Solitude is an enormous city. The Thalmor won't look here too closely. They'll think we're long gone, as far from the embassy as we can be.

His thoughts buzzed with the information being presented to him as he tried to break the barrier keeping him for full consciousness.

"_You_ might be able to go anywhere with confidence, but I don't exactly have the courage at this point." The man was talking again. "You're well known here. You're well known in this hold. Gods, you're well known in the entire _country_. I, on the other hand, am a random wood elf no one knows. I would stick out like a sore thumb. And if I were seen with you, the _Dragonborn_ and _Thane_, it would be enough to make people curious."

One of those healing hands was caressing his forehead again, and he tilted his face against it.

_Please don't stop_, he silently begged, _it still hurts so damn much…_

"Well then, it's fortunate for you nearly no one saw us enter the city," the woman replied. "At any rate, those who did seemed much more interested in this fellow than you."

There was a pause, and then the man spoke again.

"It was a damn miracle we got into the city at all, the three of us covered in blood and him looking like he was at death's door. The guards certainly won't forget that sight. And if the Thalmor come asking questions-"

"Those guards were so deep in their cups that they didn't even realize it was their Thane requesting the gates be opened. I doubt they'll be of much use to the Thalmor."

No one spoke for a moment, until the woman spoke again a little more coldly.

"Would you have honestly preferred that I left him to die in that cave?"

The male voice did not reply immediately.

"At the time it didn't seem like he was going to make it. I didn't mean to sound heartless, Aneira," he said in a softer tone. "I was scared out of my mind. First the Thalmor dragged me into the torture room, and then we landed in a frost troll's cave. All I wanted to do was survive the night."

The female did not respond.

"I'm sorry I said to leave him behind. Although," he said pointedly, "I didn't know of your skill with restoration magic at the time. He seemed like a goner."

The woman gave a small noise of acknowledgement.

"It does seem like a miracle though," she said quietly.

'What does?"

"That he managed to hold on for all this time. He was in terrible shape when I first found him in that cell."

The man responded after a moment, but changed the subject.

"What do we do with now, Aneira? Where do we go?"

The woman said nothing.

"I need to get out of here, Dragonborn. They won't ever stop hunting me now. Maybe after a few years it will let up, but it won't ever disappear."

"I know, Malborn," she said quietly. "But please, one step at a time. We'll all leave Solitude when the time is right. For now," she took her hands away from his body, and he groaned involuntarily at the loss off magicka.

Fingers smoothed his brow line and resumed their treatment after a moment, much to his relief.

"Write a letter to Delphine. Simply address it to the Sleeping Giant Inn. Say you'll be coming to rent the attic room as soon as possible. She'll understand. Sign it with some generic sounding name…"

The two voices continued, but the darkness pressed in on his mind again, and he drifted off without much of a struggle.

IIIIIIIIII

In his dreams, he rode on the back of a great winged beast, soaring up out of his cage and into the night sky. He screamed in excitement and terror, his cry echoed by that of the dragon beneath him. The creatures head turned to stare at him, rendering him motionless with it's large, piercing violet eyes, like the color of the world when the last touch of sunlight disappeared over the mountains.

IIIIIIIIIIII

He could not be certain for how long he dreamt, or what time or day it was when he finally found the strength to open his eyes.

He blinked for several moments, his eyes watering at the light shining on his face.

To his right, he saw a figure move closer, and felt a hand rest on his forehead.

As the world came into focus once more, she smiled gently.

He stared, transfixed, as a golden light enveloped his face.

She said nothing, her attention focused on the spell she was casting.

He said nothing as he watched her face, fighting the urge to slip into sleep again.

Finally, after many long minutes, she paused to brush his hair out of his face.

"Hello," she said softly, "welcome back."

He could not even reply before he sank into sleep again.


	5. Awake at Last

The cool tip of a glass bottle rested against his lips. The pungent odor of a potion wafted into his nostrils. He parted his lips compliantly, accepting the bitter drought.

He inhaled a long steady breath, the first he'd had in weeks that didn't cause his chest to ache terribly.

A cool cloth wiped his forehead, though his headache was almost nonexistent.

Perturbed, he opened his eyes for the second time in what felt like days of dark agony.

The first thing he noticed was the bright sunlight pouring in around him.

Blinking as tears rushed to his sensitive eyes, he tried to take in his surroundings.

The first thing he realized was that he was horizontal. The second was that he was lying in a large four poster bed, complete with warm sheets and dyed blankets.

He blinked hard, dislodging the remaining dampness around his eyes and looking to the left.

He neck was sore, and he closed his eyes, wincing. Opening them again, he saw a large wooden bookshelf, its shelves filled to the brim with small bottles of red and blue.

Turning to look the other direction, he gave a startled cry to see a woman sitting not far from him.

Without thinking, he twisted his torso, attempting to crawl away from her.

Pain shot through him, his skin protesting further action.

With a pained yelp he collapsed against the pillows again, breathing heavily.

The woman stood, and he tensed, watching her carefully. He clenched his fists beneath the blankets, willing sparks, flames, anything to come to life.

The woman held both hands up, palms facing outward.

"Calm down," she said softly, walking around to the front of the bed.

He watched her, waiting for destruction or illusion spells to appear on her fingertips. Neither appeared, but he sank deeper into the soft bed, bracing himself for an attack.

The woman came around the other side of the bed, palms now emitting the golden glow of restoration.

"You are not in danger here," she said firmly, reaching out toward his forehead.

"Don't touch me," he began, but whimpered at the feel of her magicka, calming the dull throbbing in his head.

The golden tendrils extended down his neck, grazing his chest.

"Relax," she ordered, albeit softly.

He kept his eyes on her, studying her face as best he could.

As her magicka cleared the fog away from his mind, her dark hair and face sparked his memory.

"You-you're the one from before," he whispered. She smiled gently, pulling down the blankets.

He shivered as cool air hit his flesh, watching her hands as they hovered above his scarred torso.

"What is your name?"

Her voice was soft, soothing. She lowered her palms over his wounds.

"E-Etienne," he whispered, warily watching as her fingers glided over the lacerations.

She nodded slowly, starring fixedly at his injuries.

"Where did you see me?"

He looked at her, confused. Had he been dreaming? Was he dreaming now?

"In… in that room, with _them_," he hissed harshly, fists clenching again.

She watched him, frowning slightly before inquiring further.

"Who are 'them?'"

"I… weren't you there? Am I going mad?"

Etienne felt the throbbing in his head return, and closed his eyes to block out the harsh sunlight.

Her cool fingers returned with their wonderful healing spell, and he felt the pressure in his skull lessen.

"Just focus on the questions. It will all come back if you let it. Now," she paused, her other hand continuing its work at his side, "who are 'them?'"

"The Thalmor," he whispered, his gut clenching at the memory.

"Where did you see the Thalmor?"

"That room…in the cell… where was it?"

He closed his eyes in thought, trying to remember if he'd ever known where he was.

"Do you how long you were there?"

She ceased her ministrations, placing a cloth against the side of his neck.

He hadn't realized that he was perspiring so badly.

"No," Etienne mumbled, licking his lips. Despite the healing potion he'd just consumed, he was parched.

"A moment," she said, relinquishing the cloth and moving to the shelf.

She turned quickly, offering him another bottle.

Water slowly trailed into his mouth. He tried to reach up and grab the bottle away from her, to drink it quickly, but a hand held his left arm firmly on the bed.

"Not too much at once," she chided, lifting the bottle away for him to breathe, "You'll make yourself ill."

He swallowed carefully, taking a deep breath before nodding for more.

She leaned over him carefully, brushing his damp hair away from his face.

"Etienne, do you remember how you met me?"

He stared into her eyes, his brow creasing as he focused.

She placed both palms on the sides of his head, and he was immersed in golden light. It framed her face, shining around her like a helmet.

"You broke in," he breathed in disbelief. "Wherever I was, you broke in. I remember…" he paused, closing his eyes as the images washed through his sore head, "you got me out of the chains."

She nodded, watching him.

Etienne tried to lean up, shifting his arms beneath him to lift himself from the pillows.

The pulling sensation at his side caused him to groan and abandon the attempt.

"Lie still," she commanded, a strict tone entering her voice.

"Yeah, no kidding," he mumbled, fingers feeling along the ridges lining his side.

"I have dealt with them as well as I am able. There has been no infection."

He looked at her, standing over him with hands constantly healing.

He remembered what she had been wearing when she freed him; a complete set of elven armor.

He recalled how she'd battle Thalmor agents and completely annihilated them, despite being out numbered.

And dimly, Etienne remembered walking through a terrible, cold tunnel, wearing borrowed clothes and wielding only a dagger, before coming across a troll.

"The troll," he grunted, causing her to glance at him, "what happened?"

She did not answer him immediately, and, agitated, Etienne reached up to grab one of her wrists.

"We were in that cave. I remembered the troll, and trying to escape, but then…"

He shook his head wearily, frustration bubbling up at his failure to remember.

"It's a haze, after that. I keep seeing its face near to mine, but other than that, nothing."

She gave a _humph_ of laughter at that, and he glared at her.

"I don't see what could possibly be funny about this situation."

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye before turning back to the bookshelf.

He watched, brow furrowed, as she drank a magicka potion, then another.

Belatedly, he realized she must have been spending all her magicka on healing him for some time now.

And he hadn't exactly thanked her.

"You-" Etienne began, but was interrupted.

"You can't remember what happened after that because you were unconscious," she stated matter-of-factly. "You took a pretty bad hit to the head, on top of… everything else you were suffering from." She shook he head slightly. "Blood loss, lacerations, malnourishment, and very little cover in a freezing cave. And to top it off, you cracked you skull on a chunk of ice."

She looked at him, a small smile pulling at her lips.

"Your will to live is tenacious, I'll give you that."

IIIIIIII

They spoke little after that, Etienne preferring to rest his beleaguered body without the effort of speech.

She said nothing outside of inquiring where he still felt pain.

Eventually, his body grew too weak to remain conscious.

She gave him one last drink of water and a healing potion before allowing him to sleep.

When he woke, the sun was no longer in the sky. The room had grown chillier, though another fur blanket had been laid on the bed.

And, instead of his dark-haired savior, there was a blonde woman in golden armor sitting at the door.

Alarmed, Etienne shifted beneath the covers, coming to sit against the headboard.

His torso ached only slightly at the movement, much to his relief.

The blonde woman stood at his movement, standing tall enough to nearly fill the door frame.

"Are you well, sir?"

She spoke clearly, with a calm demeanor. The sword at her side, however, and armor on her body were enough to worry him.

"Who are you?" Etienne blurted out with no hesitation, looking quickly around the room.

The woman raised her head, chin in the air.

"I am Jordis the Sword Maiden, housecarl to Proudspire Manor under the command of the Thane of Haafingar. I have been charged with guarding you in my Thane's absence."

Etienne simply blinked at her, a little wide eyed.

The housecarl continued without much of a pause.

"My Thane has also informed me that you are recovering from substantial bodily trauma, and are not to exert yourself. Now," the housecarl approached him quickly, standing at the side of the bed. He resisted the urge to roll away, knowing he wouldn't get very far. "My Thane Aneira has requested that you have something to eat, if you are feeling able. So," she peered down at him, "would you like to eat?"

Mouth hanging open a bit stupidly, his stomach answered for him with a large, embarrassing growl.

The housecarl's lips twitched.

"Your body is still in recovery; therefore you may not have any heavy foods. I shall bring you a light meal."

Jordis turned and headed for the door, stopping in the entrance when he finally found his voice again.

"Wait!" Etienne yelled, sitting up straight again.

The housecarl turned to look at him.

"I don't-Where _am I_?" Etienne stuttered, frustration and confusion evident in his sore voice.

The housecarl stared at him for a long moment, her brow furrowed.

She answered him slowly.

"You are in Proudspire Manor, residence of Thane Aneira." Jordis answered carefully.

Letting out a sigh of frustration, Etienne slumped against the pillows.

"Who _is_ that?" Etienne asked in exasperation.

Jordis blinked at him a few times, eyebrows now high on her head.

"Your rescuer, sir. You do not know of my Thane?" Jordis asked quizzically, tilting her head.

Etienne shook his head, his mouth set in a thin line.

The woman who saved him was nobility? That didn't make any sense. Since when did nobles break into places and rescue prisoners?

Jordis straightened.

"My Thane, Aneira Grey-Dawn, is the highly honored member of both the Companions and the College of Winterhold. She holds thaneship in every hold. She is known as the People's Champion, the Breaker of Darkness, Champion of Mara, Dibella, and Kynareth, or Kyne, if you prefer. Surely you have heard at least some whisper of her deeds?" Jordis asked incredulously, staring at his befuddled face.

"I have been… out of touch with current events for some time," Etienne mumbled, rubbing his head.

There was, however, something familiar about that name.

_Aneira_, he thought. He could have sworn he'd heard it before. Had he heard it before the Thalmor took him? Or had it come to him afterward?

The memory was foggy, but the name stood out. Along with another…

His eyes widened slightly as he looked at the housecarl.

"But, forgive me, sir, surely you at least know _what_ she is?"

He shook his head in denial, even as the brief, hazy memory surged up.

"Thane Aneira is the _Dragonborn!_"


	6. Recovery

**Hello readers! Hope you're New Year is going well. Sorry this took a few days to get up. It was rewritten a few times.**

He decided that Solitude wasn't half bad.

Granted, it was chillier than Riften, but given all the time he spent in the icy cellars, he was pretty used to it.

Then again, Etienne mused, it probably helped that unlike his previous visits, he was seeing the city in the sunlight.

Sitting at a table on the back porch, he looked out across the Karth River, watching as it met the sea.

The enormous glaciers that bordered Skyrim were just visible to him, reflecting the winter sun. Large chunks of ice drifted down the river, where they would no doubt cause trouble for the ships and fishermen.

The ability to appreciate this view might be worth legality in Haafingar.

Wrapped in a gloriously warm black bear pelt, with a mug of Honningbrew in his hand, life almost seemed pleasant.

A harsh breeze sailed through the window, chilling his face.

Shivering, he looked at the door into Proudspire.

"Would you like to go inside now, sir?" Jordis asked, leaning casually against the stone wall. The cold didn't seem to bother her, which he attributed to her natural Nordic resistance. No doubt she was also helped by the set of armor, dwarven, she'd called it, that she wore.

He signed, watching his breath fog in front of him.

"I may as well. Not like the cold is doing me any good."

Still, he took his time rising from the small wooden table.

"Thane Aneira was insistent that you have some fresh air while recuperating," the housecarl stated, standing straight and opening the door. "She is quite versed in such matters."

"Yeah, yeah," Etienne mumbled, shuffling into the warmth. "Drop the formality, will you? Your Thane isn't here and I don't much care about it."

Jordis did not comment, taking the pelt off his shoulders and draping it over a nearby chair.

Etienne wasted no time heading for the chair in the kitchen. Whether Jordis was cooking or not, the fire was always blazing.

Jordis sat in her typical seat around the corner. She had a pile of books on the table, and always seemed to be reading from one.

"When is she due back, by the way?" Etienne asked softly, taking off his borrowed gloves and warming his hands.

"My Thane gave no clear indication. She left immediately after you fell asleep yesterday morning. She said that she would be gone for a day or two at most. You have been asked to wait for her." Jordis took a drink from her mead. "She desires to speak with you concerning the events of your meeting."

Etienne frowned at the flames. The cooking pot bubbled cheerfully, spraying hot liquid in his direction.

He leapt back, scowling.

"How long will I have to hang around?"

He heard Jordis give a _huff_ of displeasure from around the corner.

"You were unconscious for the majority of the first day. You awoke only once during the day on the second, then later at night when we spoke." He heard her turn a page in her book. "You slept until eight o' clock this morning, and it is only noon."

He turned, and she had poked her head around the corner.

"Clearly you need a lesson in patience."

Etienne bristled slightly, glaring at the blonde.

"I'm plenty patient, housecarl. All my life I've been dealing in patience and opportunity."

Jordis rolled her eyes before returning to her book.

"The lives of sneak thieves sound so very arduous," she said wryly.

Etienne looked at her sharply, stiffening in his chair.

Jordis looked at him with an eyebrow quirked, still holding her book.

Etienne mirrored her expression.

"That's a funny thing to say, housecarl. Why don't you elaborate?"

Jordis rolled her eyes and returned to her book.

"You really think the Dragonborn wouldn't have figured it out?"

Etienne stared at her, a little stunned.

He wouldn't deny that Jordis and his savior's hospitality had been appreciated, but he hadn't thought they knew who he was. Or rather, _what_ he was.

The fact that they did changed the situation.

A warning seemed to crawl up his spine.

The Dragonborn might be keeping him here long enough to make sure he lived before handing him over to Solitude's guards. Or perhaps she would wait until she had the information the Thalmor had wanted before casting him out.

"You needn't worry about your safety. My Thane would not have offered this house as sanctuary if she intended to hand you over to the guards.

"You can't expect me to just take your word at face value, Sword-Maiden," Etienne muttered darkly. "Considering my recent living arrangements, I'm a bit hesitant to trust."

The woman's lips thin as she gave him a reproachful look.

"It's hardly polite to compare the women who've been feeding and healing you to your tormentors, _thief_."

"The _Dragonborn_ is supposed to be a paragon of honor," Etienne snapped, "Why would she shelter a member of the Guild in her home?"

Jordis looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Funny. I only said sneak thief. You're the one who brought up the Guild. Why is that," she glanced at him slyly, "do you think?"

Etienne blinked for a moment, his mouth gaping at his own idiocy.

_Well,_ he thought numbly, _if that didn't sound guilty as hell…_

"They usually go hand in hand," he added lamely.

He didn't move, simply staring at the Nord as she put down her book.

"Etienne, Aneira instructed me to check with the guards the day she brought you here. You don't have a bounty in Haafingar, so she isn't exactly harboring a fugitive." Jordis approached the cooking pot, causing Etienne to back away into a cupboard. "Oh, calm down," she muttered, lifting the wooden spoon and stirring the contents. "Furthermore, she knew what you were when she freed you from wherever it is you were. Told me early on that you were some thief from the Ratway the Thalmor had captured and tortured for information about someone else living down there." Jordis met his eyes. "Isn't that the truth?"

Etienne struggled for a moment, unwilling to divulge anything to the woman.

Yes, she'd looked after him, but under orders. Those orders were subject to change.

"You don't have to answer, I was there when she tended to you," she admitted softly, turning to take a bowl off the shelf.

Etienne didn't speak as she carefully filled a bowl of tomato soup and handed it to him before preparing her own bowl.

"I won't pretend to understand how Aneira thinks. But she was determined to save you that night, and she's determined to keep you safe now." Jordis raised an eyebrow at him. "Is that good enough for you?"

She returned to her table and quietly ate her lunch, pointedly ignoring him when he chose to eat reclining against the wall.

It was not in the nature of the Guild members to trust. Hell, they barely trusted each other enough to sleep and eat together in the Flagon.

Trusting a random housecarl? That wasn't going to happen any time soon, he thought resolutely.

Trusting the woman who saved his life… more than once, apparently… wasn't impossible.

Focusing on his meal, he grimaced as he finished the bowl.

"I'd kill for a bit of meat right now," he said, approaching the pot again. "Apple cabbage stew, vegetable soup, tomato soup. I feel like a bloody rabbit."

Jordis gave him a withering look.

"Doubtful, considering rabbits eat the stuff raw. Without seasoning, and cold."

"Didn't mean to insult your cooking, Sword-Maiden," Etienne said, mostly to himself as he helped himself to another bowl.

Meatless or not, the stuff was good.

"Obviously not," she called, peering around the corner. "I'm not even halfway through mine yet," she added pointedly.

"I've been starved for weeks," he said sullenly, returning to his wall spot. "So forgive me if I long for what I haven't had in weeks."

Jordis' lips thinned, no doubt in pity, and he refused to look at her any longer. He scowled at himself for such a pathetic sounding statement.

"Regardless, your body isn't ready for something as heavy as meat." She returned to her book, no doubt noting that he'd made himself uncomfortable with the conversation.

Etienne said nothing in response, cradling the bowl in his palm.

The simple feel of a warm meal in his hands was fascinating. The fact that'd he'd never really noticed it before disgusted him.

Having salted soggy bread forced into his mouth chased by a weak healing potion would make a simple carrot taste like heaven.

Diving into his second bowl, his stomach began to roll. Paling, he set the bowl down quickly, causing it to rock and shake against the wooded cupboard.

Inhaling deeply in an attempt to steady the nausea rolling through him, he barely noticed Jordis approaching until she tucked an arm around his back.

"Come on, sneak thief. Sit down."

She led him quickly to the table, sitting him down carefully and producing a bottle of wine.

"Drink it," she ordered, "but only in small sips."

He nodded, carefully letting the liquid brush his lips.

The liquid, aside from the usual bite accompanied by all alcohol, had a peculiar kick that made his throat burn.

He sputtered for a moment, looking at Jordis.

"What in Oblivion did you give me?" He gasped, looking down at the label.

"Spiced Wine," Jordis responded casually, retrieving his bowl and placing it in front of him again. "It's a bit of a specialty around these parts."

He eyed the bottle distastefully, until she knocked a hand against the bottom.

"Take the sips. The spice helps you get ahold of yourself."

Etienne cocked an eyebrow at her doubtfully.

She smiled blandly.

"Thane Aneira and I can personally attest to its healing effects."

Shaking his head, Etienne did as he was bid.

A few minutes later, his stomach had settled, and his appetite had returned.

"Slowly this time, Etienne," Jordis warned. "You might feel better, but your body has some catching up to do."

"Noted," he said, promptly swallowing a spoonful.

Jordis rolled her eyes and returned to her book.

"What're you reading anyway?" He finally asked, looking for a title on the worn cover.

"_A Game at Dinner," _she replied, turning a yellowed page.

Etienne frowned.

"Isn't that the one about the royal who poisons his guests?"

Jordis shook her head, frowning.

"Something like that." She looked up and smiled primly. "When I am finished, you may have it."

"Pass," he mumbled, eyeing his soup suspiciously.

Hell with it. He'd already downed a full bowl. Either he was a dead man or he wasn't.

After the treatment the Thalmor had given him, he was determined to go to his grave on a full stomach.

A few minutes later, he swallowed his last gulp and leaned back in his wooden chair.

Out of habit, he did a casual sweep of the room.

His perusal told him that there was nothing of great value in the room, outside from some quality dinnerware. Though in the bedroom they'd given him, there was a safe. No doubt it had some nice treasure inside.

He'd also notice that the stairs led to a cellar. His imagination swam at the thought of what the Dragonborn might keep in storage. From what he'd gathered from Jordis, she'd already made quite the name for herself. The things she must have seen, must have done while he was out of the world. A dozen dragons dead, magical excavation with the Winterhold college, Nordic ruins plundered-

"By the way, _thief_," Jordis' voice cut through his musings. "If you even _think_ of lifting something from this house, the only thing you'll be leaving with is a dagger through your hand."

Etienne looked at her, eyebrows raised.

Jordis didn't look at him, but somehow a golden dagger had found its way silently onto the table. It had a sinister green hue to it.

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Maybe my moral code isn't the most spotless, Sword-Maiden," he ground out, "but even I have some sense of honor. I wouldn't steal from someone who saved my life."

The habit to scope out a place was ingrained in him. Didn't mean he was actually going to start pocketing things.

Jordis hummed in acknowledgement before rising to refill her own bowl.

On impulse, Etienne snatched the bowl from her hand.

"What-" Jordis protested, until Etienne easily filled her bowl in one fluid motion. He handed it back to her and gave a little bow.

"And I'm perfectly capable of being a grateful gentlemen," he said casually, before leaving his bowl and spoon with the other dirty dishes.

He grabbed a book off the table, walking back up the stairs.

Etienne heard Jordis give another very put-upon sigh as he rounded the first set.

Planting himself in the upper sitting room, he opened the book and resolved himself to spend his hours productively.

After all, he had no intention of leaving the house until he saw the Dragonborn again.

He was more than willing to wait for her to come home.


End file.

Elder Scroll series, Adventure