Markarth - The City of Nightmares

by Chivana Frost

Markarth is a plane of Oblivion. For all she has endured since her arrival to the gods-forsaken city, the Dragonborn can be sure of that. What she cannot be sure of is her survival and escape. What she learns about herself and her feelings for a certain wild Ranger may be the only thing standing between her freedom and her sanity. Bishop, Female Dragonborn, mentions of Inigo.

Bishop Romance – Markarth – The City of Nightmares

Summary: Markarth is a plane of Oblivion. For all she has endured since her arrival to the gods-forsaken city, the Dragonborn can be sure of that. What she cannot be sure of is her survival and escape. What she learns about herself and her feelings for a certain wild Ranger may be the only thing standing between her freedom and her sanity.

Based on the Skyrim Romance Mod created by Mara. Also includes some mentions of Inigo, a companion mod created by Smartbluecat. Thank you both for the wonderful, unforgettable companions that turned this game into a life experience.

Please note that I have taken certain liberties with both companions' storylines, Inigo in particular, to fit my own headcanon. This is with the permission of the mod author himself.

Tags: Blood, battle, torture. Hey, it's Skyrim.

==MARKARTH==

Catriona paused, both hands on the heavy doors, taking in deep, steady breaths, trying to find her center again. She had deliberately lagged behind the Forsworn, remaining in the Dwemer tunnels long enough to change out of the filthy prison garb, ignoring the matching filth of her own unwashed body for the safety of armor and weapons. The familiar weight of her gear on her back and her blades in her hands went a long way towards soothing her shot nerves. The weight of her father's pendant around her neck helped ground her. Not a single one of her possessions had been lost. For this gift alone she would not raise her blade against the Forsworn, despite their crimes. Moreover, she had personally seen enough of the "justice" of Markarth, and did not begrudge them their craving for revenge.

Still, she was far from safe. Through the heavy metal doors she could hear raised voices, muffled by the density, but unmistakably angry. Crouching low, trying to stick to the shadows, she realized she wouldn't remain hidden for long once she went through the exit. "Better to fight with others at my side than alone," she reasoned, cajoling herself into pushing past her fatigue and anxiety.

Besides, she was desperate to check on Bishop.

She had never expected to be holed up inside the city's walls for so long. She'd bid him to wait for her outside the city gates in a nearby hidden camp, not wanting to draw him into her unfinished Thieves' Guild work. Incredible warrior or no, she had no wish to draw the eye of Nocturnal to her friend.

Of course, she'd not told him the truth about protecting him, not wanting to prick the hot-headed ranger's stubborn pride, but had used the rumors of Forsworn attacks to talk the man into covering her exit. She had promised him no more than one day and one night to finish her personal business, scout out the town, and report back. And that was after an hours' long shouting match before she'd worn him down to an agreement for even that much time. She'd been gone at least double that. Triple, maybe? Hard to tell how long it had been, between being trapped by Molag Bal and imprisoned underground.

Shoveling down the choking fear those memories immediately evoked, she physically shook her head to bring herself back into the game. It had been a non-stop horror parade in the cycle of Daedra-prisoner, to murder suspect, to prison convict. In comparison, potentially fighting her way through an entire city of corrupt, but mortal, guards seemed almost routine.

Calling up Bishop's face now helped, as it had all during this ordeal. She could picture his furious scowl and the verbal thrashing he was sure to have ready for her. She would actually welcome it. Assuming he hadn't already gone on his way by now.

Frowning at that thought, she felt the familiar tug-of-war between her heart and her head. Rather than focusing on the current predicament, her anxiety sweeping her sleep-deprived, wounded mind towards a frenzy of irrational thought and loss of focus, she welcomed the mental diversion, trying to ground herself again.

==OO==

They'd only been travelling together for a few months, but they had already faced so much. She recalled his deep voice, his broad shoulders, the eyes that always held such challenge- that could get her heart beating for reasons that she had done everything in her power not to examine too closely. Fighting for their lives each day, protecting each other, sharing intense experiences others could never understand – romantic feelings were bound to develop. But she couldn't forget his words at their initial meeting. She wasn't his type.

Period.

Therefore, the first time he'd shouted "Hurt her, and I'll kill you!" during a simple skirmish, the absolute rage in his challenge, she'd stopped in her tracks, mouth gaping, battle almost completely forgotten in her shock. Time and again, the ranger claimed to care nothing for her, or for anyone. But she couldn't deny that he had taken damage to prevent her from taking it instead. Couldn't deny the heat in his honeyed gaze when she sometimes caught him staring at her. How she lost herself in his eyes. Couldn't deny the way she could sense him, no matter where he was; on the battlefield, in the darkest caverns, in town, or in camp. Couldn't ignore how protective he had become of her, for whatever reason. How seriously he tended each wound she took, how carefully he worked to avoid causing her any discomfort while he did so.

She'd realized that despite his acerbic tongue, he never truly spoke to wound her. Her pride was a play toy he loved to abuse, but it was never truly malicious. He seemed to thrive off provoking a reaction from her; and she was woefully too hot-headed to ignore his barbs for long.

Yet, for all that, he never seemed to cross the final line from aggravating to truly hurtful. In truth, she had learned to enjoy the verbal sparring, and reveled in the times she left the hot-head speechless. And lately, she sometimes had the impression that the meanings behind his words were not as obvious as they might seem on the surface.

No. All of this rumination had convinced the Dragonborn of one thing. Whatever his reasons, his actions and words had proven his claims of impartiality a lie. Bishop cared. Maybe not like she wished he would, but more than she'd have ever guessed he could when they'd first met.

Thoughts of Bishop and their tumultuous relationship had been all that she had had to cling to these last days. Like a horse on a circular lead, her fractured thoughts surrounding her recent torture and imprisonment, the pain and uncertainty and anxiety, her worry for her friend, continuously spun in a defeating cycle of fear, anger, frustration, and exhausted depression; skittering away from the terrible memories and then back again. Dragonborn or no, no one could endure Molag Bal's direct attention and remain unaffected.

Just like that, thinking of the Daedric Prince drew her mind back to her bloody imprisonment. Pain and fear, words too simple to convey the suffering she had endured in that place, rose to the forefront of her thoughts, and she had to choke back a sob. Breathing heavily, trying to control her rising panic at the memories, she determinedly brought the rugged features of the handsome Nord to her mind. Focused on the sound of his rough voice, the intelligence and restless heat that burned endlessly behind those shocking amber eyes. The roughness of his calloused fingers against her skin when they worked carefully on her wounds. The way that teasing lilt of his lips, like he knew a secret about her that she didn't know herself, would get her heart pounding for reasons she found equally compelling and dangerous.

It began to work, as before. Like a lifeline, Catriona's sanity had endured the torture of the Daedric personification of Rage and Brutality by escaping into the memories and her internal examinations of her relationship with Bishop. Often, not even they could block away her agony during more intense moments, but those precious thoughts had been her only light in a very dark place. She had endured.

She could still scarcely believe that eventually, she had not only escaped the incarnation of domination and enslavement, but defied him. How much of her willpower was fueled by her defiant dragon-spirit was up for debate, but she knew, knew, that her thoughts of Bishop had been just as critical to her survival and victory.

Sadly, her nigh-miraculous escape was woefully short-lived, since she had almost immediately been falsely arrested after leaving that damned house. Weakened, starved, reeling from her wounds and torture, mind still bruised and hurt by what she'd endured, she'd made an easy scapegoat and nearly effortless capture for the dirty city guards. Then, untreated, she'd been shunted through a corrupt court of crooked politicians and straight into the underground prison she had yet to escape. Daedra were notoriously poor sports, and her current predicament seemed too perfect a revenge to be coincidence.

Weak from mistreatment and starvation, she suffered sleep-deprivation as well. Having been the only female locked in with men who had not seen a woman in possibly years, she hadn't dared to rest more than moments at a time. Forced by circumstance, yet again, to kill a man who had helped her before, her guilt was currently overshadowed by her survival instinct, but she knew there would be hell to pay later in her dreams. If there was a later.

That last thought triggered another panic attack. Paranoia warred with determination to escape, and she felt the nearly overwhelming need to scream clawing up her throat. Only fear that she would not be able to stop screaming if she started held her back.

Perhaps if she were less abused, less starved, wounded and weary, she would be more ashamed of her current inability to stop her mind's breakdown. Certainly, if the world could see the "mighty Dragonborn" now, they would despair of survival. But, the whole ordeal was too much, and though she'd never been prone to panic attacks before, she couldn't seem to stop them now. She hadn't felt this defenseless since Helgen, when she'd been wounded and bound, helplessly watching the horse thief get shot in the back, sinking to her knees in the Stormcloak's blood, feeling that Imperial's foot shoving her neck to the chopping block.

==OO==

Startled suddenly by a loud shout just beyond the doors, she jumped; her panic thankfully diverted into focus. Exhaustion beat in steady waves against her already battered walls. She realized her eyes had drifted shut in spite of her rapidly beating heart only when she'd startled awake. Had she actually dozed off on her feet? She verbally castigated herself in whispered mumbles.

Bishop's face floated, unbidden, to her mind then. It was as if her subconscious had created armor for itself by using her memories of him, still trying to shield her mind and spirit against the dark terrors of this long night. Deep within her, her dragon-soul rallied. It seemed that lately, whenever her mind would spiral into doubt and fear, she would suddenly recall some word or simple memory of the ranger, and she would rechannel her energy into her current goal; survival.

As before, she could almost feel the man with her, and she could almost see his eye roll at her lack of progress. Just imaging the choice words he would no doubt have for her was like a much-needed slap to the back of her head. Her panic receded into background noise, and she slapped her cheeks with her hands to shock herself to alertness. She really needed to get moving, while her body still responded. She refused to let them, any of them, break her. Focusing deliberately on the ranger, recalling his unique scent, his laughter, the way he worked so peacefully with Karnwyr, Catriona measured her breaths until her heartbeat slowed from its gallop, her mind slipping easily into the now familiar pattern of memories.

==OO==

Right from the start, they had barely taken any time at all - two complete strangers - to reach an almost uncanny accord during fighting, seemingly instinctively knowing how the other would act, where they would be. Two seasoned archers, experts with blades- they literally tore through all opposition, and all with nearly magical ease. Not even with Inigo, the brother of her heart, had she fought so seamlessly, so effortlessly, so quickly. It had taken time.

Inigo had become an inspiration to her, with his powerful will to live and endless faithfulness. In spite of the all heartbreak he had endured, he hadn't become bitter like she had. Between the three of them, she found the Khajiit to be the bravest, simply for his open heart. Romance between them had never entered the picture. Instead, the two lonely warriors had become family to each other. Leaving him behind in Riften had been hard, but she knew that his new role as the Thieves Guild Master was where he needed to be. He deserved a chance at happiness. And at least she had one safe place in the world she could turn to. One person who would never betray her. At least, not again, her survivor-self reminded nastily. She promptly told herself to shove off.

Bygones, bitch.

True, unquestioning trust in another. Had Bishop ever had that?

Damn, but she missed the surly ranger. All of their head-butting, his fussing, his snide remarks, their shared acerbic humor and mutual love for deep forests and shiny gold; they had fundamental differences that ensured a constant push-pull in their relationship, but they had fundamental similarities, too. Both had lost so much, nursed deep hurts, and neither was inclined to share their stories.

She and Bishop were alike in that they held their pain private, their hearts buried beneath mountains of betrayal, anguish, and other hard lessons. Two souls alike in their solitude. Each of them was hard-headed and obstinate; convinced they were in the right. How they had managed to not kill each other in the early days was a mystery. But, saving Karnwyr had earned her the respect that none of her skills, her reputation, or her words had; and that respect had softened her a bit towards the abrasive man in turn. Time and the constant enforced companionship of travel had further deepened their relationship. The shared experiences of battling for life, for profit, and the comfort of knowing there was someone you could depend on to at least not stab you in the back had opened the doors for friendship.

The man was a definite study in controversy. His armor was beautifully crafted, belying a skilled artisan, yet he never made mention of it, for all that he bragged on himself about nearly everything else. In battle or out, he moved with a skill and grace that seemed as majestic and natural as a sabre cat's. He was a born predator, the epitome of a warrior's spirit with an alpha wolf's instincts. With those arresting golden eyes, flawless body and shameless confidence, Bishop was the perfect male, enough to make any woman with a pulse take notice.

But for all his physical beauty, Bishop's personality was a very different beast. Inigo's near opposite in temperament, Bishop could be a complete jerk, and would often antagonize her for absolutely no other reason than his personal amusement. In the early days of their acquaintanceship, she had more than once thought about just leaving him behind, wondering why she put up with his constant belittling comments. Honestly, she didn't entirely understand it herself, even now. Jaded and aloof to his fellow man's suffering, he sailed through the world's shaded forests and hidden wilds, unknown and content to remain so. He was untamed and arrogant, proud of his disregard for the lives around him. The walls he put around himself were lined with spikes, broken glass and hidden traps. He made getting to know him nearly an impossible, thankless task. Though highly intelligent, Bishop possessed a crude humor and a cruder vocabulary, and seemed to delight in verbally flaying anyone and everyone they met, often without provocation.

An alpha wolf, but a lone one.

But she knew there was more to him. Perhaps it was because she saw something of herself in him. Even in those early days, she had felt drawn to the surly man, often enduring his disparaging remarks without understanding why she chose to do so, when with anyone else even half as offensive, she might have had a deadly response.

==OO==

Though she remembered her parents' faces and names, she had no memory of who she had been before waking up bound and hurt in that prisoner's cart, or where her home had been. In Skyrim, she was an apparent stranger, alone and afraid of her newfound powers. Her entire life since then had been a constant morass of blood and pain and betrayal and death. It had made trusting anyone an impossibility, which was why she had refused all housecarls, and only hired temporary help on those jobs she absolutely could not do by herself (which hadn't been many). Her life had seemed to be one destined for isolation and suffering, and likely a violent end.

Inigo had been the first to eventually penetrate her walls, mostly by plain persistence and a complete willingness to ignore even her cruelest silences and sharpest words. Funny and loyal, the truest of friends, he had saved her from herself by allowing her to feel anything but alone in this miserable world. He had taught her to laugh again, to believe in the goodness of others. A miracle.

When she thought about it, Inigo had made her want to fight for this world. Her dragon-soul had demanded battle, but her heart and the desire to give her adopted brother a future had made her want to win.

Bishop was the newest reason. Perhaps, now, even the strongest.

Thoughts of Inigo had helped during her imprisonment, too, though they didn't seem to have the same impact. Her blood brother felt so far away. It was her own fault, she knew. Even to Inigo, the recesses of her heart remained, if not closed down, then walled off. He was her brother in oath and in spirit, but there were parts of her that not even he would ever truly understand, could ever really know. Despite all that the man had suffered personally, or the wrongs he had committed in his past, the Khajiit remained a good person.

She, not so much.

So, there remained a part of her denied to even her blood brother, whom she loved more than her own life, and who knew more of her secrets than anyone alive. But some hurts were just too deep to share, even when she wished she could. Some shames, some sins, were simply too great to burden another with by their confession.

Perhaps it was not so strange in that light that she felt such a kinship with the ranger, then, whom she had known for a much shorter time. She and Inigo had covered much of Skyrim in their travels. Bishop and she had only travelled together a few months, and had not shared half the experiences that she and the Khajiit had. But she could not deny her attraction to the man, and it was beyond his obvious male magnetism.

Sometimes, she had seen past the anger and the coldness to something deeper in those haunting eyes. An ancient hurt buried by animosity and ferocity, protected by an acerbic wit and tongue, if not directly by blade and bow and wolf, and disguised behind a world-weary smile. Though she hadn't realized it before; in hindsight, perhaps it wasn't so surprising that she hadn't parted ways with the difficult ranger in those early days, after all. Wariness and callousness were the hallmarks of a battered soul. She well understood.

Maybe it was selfish, but she wanted to do for Bishop what Inigo had done for her. She hadn't defined her reasons so much, even to herself; but, it felt like…like penance to share the ranger's burden, for however long she would be allowed. Even if he didn't realize she was doing so, and even if nothing ever happened romantically between them.

Even if it wouldn't grant her absolution.

==OO==

Catriona stared at the large doors before her, the last obstacle between her and the freedom of the city streets. She made no move to open them. She was just so tired. Yet more battle remained, and she needed this respite, the quiet of her own thoughts, to ready herself once again.

It had seemed an impossible task at first, but little by little, Bishop had slowly opened up to her. About his past, the attack on his village and having to kill his first man so young, then leaving home altogether not many years later. No details about his family's current whereabouts, but she sensed a sorrow behind his tales. Perhaps even some self-directed anger, though maybe she was just projecting.

But it had taken such small things to start that careful thawing of his solidly frozen heart. Small things, yet meaningful, like putting a blanket around his shoulders when the night's chill would deepen. Taking first watch when they had both travelled long that day. Keeping back a bottle of that Nord mead he was so fond of for when they'd be far away from towns. She recalled how his expressive eyes would betray his surprise over the simplest things, like her bringing him an extra helping of stew without asking, because she'd known he'd fought hard that day and would be hungrier than normal. Or his pleased smile when she'd unceremoniously presented him with the new whetting stone she'd bought him, because she'd noticed how worn his had become. The warmth in her chest when that jaded, angry look that he constantly wore would soften towards her, his unspoken thanks for her attention made more than unnecessary by the smallest upturn of his sculpted lips and the way his eyes captured hers and held; a meaning behind them that she tried hard not to read too much into, but got her heart pounding nonetheless.

His seeming bewilderment that anyone could do something for someone without expectation of reward both wounded her, and increased her private determination to show him that at least one person in the world actually did care about him.

Not that she had ever said anything even close to that to his face. She would likely die of mortification from his taunting after that, if he didn't just expire from disgust right there. Or worse, walk away entirely.

No. There was more to the story of Bishop, and she was too much a bard at heart to not see how it went. She realized that unlike Inigo, she was selfishly motivated. She wanted to earn penance, too; yes, absolutely. But, she wanted more. She wanted it all. Bishop's anger; his pain, his surliness and disdain. His laughter and his happiness. To watch his back and protect his heart, even if he never acknowledged her.

And….and she wanted to tell him how she felt. If one thing had become clear to her during this endless nightmare, it was that. Even if he laughed in her face, even if it ended this weird not-quite friendship, not-quite rivalmance…thing they had between them; she wanted to, just once, hold him, and be held by him.

Coming to Markarth, becoming a prisoner to the Daedric Lord of Brutality himself, and all of the hell that came after; it was now, with her hands on the doors to either her freedom or her death, that this simple, profound wish made itself known to her. All of her thoughts of the ranger that had given her strength, had carried her through these latest trials of blood and pain, coalesced into a single flame burning in the darkness of despair and fear.

She wanted to know if Bishop wanted any of the same things as she did. Not the constant sexual overtones he bombarded her with, knowing how much it aggravated her, but to know if he wanted anything more between them. Anything real.

She wanted to know if he had waited for her.

So, she opened the doors.

==OO==

Strangely, she was alone for the moment. Her fellow escapees had moved down to a lower landing.

Apparently, word of the prison break had spread quickly. Smoke billowed in large plumes, distinct against the flames that seemed everywhere. All around the city, the unmistakable sound of weapons clashing rang along the canyon walls. Scores of voices raised in panic, fear and anger mingled within the din; a cacophony of battle. The sharp ozone-like scent of magicka nearly burned her nostrils. Tonight, Markarth was a mad, bloody free-for-all.

Obviously, Madanach had planned this escape for a while, because judging by the pandemonium, there were a lot more Forsworn around than those few who had fled the tunnels with her.

But whether divine providence or careful planning, for whatever reason she had been dragged into it all, she ignored everything for the moment. For just a brief, precious, glorious moment, she took several deep breaths of the fire-scented mountain air, relishing the freshness compared to the caves she had left behind; reveling in the wind on her face and the sight of the endless sky above her. Twice she had lost it, and twice she had won it back. Freedom. The greatest treasure she would never take for granted; a jewel without price.

Dragons should never be caged.

Confidence and determination coursed through her, and she moved. Clinging to the shadows like a child to her mother's skirts, grateful for the twilight darkness that provided multitudes of places to sneak, she paused to listen to the Forsworn king and Thonar Silver-Blood spew venom and hate-filled accusations at each other. It didn't take long for words to come to blows, and in the distraction, she headed down.

Joining their fight did not enter her mind. She found both sides to blame for all this, and felt betrayed and used by both sides. Let them kill each other. She had sympathy mostly for the innocents caught up in this mess. Just like innocents always seemed to be.

Depressing, she thought, hearing the word in Inigo's accented voice.

From this height, she could make out the north gate, and made her way there as best she could. Taking care to avoid battles, she made her way down the steep, unfamiliar stairwells, sticking to the comfort of the shadows as much as possible. Adrenaline spiked her blood, keeping her alert, helping her ignore her fatigue and hunger. How long had it been since she had last eaten? She couldn't remember.

Screams and shouts. Smoke and flames. Ozone and magicka. Using her Thu'um, even if she could force that much power back into her weakened body often enough to make it out, would only draw attention that she could not handle, so she stealthed her way through the city, avoiding what she could and killing what she could not, striking quietly and quickly, always retreating back to the comfort of the dark. She was in no shape to do more.

Suddenly, a skirmish nearby shifted proximity, and the way she had just taken to skirt it became a direct path to the fighting. She found herself caught up in the blows, and she gave a low cry of frustration and anger as she was suddenly shoved backwards into a stony wall by a Forsworn, who had himself been bashed by a heavy shield. The man stumbled and pulled her down with him, and she cursed under her breath as her Nightblade was knocked out of her hand, skittering over the steep ledge towards the river below.

The fight moved on, but the stunned man's heavy body lay atop hers, pressing her back to the hard ground. The man's elbow caught her in the face as she struggled below him, and she was blinded by pain as the skin across her cheekbone split and burst, her eye immediately swelling and watering. "Son of a bitch!" she hissed, mindful of further discovery, shoving at him from below. He cursed and rolled off her, slashing blindly at her with his knife. She caught his arm, awkwardly blocking the attack from her semi-prone angle, hissing when the blade parted the meat on her palm and scored down the underside of her forearm. "I'm on your side, fool!" she spat, glaring through her tearing good eye. He apparently either didn't recognize or believe her words, because he deftly flipped the blade and raised his arm to stab her.

Her only option left was to Shout him and risk further exposure, but as she opened her mouth, the man stiffened suddenly, an arrowhead abruptly popping out of his mouth like a feathery, gore-streaked tongue. In the moonlight peeking through the floating clouds, she could see his eyes widen impossibly, the blood and spittle pour down his lips, and she tried to push him away as he collapsed, gagging, atop her; only partially succeeding.

But her respite was short-lived. Behind him, apparently drawn by the commotion despite her efforts, a Markarth guard approached, sword raised and teeth bared.

Caught on her back against the rocky incline and with the dead weight of the warrior lying half atop her, she fought to crabwalk backwards, trying to free her legs. Her remaining sword was pinned between her and the body, so she quickly reached for the knife the Forsworn still held and pulled it free instead, aiming and throwing it almost simultaneously. The guard hefted her shield too slowly, and the blade sank deep through her eye, buried to the quivering hilt.

She didn't bother to watch the woman collapse, and instead shoved the Forsworn man off her at last, then yanked her remaining sword free. Her left hand and arm burned like fire where the knife had scored, and she fervently, if briefly, hoped the blade hadn't been poisoned as well. Wishing she had time to loot the bodies for another weapon to supplement her lost second blade, she abandoned the idea once she noted more guards approaching fast.

Her sight all but gone in her swollen right eye, she would have given her home in Whiterun for at least enough magicka for a healing spell, or even a simple healing potion. She hadn't had any healing potions since her stay with Molag Bal. And sadly, though a Breton, her magicka was weak and untrained on a good day, and her magicka regeneration had been nearly crippled by her captivity and physical state. All of the tricks she'd learned as a sneak thief had been used to escape the spider-infested tunnels behind her, including her paltry magicka reserves. And despite being Dovahkiin, none of her shouts healed.

So, knowing all she could do was keep moving, casting a single forlorn glance towards the ledge over which her beloved Nightblade had disappeared, she cradled her injured arm and made her way towards the stairwell nearest her.

She quickly stopped and threw her stance into an attack mode as a man's shape materialized seemingly from nowhere before her. She backed up towards the same place she had just left, abandoning stealth for position as she braced near a stone doorway lit by a smoldering torch. She raised her blade to charge, furious with her body's weakness as her arm shook, ready to fight anyway.

Right before she registered the shape of him. Right before he called her name.

"Catriona!"

He flew towards her as she staggered towards him, dropping her remaining sword from suddenly lifeless fingers. "Bishop." His name was only a strangled cry from her lips, from a throat abruptly closed by emotions too great to process.

Oh, Divines. He hadn't left her. He was here.

The torchlight revealed the warring panic and concern and relief on his face, and he reached for her at almost the same time she reached for him. Without hesitation, without thought, she wrapped herself around him, pressed herself as firmly as she could into his warmth, her entire body shuddering with emotional response. She felt his heart pounding beneath her ear, his chest heaving, and his breath labored. Felt his shocked stiffness abruptly shift as his arms lifted to tighten around her, his body shaking, too.

"Found the Dragonborn, then?" called a voice behind them and she jerked in alarm.

Bishop pulled her instantly close again, and without turning around, answered. "Yeah, we're good. I'll take it from here."

"Good enough. Going to deal with these Forsworn then." His words were accompanied by a laugh, as if he'd shared some private joke. Neither she nor Bishop replied, and Cat didn't look up as the man moved off, but by the receding sound of clanking armor, registered his departure, before she quit thinking about him. Why she wasn't being attacked was a mystery, but she relaxed because Bishop was holding her, and she knew he wouldn't do it unless it was safe to do so.

"You're here." Had she been repeating herself? She couldn't be sure. She didn't care. Her arm was on fire, her eye and face swollen and bruised, throat nearly raw, her body one mass of injuries and pain, and she was probably smearing his armor with her blood; but she didn't ever want to move again. For the first time in what felt like forever, even with a city at war all around her, she felt safe. It was stupid and it wasn't true, but it felt like it was. She couldn't stop shaking, and she wasn't sure if it was her fatigue or that she just couldn't believe that Bishop was here. She pressed her face into his chest even harder.

She felt his body shift until his chin was touching the top of her head, and he tucked her closer, hunching his body protectively over hers. He seemed to understand that not even a healing potion or spell would provide what he could for her at the moment. "I've got you, Ladyship." he said softly, his breathing slowly evening out as they stood there, carelessly and foolishly ignoring the danger everywhere around them. If she wept, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong against her ear, his arms as solid as the stone beneath her feet but so much warmer, it was silently, and her tears could be blamed on the smoke or her wounded face. But she would never forget what it felt like to finally be whole again.

Any and all doubt was gone. She loved him.

She was so screwed.

==OO==

Mindful of their precarious position, she could indulge herself no longer. Reluctantly opening her eyes, Bishop's strong arms still banded tightly around her as she pressed into him, she noticed a Markarth guard wielding a large bow coming up the stairs behind him. She tensed, readying to push away from the ranger and fight, however ineffectually, before a narrow shaft of moonlight caught the guard's face, highlighting a familiar, heavily painted visage beneath the helmet.

Though she barely knew the man, Cat felt her body sink back into Bishop's arms in relief. It soothed something within her to see that her newest friend remained alive.

"Ah, my Sparrow!" Cael hailed, sounding remarkably calm for one whose kinsmen were rampaging through a city. "How good it is to see you freed." He halted before the couple, deliberately allowing the moonlight to expose him to them, studying the scene. His eyes, shadowed heavily beneath a Markarth guard's helmet, were nearly impossible to see, but she felt the intensity of the way he took in her shape; bloodied, ragged, worn. Traumatized. She saw his mouth harden, lips pressing tightly together.

He lifted a hand towards her, seemingly oblivious to the man currently holding her, but at a low rumble of warning from the ranger, abandoned the gesture. The Forsworn man dipped his head towards his chest, and his voice gentled. "My Sparrow, I regret the delay in locating you. Please have no fear, for you are among allies now. You have my word, no further harm will come to you this night." He reached back over his shoulder, pulling out an arrow from his quiver, nocked his bow. With a look to the ranger, the Forsworn man said "Take her to the shelter as discussed, and trust that my people will have eyes on it, though you will not see them."

"Wouldn't be too sure about that, Cub." The ranger retorted snidely. Cat suddenly wanted to laugh, or cry again, maybe both, at the normalcy of that familiar, obnoxious, beloved tone. "Might want to have your archer over there pull back further on that tower."

The Forsworn grinned, teeth white in the shadows, and gave a respectful nod towards Bishop. "She was intended to be seen, Dark One." Cat could clearly hear the smirk in his calm tone as Bishop growled in annoyance.

Ah. A guard for Cael. Or a warning for Bishop? she wondered tiredly.

"Though few would have had the talent to spot her, even so." the Forsworn conceded.

"Will you be all right?" She barely recognized her own voice, rasping, worn and rough; but her exasperation was clear. Now was seriously not the time for a pissing contest, and she wanted to get off these warring streets. It was not safe here. She also felt her adrenaline and her strength fading fast. She would be nearly useless in a fight at this point.

Ignoring her slight censorship, the chieftain replied "Dear Sparrow, your concern over my safety warms my heart, but please do not trouble yourself further. These people have yet to cage me." Suddenly, the sounds of battle swelled, a reminder to all at how exposed they remained, and both the ranger, who had yet to release her, and the young warrior tensed. Cael's head jerked towards the sound, his demeanor sharpening instantly; alert and focused. "I must away, sweet lady. But find my camp when you leave this wretched place, that we may talk further. Rest, recover, and know that you are always held close in my thoughts." Both of them ignored Bishops's scoffing huff.

"Thank you, Cael, for everything," she replied softly, truly grateful for his unexpected help and his kindness, understanding now how Madanach had managed to acquire her things, and also the joke of the man who'd been with Bishop. Cael must have eyes and ears all over the city. As she spoke, she laid her head back against Bishop's chest almost instinctively, and felt, more than heard, the way the ranger's breath hitched.

Cael managed a graceful bow, seemingly not at all impaired by the armor he wore as a disguise. Then the Forsworn turned, headed down the stairs, and neatly melted into the night.

"He's right about one thing, though, Ladyship," Bishop said, pulling back to look down at her. "We need to move."

She released him at last, her ravaged body already missing the warmth of his, and felt her legs tremble at taking her full weight again. She hadn't realized how much Bishop had been holding her up. Seemingly following her train of thought, Bishop placed both large hands on her shoulders, as though unsure she could remain standing without his support. "Can you walk?" It was amazing how concerned he sounded, and she wished she could hear him speak like that to her when circumstances were not so dire.

All at once, her exhaustion swelled, and it took everything in her just to stand. She nodded tiredly. "I can, but I don't think I can fight anymore, Bishop," she replied honestly. Pride be damned; she wasn't going to overestimate her abilities when their lives were at stake.

Despite Cael's assurances, she didn't place much faith in his hidden guards. For the same reasons she couldn't completely trust her safety to her housecarls, Cat had learned the hard way back at Helgen, waking up an amnesiac amongst strangers, bound and bruised, and then sentenced to death for absolutely no reason. By Oblivion, Ralof hadn't even untied her hands before he'd abandoned her to the fracas, forcing her to find her own way through most of the burning town. It was luck more than anything that they'd met up again, joining forces temporarily to escape. No, her first lesson in survival was that only she cared enough about herself to keep herself safe.

Inigo cares, her conscience reminded her. And that was true. Her adopted brother would not hesitate to lay down his life for her, nor she for him. She abruptly missed the Khajiit all over again. She knew that when word of what had happened to her reached him, he would be frantic to join her. Once she was out of this accursed city, she would have to contact him to reassure him.

But right at this moment, with the warmth of his hands on her shoulders felt even through her leathers, she realized with a force that rivaled a dragon's Thu'um, that Bishop ranked there, too. With Bishop at her side, she had no doubt, now, that she…they would escape Markarth.

She'd accepted her romantic feelings for Bishop during her imprisonment, but until now, for some reason, hadn't acknowledged that she truly trusted him. But finding him in this warring city, the way he'd looked at her before embracing her, cemented that fact. He'd come for her. Even if he didn't return her feelings like that, it was an amazing revelation, notable even during this period of life-changing experiences.

For a woman who had little memory of most of her past, after fighting and just…existing alone for so long, she now had two people she trusted completely with her life, that she carried within her heart. True blessings.

Crazy how times had changed.

Bishop was a wash of silver and shadows in the cloud-filtered moonlight, but she felt those striking eyes of his burning right through her. One calloused hand left her shoulder to gently cup the uninjured side of her face, his thumb caressing the swell of her cheek. "Crazy," he agreed softly, and she realized that in her woozy, debilitated state, she had spoken at least some of her thoughts aloud. She felt a brief flash of vulnerability before it faded. Hazily, she decided then that she didn't care, much. She'd already promised herself that she would talk to Bishop about their feelings for one another.

Her mind too befuddled currently to think of what to say next, she just leaned into his hand, suddenly craving the comfort that small touch offered, and despite her awareness of their dangerous surroundings, her eyes fluttered shut again. His breath whispered across her face as he leaned over her, the other hand on her shoulder slipping down to rest against her lower back, nearly embracing her again, and she breathed in his scent, distinct even over the smoky air of the burning city. Warmth suffused her, and it was not embarrassment at her unintentional monologue. Somewhere within her battered and heartbroken soul, a piece of her mended.

Shouting from closer to them startled them both apart, and with a curse, Bishop drew his knife, keeping a firm grip on one of her hands. She had no idea how long they'd stood like that, probably only seconds, but with her mind and body nearly worn out, she was having difficulty gauging time. Everything was turning fuzzy, and she knew she had to rest soon, or her body would simply stop, regardless of her wishes. It was likely only her dragon soul that had given her the fortitude to remain erect this long.

She quickly lost track of where they were going, halting when he pushed her into the shadows, resuming when he tugged her along again. All of her remaining stores of energy were put to just staying upright. Her mind seemed to have given up its higher functions, and she entered an almost dreamlike trance. Her body, despite her injuries, malnourishment and exhaustion, kept moving like a Dwemer automaton; mindlessly working based on muscle memory, without conscious direction. Several times she blinked, forcing herself to try keep alert, only to realize she wasn't where she thought she'd been before. Bishop said nothing, but she could tell by the way he glanced back at her, tightening his hand each time, silently urging her on, that he was aware of her state.

Once or twice, angry Markarth guards had approached, only to drop like stones as arrows suddenly filled their bodies. Dimly, she was aware of Cael's promise, and she numbly realized that hidden allies were aiding their flight. She had a thought that she should maybe be more grateful or concerned than this, but her emotions, too, had dimmed to only mild background noise. She wondered if she maybe was part Dwemer.

"Quiet, Ladyship," Bishop hissed when she asked him. Frowning, she glared blearily at his rude response, trying to blink away the smoke, the grittiness of her stinging eyes. After a moment, clarity briefly rolled back in and she realized she was becoming delirious. That fact finally penetrated the fog in her brain. Weakness kills!

After that, she kept trying to brow-beat herself into staying silent and to keep moving, eyes glued to Bishop's back, focusing on the feel of her hand in his. She wasn't sure she always succeeded, as time would suddenly sharpen again and she would jolt, like a sleeper rudely awakened. She didn't know how long they went on like this, but she lurched into awareness again when Bishop abruptly pulled them to a halt before a shadowed entrance. Her reflexes were too slow to accommodate the change of pace, and she bounced painfully against his back, the hardened leather feeling like stone against her already bruised body. Bishop instantly slid one arm around her as she swayed on her feet, simultaneously opening the door before them with the other, pulling her inside and shutting it behind them.

==OO==

"We should be safe here until the morning," he said as he barred the door, settling the heavy oak plank in its place.

She reeled again, this time from the bright light emanating from the large fireplace and several lanterns in the room. After untold days spent in the mines, and a night barely illuminated between the cloud-streaked moon and pillars of smoke from the burning city, the difference was harshly jarring and she made a distressed sound as she covered her face with her hands.

Quickly, Bishop went around the room, pinching out the candles, leaving only the fire and a lantern near it as illumination. With the reduction in light, Cat was able to ease her tearing eyes open again, and with effort, focus her gaze on the man that approached her.

She had the disjointed thought as to wonder whose place this was. The owner or owners were nowhere to be found; presumably dead or maybe caught up in the fighting. For now, it was shelter and it was quiet.

Bishop guided her to sit on the side of a worn bed lined with semi-clean furs, before he moved towards the hearth, briskly heating water in a kettle over the flames. Now that the adrenaline of battle had faded, her relief at their relative safety seemed to leech away the last of her reserves. Exhaustion hit her hard, leaving her nauseous and dizzy. Lack of food, rest, the non-stop cycle of fighting, bleeding and running, followed by the almost anti-climactic lack of battle and her unexpected reunion with Bishop, had all combined to push her into a near catatonic state. She felt disconnected and disjointed despite the pain of her injuries, ill with malnourishment and mistreatment, dizzy with relief and confusion at the swirl of events and emotions.

While he worked, Bishop kept up a steady stream of talk, soothing and low, explaining how the Forsworn had taken full credit for all her supposed crimes, how the Jarl had already issued her a pardon. She tried to follow everything he was saying, but her mind was steadily on its way to checking out of reality, and she was scarcely aware of his words, though she treasured the sound of his voice, not having been sure she'd ever hear it again. He told her how after her appointed return had come and gone, he had snuck into the city to find her, where he'd run into Cael.

She was shocked to learn she'd only been missing for four days. It had felt so much longer!

Maybe the Daedra had skewed time for me alone, she wondered. She shuddered hard, horror trying to claw again at her throat, and shied immediately away from that memory. That was something she could not handle thinking about right now. Maybe ever.

All the while, Bishop had been steadily removing her armor, peeling away the blood- and sweat-soaked undershirt. He cleaned and dressed her wounded hand and arm first. She barely noticed the bottle he held to her lips, but dutifully swallowed the healing potion. It was one of the stronger ones, and she sighed with relief as her wounds closed and the pain receded. She could once again see out of both eyes. However, with the reduction of pain, her fatigue hit her even harder, and she could barely keep herself sitting up, struggling hard to not just lie down and sleep. At some point, she realized he was holding a bowl of broth to her lips. She had no idea where it had come from, and it took both her shaking hands as well as Bishop's larger one to steady it, but she eventually drained the bowl and could have sworn the simple food came from the gods themselves.

He'd removed his leather jerkin and gloves, leaving him in his undershirt, leather breeches and boots. He had acquired water and cloth and was crouched on the ground before her, steadily but gently wiping the dried blood and grime from her face, neck, chest and arms. She was too tired to care that she hadn't worn a breast band beneath her armor, (none had been provided for her in prison, anyway) but she did note that Bishop's eyes never lingered. She hoped it was from respect and not disinterest or disgust, but was too tired to overanalyze it for now. It was sheer heaven to feel even somewhat clean again, and she found her eyes closing as she leaned ever heavier into him, as she listened to how he had tracked her within Markarth.

Catriona drifted in a warm, semi-conscious state. She realized her boots and leggings were gone, leaving her clad only in prison-issued linen drawers, while Bishop continued to bathe her. She had no regard for modesty at this point; after so many injuries over so many battles, they had each seen enough of each other's bodies while tending to wounds to not feel entirely awkward. She was grateful for his careful ministrations and for feeling mostly clean again. Her hair could wait until after she'd slept about a hundred years. "It didn't take me long to figure out where you'd gone, but it was like you just disappeared when you went into that house." Bishop explained, replacing the filthy water with clean, and resuming his diligent care. "I recognized your kill when I found the Vigilant, but I went through that entire place. Not a damn sign." He growled, still apparently rankled that his tracking skills had failed him.

"Knew this city was bad, but those guards are corrupt bastards. Was trying to figure out where to look next when I got approached by one of your thief contacts. What's his name…Duggan? Degaine?" He shrugged, and then reached for a drying cloth. Just as carefully, he dried her, and she made no effort to resist as he worked his way carefully down her body. It was like a dream.

"Anyway, he told me what'd happened. Silver-Blood." Bishop ground out the name like an epitaph. "If he isn't dead after tonight, he will be when I find him." His jaw clenched, eyes flashing in anger. He looked at her, eyes inscrutable, before shaking his head, visibly calming himself. "I sent a missive to Inigo. Figured the cat would want in. Met up with your buddy Cael, and he told me about the uprising in the mines." A few more swipes of the absorbent cloth were spent in silence. Finally, apparently done to his satisfaction, Bishop set aside the cloth and leaned back on his haunches to stare at her again. His lips quirked into a smile. "Knew it had to be you." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "So, I bribed a guard into letting me onto the search detail, and that gave me free reign of the city. Wasn't much longer before I found you."

She obediently raised her arms when he pulled a clean tunic from his pack and pulled it over her head, dressing her like a child. Her fatigue was like a living thing, blotting out any resentment for his coddling she might have felt. Instead, she managed only a small murmur of thanks. Comfort, food and safety after all her suffering had nearly lobotomized her mind, so her brain was slow to keep up with his story. She'd been picturing him stalking through the city, remembering their reunion, when his earlier words finally hit her.

Suddenly, she jerked upright from her slouched position, panic searing through her. She lurched forward, grabbing his shoulders with sudden strength, and shook him hard enough to snap his head back and forth. "Are you crazy!" she shouted into his shocked face. "You went into that gods-forsaken house?! You can't go there again, Bishop!" Bishop's eyes were wide in stunned surprise, jaw agape. "Do you even know what that place is?!" Her voice continued to climb in volume and shrillness, horrified awareness of what could have happened sending her into full panic mode. All her earlier exhaustion was blown away as adrenaline surged through her, and her fingers dug into the man as she continued to shake him. "What if he'd caught you?" she wailed, her words spiraling into a piercing cry.

"Enough, Ladyship!" Bishop finally barked, covering her hands on his shoulders and unhooking them from him. Quickly grabbing her wrists in his large hands, he abruptly jerked her forward, the motion interrupting her sudden tirade. "Nothing happened."

Her shouting and shaking him had been interrupted, but her mind all too clearly showed her the cost he had nearly paid, and his words fell on deaf ears. Tears sprang to her eyes. Oh Divines! Bishop had gone into the house where Molag Bol had trapped her.

What if the Prince had taken him? She wouldn't have even known! And it would have been her fault! Her breathing sped up as her thoughts spun in a horrified tizzy, until she was hyperventilating. All too easily, she could see Bishop in that bloody cage instead of herself. Hear his screams and pleas at the Daedric's attention, instead of her own. "Pruh-!" she stammered, throat tightening, interrupting him loudly, flashing wild eyes at the astonished ranger, trapped hands opening and closing futilely in his grasp. "Promise! You can't go there again, Bishop!" She was babbling, spittle flying, her heart thundering with delayed terror. How could she make him understand the danger?

All her efforts to avoid thinking of her time in that place were obliterated in the face of the almost disaster. Days of unending, ceaseless, creative torment swam through her vision, darkening it at the edges as she panted for air, struggled to get her words out of her pinched throat. She was Dovahkiin, and she'd barely gotten away. Molag Bal would eat a mortal alive. The Daedra would delight in breaking a strong will like Bishop's. She ripped her hands from his, grabbed his arms instead. "Pruh-" she spat, shaking him again, her hands like claws as her nails sank into his skin beneath his light shirt in her desperation. "Promise!" It was unbearable! To lose him, now, because he was trying to help her!

Suddenly, she was against his chest again, his arms around her. Bishop pulled her completely from the bed to his lap, cradling her tight. At some point, the tears had begun falling, and she realized she was gasping, gagging on them. Her fear for him overcame her shame, and the last vestiges of her control were shredded by this final straw. Too much, too fast, and she was gone, lost in a tidal wave of her heartache, her terror-filled trials. She began choking out everything that had happened, sparing no detail.

All her shame, she drew forth like poison as she exposed her weakest self to Bishop. He had to be made to understand. To know the danger he'd put himself in.

The Forsworn attacks, Eltry's quest and demise, the conspiracy she'd uncovered, killing Eltry's killers and being framed. Madanach and Silver-blood, her imprisonment, her dark choice to escape the mines. Grisvar's betrayed expression would always haunt her. But most importantly, she told Bishop about Molag Bal's trap, the forced showdown between the Vigilant and herself, her refusal to aid the Daedra despite her helplessness, and her subsequent varied, agonizing torture. She couldn't go into all those details, couldn't face certain truths even now, but she told him enough, she hoped, to make him see.

Four days, he'd told her. It had all happened in four days.

Through it all, Bishop held her, rocked her like a child, while she wailed and shook in his arms, murmuring soothingly to her but never interrupting. Dimly, within her release, she was cognizant that if he'd ever held any respect for her strength before, she had probably just destroyed it by weeping like an infant all over him, but the words wouldn't stop. She couldn't stop the outpouring any more than she could will her heart to quit beating. Just thinking of Bishop being in the Daedra's clutches, because he'd been looking for her, had been the final thing to break her.

Eventually, though, her tirade slowed, tapering off into watery gasps and hiccups, and she was left feeling too exhausted to even lift her head from his chest. She had no idea how long she'd gone on like that, but she was numb, wrung out. She was sitting fully in his lap, and only he kept her from sliding straight to the floor. She could feel how soaked by her tears his shirt was, and it shamed her, but she had no strength left. "Promise me, Bishop," she rasped finally, throat raw from her long, strangled confession.

She felt him shudder, and realized only then that he was stroking her hair, down her thinly clothed back. Trailing his fingers slowly back up, and repeating the process. Like he was soothing Karnwyr. It felt soothing to her, too, and she was too drained to consider the comparison further.

"Trust me, Ladyship." he said at last, and his own voice sounded strained and worn, as though he were in great pain. She tucked her head under his chin and his arms tightened around her further. "I may be the best hunter in Skyrim, but even I have no desire to hunt Daedra."

On a normal day, it might have made her smile, but she was shattered. The subject was too serious. She lifted her head at last, eyes puffy and hot, face likely a ragged wreck, and silently beseeched him, needing to hear the words.

Bishop brought one hand up to cup her face, his arm bracing her solidly against him. His thumb under her chin tilted her head up to meet his gaze squarely. "But I would find and gut that bastard myself before I'd let him touch you again."

It was a solemn promise that could never come to fruition, but it touched the cold center of her like a soothing flame. There was a fire burning in his amber orbs, too, one that she had never seen before; an emotion she didn't recognize but seared her nonetheless. It was fierce, it was possessive and protective; best of all, it wasn't judgmental, for all that she had just told him that she had done.

Bishop pressed a kiss to her forehead before pulling back to stare deeply into her eyes, his expression somber, his gaze blazing in the firelight. "And as for the rest, you did what you had to. You're alive, Ladyship. That's all that matters."

She had wronged him in her thoughts, she realized. She had confessed all, expecting the same disgust she felt for herself from him, but she should have remembered. If anyone understood survival, it was Bishop.

Something in her heart solidified and her chest felt tight. It cut through the prior panic like a blade of light piercing the dark. She had no more tears left, but a new emotion filled her enough to wish she did. Despite the impossibility of his claim, she believed him. She felt…safe.

She lifted her hand slowly to his face. Despite their intimate embrace, she saw his initial instinctive reaction, to pull away from her, and she froze, hand still in the air. After barely a pause, though, never breaking his gaze from hers, Bishop tilted his head in response, pressing his face into her palm until she cupped his cheek, her thumb running over the sharp cheekbone, her eyes locked onto his. "I was so scared I would never see you again," she whispered.

Confessed.

Bishop drew in a sharp, deep breath, closed his eyes. "Yeah, I know the feeling," he replied quietly at last, lips thinning into a hard line, his arms pulling her even closer to him. His bent his neck until his forehead was pressed to hers. Her eyes squeezed shut in response, emotion overwhelming her again. For a long moment, the only sounds left in the room were the crackling and hissing of the fire, and their own breathing. When his lips touched hers, it was softly, carefully, as if she were as fragile and delicate as gossamer. His kiss was sweet, and it was perfect, and it was the last thing she remembered before her consciousness finally gave up its long fight.

== Oblaan ==