The decaying walls of the worn down house were dimly lit with one candle the that burned dangerously low to the broken wooden table. It had been shoved haphazardly into the corner surrounded by rotting food and filthy clothes. At one look at the mess, the tall Argonian grimaced. His dark gray scales shining with a reddish glow as he crossed thick arms across his chest, glancing around and then back at his Khajiit companion, who had been sent along with him on this task to assure success. His cat-like face bore the same disgusted expression, beady eyes darting around the room. Marz, a simple Argonian mercenary, had been inside many skooma dens in his days, and had seen things that would make even the heartiest Nord shudder. But this made the top of his list.
The lack of furniture in the house was not surprising. Most addicts sold their belongings in the beginning, to better feed the need. All that remained was a small nightstand, that was littered with a number of bloodied and filthy paraphernalia. The standard dining table was coated in streams of wax from various candles that had sat there in the past, as well as blood ridden rags, used cloth diapers, bottles of curdled milk and a few children's books in which the pages had been written on or were covered in a splattering of blood from the wenches coughing fits. The rest that remained was a makeshift mattress that was just cloth filled with feathers and other soft items that she probably couldn't sell, and a pile of clothing and rags that were as equally filthy as the rest of the shack. And the smell that permeated around the mercenaries was indescribable. A mixture of iron, shit, rotting food and milk, alcohol and body odor threatened to make the two men wretch.
Turning his head to try and rid himself of the sight, the Argonian ordered his partner," Find the child. Make sure it isn't dead," he spat the last word sickly. The Khajiit nodded curtly, sidestepped around him and walked into the back room, disappearing into the darkness.
Dishonorable bitch, forcing a child to live with her stupidity. Being a new father himself, he had developed a soft spot for the little things. And an unfathomable hatred for those who were unfit for the title of mother or father. He had yet to come across a moon sugar queen that had the nerve to keep a child while she wasted her life away. And one that lived in the same city as the Orphanage no less! But he would not scold her or insult her. Mercenaries that caused the boss to lose clients were rewarded in one hell of a beating, so he would have to keep his mouth shut on this one.
Marz took a few steps towards the mattress that lay in against the far wall. A frail body of an older Bosmer woman was curled up in a fetal position on top of it, clutching her stomach in pain. Her pale green eyes were glassy as she stared off at the wall, her mouth twitching as if trying to speak. Pathetic. He placed his boot on the woman's hip and shoved her roughly, eliciting a gasp her cracked and bloody lips. She thrashed about in a panic before she locked eyes with the looming figure above her.
"What do you want, lizard?" her voice was rough and full of malice. But her tone could not strike fear into the smallest of children, let alone him. He could easily snap her in half with minimal effort.
She used to be quite a beauty, from what he could see. Her high cheekbones and full lips, lips that he was not used to seeing on elves. Pale skin that was almost white if not for the yellow-brown tint- the signature of the woodland race. But her prime had long since passed. Now she was covered in scars and scabs, her lips littered with blisters and streaks of old blood. Her dark hair was all but gone save a few strands here and there. Her cheeks hollow, her eyes sunken and bruised. All the signs of an uncontrollable addict.
The Argonian narrowed his eyes at her and said through clenched teeth," I am here for payment, Farseli. You have been avoiding us. It is time to pay up."
Her eyes widened and all of the hate on her face was wiped clean with fear. Good, be afraid, he thought to himself, fighting the smirk that threatened to break his composure, maybe you'll take care of your child if you are cut off.
"I-I don't have any gold. P-please, take pity on a woman in pain," she begged and he wanted so badly to strike her. Maybe it would wake up the last bit of intelligence she had.
At that moment the Argonian heard the shrill sound of laughter coming from the back room. The laugh of a child. A sound that both warmed his blood and sent a chill down his spine. He was so nervous to lay eyes on it that he didn't even bother to look at his partner when he re-entered the room. If the kid looked half as bad as he pictured in his mind, he wouldn't be able to hold himself back from killing this pathetic waste of flesh.
"Wait!" Faresli gasped and jumped up to her knees- so fast that she almost fell forward," Your boss, Marcus. He runs a slave trade out of The Rift! Yes! Take her, take the child as payment."
"Marz!" The Khajiit's sharp voice cut through the air as quickly as the Argonian raised his hand, caught by the padded fingers of his partner.
Marz's breathing was heavy and his jaw was clenched tight as he stared daggers at this woman before turning his gaze to his companion. But every feeling left his body when his eyes landed on the small infant holding onto his companion's fur, wearing nothing but a dirty cloth wrapped around her bottom.
She was small and skinny from lack of food. But that did not take away from her unmistakable beauty. The child would grow up to make grown men swoon. Her skin was pale, like her mothers, but it looked as if it belonged on a Nord with its lack of the usual wood elf hue. Her eyes were large and electric green against the pale green sclera of her eyes, with thick white-blonde lashes that fluttered as she focused on the Argonian's face. Her hair was stark white and matted against her small angular face. One thing that he would not forget in his entire life was not the way she clung to his companion's fur as if it was her only hope at life, but the small, unmistakable birthmark that lay in the center of her chest. A light brown discoloration that bore an uncanny resemblance to the amulet of Akatosh.
No. That could not be...
With one last glare shot at the disgusting woman that knelt at his feet, he turned and marched right out of the shack, leaving his partner, K'zhirr, far behind him. He could not deny his boss payment, especially when one of his lackeys had heard it firsthand. She had willingly given up this child to Marcus without a second thought. She had not a single clue what happened in the markets that Marcus ran. But she would not care. All she cared about was her next high. And Marz couldn't do anything about it. He could not save the child from what her life was to become.
The air around me was thick with the smell of dirt and mildew. The harsh winds howled through the window at the top of the room. The small glass panes let it a sliver of moonlight, just enough for me to make out the shapes of crates and barrels through the bars of my cage. I guess it was my cage. I wasn't really sure who, or what, else shared this iron box while I wasn't in it, but I assumed it would be a dog or another person. I tried not to dwell too much on it, but I wouldn't put it beneath Asmund to put me in a pen with dog shit still inside. I wouldn't doubt a lot of things that Asmund might do if he hadn't already.
My body still ached from the previous night and I shuddered at the thought. Fucking pig. The image of his old, wrinkled and pale body pressing down on my own was burnt into my eyes. The pain in my most sacred of parts was dull but served as a constant reminder of the defiling act. Even when I tried to close my eyes to sleep, there was nothing I couldn't do to rid myself of the memory.
Instead, I tried to distract myself. I took to counting the crevasses between the stones on the floor, though I would never make it past 3 hundred. I traced letters in the palm of my hand to practice writing. I even took to reciting the lines from the book I had read today, quietly to myself. Everything I could do to better understand the world I so badly wanted to return to.
Instead, I was here in my cage, waiting until I heard the heavy kitchen door open, just like every night before. The cook would go outside to ward off any wolves or other creatures that wandered onto the property while Asmund slept in his soft warm bed. That would mark midnight. It would mark the beginning of my 14th year of life. And what a life it had been.
I had been sold to the trade, they told me, before I could even speak a full sentence. The ones who 'trained' me, so to speak, told me that I was born to serve the higher people of Skyrim. They even fed us young ones false hopes of one day serving the many nobles of Skyrim. We were trained extensively when we came of age as well. The expectations placed on our shoulders were to ensure that we would give a good name for Master Marcus. If we slave did so, they promised us rewards for our good service.
Ha. That was scoff-worthy. His idea of a reward was giving said person a proper name, one good meal, a new pair of clothes, and a room and a mattress on the upper floor to sleep in. They didn't care to mention that to receive this 'reward' you must serve the person that purchased you until they fucking died. And they would also forget to mention that this was the only reward you would ever receive. A small cell on the upper floor, that is still underground, a simple rough mattress in the corner with a worn bear-pelt blanket, a meal that is prepared and taken to the cell with a fresh pair of boots and clothing. After that, it is back to the daily routine of cleaning, being put on display for potential clients, and then back to your cell to await your next command.
When I was young, I always assumed that what I had was normal. But that blissful ignorance faded into a cold truth the day the guard came knocking. My caretaker had rushed into our small cell and scooped me from the bed early one morning. She hurried down to the lowest level of the den, my small body in her arms, into a crowded and musty room. A few more people came in after us before two bulky men Marcus' men, closed the door and locked it, telling us that if any of us were to make a sound that we would be flogged, and if any of us had the brilliant idea of attacking them, they would slit our throats without hesitation.
Quietly, I asked my caretaker why we were hiding. She looked down at me with soft eyes full of pity. In a low whisper, she told me," Little one, the world you have come to know is not that of a normal child who is born into a family. We are here against our own will, and against the common law. If the guard where to find us, those men would silence us forever before we have the chance at a free life. So always do as you are asked and follow the rules so that you may live long."
I never questioned her again.
I was under the care of a woman named Liana since I was a babe. An older Imperial with thin brunette hair that she was allowed to grow out to her scrawny shoulders, almost paper thin pale skin and kind, hazel eyes. She would keep me clean, feed me off of her own plate of gruel, shave my head when my hair had gotten too long, and tend to all of my other needs. My first memory was her telling me a story, about elves that had lived underground with giant golden machines that guarded them and their cities. I lay under a hand-knitted blanket, looking up at her bruised eyes that stared back at me with such sadness. Back when I still had my childish view of the world.
I knew Liana was not my mother, however. Where her hands were rough and pudgy, mine were skinny and long. Where her face was round, mine was thin, angular and gaunt. Her eyes were hazel surrounded by white, whereas mine were bright green against olive green. Liana's lips were thin and gray looking, and mine were full, shapely and a pale pink. But it wasn't just in looks that I knew I was not kin to her, it was the fact that I was called, 'little one', 'child' or 'kid' much like the other younglings I was around.
The day I was taken from her, she cried, but did not let them see the tears streaking her cheeks. She had cared for me, I knew. And I wept as a child would when taken away from their parent. So I suppose I cared for her as well. But as I grew, my thoughts of her grew less and less, until they never surfaced at all. All I thought about were my tasks. What I was needed to do to be able to please the masters. How stupid I was.
In the first few minutes, when I was taken away from Liana, I was brought to the lower area and sat in a rickety chair. Next to me was a table with had a bottle of black ink and a needle laying on top of a plate. Two men stood at the door, guarding it as if I would run. Another man, a Khajit, worked on cutting two pieces of linen off of a roll. One piece he had soaked in a cleansing agent and the other he had folded into a rectangle. Being young, I was not really sure what was going to happen, not to mention that I was still a bit traumatized by being taken away. I just sat and waited, not wanting to be hit for being impatient or speaking out of turn. Boy, I wish I had known though. I would have run as fast as my scrawny legs could go. Granted, I would not have gotten very far, but it wouldn't have hurt to try.
After walking over to me, and pulling up a stool to sit in front of me, another man had come into the room, an Imperial whose face was pinched in a permanent scowl. He kneeled next to me and put his thick arm over my chest to grab the top of my left arm, holding it still. At this point, fear had set it and I blacked out. That or my brain just will not let me remember the event. I had woken up what had felt like hours later in a small barred cell that smelled like body odor and blood. On the inner part of my upper arm, I had black, swollen, letters and numbers that I could not rub away. This being before I was taught how to read; I did not realize that I had been branded.
Bosmer. Female. 26th of Evening Star. 4E, 181.
It was my information. A forever reminder that I was a piece of property. Like a house, or a horse. To be bought and sold until my owner grew tired of me, until I break, or until they die. I was not to be regarded as an equally intelligent being, but as an animal.
I stroked my index finger over the spot softly. I could still feel the raised letters, and I clenched my teeth together. Pathetic. People taking babies and adults alike and forcing them to serve until death. How I hated them, all of them. If the house were to be set ablaze at this very moment, with everyone trapped inside, I would die happy knowing that the others would have met the same fate as I.
When it came to death, everyone died the same. I had come to know this in a way I wished upon no one. I was sold the first time when I was 9 years old, to a man named Hodel, and his wife Verina. Caring Breton's, those two. They wanted a child, but Verina was barren. So they had bought me instead. Of course, I am curious still as to how they found out about Marcus and his trade. They had seemed like simple farmers. But to the eyes of a child, I supposed that I wouldn't have seen any of their dirty dealings.
We took a carriage back to their home in Eastmarch. They owned a small farm near Kynesgrove, gated and protected. I was so nervous, I had nearly thrown up when we arrived. Being out in the open world was new to me. The fresh air and the sound of the wind in the trees. Like hundreds of voices whispering the secrets of the world. The sun was bright, and I, disoriented. But I kept my head down and followed them inside quickly, offering to take their bags and so on. Just like a good servant would.
They declined and Hodel took them inside without effort. I stayed close behind them, holding back my urge to look around. Once inside, I quickly began to clean their messes as they put their belongings away, hoping to show them how well I was trained. Taking the dishes from the table to the wash bucket, finding a broom to begin sweeping. But I was stopped with a gentle hand on the shoulder. Verina looked down at me with the same sadness Liana always did.
As quickly as I began to apologize, she silenced me with a soft hush. Verina explained to me why I was here, and how I need not worry about doing the things I was taught. Hodel told me that I was to be their child, not a slave. That was something that they would not tolerate.
In that moment, it was as if a light had shined down on me from above. I was to have a normal life.
Verina had taught me to read and write. She had told me that it was the one thing no one could take away from you; knowledge. And I lived by that every day since. She taught me of my race, the Bosmer, or Wood Elves. How graceful and beautiful they were, but at the same time, how deadly they could be. Ruthless, stubborn, and unforgiving, but creative, cunning and intelligent all the same time.
She taught me of Valenwood, where Bosmeri haled from. King Eplear; the founder of Camoran Dynasty. And all of the amazing things they had done to preserve their homeland and appease Y'ffre, the forest god. She spoke of a war in the second Era between the Khajiit's and the Bosmeri, then went on to talk about the Blacksap Rebellion and the Aldmeri Dominion's claim on Elden Root. Then she spoke of the Third Era, and how Tiber Septim conquered Valenwood, the Five Year War, the War of the Blue Divide, and so on. I held onto her every word when she spoke and taught me everything she had to offer. They even let me pick my own elven name. Dari'elle.
Hodel had tried to teach me how to wield a blade. But being small and malnourished, I didn't have the strength to hold even a bastard sword. Daggers, I had been able to wield, but Hodel knew little of how to use them properly. But one day, in the middle of my lessons with Verina, Hodel had come up to us, smiling from ear to ear, and handed me a redwood bow, fit for my size. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Intricate designs carved into it and the grip looked like ebony. It was the only gift I had ever received, aside from a family of my own.
Weeks passed, lessons after lessons, and I actually began to pick up on how to knock an arrow and release it effectively. And after a few more weeks, I actually started to hit the targets, instead of the ground around them. We had passed months this way. Verina has taught me many things, and about the College of Winterhold, where she had studied. They even planned a trip there one day. Hodel would tell me bedtime stories of great warriors smaller than I that wielded bows and arrows, to make me feel mighty. And for once I had a taste of freedom and love.
I had never seen someone wear such a prideful expression before Hodel had seen me shoot a bird out of its nest one day. The warmth that bloomed inside of me was unlike anything I had felt. I wanted to make him proud of me every day for the rest of his life. But little did I know, those days were few.
In the night, a few months before my eleventh birthday, I was awoken by screams and men's laughter. They weren't bandits, and most of the townspeople had thought. From my time, I knew mercenaries when I saw them. Wearing handcrafted armor and wielding silver swords, these men were not here for the money. They did not take anything in the house, only Hodel and Verina's lives. And of course, when they spotted me and my brand, I was hauled right back to The Rift, to report to Marcus.
He rewarded me with the same things the rest received. I had been a good slave, he had said. I had served them until their last breaths. That night, he gave me a name, Larnea; A disgusting name that I refused to call my own. His eyes betrayed him, though. Olive green and full of cheer. I knew that he was the one who sent his mutts after me, and the 'unfit owners', he could not fool me. Not after what I had witnessed.
I can still remember their lifeless bodies lying there, limp and emotionless. Vacant eyes staring up at the rafters as they lay in a growing puddle of Snowberry colored liquid. Like a shell without a snail inside of it, their spirit had gone elsewhere. And no matter how many times I called to them, begged and sobbed, they did not respond. Hodel did not wake and come to my aid as I was hoisted over one of the man's shoulder. Verina did not cry out for Hodel to go after me when they ran out of the house. They were both gone from this world. Forever. That is when I learned that everyone dies, and that was it. The only thing left would be their memory and a shell.
The sound of the back door opening jolted me out of my thoughts and I quickly turned in my cage to face the window. I could see Cook's lamp light dancing in the distance, swaying here and there as he hobbled by. I bit at the skin inside my lip and smirked. Just like clockwork.
"Happy fourteenth Birthday, Dari'elle," I whispered to myself, watching as the light slowly faded from the window and I was left in the dark once more.