Dancing on Our Graves
Chapter 1
NOTE: The story idea and OCs belong to Vertigox2Vertigo. I co-authored this story, and she granted me permission to use them as I see fit, but they are hers.
"What is better - To be born good, or overcome your evil nature through great effort?" —Paarthurnax
The steady drip of water from the rimed stone above his head mixed with the bloody wound above his right eye and ran through his matted hair and into his eyes and mouth. The floor beneath his, torn feet was damp and cold, and a chill lingered in the putrid air that hovered around him. He wasn't sure of his exact location, but he knew he was far from home. He couldn't be sure how long they had been down in this cave, but if his empty stomach was any indication, he'd say a week. Maybe more.
Someone moaned to his left, the familiar sound tearing at his gut and roused him abruptly with a gasp of fetid air. He knew the voice, knew the reason why she was in agony, and yet there was nothing he could do about. Farkas heard Aela shift in her chains and her groan as her leg gave out. He heard her drop limply to one knee, her arms stretched above her head by the manacles around her wrists, while she wheezed in pain. Farkas lifted his aching, battered head up to peer out of the one good eye and looked over at his shield sister.
He wanted to call out to her, to tell her that he was still with her and that she needed to hold out a little longer, but he could not. His throat was so raw from screaming that he couldn't make a sound. Farkas shook his head and spit a clot of blood onto the slippery floor. Vilkas would come soon. His brother would hunt the bastards that had done this, and he would find them. Save them. They just needed to stay alive.
Gods, if he could just loosen his own bonds, then he could transform and free them both from this wretched place. But he could not. Between the broken arm and blood loss of a deep cut, he was too weak to pull at the chains or the bolts driven into the walls.
Farkas despised admitting it, but he had to face the fact that he couldn't help either of them.
Damn them all to Oblivion.
He forced himself to stillness and gazed around the room. The air smelled of old blood, rotting flesh, and fear. Beyond the cold fireplace, a row of mounted wolf heads snarled at him like a warning. Wolf heads on pikes, bloody knives, wolf skins...Tired eyes returned to the limp form of his shield sister. What if they'd given her the potion? What if she didn't wake up? What if they'd broken her spirit? An image of her spinning like a dancer her blade flashing. Arrows surging from her bow so quickly, like the sound of ice cracking. The beauty and grace of his shield sister gone forever? Farkas groaned, vomited helplessly sending bile down his naked chest. He'd failed her and the Circle.
The Silver Hand had come upon them unexpectedly, a sneak attack so quick and violent that neither he nor Aela had time to do more than drop into ready stances to fight. Men and women running, shouting triumphantly, the sounds of twang and woosh of arrows through the night air. He'd shoved Aela behind him just as something struck him in the neck. The last thing he remembered was Aela's cursing before his body had gone boneless, dropping to the ground without having made a single blow to their attackers. Before waking up chained to this wall he watched Aela fall beside him to the dry earth of Talking Stone Camp.
Figures those bastards wouldn't have the balls to fight them like true warriors. They used poisons and potions to weaken their enemy and smuggle them away to this foul place.
Footsteps, light and quick echoed from down the long corridor, and Farkas turned his head to see which of the filthy skeevers was coming for them this time.
In the dim light of the torches, all Farkas could make out was a dark-robed figure carrying some sort of staff with a glowing stone embedded in the tip. It wasn't until they stopped a few feet in front of him, that Farkas realized the robes were not black, but a deep, inky purple. The stone wasn't glowing, it pulsed—he swallowed hard—like a beating heart.
A woman stood before him, tall and slender, her blonde hair pulled up into a mass of curls atop her head. Her face was slim, blue eyes piercing as they looked upon him, her skin pale and flawless, like the inside of the seashell, he found on a beach long ago. A sweet-ish scent rose from the rounded tops of the breasts she casually displayed beneath the thick robes. Farkas watched her warily, the smell pulling at him like a promise, curling into his groin like a snake.
Slender fingers on his cheek pulled his head up. She chuckled a hard, dark sound that sent a frisson of fear down his spine. "So you're Farkas," she said, and his good eye narrowed as he met her gaze. "I've been told that you've proven to be quite the stubborn beast. Well, I'm about to change that."
She moved off towards a nearby table, her long robes sweeping almost ghostlike over the floor, barely causing a whisper of sound. She leaned her staff against the wall and pulled the strap of a leather satchel from around her neck to place it on the tabletop.
"You have something I need, Farkas, and I will get it one way or another."
The woman moved closer to Aela, reaching out with long, nimble fingers to stroke the red tresses that hung in bloody ribbons around her dirty face.
"My associates prefer violence to get what they want. I am not so barbaric. There are other, more delicate and personal means by which to acquire such knowledge."
She looked over at Farkas as she pulled a bottle from the pocket of her robe. Uncorking it, she moved to him and held it up to his lips. He tried to turn away, but the scent of it drew him in.
A health potion. Why would she want to heal him?
As if she'd read his mind, she said, "You can't tell me what I need to know if your throat is so raw that you cannot speak or your mind rattled that you cannot form a thought." She tossed a frown at the door that sent her curls into disarray and pursed her plump red lips. "Barbarians," she spat, then smiled at Farkas and carding her fingers through his hair. "Come now, Companion. Let's put an end to this unpleasantness. You'll be a good dog for me. Won't you?"
Indecision kept his head down while he considered not accepting it, but what good would he do Aela if he couldn't communicate with her? For a moment, he yearned for his brothers and sisters. His brother would know what to do. Farkas tilted his head back. He wasn't some green lad, nor was this the first time he'd faced evil. For all her finery and allure, she was just a woman. He must stay alive. When he was stronger, he would know what to do.
Farkas tilted his head back, and the woman lifted the flask higher so that the salty liquid dribbled into his mouth.
"That's it. What a good boy," she cooed into his ear and tugged on his earlobe with sharp white teeth before tossing the empty bottle into the straw. Her long-fingered hands stroked his bare chest and sharp nails left red streaks on his neck. "Good dogs get rewarded."
"Get your hands off my shield-brother, hag or you'll answer to me."
The robbed woman sniffed impatiently and tossed a spell over her shoulder that silenced Aela's challenge. Farkas cringed at his sister's scream.
"Stay strong, sister." Farkas urged straining to turn his head toward his sister until the woman slapped him across the face.
Farkas bared his teeth at her transgression then set his feet squarely on the stone and straightened his shoulders.
