Author's Note: I've wanted to try writing a Skyrim fic for a while now, but life and a healthy dose of writer's block have had other ideas. This is still very much a work in progress, so if you do enjoy it, please do be patient. I'll update as often as I can. Also, I'd like to thank my wonderful beta, Daedalus370. Bethesda owns all, et cetera et cetera. Enjoy!~
Aedan glared at the Altmer above him, the moonlight cast shadows across the man's sharp features. His thin lips were curled up in a snarl, his almond-shaped eyes narrowed in a subjectively fell gaze emphasised by his prominent cheekbones.
"You have been found guilty of worship of the false god Talos," the man hissed, pressing a dagger against Aedan's throat. "We, the Aldmeri Dominion, have questions. You will tell me what I want to know, heretic." he spat.
Aedan said nothing, thrusting a grey glare into the other's golden eyes.
"You will tell me. We, your superiors, have... effective methods for extracting information." The high elf smiled knowingly.
Aedan swallowed harshly. Torture. They were going to torture him. There were rumours—whispers mostly—about people disappearing in the dead of the night, falsely accused of worshipping Talos. He wasn't a religious man. He believed in skill and coin rather than gods and worship. But there were rumours about that, too: that the Thalmor didn't need proof, that they enjoyed dragging people off to who-knows-where.
From where he was, trapped with a blade at his throat and a sneering Thalmor above him, those rumours were becoming alarmingly true.
He thought about how and where the day had gone so wrong. He had accepted a bounty to clear out some bandits. Travelling there yielded little trouble; only the territorial wildlife dared to attack him in broad daylight, and when night had fallen he had set up camp. Everything was fine. Then a pale green light illuminated the night.
A spell. A spell coming towards him.
He didn't have time to dodge the ball of magic and it struck him square in his chest. He expected pain, death, but instead he couldn't move. His body felt heavier than steel, and he was stuck in the dirt. Easy prey for his unseen assailant.
Wrong time, wrong place, he thought wryly.
The spell had worn off, now. Sensation came creeping back in a tingling numbness. He wasn't a fool; he couldn't fight. The man had magic on his side, and he questioned if there were more of them hiding in the gloom. He did the most logical thing; he did exactly what was asked of him.
Days passed, or was it weeks? Months? He couldn't tell. Time held little meaning in a cell, and regular pain had a way of making one forgetful.
Other prisoners were dragged in screaming and begging for mercy or a quick death. Most died in the cramped dungeon they shared, one of the Thalmor's methods of breaking their prisoners' will. None of the captives spoke. It was easier that way; familiar faces had a way of haunting.
Aedan heard footsteps echoing off stone walls, coming closer. Sharp voices, the clinking of metal objects, and the crack of a whip. The footsteps came closer, now. The door to the cell opened.
The manacles seemed to dig deeper into his wrists as if on cue as two torturers walked into view, carrying tools wrapped in linen. They moved to a table on the other side of the room and laid out a variety of differently shaped knives and other strange but undoubtably painful instruments.
They wasted little time in getting started, beginning with the Nord man to his right first with a terrible whip. The man hadn't been there long, and they had broken him quickly. His cries of pain reverberated around the stone cell until he soon lost consciousness.
Next, they dragged Aedan to sit opposite a pretty Nord woman no older than he was. She had been there longer than he, and they were often made to watch as the other was tortured. If one cried out in pain, the other was punished. They maintained silence.
Their captors were nothing if not sadistic, but over time they had formed a unspoken connection. They found solace in each other's eyes, and this seemed like the only thing that kept him sane.
He was barely aware of the gash being cauterised on his back, a familiar pain which was more persistently dull than a fierce one.
He wasn't sure how long they were there in this nightmarish dungeon and spent long hours focusing on the young woman beside him, his only anchor. She did the same.
They were hauled to their cells again, and their captors left them to their misery. Aedan was grateful when he lost himself to sleep.
The following days were much the same. The Nord had died in the night from infection, leaving behind a foul and pungent stench. Now it was only him and the young woman.
His head lolled forward, and he looked down at the dried blood around his wrists from where the manacles had cut into his flesh. He fought against the creeping unconsciousness he so desired because something nagged at him, persistent and annoying. Then it dawned on him.
His hands were free.
My hands are free.
His breath hitched and he tried to clear his mind, the word 'escape' ringing in his head.
After a few failed attempts, he stood, albeit unsteadily, and carefully exercised his limbs. He surveyed the room, adrenaline making him more alert than he'd felt in a long time. How long? He shook his head as if to clear the thought. It didn't matter, not now. What mattered was escaping.
His eyes fell on the young woman. She was sleeping. She looked peaceful like that, and he knew all too well that sleep was their only escape. Until now, he assured himself.
He shook her gently, trying not to startle her, and she looked at him through bleared eyes. Her expression changed from alarm to confusion to curiosity.
He showed her his wrists, and he saw hope flash in her eyes. They shared a small smile before he set to work on her manacles. Unsurprisingly, the Thalmor hadn't thought to leave a key, but Aedan found a thin piece of metal that could possibly pick the lock.
Careful not to snap his improvised tool as he wedged it inside the keyhole, he gave it a few wiggles and applied minimal pressure. He was rewarded with a telltale 'click' and the lock opened, freeing his companion's hands.
She rubbed at her wrists. They were an angry red from where the metal had dug mercilessly into her skin, much like his own.
"Are you okay?" Aedan whispered, crouching down next her. Divines, he sounded awful. He realised it was a stupid question, but it was the only thing he could think of to say.
She rolled her shoulders, working the kinks out, and answered with a smile, "Yes. Thank you."
Her voice was soft and kind, with a heavy edge of exhaustion. He realised then that it was the first time he had heard her voice. It was somewhat eerie to him that throughout their joint suffering and reassurances they had never heard each other's voice.
"I'm Aedan," he smiled, helping her to her feet. "It's a pleasure to meet you, although"—he looked around the room with a grimace—"I wish it were under better circumstances."
She maintained her smile and, after dusting herself off, crept towards the door. "Aria. Are you coming?" She gestured toward the door.
"Right. Yeah. Let's go."
They hardly dared to breathe as they crept along stone passageways, armed with only poorly-crafted daggers they had found along the way, not that they could use them. Their injuries barely let them move, let alone fight, but it made them feel somewhat safer.
They skimmed along the walls, ears strained as they listened for footsteps or voices. By the look of things, they were in an old fort. Small piles of rubble gathered in corners as stone pillars barely maintained their duties in various states of disrepair. It was poorly lit, making it seem like their captors weren't often here.
Aria stopped, and looked around the corner at the end of the next hall. Again there was silence.
As they revolved around the wall's edge, Aedan noticed that the corridor opened into a spacious room. Two staircases hugged the walls on either side, and to their left stood two big doors which he assumed was the way out. Looking at him before sharing a nod, Aria took a step forward just as the doors swung open.
Two men strode purposefully into the chamber, and Aedan grabbed Aria by the arm, pulling her into the shadows before they could see the two escapees. He could tell two things as he peered behind the corner: they were Altmer and behind them was the way out.
Once the footsteps had receded further into the fort, Aedan blew out a breath. He was torn between reason and desperation; the door was right there, a quick way out, but were there other soldiers outside? Reason told him to look for an alternate route, but what if they were caught? How long would it be until the elves realised they weren't in their cells?
They shared a look, and Aria squeezed his hand reassuringly.
Aedan made his choice. They ran.