Blackness. The moons and stars must have been destroyed – all light is gone. Opening and closing my eyes once more yields no further information.
The curl of my leg towards my chest is halted with a rattle of metal. Chained up like an animal. This is not a good thing.
But leg irons and locks are old familiar territory, even in utter darkness, and the panic hasn't yet returned. From the sound that bounces back from the walls the room (dungeon? cell?) must be small. There is no answering rustle, moan, or cry, so I most likely am the sole occupant of this...wherever.
Pulling my arms closer to find that there are no restraints on their movement, but there is an increased weight around each wrist. Unable to see, my fingers resort to being my eyes. Deeply etched runes in metal bands – this can only mean one thing.
"Damn." I mutter the curse, far weaker than intended. Some unnatural heaviness weighs down my body, a sensation not experienced since that bad case of swamp fever. Nonetheless my fingers are able to feel the thick clasp of iron around the right ankle, and the sparking chill of the lock.
"Damn." This time a little louder. Further exploration with my hands leads me to conclude that I am, essentially, in deep trouble. All hidden picks are gone, even the ones secreted in my clothes - not that I'd be able to use them if I had them. The lock is magically held, and the bracers on my wrist prevent the use of any spells. Even if I could get free, it is doubtful I'd be able to walk in this highly weakened state.
Right. Time to take stock of the situation. Trapped who knows where, intact but lacking strength, stuck in a pitch black something, at a wizard's mercy. Panic seems like a good option right now, but that would certainly help nothing.
How long has it been since the moons watched my failure? My lover knew where I was going, the possible dangers that lay ahead, surely he'd have planned something in case of my capture. There was no way he'd simply let me rot in here.
I have need of your special gifts...
He couldn't afford to let me rot in here. Who else could have stolen a powerful artifact from Moth Priests? Who else could have moved silently through a series of tunnels filled with daedra?
And who managed to get herself captured by a wizard? Who was lying here in the dark with no possible hope of escape? Who was relying on a group of thieves to save her?
Trying to wipe away the shameful tears with my sleeve hurts, the jagged edge of a bracer cutting a line in my cheek. That stings, and draws out a hiss in response. At least it's a distraction from the looming desperation. Such indulgences would result in nothing.
"I wasn't planning on torture, so you don't need to start on your own." Green light, the intensity blinding to my eyes, fills my sight. But there is a glimpse of walls, a ceiling, a door, before my eyelids are pressed tightly together. Trying to sit up and pull away from the mer who'd cast the spell results in a painful bump to the back of the head, weakened muscles unable to stop the momentum that the sudden movement causes as I fall heavily against the wall.
"A mild poison. Makes you very weak, but there are no other ill effects. The less you move the more comfortable you'll be," he explains. Is that humour in his words? Or contempt?
Silence descends upon us as he waits for me to respond. No chance in that. It's always safer to say as little as possible at all times. Never admit anything. A few run ins with the Legion has reinforced that lesson. Cunning bastards, asking innocent questions until you were caught in a web of lies, guilt written upon you as clear as if you were holding the illicit goods in your hands.
Stolen glances through lashes, a useful trick, reveal a wealth of information. The room is not very large, the size of an average bedroom, and completely bare of furnishings. Sitting cross legged on the floor, glowing brightly, is my captor. A tray beside him, laden with food and drink, suddenly remind me that I am starving. More time must have passed than I thought.
"You do not need to pretend you are asleep. Look around if you wish, Sera."
This name he uses is unfamiliar, but it shall do. But now comes the dilemma - ignore him and continue feigning unconsciousness, or get a good look at him, and the room? Much as it hurts my pride to seemingly do as I'm told, the need to try and get as much helpful knowledge as possible about the situation overrules. Perhaps there will not be another opportunity like this.
The bastard smiles in response to the sneer I bestow on him. Rather than engage in a staring contest, the details of the cell, for that is what it is, are noted. The thick chain that binds one ankle is attached to a very sturdy iron ring set in the wall. The floor is smooth, dark stone polished flat, and relatively clean. There aren't any telltale signs of rodents, which may or may not be a good thing.
The walls and ceiling are the same smooth rock, leading to the conclusion that this room is underground, probably somewhere in the series of tunnels that connect the castle to the tower. It is the door, however, that captures the imagination. For it is smooth, solid, and without a handle. With no hinges to be seen, its operation is a mystery.
"Would you like a drink? You must be thirsty." The Dunmer offers, indicating the pitcher on the tray. Trying not to pay attention to the thought of refreshment, or the sandpaper quality of my tongue, his offer is met with contemptible silence. As if it would be a good idea to trust a mage, let alone one that keeps daedra for pets and has a dungeon in his cellar.
"Ah, Sera, I wish you no harm. I only desire to have a friendly chat. That was quite an accomplishment. Sneaking by elementals is one thing, but to go unnoticed past a daedroth? A very clever trick."
It is hard to tell if he is at all sincere in his flattery. Those red eyes of his, tilted up above his slanted cheekbones, reveal nothing. They say Dunmer's eyes glow in the dark, but that is not something I've found to be true.
"I haven't seen anyone move so well through the shadows since the Morag Tong paid me a visit many years ago. For a while I thought you were one of them. This," the daedric dagger, the good luck charm from my lover, is revealed in his hand, "is a compliment. Such a remarkable poison, tailor made for me. Silence, paralysis, frost damage; I do wonder who cared enough to create it."
This was definitely not good. A thief, a rogue, a smuggler I was. An assassin I was not, and to be thought of as one by a wizard did not bode well for further chances of survival. The rush of fear causes a corresponding pounding in both sides of my head - the unsoothed bump on the back, and the beginnings of a migraine in the front.
"Especially since they sent you for this, and not me." The dark arrowhead lies in the other palm. Ah, the sight of my undoing is painful to see. So close to success, snatched away by means I still didn't understand.
"Sera, will you say nothing to clarify this matter? Does my hospitality so distress you?"
The absurdity of the question elicits a sharp bark of laughter. Hospitality? Being held captive does not qualify as hospitality. Were it not for this infernal weakness plaguing me he'd be wiping spit from his eyes, but the fear of merely drooling stills that desire.
"Is there nothing I could do to prove my good intentions? Anything you wish that is in my power to grant, I would be happy to provide," he offers. The mer is an actor of the highest caliber, or a hypocrite of the worst sort. Either way he is dangerous, powerful, and most likely mad.
"Let me go." The effort to speak is shockingly difficult. But the words are understood.
"I wish that I could, but you are far safer in here than out there," he replies mournfully, gently shaking his head while offering a look of...pity? The mer is surely mad. Safer in here? Trapped by a crazy mage? No, that certainly makes no sense.
"You're bleeding. Should I heal that for you? I do apologize for the bracers, but they are necessary for your protection." Without waiting for a reply he sends a small ball of restoration magic at me. Trying to dodge it results only in a great deal of pain as my side slams into the floor, muscles too weary to prevent the fall. Yet another spell heads towards me, but there is no effort to avoid it. The magic soothes away the soreness, and it is a struggle not to sigh in relief at the sensation.
"Rest, Sera, and I shall visit later," he says softly before fading away into the encroaching darkness. There are no sounds after that, and unsure whether he's gone or not, sleep is fought off until it can no longer be avoided.
Which must be hours, for the entire time is spent worrying about the possibilities of a wizard who likes to heal his prisoners, and wondering what particular type of madness led him to believe that keeping me here somehow counted as rendering me safe.
Safe from what? There wasn't anything out there to be feared, merely the fate that awaits down here.
Right?