"I do worry about you, Sera. There are things you haven't asked for yet that you should have long ago."

His statement halts the motion of the pear slice towards my mouth. What would there be that I could ask for? What else is there to do but exist in this place? To suffer through eternities until he returns once more and rescues me from the darkness?

"What..." The question starts before I remember that I am not speaking to him. Because...of something. It is a sign of weakness to speak, right? Or is there strength in speaking? For he speaks much and is so strong, while I say nothing and am so frail.

"A bath," he answers, while staring at my matted nest of hair. There was a point where such things bothered me, but sometime ago it seemed to lose all importance. In the dark there is no one to see you, not even yourself.

But to know that he has noticed the state of my disarray, has held onto my neck despite the stench of my clothes, shames me. His discomfort never crossed my mind.

"I may...may I bathe?" Is that really my voice coming back from the smooth walls? It sounds so small and rusty. No wonder my body is so weak. I shall have to speak more often.

"Of course! You need only ask. Perhaps you would like something different to wear as well?" He is delighted with my question, giving me a happy grin. How odd that I always forget to ask him for things. Maybe it is because I am busy being lost in the past while waiting for him, the future, to return.

"Yes." Such relief and joy at finally talking again. Why did I punish myself by not doing so? It is good that he is patient. "May I have new clothes?"

"I've been waiting for you to ask. Let me get them for you."

"No!" As his touch pulls away my hand reaches out, too slow to grab his arm, but fast enough to clutch his sleeve. If he goes the darkness comes back, and it is far too soon for that to happen. I am not ready. Though one can never really be ready for it.

The light remains, and he stares down coldly, looming over me where he stands. It makes me feel guilty, though for what reason I do not comprehend. Panic seizes hold – panic that he'll not come back, panic that I've forgotten something, misplaced a vitally important thought. And with the panic comes the tears during the horrible silence in which he says nothing. Why does he not speak?

"I do not recall giving permission for you to touch me." His words are so distant, and a fresh torrent of tears is unleashed as my hand quickly pulls away from the soft fabric. Something is so wrong with this situation, but my mind can't decipher what. There is a sense of loss, a mourning for something that once was, a yearning for what used to be. But it has no name that can be recalled, and it slips further away with each passing moment.

"Sera," he soothes while reaching down to grab hold of my neck once more. The reassuring feel of his hand instantly starts to calm away my distress. "Do not cry. I never wish to see you cry. But you must remember to ask for what you need. What do you need?"

"Light." The answer is rasped out between sniffles. "Please don't leave me without light."

An eternity seems to pass while waiting for him to speak once again, but it is a rather pleasant one. The warmth of his touch on the nape of my neck feels good, and my body presses up just a little to enjoy it more.

"It won't be much, but it will have to be enough. I shall return shortly," he finally pronounces. It is a strange sight to see, or rather, not to see. The darkness removes him from view, but a tiny glow of light remains, woven around my body. It cannot penetrate more than a hands breadth into the black, but it protects me nonetheless.

Curiosity fuels the inspection of my apparel. The hem of my pants where the iron cuff is attached is solid from old blood, long since dried and hardened. There are small tears and holes, the knees worn from crawling, the felt thin in the back where it has pressed against the stone floor for several lifetimes worth of darkness.

The heavy woolen sweater has fared worse. One sleeve has unravelled halfway up the arm, and the other one is held together by frayed threads.

It is the bracers that fascinate though. The daedric runes surely say something – my fingertips have read them endlessly in the dark, memorizing every curve and divot. Without them my own spell would drive the darkness back until light bounced from every surface and no shadows could be found.

Protection, he'd called them, back in the beginning. Protection for him from me had been the first thought. Now others joined it – protection from unknown forces, protection from the darkness, protection from my lover...

Love. My lover had used that word freely, it had sounded so sincere at the time. Not around the others though, never around them. Jealousy, accusations of favouritism, acts of sabotage – he'd warned that would happen if we were too overt. But the guild members had known anyway, our relationship common gossip.

Had it really been protecting my reputation that had been his motivation? Or something else? Had he ever really loved me at all?

Why had he given me that dagger, soaked in deadly poison, as a good luck charm?

Before the questions can spiral further out of control a soft touch and flare of brightness pulls me from them.

"Sera, put this on," he says, offering a folded linen garment. It ends up being a cloud of a gown, very large, made of thin, soft fabric. It is a struggle, but eventually the swaths of material are tamed and my head pops through the collar.

Sensing my thought as soon as it occurs, he slides his other hand onto my neck while removing the arm that is trapped under the gown. As he does so he turns around, leaving me safe with the light while protecting my modesty. It is a small kindness, but greatly appreciated.

There are already buttons missing from the front of my ragged sweater, and it takes little time to undo those that remain. The pants, however, are much more of a challenge. After a brief struggle, during which a rest is required, they are shimmied down to the ankles. And here is where the problem lies, for one leg is free, but the other is connected to the wall.

"Do you need any assistance?"

The timing is perfect, as my arms have finally managed to locate and slip through the generous sleeves. Sitting naked under this tent of linen makes me feel somehow lost.

"My ankle...I can't remove all of my clothes." Somehow it feels wrong to speak of the chain, the iron cuff, the restraint that binds me to the wall. As if the mention of them may offend him, resulting in a sudden plunge into darkness.

It is hated, this cruel metal that tethers me like a tame bear. The mer that frees the leg from the shackles was just as hated, but now that anger does not burn as brightly. How can it, when he has made sure to tenderly maintain a hold on my neck even as he releases the leg he bound?

Run.

As he pulls me up to stand, holding me as I sway, the thought suddenly pops into mind. This degree of freedom has been denied for...since the beginning. Sparks of remembrance whisper urgency, haste, opportunity.

For what purpose though? To run into the door? To anger him? To bring back the darkness?

"Sera, it hurts me to do it, but we must move without the light. It is for your protection."

My body flinches, draws back, shifts with uneasiness. This is so very new, and rather terrifying. Trapped in the darkness the only thing I had to fear was my own mind, but the prospect of leaving this room, where nothing has ever hurt me, is frightening.

"I am here with you. I will keep you safe. Relax, Sera," he soothes as the light fades away.

The journey is slow and exhausting, and disorientation quickly sets in. A strength I suspect to be magical, an extension of his power, suffuses my heavy limbs. When my feet trip over themselves he does not let me fall.

But somehow this darkness is not so terrible, for his reassuring hand on the back of my neck is a constant presence, and with it comes a sense of security.

"Sera, I must let go of you for a moment," he says calmly as panic grips my heart. Alone, blind, in an unknown environment – the thought is too much. "Shh, do not fear. Just stand here and stay absolutely still. No matter what, don't move. Can you do this for me?"

"I don't..."

"Do not cry. I will return before you realize I am gone." His voice is so smooth, like the skin of his fingers as they caress my cheek, wiping away the tears that had slipped out before I'd been aware of them. "Just stay still and you will be fine."

And with that his hand is gone, no noise to indicate that he's left, for he moves in a cone of silence that cannot be detected.

My muscles threaten to betray me as they start to burn, unused to such exertion. But my will is stronger, and they remain in place, as my fingers trace the runes on my bracers. They are my protection – his protection - and as such I will not be harmed.

Noise that is not him, not me, comes from ahead. The click of thick nails on rock, the slither of scaly skin on stone, and the low growl, so very deep, reveal an unseen daedroth.

I am protected. I am safe. Don't move. Don't panic. He'll be back. I am protected...

The litany runs over top the fear that screams underneath. It is repeated nonstop, maintaining a tenuous grasp on my self control, until the hot blast of air as the monster snorts on my face breaks my resolve.

Pain, unendurable agony, jolts through my body. Jagged needles pierce the flesh where it has pulled away from the daedra – back, arms, legs – all are moist, bleeding, torn. The wall behind me is surely covered in razor sharp spikes, and my blood is just as surely glistening off them in the darkness.

The world collapses around me as incomprehensible sensations vie for attention. Scales under my hand, the bare sole of one foot being shredded as it scrapes the wall, the tang of blood in my mouth as the jolt of impact from hitting the (floor? ceiling?) sends my teeth into my tongue, and the terrified moan that surrounds from all angles...

"Sera!" The name (his name for me) is accompanied by the most wonderful feeling of all – safety, peace, healing, comfort – as he takes hold of my neck. The fear and pain melt away, leaving nothing but the aftermath of emotions.

"Sera, did you move? I told you to remain still. Please listen to me next time."

He's scolding me, but he's right to do so. I should not have flinched from the daedroth (his daedroth) like that.

"Don't cry. It's over now. I'm here. You're safe," he soothes while picking me up. Trying to stem the flow of tears is difficult, for they are fueled by so many things. The memory of pain, the relief at his return, and even guilt at having disobeyed...

We are moving again, up, down, backwards, sideways, the sticky feel of my own blood as the ruined fabric of the gown clings to my backside a shameful reminder of that incident.

"We're here, Sera," he states as the darkness flees from his light.

To my utter shock I recognize the location as the tunnels that connect his tower to the castle. The stretch of water, black underneath the inky slick reflection as his spell plays over the surface, is one that I crossed on my way in. And if I know the way in, then that means I know the way out...

The water is rushing up towards my face. Just a quick swim, a short run, and then freedom. Instinct shouts out to hurry.

Flee.

But instinct, once such a wise counselor, has led me astray. For freedom is not my useless limbs, three of the four weighted down with metal, struggling to keep my head above water. Freedom is not death, and fear, and panic as water is gulped down in equal quantities as air...

Fadomai help me gods save me don't let me drown

"I won't let you drown," he answers. As his strong hand (safe hand) holds my head above water it is a desperate struggle not to turn to him and cling for dear life (don't have permission).

"Do try to stop doing that, Sera. It is hard to keep you safe if you will not let me. Bathing is normally never this perilous." He jokes, the first one I've heard from him, and it is rewarded with tinny laughter, slightly unnatural and strained, but genuine nonetheless.

"I have you. Remember that. Now come down with me below," he urges as we start to dip lower.

"Don't let go. Please." My words are urgent, desperate, begging.

"Of course, Sera. I will do as you ask. All you need to do is keep breathing," he answers gently before we slip underwater.

It is hard at first to relax, to magically breathe as we sink down away from the light, but his hold never slackens. Soon it is dark and I am floating, disoriented completely as I drift in the black.

But there is no fear of losing my mind to the currents that swirl around my limbs, cleaning away layers of dirt, for as long as the hand (his hand) is on my neck I am safe.