A/N: thank you all for Following/ Favoriting (thought I forgot about it, did you?)/ and Reviewing. A big "Thank You!" to all the guest reviews I've gotten lately (I had to look up 'immurement' just to get the exact definition; I think the Mongols did it best…). And an even bigger "Thank You!" to all my regulars, to all of you who've stuck with me through the icky bit, both fanfic members and guests.
Now, I'll start cleaning up this little mess I made, shall I?
Chapter Twenty
22nd Rain's Hand: 4E 204
She was selfish; she could admit it.
If people knew of Gerhild's history with the Thalmor, she didn't think anyone would be surprised to hear of her selfishness—or blame her for it.
But few people knew how they had treated her, how that Thalmor Interrogator, Norilar, had tortured and raped her. Both he and his assistant. Most only knew she had an unreasonable hatred for all things related to the Thalmor. Most were grateful for that fact. And most didn't bother to consider—or at least to ask—why.
So it was with no small amount of sulking anger that she looked at Avulstein Gray-Mane and his two friends, Vidrald and Geirlund. She hadn't expected to find them here, not fifty yards from Northwatch Keep, hiding in the snowbanks, scouting the area. She had spent the past couple of weeks tracking down the whereabouts of Thorald. After careful and circumspect questioning of Idolaf Battle-Born, she had secured the letter he had received from General Tullius stating that Thorald was being kept in Northwatch Keep—from which people never return. She hadn't shared this with the Gray-Manes; Fralia had enough pain and heartache already. But she vowed to herself that she would go to Northwatch Keep, kill every Thalmor there, and at the very least return Thorald's body to his family.
Though she hoped to find him alive. Being intimate with the Thalmor's techniques, she knew how they liked to keep their newest prisoners chained to a wall and force them to watch another's torture, before being tortured themselves. That meant there was time, there was hope, that she could reach and free Thorald before his torture began.
She had left Whiterun in her ebony armor. She hadn't told anyone where she was going, or even that she was leaving. Yet apparently Avulstein and his two buddies had conducted their own investigation, and came up with the same answer. And Avulstein was just as determined to rescue his brother, as she was to wipe out every last Thalmor in residence at this fort.
"I don't know who you are," Avulstein said for what seemed like the hundredth time, "And I don't care. My brother's in there. I aim to free him. Ya wanna tag along, you can."
She leaned in close to him. She wasn't upset that he didn't recognize her—she was grateful for it. The last thing she needed was for the story to go around of how Lady Gerhild North-Wind had single-handedly wiped out a Thalmor encampment. She knew Avulstein had been absent from Whiterun since Thorald's disappearance, and knowing how closely Eorlund guarded his works in progress—especially when commissioned by the Dragonborn—it was reasonable to assume he either didn't know or hadn't seen the armor and weapons his father had made for her. That suited her just fine, fitting in with her plan of posing as a rogue warrior, a mercenary, an adventurer who was doing this for a fee.
"I was hired to clear this place out," she began, disguising her voice lest he recognize her through it, "You can tag along if you want." She knew she couldn't dissuade him; she supposed she would feel the same way if she had family or some other loved one being held inside. "But do as I say, when I say it. And stay out of my way if things get too close. Understood?"
"You as tough as you sound?" he asked, his eyes narrowing, trying to get the measure of her. Truthfully he didn't relish the prospect of attacking a fort full of Thalmor soldiers, but if she had been hired to do it, and without help no less, then she must be fairly capable. Or completely insane. Too bad she wore that mask-like ebony helmet; he would have loved to have a look at her face just to reassure himself.
Gerhild didn't answer, other than to pull out her bow and fit an arrow to the string. Without turning her head, she let the arrow fly. The sentry on the wall, who had just turned away, fell dead to the walkway, her arrow straight through his neck and severing both arteries.
Inspired by her showing off, the three Nord men gave a battle-cry as they jumped to their feet and ran towards the entrance to the courtyard. They were brave to charge the front gate, but foolish as that was the area with the strongest defenses. She didn't bother wasting her breath cursing, instead focusing on the other sentries along the battlements. If she could pick off enough of them, then Avulstein and his friends would have a better chance making it inside.
She again wished she could have done this alone, as there were quite a few Shouts she would have loved to have the excuse to use. She didn't want the Dragonborn's reputation getting tied up with this messy event, however, any more than Lady Gerhild's reputation, and the three Nords made rather inconvenient witnesses. She'd have to do this without any of her Dragonborn powers.
Damn it, but this was getting complicated!
She slung her bow over her shoulders and pulled out her shield and war axe. Not because she was out of arrows; she was out of targets. Fifteen sentries had lost their lives to her new bow—a fine weapon—and now it was time for her war axe to draw its first blood. And it was very, very thirsty.
The three Nords had killed all but a few Thalmor soldiers, one of which was dressed in glass armor rather than elven. A stronger opponent, and worthy of her skill, she toyed with the idea of playing with him for awhile, but remembered that she wasn't alone on this adventure, as she had hoped to be. So with a slight pout, she feinted to pull him out of position, backhanded her shield into his face to expose his neck, and chopped downwards once. Very unsatisfying.
"By Talos!" Vidrald or Geirlund said, she didn't bother to remember which was which, but she thought it was Vidrald, "That was a blow. You nearly took his head off." They had taken care of the last of the soldiers in the time it took her to take on the one. Perhaps they were better than she gave them credit.
She turned her expressionless helmet towards him. "That's why I warned you to stay out of my way, if things get too tight. Wouldn't want to hit one of you by accident."
"That why you work alone?" Avulstein asked, cleaning his battleaxe on a fallen Thalmor's tunic.
She paused and strapped her shield onto her back, thinking it'd be too close quarters inside the fort for her to make effective use of it. "I prefer it," she answered, cleaning her own blade. Talking this way made her want to clear her throat, but she kept up the pretense. Avulstein was looking at her too closely, anyway. Time to get back to business, and give him less time to think. "Shall we?" she gestured towards the main door of the Keep.
Avulstein grinned eagerly. "Ladies first."
She smiled back, but he of course couldn't see it. "I'm no lady. You two, stay outside."
"What?" one of them asked, his tone indignant.
"There's more than one entrance," she explained, really wishing she didn't have to talk so much; this hurt her throat. "We'll clear it out from inside, but if anyone comes out through either this exit or another…"
"We'll take care of them," the other vowed. "You just get to Thorald, and keep that obstinate old bear alive."
Avulstein snorted at the jibe, but Gerhild gave him a serious nod; she had every intention of keeping Avulstein alive, even if she had to knock him out and tie him up and keep him out of the fight to do it. The Gray-Manes didn't need to lose both sons.
They entered the fort, Gerhild in the lead, crouched and walking as silently as midnight. Avulstein had very little gift for sneaking, being a Nord who loved to charge into battle. After the first room, where he had knocked into her arm as she'd been about to fire her bow, and then charged at one Thalmor while another came up behind him, Gerhild decided to give up trying to take anyone by surprise and just walked through the Keep. Whoever came at her was dead. Whoever came at Avulstein was also dead. Bottom line. End of story.
They found a mess hall, three Thalmor inside taking a break and only half-dressed in their armor or robes. One had a weapon, but the other two used whatever was at hand, a bowl of soup thrown at her head, a table knife thrust towards Avulstein's chest. Needless to say, the fight again was less than satisfying.
Gerhild began to feel cheated. This wasn't at all what she had imagined this little adventure would be. She wanted death. She wanted gore. She wanted something difficult and protracted and energy-consuming and…
She drew her ebony dagger and threw it, left-handed and unerringly, into the neck of the soldier about to run Avulstein through from behind.
Stop thinking, she told herself as she retrieved the blade, and just enjoy what you have. Later you can go looking for a dragon, if you really want to fight that badly, but finish helping Avulstein first.
They continued through the Keep, the hallways and stairs sloping ever downwards, as if the Thalmor knew what they were doing here was ugly and wrong, and tried to hide all evidence from the light of day. She felt her heart begin to race as they made their way past the barracks, killing another handful of Thalmor. They had to be getting close to the torture chamber and prison cells. Soon she would see it, a place like the one where she had been imprisoned, and she wasn't sure how she was going to react. Gods she prayed Thorald was in a cell, and not the chamber. She paused at the head of a long narrow hallway, certain that she could hear the moans of tortured souls ahead, and had to battle down her emotions and shake the imagined sounds from her ears.
Aye, she wished she could have done this alone, faced these demons alone. But then again, she knew it was better that Avulstein was with her, as it encouraged her to remain focused and to wrap up those strong memories and emotions behind their wall of ebony. After a few breaths, Avulstein creeping forwards the whole time, she felt like she was once more in control of herself and could move again.
The next moment, her blood ran cold, freezing her steps again. As if summoned by her unwanted memories, a Thalmor Interrogator walked across the end of the hallway. She knew—Stuhn's Shield!—she knew… Between the gait and the set of his shoulders, she knew it was Norilar.
He called out to another Thalmor out of sight beyond the edge of the hallway, the sound of his voice confirming his identity. Avulstein was already moving, however, his Nordic blood warmed up with their little skirmishes so far. He charged, battleaxe poised for a mighty blow, a battle-cry parting his lips.
"Get back, damn you!" Gerhild cursed and raced after him. Already it was too late to stop him, to go silently so she could get the drop on Norilar. She wanted to take that bastard alive, alive and whole so he could live a long time before she was finished with him. The last thing she wanted was for Avulstein to kill him by accident.
That wasn't what happened. Norilar turned at the sound of the battle-cry echoing down the hall, too highly trained to be frightened by a mere shout, and cast a lightning spell before Avulstein could even get close. The Nord immediately stiffened, the weight of his battleaxe pulling him off-balance, and with a clatter he fell to the ground. Gerhild didn't pause as she raced past him, negligently casting a healing spell as she leaped over his body and gained access to the room.
She rolled, ducking under the spell she knew Norilar would cast, and came to a stop in the corner between the far wall and a stout door. She spun on her heels, still squatting, and threw her dagger across the room. The ebony blade sunk hilt deep into the eye socket… of the other Thalmor. Norilar had done what he did best—or second best as he was an excellent torturer—he saved his own neck. After missing her with the spell, he didn't wait to find out who she was or what she wanted. He had yanked open the door at the opposite end of the room and raced down the hallway, past cells of prisoners, and around a corner.
The profanities that fell from her lips didn't bear repeating. She glanced to see that Avulstein was moving, though not quite ready to gain his feet. She checked the Thalmor as she pulled her dagger from his face, but he was dead. Then she chased after Norilar.
Too much time, she murmured to herself, it's taking too long he's gonna get away I can't let him escape me not now please Stuhn let me catch up with him! She rounded the curve at the end of the hallway and smacked face first into a locked door. She barely managed to stop herself in time from Shouting it to splinters, as a Shout in these stone hallways would echo and give away her identity. Instead she knelt and fumbled at her waist for her lock picks. It took longer, and she grumbled to herself all the while. By the time she had picked the lock and opened the door, the room beyond was empty.
It was an office, sparsely furnished and neat, though the desk was in flames. No doubt Norilar covering his tracks, not wanting to leave behind a report or dossier to give any clue on where to find him. She snorted and left the papers to burn, thinking he'd run back to the Thalmor Embassy before he went anywhere else. The bastard.
She didn't take too long searching the office, as she still had to get back to Avulstein and find Thorald. She did find a ladder behind a screen that lead to a trap door in the ceiling, and checking it revealed it was either locked or blocked from the outside. Well, perhaps Vidrald and Geirlund caught Norilar escaping and took care of him. Not ideal, and anything but satisfying, yet the end result would be the same: Norilar's death. The only other thing of note within the office was a chest stuffed with items confiscated from his victims. She gave it a quick perusal, but found nothing more than clothing and a few cheap daggers.
Dejected, she turned and retraced her steps back to Avulstein. He was sitting up finally, staring at the scorched area in the middle of his chest. "Thought I was a goner," he admitted, "Struck by lightning like that."
"You'll live," she growled, her anger deepening her voice. It was satisfying to see him flinch from the force of her words. "Didn't I tell you to do what I say? To not get ahead of me?"
"I didn't think, I mean, it was just a Thalmor, like the others..."
"He was their Head Interrogator," she retorted, gripping his forearm and hoisting him to his feet. She knew it wasn't fair to blame him, he didn't know of her history with that particular Thalmor, but Stuhn's Shield it felt good to vent some of her frustration over Norilar slipping out of her grasp. If only Stuhn had answered her prayer and let her catch up with him...
"I take it he got away?" Avulstein asked, perhaps a little sheepishly.
Her ebony gauntlet clenched and unclenched a few times before she could answer. "Aye, he escaped through his office. Hopefully Vidrald and Geirlund caught him," her voice softened a little as she continued, "But we won't worry about that now. Come on. There are some cells this way. One might hold Thorald."
He perked up at her acceptance of his implied apology and the mention of his brother, and together they went back to the hallway with the cells. Gerhild didn't bother looking inside, as she wasn't sure what Thorald looked like and left that to Avulstein. Instead she found the levers that opened the doors and released all the prisoners. There were only three; the female Breton and male Argonian definitely weren't Thorald. The third was a male Nord, but Avulstein gave his head a small shake. Thorald was still missing, and Gerhild knew exactly where he would be found.
"Are any of you hurt?" she asked these three first, receiving negative answers. "Then go to the office there, around the end of the hallway. It's safe," she reassured the woman who looked like she might be argumentative. "The Thalmor are all dead or gone. There's a chest in the office that holds clothing and weapons. Take what you need."
"We're… we're free? You came here to free us?" the Nord asked.
"And my brother, Thorald," Avulstein gripped his arm. "He's about my height, similar hair and features. Have you seen him? Do you know where he is?"
The man looked away, as the other two began moving off slowly, all of them unwilling to speak of it. He did finally look up, however, as Avulstein refused to let go of his forearm. "We… I don't know anyone by name… but there's only one other place to find prisoners here…" his eyes lifted to the far end of the hallway, towards that stout door Gerhild had first crouched beside.
Aye, she had known that's where he would be: the torture chamber. Gods, she didn't want to see the inside of that type of room again... but she would, she would have even if Thorald hadn't been in there, because she wouldn't—couldn't leave anyone behind, suffering in such a place. Pushing aside her fears and memories, as they only made her weak, she approached the two men.
"Go and find yourself some clothing," she said, gently taking Avulstein's arm off of him. "The Keep is cleared of Thalmor, and two of our friends are outside waiting. You can leave right away, or wait for us, but I would suggest speed. Come, Avulstein, let's get your brother."
His eyes were lost and hurt when he first looked at her, but holding some sort of gaze with her unseen eyes, he seemed to come back to his senses. "Aye, let's get him. You lead this time." He added the last bit as he fingered the scorch marks on his chest plate.
Scaled armor, she thought to herself, not bothering to wonder why she hadn't noticed it before, just like Vorstag used to wear, except without the horns…
She pushed that thought aside and turned towards the other end of the hallway and the stout door, closed against intruders. She had wondered why no one came out when Avulstein cried, and now understood: if anyone was in there, they wouldn't be able to hear a thing through the door. And if they did, what was one more cry of fear and pain in a place of dark torture? Even now, she couldn't hear anything from inside louder than some quiet murmuring, and only because her hearing was so sharp. She pressed her lips together beneath her helmet and gripped the latch carefully.
It was tempting to use the Shout to detect entities, but with Avulstein breathing down her neck, she couldn't risk his hearing it. So she placed one gauntleted finger over where her mouth would be to signal for silence. When she got his nod, she very slowly and quietly lifted the latch and inched the door open to show the middle of the room.
Peering through the crack, she first saw an empty rack. With the door opened, however, the voice was no longer muted. It was describing, in a very mild tone, how he was going to skin a tattoo right off a person's face. She knew that mild voice, wasn't surprised to hear it as he was Norilar's assistant, the same one who whipped her back—among other things. She set her jaw and turned back to Avulstein.
She pointed to herself, pointed inside, and then drew her finger across her throat like she was slitting it open. She pointed to Avulstein and held her hand up like a shield, signaling him to wait. His face darkened, but he gave one terse nod. She didn't trust him, but she did want to take the assistant alive if possible; he was almost as good as Norilar. If there were any other Thalmor in there, well, perhaps she wouldn't be too upset if Avulstein decided to charge in after her.
She went back to the door, refusing to listen to the Thalmor's continued description of what he had planned, and inched it open even farther until he came into view. His back was to the door as he leaned over a table, his current victim chained beneath him on the stained surface. From what she could see of the unfortunate soul, his body was well marked with the all too familiar, pink, half-healed scars. She pushed a little further until her head could fit through, and gave the room a quick scan. There was no one else, unless they were around the corner in what appeared to be a little alcove. Deciding she liked the odds, she stepped back to give herself room, and kicked the door the rest of the way open.
It banged against the far wall, making Sorcal spin with surprise. He had a small scalpel in hand, a drop of fresh blood on the blade. Gerhild was on him the next moment, her war axe at his throat, her other hand gripping the wrist with the scalpel, her momentum driving them away from the table and to the wall behind the rack.
She had seen the man on the table as she went past, but she didn't stop to consider what she saw.
"What…?" Sorcal's mild tone was driven from him. "What do you think you are doing?" His eyes were wide and white beneath his hood, his lips pulled back in a sneer that barely concealed his fear.
"Where's Norilar?" There was the sound of scuffling feet off to their side, but right then her focused was tunneled down on the Thalmor behind her blade.
"He's…" he tried to press himself into the wall as her axe pressed hard against his larynx, warning him not to even try lying. His eyes shifted to the side, and his expression momentarily grimaced. "He should be back any moment…"
"No, he's already run away," she ground out, her voice heated with blood and battle and fury. "Where would he go?" Still he looked like he wanted to stall, so she elaborated, "Everyone else is dead. It's just you, and me, and my axe. If you want a quick death, tell me where Norilar would run to."
He looked at her. He believed her. But he was Thalmor. He didn't understand who she was or how she knew Norilar's name, but whatever the reason couldn't be good. In his only possible act of defiance, he grabbed her wrist and shoved his neck onto the blade.
"Fuck!" she cursed, trying to pull back but it was too late. He was even beyond a healing spell, the blade so sharp that it had cut clean through to his spine.
"Good riddance to him," a voice spat from the shadows. Gerhild turned to look in the alcove where the voice had come from. Avulstein was standing there, panting over a robed corpse, his battleaxe dripping with Thalmor blood. "He was standing here out of sight of the door, next to…" his voice choked as his eyes flickered to the back wall. "Ah, gods, we're too late!"
She looked past him to see a man, Nord by the build of him, chained to the wall and hanging limply, old blood dripped and splattered on his skin and clothing. She pushed past Avulstein and reached the prisoner, lifting his head up and seeing his eyes blink calmly, confirming her suspicions. "He's only paralyzed," she said. She stepped back as Avulstein pushed forward this time. "Get ready to catch him."
"What are you…?" was as far as he got before he saw the answer. She swung her ebony war axe down on the corner of the lock, severing it with one blow. Immediately Thorald's numb body swung free to hang from the other wrist, but Avulstein caught him and lifted him up, easing the strain on his already abused body.
Gerhild walked around them and released the other lock the same way.
"Thorald?" Avulstein called, shaking him to snap him out of the spell. Gerhild didn't bother trying to tell him it wouldn't work; instead she knelt on his other side and cast a healing spell. Immediately the bruises lightened, the cuts closed, and the aches faded into silence. Gently he tensed and began struggling to lift his head and take notice of his surroundings.
"Thorald!"
"Avulstein?" Thorald acknowledged, bewilderment painfully obvious in his voice. "Brother! It is you!" He grunted as Avulstein began helping him to his feet.
"The Ebony Warrior and I are here to rescue you," he said, keeping one steadying arm around his shoulders.
"Ebony Warrior?" Thorald asked, still sounding lost.
"Aye," she said calmly, standing up with them. "Are you still hurt?"
"No," he shook his head. "I'm exhausted, and half-starved, but I'll be fine. It's Vorstag that needs help."
She was already turning away, having determined that there wasn't anything more to do for Thorald, and wanting to free the other prisoner still strapped to the table. Her axe was ready to break the first lock, her attention aimed on the closest shackle, but then the name he spoke finally registered in her thoughts. Slowly her eyes shifted to stare at the face of the man on the table.
It couldn't be real. It was a dream, or a nightmare, or a strange delusion. Perhaps her mind had suffered damage from the skull cracking and created this horror as her penance. Maybe she had snapped upon being presented with a situation so similar to her own torture, that she had conjured this vision. Avulstein's armor had brought him to mind earlier. And she had once mistaken Argis for him, all because of the tattoo...
Another dozen or more excuses flashed through her thoughts, each more outrageous than the last. It couldn't be real, it simply couldn't. Be. Real.
"Is he…" Thorald asked, his brother helping him to walk, his legs weak from the forced kneeling and poor circulation. "Are you too late? Is he finally dead?"
"Finally?" Avulstein asked, even as Gerhild forced herself to turn her attention to the locks. Though his eyes were closed, his chest was rising and falling with breath; he was alive, and there were no life-threatening injuries that she could see, just the mass of fresh scars not quite healed. She would free him first, then heal him, then…
"It would be a mercy. Arkay knows I prayed for it, for him," Thorald answered softly, as she forced her body into motion. She reached out and grabbed his hand, lying passively on the table, to make sure it would stay out of the way while she broke the lock with her axe. She swung as Thorald continued, "But no matter what they did to him, he never broke. He never betrayed what he knew about the Dragonborn."
Gerhild nearly dropped her war axe on her way to the second lock. She didn't want to hear what he had been put through on her account, but Thorald told them anyway while she worked to free him. At least he described it in less detail than the assistant had done. She wanted to ignore him and focus on breaking the locks as quickly as possible, but her ears betrayed her, delivering every word clearly to her stumbling brain.
She was opening the last lock when Thorald told them how he had been blinded. "Norilar was pissed, couldn't understand why he hadn't broken yet. So Vorstag told him, said every time Norilar leaned in close, he'd see the stump where his ear had been, and it gave him courage, thinking that someone else had done that to him, even while being tortured. Norilar got even more pissed off, and had his assistant blind him. They gave him a healing potion, making sure his eyes would scar. But he never gave them the Dragonborn's name. Never said much more than that one time, other than to curse Norilar to Oblivion."
She nearly dropped the axe a second time. Stuhn, no, she prayed, not his eyes. Not because of her. Stuhn hadn't answered her last prayer, she didn't hold much faith he'd answer this prayer. Yet if he had allowed her to catch up with Norilar, she would have toyed with him awhile, and she wouldn't have gotten to this chamber before the assistant finished his grisly threat. She wrenched the last lock off his ankle and went back towards his head, holding his face gently in her gauntleted hands, trying to ignore the shallow cut along the top edge of his tattoo.
Vorstag was in that limbo between pain and awareness, sitting in Vlindrel Hall and singing for HER, when his imagining was disrupted. The coolness of a healing spell suffused his body, easing his bruises, healing the slice along the top of his cheek. He waited, expecting it to stop, but it continued until he was fully healed this time. It was out of the ordinary, unexpected, and reflexively he opened his eyes, as if he could still see, to try to determine what was going on around him.
He heard a gasp, soft and muffled, so like one of the noises SHE would make when SHE wore HER steel plate armor. Belatedly he remembered he was sightless, the cuts healed by potion and therefore scarring. It must make a disturbing sight, he thought and closed his eyes again. He waited, still expecting those gauntleted hands to grab him, to force him from the table to the rack, to hurt and twist and break and bruise. When nothing happened, when there was no more touch of pain, he wondered again why things were out of the ordinary. The last thing he remembered, before immersing himself in his vision with HER, was Sorcal threatening to skin the tattoo from his face. His fingers reached up to touch his cheek, finding the skin smooth and whole. Then the trembling started in earnest.
"Vorstag," Thorald said, coming up beside them. "We're free. My brother came to rescue us. And this Ebony Warrior. What is your name?"
She couldn't answer right away, her mind filled with a roaring as she stared at Vorstag's face and envisioned Norilar's death. How many times could she kill Norilar, she wondered. She wanted to race from the chamber at that very moment and begin her hunt before he got too far ahead, but she couldn't leave Vorstag now that she had him back again. Her whole being practically hummed with her indecision. She turned her expressionless helmet towards Thorald, without any idea of what she would say, but Avulstein answered for her. "No name. Just some mercenary hired to clear out this place. Found me and Vidrald and Geirlund outside planning our own assault, and figured we stood a better chance all together."
"Ebony Warrior it is, then," he proclaimed. Gerhild inclined her head, turning back to the table, unable to speak.
…Vorstag was alive…
Vorstag heard the voices around him, speaking words so unfamiliar and long-forgotten they might as well have been spoken in Dwemer. Free? Rescue? Mercenary? Someone hired a mercenary to clear this place out? To free the prisoners? It couldn't be true, but then again, someone had removed the chains from his wrists and ankles. For the first time in... how long?... he was able to move his limbs without restraint. Testing the limits of this 'freedom,' he decided to sit up.
Gerhild saw him moving. Weakly he rolled onto his side, trying to push himself into a sitting position. Immediately her mind shifted into gear; however this happened, it happened, he was alive, and they were going to get out of here. She reached out to give a steadying hand to him, only to have him flinch away from her and collapse back onto the table.
"It's alright, Vorstag. Listen to me. You recognize my voice, don't you?"
Vorstag tilted his head, listening closely. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, knowing how disturbing they appeared, the soft brown lost beneath a curtain of milky white. He did know that voice, had heard it try to speak comfort to him, had heard it curse Norilar and Sorcal, had heard it cry out in its own pain… "Th… Thorald?"
"Aye, lad," he sighed, relieved. He was stronger now, and moved away from his brother towards Vorstag. "Did you hear me earlier? We're free. My brother is rescuing us. We're free. It's over. We can all go home."
Vorstag continued to hesitate. Was this some sort of trick? Another of Norilar's elaborate schemes? Give him false hope, and then crush him? He couldn't go home; Norilar had seen to that. So he wouldn't use that as a trap, would he? "We're free?"
Vorstag finally got himself into a sitting position. He felt that gauntleted hand reach out for him again, cold and unfeeling, so like the ones that hit him and… He swallowed, pushing away the memories. The hand had stopped, as if sensing his unease. A moment later and he heard the sound of leather creaking and armor plates clacking together softly.
Gerhild took off her gauntlet and held her hand before him. "Let me help you to your feet." She had seen his reaction and knew it well; it was akin to what she used to feel at a man's touch, the crawling revulsion, the expectance of pain, the inability to remember a touch that wasn't hurtful. She could help him, would help him, just like he had helped her.
By the Nine, but she wanted to tell him who she was. She wanted to touch him and hold him and weep on his shoulder and let him shudder in her arms. But she couldn't so long as they had an audience. She would soon, she promised herself, just as soon as they got out of there and she got rid of the Gray-Mane brothers. With that in mind, she began to coax him to stand.
"If you can keep an eye on him," Avulstein began, "I'll take my brother to find some clothing out of that chest you mentioned. We'll bring back something for you, Vorstag," he added, briefly patting his shoulder before helping his brother away. Everyone pretended not to notice his flinch.
It was hard to accept, a touch that didn't wound, a sensation that didn't end in pain. Yet he was sitting up, and no one was stopping him. Encouraged, and maybe a little panicky that this freedom would suddenly end, he set his feet on the ground and tried to stand, pushing himself away from the table to stagger forwards. He was too weak, however, and nearly fell on his face.
Gerhild was there, giving him her ungauntleted hand to hold, guiding him to lean against the table. "Take it slowly, Vorstag," she said, her voice a little bit softer. Perhaps she wanted him to figure it out, who she was, and had spoken more normally than before. "Small steps. Give your body a chance to regain its strength."
He nodded, keeping his face turned down and away from her voice. Gods, but he couldn't stop thinking about HER. Everything was reminding him of HER. Even this Ebony Warrior—SHE was having Eorlund make her a suit of ebony armor. And the warrior's voice just now, muffled within the helmet, sounded like HERS to his starved ears. There was the welcomed coolness of the healing spell, like SHE could cast. The delusion went so far as to make him think he could smell lavender and dragon blood, the scent that was uniquely HER. Must be all the… what, weeks? Months? Years of torture? Even though it was over, he still couldn't stop thinking about HER, keeping HER safe within his heart. No, it couldn't be HER—it was just his heart wishing for the impossible.
The two men returned with clothing, and Gerhild waited outside the chamber to allow them some privacy. When they came out, Vorstag was shuffling his feet to avoid stumbling, but moving a little stronger as the reality of his freedom began to take hold. She didn't speak, but held her arm out where he would bump into it. He took it, clinging to her ashamedly, still keeping his face averted, his brown hair lanky as it covered his features.
The four of them walked back through the Keep, Vorstag having a strange sense that he had done this before, but in reverse and with blindness caused by a hood over his head. The Ebony Warrior kept a close vigil on his steps, however, making sure his way was clear of debris and always there if he happened to stumble. He held her forearm fast, afraid that if he let go, she would slip away and he'd be lost within the empty Keep with only the dead Thalmor bodies for company and never be able to find his way out…
He stumbled again, his choked sob lost within a gasp of surprise. It wasn't fair. All through his imprisonment he had managed to cope with his deepest fears, keep them from drowning him in despair and unmanning him. Now that freedom was his or soon to be his, he began to fear its loss again. He had to get a hold of himself, he had to get back in control. He had to…
What? he thought to himself. He didn't really have to do anything. He was dead to everyone he knew, even HER. Where could he go? Why should he even try? What was there that he could do? Travel with HER? Fight dragons? Explore tombs? What was there for him now, out there in the world, dead to his friends, and blind?
Thorald and Avulstein had gotten ahead of them, moving a little faster thanks to having sight, the promise of freedom strengthening Thorald's steps. Gerhild didn't begrudge them, but she did wish Vorstag would hurry a little bit. If anything, he seemed to be slowing down, as if suddenly afraid of the freedom he had been denied. She kept herself patient, understanding only in part what he was experiencing, and having to carefully feel her way through the rest of his agony.
As he felt his way through the rest of Northwatch Keep.
"We're there," she said, remembering to keep her voice disguised as they neared the door, in case the Gray-Mane brothers were close by.
"Where?" he asked, again fearing the answer, keeping his face turned away.
"At the main door," she answered, her voice stopping as his hands fell from her forearm. She watched him in shock as he reached out to the side, his fingers splayed and wavering, until he found a wall. His body followed, folding as if it would mold against the surface, a shoulder and forehead pressed to the stones. Then he just stood there, leaning on the wall and breathing, his face a strange mixture of fear and need and despair and hope.
"Warrior!" Avulstein's voice called urgently. "Come quickly! They've been hurt. We need you to heal them."
She wasn't sure what he meant, but she recognized the dire tone in his voice. She took another look at Vorstag, but there was nothing she could do for him if he didn't want her to. "I will come back for you," she promised, but he acted as if he hadn't heard her.
Leaving him to his misery, she raced outside to find what Avulstein was shouting about. He and Thorald were standing above Vidrald and Geirlund, who were sprawled on the ground, scorch marks on their armor. Norilar must have found them and shocked them as he came out of the Keep. She didn't voice the curse over his escape—vowing there was no place on Nirn or Oblivion he could hide from her, not now, not ever!—and knelt to heal the two men as quickly as possible.
"Thank the Nine," breathed Thorald as both men revived. "I'd never forgive myself if the two of you lost your lives because of me."
"Neither would I," answered Geirlund glibly. "Sorry, Ebony Warrior, but one Thalmor got past us. Nasty son of a bitch, too. Didn't know what he hit us with, but it hurt like a mother…"
"Lightning Spell," she answered quickly. She wanted to get back to Vorstag, to help him, to tell him who she was. She couldn't leave him back there, so long in the dark that he was afraid of the light. But she had to play her role as mercenary. "Are you two alright?"
"Aye," they answered in unison, and Vidrald added, "Just our pride is wounded now. Don't suppose you have a spell to heal that, huh?"
She shook her head, gaining her feet and dusting off her hands, and the others smiled. "Did the other prisoners come through here?"
"Didn't see anyone after that Thalmor," Geirlund shrugged.
"They must've taken one look at the two of you, and decided not to stick around," she hummed, looking for but not finding any sign of the other prisoners. Well, they weren't any concern of hers, anyway. "Excuse me, but I left Vorstag back inside."
"He's alright," Thorald said quietly. "Look."
They all turned, and she wished they hadn't, she wished they had left him alone, and her, to allow him to experience this by himself. It was an intensely private moment, one she barely understood and was sure the others had no clue to, as Vorstag struggled to leave the Keep.
She watched, feeling that ebony wall around her heart break and crack, as a pale and gaunt hand reached out before him, shaking and trembling like an old man, weak and timid with fear, yet moving with strength born of hope. It stretched forward like the hand of a Draugr, seeking something it couldn't quite comprehend. She stared in fascination as it slipped from shadow into light.
It was like reanimating a corpse.
The spring sunlight fell on the pallid appendage, and the palm turned upwards, the fingers curling around as if he could cup the warmth in his hand. His face, which had been averted towards the shadows, lifted up at the tactile perception. His eyebrows rose and scrunched, as he tried to believe and trust his senses, senses that had been dulled by months of deprivation. His lips parted, voicing thoughts and emotions that were too profound for words. Even his eyes, scarred and milky, seemed to glow with new life.
And tears spilled down his cheeks.
Aye, she wished he could have experienced this without an audience, his blindness unfairly hiding them from his awareness. She knew, Stuhn's Shield, she knew of his deepest fears, of being imprisoned, beneath the earth, to never again know the warmth of sunlight or the feel of wind or the taste of freedom. How long had he suffered? Three months? More? How long had he lasted before he gave up hope, before he accepted the fact that he would die there, already buried within the ground, a cell for his tomb, a rack for his sarcophagus?
And now he held his freedom in his hand once more, and was struggling to find a way to cope all over again.
Vorstag felt it, the sunlight on his skin. He hadn't felt that since he entered the Keep so long ago, a hood over his head to block out the wind and the sky. He shuffled forward, timid and purposeful, leaving the blood-soaked dankness behind him. Once he was several steps beyond the portal, he lifted his eyes upwards, imagining what he could no longer see. A breeze stroked his face, lifting the edges of his grimy hair and drying the tears on his cheeks.
Freedom…
He dropped his hand and his face, letting it go. Bitterly he wept, thinking again of all he had lost: dead to his loved ones, blind. He had his life and his freedom, but what were they worth? What could he do with them now? He would be better off dead.
The others turned away, finally feeling the shame they should have felt from the beginning, of intruding on his privacy. Gerhild was the last to look away, and only did so because the others were talking and Vorstag was—almost reluctantly—ceasing his tears and making his way towards their voices.
"What now?" Geirlund was asking.
"We can't go home, back to our lives in Whiterun; the Thalmor will be looking for us after this," Thorald waved his hand at all the carnage around them. "But we can go to Ulfric Stormcloak. We'll be safe there from the Thalmor, and be helping to rid Skyrim of their poisonous presence."
Gerhild nodded approvingly, but her focus was on Vorstag. He stopped just shy of their group, like he wanted to listen but felt he wasn't a part of their discussion.
Avulstein grimaced, but he couldn't deny the fact. "Aye, I fear you're right. We'll travel to Windhelm, then." The other two nodded agreement.
"Ebony Warrior," Thorald began, "We can't take the risk of returning to Whiterun, even for a day. Could you… I have no right to impose, but could you deliver a message to our mother there? Her name is Fralia Gray-Mane. She has a stall in the market, sells silver jewelry that our father, Eorlund, makes. Tell her… tell her: 'Suffer the winter's cold wind, for it bears aloft next summer's seeds.' She'll know what it means. Would you do that? I have nothing to pay you with…"
"Consider it done," she agreed, hoping they wouldn't question why a mercenary would agree to do anything without accepting payment upfront. "You should get started while there's still daylight," she pressed, trying to get rid of them so she and Vorstag could be alone. She had to speak with him, had to return hope to that defeated look on his face. He stood there just outside their group, like a beaten dog that still craved table scraps from its abusive master.
"What about you, Vorstag?" Thorald asked.
He lifted his face a little, but his eyes remained shut tight. "I… I don't know. Can't go home to Markarth. Don't have anywhere else to go."
"You could come with us," Avulstein offered, "To Windhelm. No Thalmor there to worry about. And we could get a message to your family in Markarth and let them know you're safe."
For a moment he almost believed it could be so easy. But Ralof was in Windhelm, and if he learned Vorstag was alive, he'd tell HER; he couldn't let that happen. "No, thank you, my family is dead. There's a friend, but…" Vorstag shook his head, his tone full of defeat, "Just drop me off at the nearest town or city. I'll beg for my living. It'll be alright; no one will pay attention to a blind beggar."
Thorald made to speak, but Gerhild lifted her hand up and shook her head. "I'll take him," she offered.
"You sure?"
She nodded. "I'm better suited to enter a city and not get recognized, than any of you," she rapped her gauntleted knuckles on the outside of her helmet. There was an appreciative chuckle from Avulstein. "You better get going; I was serious about the daylight fading. And I'll deliver your message to your mother; I promise."
"Thank you, Ebony Warrior," Thorald said, grasping her forearm in the Nordic fashion. "Talos be with you." He moved on to take Vorstag's forearm, ignoring the flinch. "I know what you suffered, my friend," he began softly, "And for whom. If I ever meet the Dragonborn, which I might considering that she likes the Stormcloaks, I'll be sure to let her know."
Vorstag shook his head. "She thinks I'm dead, I'm sure of it, or she would've been here by now. Leave me dead to her. Dead to everyone. It's for the best. Please."
Thorald didn't understand, but he nodded anyway. Then remembering Vorstag couldn't see, he added verbally, "Aye, lad, if you say so."
They left then, the two brothers and two friends, focused on making their way to Windhelm and the Stormcloaks. Gerhild made no move to follow them out of the courtyard, standing and watching them leave. They turned back once to wave farewell, which she returned and quietly whispered for Vorstag to lift his hand in salute. Then a bend in the road took them from view.
A/N: yup, I know, it's a cliffhanger, sort of… Hoping the next chapter won't take too long.
BTW, anyone else come across the Ebony Warrior in game? He startled me, just walking up calmly in the middle of the day (in Markarth, of course) and demanding I meet him back at his place (on the other side of Skyrim) for a duel. I kicked his ass. But thought I'd give a nod and a wink to his memory, by having Gerhild borrow his name.