Hullo, everybody! I'm sorry I've been gone so long. To make up for it, I'm going to start putting out chapters on a weekly basis, starting with this one. I added on to it, towards the end to better transition to the next chapter, which I'm trying to get out tonight. Once again, I'm sorry about the long wait. Please Read and Review and I hope you enjoy! LR
It's the eighth morning of my being Elisif's prisoner, and I'm almost ready to make my escape.
Little does she know, she's providing me with the perfect opportunity for it all to happen.
It's a momentous occasion, when a Greybeard of High Hrothgar is summoned to the stand as a witness and actually agrees to come down from the monastery. Elisif the Fair wouldn't go down in the books as the first High Queen to host such an event, without having all things - even the prisoner - all in good order. I was told that I would have to bathe. I didn't think of what that would mean.
Stripped down to nothing for my first bath in the week that I've been prisoner, the worst of my shames is revealed.
"Divines take me," gasps the gaoler sharply. "Is that a. . . a Briarheart?"
I try to ignore the eyes on my left pectoral, as I step into the wooden tub of scalding water.
The dull ache that throbs in time with my heartbeat is something I've grown accustomed to; something I recognize as a normality. I have long since stopped shying from prying eyes, fearing their judgment, curiosity and fear.
They don't react well, knowing that a relatively sane person has deliberately come into contact with a Hagraven.
This is a bruise, I tell myself, as in the first few days after receiving the curse mark. This is just another scar I got protecting her. Just as much as the lashes.
I lather up soap from the cake they've provided, and rub it through knotted tangles of black hair, into earth-streaked skin. With the soap and hair hanging down into my eyes, I reach over blindly for one of the buckets lined up beside the tub. Finding one, I seek out and grab its handle and pour the hot water within over my head and shoulders.
Now, they're looking at my back.
"You would think one lash would be enough," comments one guard. I can tell by his voice that it's the younger one. "But, no, this one's got nine."
"Nine, for the Divines, you idiot," grunts the one with the keys. "He got them all at once."
"But, Heimvar," hisses the younger, accusingly. "There's only eight Divines."
Not for long.
It hangs in the air, unspoken, but everyone knows it. Even Elisif, though she'd never admit it. The Stormcloak was a big one, and it blanketed the entirety of the East, pushing West as far as Falkreath.
Soon, he'll be at your front door, Elisif. What'll you do, then?
I wouldn't particularly mind Ulfric being King, if she should end up killing me. He has the stuff for it. Good judgment. Moral standing. A champion of the people.
Everything I'm not.
"You," she said, pale eyes conveying her disbelief. "I believe in you, Marrick." Stunned, I started to deny her words, head shaking, but, as ever, Rontu cut me off. "I believe that you're a good man. I believe that you have a great destiny. I believe that you have a soul and a heart, and I believe that you deserve another chance."
Could I be a King?
I tried to pretend I couldn't hear the whispers of the gaolers, the prisoners, and the high and lowborn alike.
The Bastard King, they called me, the Base-born King, the Slum King, the True King- I myself don't even know. But, that day, standing up before the people who lived as I had, in the poorest and lowest of districts. . . I couldn't deny that I had felt like a King.
"Hurry up in there!" hisses the older gaoler, Heimvar. "You're allowed this luxury, bastard, try not to push Her Grace's kindness." Kindness, indeed. "Grendl: make certain he gets his clothes. I'm gonna go grab us breakfast."
"Aye," the boy nods.
Heimvar's boots tramp off down the hall.
I take another pail of hot water and rinse myself, pouring it over my head. Once my skin is rubbed raw with the scrubbing brush they'd left me, I stand up from the tub, and drape myself in the rough, wool towel. When I'm done drying and return to where I'd left my clothes, the younger stands there with others.
"Her Grace has asked that you wear these to trial," he informs me, trying to avert his eyes from my Briarheart. When I don't respond, or make a move to take the clothes, he raises his gaze to mine.
"Why don't you ask what you want to ask me."
"I-" He blinks rapidly, and lowers his voice. "What?"
I repeat it, slowly for him.
"Why. Don't you. Ask what. You want. To ask. Me."
The boy's jaw drops down as he stares at me in disbelief.
"I- I don't think- I never. . ." His brows pull in, and he draws in a sharp breath. Wets his lips. Lets the breath go. He nods at the purple heart. "Did it hurt?"
I nod slowly.
"More than the lash?"
"More than dragonfire."
His eyes widen.
"And, are you- truly- Dragonborn, then?"
"I think you know the answer to that," I say, regarding him carefully. "Soon enough, the rest of the world will, too."
Grendl wets his lips again.
"And, is it true that. . . that-"
"That I am the heir of the late High King." I smirk to myself, shaking my head condescendingly. "You know the answer to that one, too."
He stares at me, in awe, and looks to be on the verge of asking something else. I take the fine clothes from him, leaving him confused until his senior walks back into the bath, a bowl of stew in each hand.
"Great," Heimvar grunts approvingly, as I finish lacing up the fine trousers. "Bring him the boots, too. Then, you can pull up a chair." He brandishes a bowl. "Ponty made venison stew. Pretty good."
"Aye, just a moment." He turns wide blue eyes back on me, as I slip into the finely woven green and gold shirt. I pay him no attention; to do so is to give away my whole plan before it's even seen the light of day. He brings me the boots, but hovers over me, like he's trying to figure me out.
"Thank you," I say quietly, dismissively, and it snaps him out of it.
He nods and shuffles over to the table.
"ORDER!" bellows the Jarl's steward. "ORDER!"
The almost violent crowd is calmed to mutters and quiet conversation.
Elisif clears her dainty throat, and glances over me cuttingly to no one's notice but my own, as I stand before her, once again in chains.
"We now bring to the stand Brother Arngeir, a Greybeard of High Hrothgar and a keeper of the Way of the Voice."
The noise of the crowd raises now, and even I strain to see behind me if he has truly come down from the mountain and if I can truly be saved.
The doors of the court open and the silence that follows is pregnant with curiosity.
First, the black robes come into view. The soft pad of each footstep is all that can be heard. As he nears the top of the stairs, my doubt grows, my heart beating double time.
This isn't him.
This isn't Arngeir, he's too small. Those robes are too big on him. My blood is rushing, heating my skin, each breath heavier than the last. I should've seen this coming. I should've known she'd produce a fake Greybeard; now there's no way that she can't kill me. I'll look the liar instead of her; I'm a dead man.
My heart is slamming away in my chest.
"Brother Arngeir," greets the steward, and clears his throat. "Welcome to the Blue Palace."
I'll never see my son; never see Rontu; never see Adjin; never-
"I thank you for the hospitality," whispers the old man, and my blood instantly cools. My brows draw together; it's him. It's actually Arngeir; he's come for me. The steward opens his mouth to read more from what is clearly a scripted greeting, when the old man cuts him off. "Where is the Dragonborn?"
Nobody bothers to tell him that this is not how trials are done. That he's supposed to answer questions, or deliver a statement about me, preferably one that they can pick apart. But, in his presence and authority, no one can direct him from his will, not even Elisif.
Dumbfoundedly, the steward raises a finger, and points it behind Arngeir at me.
He turns to face me, and goes immediately stock-still.
We stare into one another, his gaze asking me why and mine, not able to answer.
It's too busy drowning in how weak he looks, how malnourished. His weathered skin stretches over meat and bone, his fingers might as well be skin layered right on top of bone, for how long and spindly they seem. Arngeir's eyes are hooded and hollowed, creased from long nights of prayer, the shadows beneath them speaking volumes.
Those eyes tell of what he- what all the Greybeards have had to do and sacrifice in place of me, because I gave up on being Dragonborn.
And, from the look of sorrow and disappointment in his eyes, I am immediately ashamed.
"I'm sorry," I croak out hoarsely. "I'm sorry, Master."
He tries to bob his head in understanding, but he can't; he lowers his head, and starts shaking it, almost in disbelief of this situation. I'm numbed. Rontu, Adjin, Segen, and now the Greybeards- perhaps the whole world.
Have I finally failed everyone?
The old shoulders begin to shudder then, and just as I fear the worst, he starts to cackle. He starts howling, laughing harder than I ever have on my drunkest night. The whole courtroom is in absolute shock, watching him guffaw himself all to pieces. Elisif's lips part in her disbelief, eyes wide and brows pulled in.
"What's the matter with him, for Arkay's sake?" she finally demands. "Is he Dragonborn or isn't he ?"
But, before her steward or any guards can approach him, Arngeir lifts his head, revealing a grinning face and pleased, joyful eyes, brimming with tears.
"DO. . .VAH. . . KIIN!" he laughs.
The ground beneath us quakes. The very skeleton of the Blue Palace shudders and protests, trembling before the power of his Voice. The crowd is thrown into panic, everyone reaching out their limbs to steady one another, looking about wildly.
All the while, Arngeir never breaks eye contact with me. He stares straight into my soul, smiling and proud.
"Why?" I ask aloud, almost frustratedly. "Why, when I lost the Way?"
His grin only broadened.
"You lost the Way," he says, "But all that matters is that you found it again."
"Guards!" screeches Elisif. "Secure the prisoner! Get him back below, now!"
With unnecessary force, Heimvar wrestles me to the floor, twisting my arms behind my back to put me into shackles. He hoists me up when I'm bound, my eyes never leaving Arngeir's until I am forced from his sight and led to the dungeons.
The entire time, in the midst of all the chaos of a one-word truth, he is laughing, laughing, laughing.
I have to leave.
This much, I know.
To leave is to declare guilt, and I know the people in that courtroom- the people in all of Mundos, know this to be true. But, I have to leave. If my destiny is to be Dragonborn, I can't do it rotting away in a cell; I need to be out there, fighting Alduin. I can't turn my back again. Not after a sign so obvious as Arngeir's. He even said as much: I've found my Way.
Well, I've also found my way out.
The door at the top of the stairs into the dungeon creaks open; only one set of footsteps come padding down. I strain against the bars to see who's brought my supper; it's Grendl, bringing light into the room with his lantern.
"Good evenin'," he says, with a nod.
I nod back, "Just you tonight, Grendl?"
When he's alone in bringing me food, Grendl always leaves a candle for me to read the books he gives me by.
He nods, slipping my bowl and a fresh volume through the small opening.
"Her Grace has noble guests, who arrived to see the trial," he informs me, like ours is a casual conversation. "She's requested more guards to be on them, treating them right so as to be spoken well of to their Magistrate."
I pause in my retrieval of the stew and book.
Magistrate?
"They're from Hammerfell, these nobles?"
"Aye," Grendl nods. "The Ambassador of Taneth and his courtesan." His face twists in distaste. "Little inappropriate, bringing a courtesan to a royal house, don't you think?" I shrug, and he nods, considering. "I suppose if I were to cross a couple continents, running somebody else's errands, I'd feel entitled to some pussy, too."
I really don't want to kill this boy. But, it's the only way. And, all the better, that his senior officer is up and out of the way-
"Divines take my eyes- there's no flavor," I tell him, dropping both my spoon and the Atlas of Dragons, by Greybeard Brother Mathnan. I reach under my pillow and grab the scrub brush from the bath, one end of which I've sharpened against the edge of a metal lantern and charred with flame magick. If I'm really going to kill this boy, it has to be now. "Do you mind grabbing me the pepper?"
"'Course," he says, and snags it off the table on his way over.
Once he passes it, I'm going to throw pepper in his eyes.
He'll be disoriented, but when he goes to wipe them, I won't have to see the look of terror on his young face when I drive the makeshift knife into his throat.
I swallow hard and tighten my fingers around the brush.
"Ponty never uses enough pep-"
Before my waking eyes, Grendl collapses onto the floor, stew, pepper and the single light he carried with him falling as well. The candle snuffs out against the floor, and the room is cast into darkness.
What in the hell-
It occurs to me that someone else is in the room.
I grip my shiv tight in hand and crouch back, angling it out, watching the darkness outside my cell.
"Who's there?" I snarl. No answer. "I said, who's there!?"
There's another long pause. By now, my eyes have adjusted some, a I can make out a figure, standing just before my cell.
"I can't talk long," she whispers, and my heart stops beating.
No.
No, it can't be.
In the pitch black of the room, I can't see anything, but I can feel her. My knees weaken, arms go slack; I'm immobilized. Her voice is as low and as raspy as I remember, but also more raw. As if she's choking on thoughts that will never reach her lips.
Footsteps bring her slowly and softly across the stone floor, and before I know it, I can feel her breath against my skin. I can smell her. I can smell the sun.
She opens her mouth and shudders slightly, as if she wants to say more and can't.
"Oh," her breath catches sharply. "Oh, Marrick."
I crumble.
"Rontu."
I reach forward through the bars, questioning, hesitant, my heart slamming against my ribs, each beat pounding in my ears. My breath is frozen in my throat. My brain screams Stop reaching! I keep reaching-
My fingertips brush her fingertips.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes; warmth surges through me and for that first moment in so long, with the feeling of her skin on my skin, I am weightless.
"You're real," I whisper hoarsely, and it's almost a question, a plea. "This is real." She doesn't respond. I can feel her tremble against my fingertips, and I realize without shame that I'm trembling, too. "Tell me this is real!"
My sanity hangs upon her answer.
Just as I'm prepared to deny this as just another torturous hallucination, her fingers- slim and warm and strong- intertwine with mine.
"This is real."
"By the Nine," I sputter out, tears streaming down my face. "It's you," I hiss in disbelief. "It's really you." I grip her hands more firmly; how had I ever let them go? "Where's our boy?" I ask her. "Where's-"
"Segen." It takes me only a moment to understand what she means by it. "I- I named him Segen. After b-"
"-both of us," I finish, grinning. "Where is he? How is he?"
"Home. He misses you," she says, and I can hear the smile on her voice. "More and more everyday."
"I miss him, too," I tell her, half-laughing through my tears. I press my forehead against the bars- Talos, these fucking bars- "I've missed you so fucking much," I hiss brokenly. "Your smile. Your smell. The way your hair lights up like copper in the sunlight. The way your brow furrows when when argue; how you bite your lower lip when you're nervous-"
"I've missed you, too," she whispers, her voice cracking. "Marrick, I've missed you so much, I can't tell you-" She cuts herself off; I hear a sharp intake of breath. "I have to tell you- Marrick, I don't have much time."
"Time for what?" I remember Grendl's words, about the Ambassador of Taneth visiting. "Are you the Ambassador of Taneth?"
She hesitates a bit before answering.
"Yes, I am, but I'm not here for Elisif. Giaz- I mean, Himself- I mean, the Magistrate of Taneth and many others of Hammerfell's Free Cities want to post you up in a kingsmoot."
I blink, hard.
"Are you serious?"
I can feel her nod, "They want you to be High King. Around the world, they're calling for you, Marrick."
"Bastard King, is what they name me," I tell her, shaking my head. "They call me Slum King, and base-born."
"No, Marrick," she says fiercely, "In High Rock, they call you Dragon King. In Hammerfell: His Grace, King Dragonsbane."
I recoil, "They do?"
"All around the world, they've heard of you, Marrick. They name you Slayer King and Talos' Heir."
I'm dumbfounded.
"I- I can't be High King; I'm not- I never-"
"They want you, Marrick. People here, and all over want you."
"How can you be sure that-" A piece of parchment is shoved into my fingers. "What's this?"
"That is all of Hammerfell, High Rock, Cyrodil, Black Marsh- most of Tamriel, really. All at your disposal." I'm speechless. "Marrick," she says, softly. Her grip on my hands tightens. "I know you're afraid. I know you never saw this in all your wildest dreams. But, this-" she half-laughs in disbelief, "Marrick, this is your destiny."
"My destiny," I echo hoarsely. "My destiny was to be born into the Solitude slums, marry a woman pretty enough, in spite of her weathered hands, and have enough children that I could support them all. Then, die." I shake my head. "That was my destiny."
"No," she says. What I realize to be her lips press against my knuckles. "Your destiny was always to be Dragonborn. Your destiny was always to be King."
Somewhere far above us, a door slams shut, and her mouth pulls away from my skin.
"Ront-"
"I have to go," she whispers hurriedly. "I've spent too much time as it is, I-" Another door slam cuts her off. "Marrick, let the people confirm your fate; they would never let her hurt you. Let them show you- you'll see-"
"Rontu-"
"I have to go-"
"Rontu, I-"
"I'm so sorry-"
Just like that, she's gone. I'm too numb to feel the loss yet.
In the darkness of my special cage, I shut my eyes to make it ever darker.
I try to imagine scores of people standing all around and looking up at me.
I try to imagine the Jagged Crown against my brow.
I try to imagine Rontu and Segen at my side.
The sight raises the skin of my arms and sends shivers down my spine, forcing me to open my eyes and breathe harshly.
Not because of how astounding it seems, but because of how real.
The next morning, when a group of guards arrives to escort me to the main hall, they discover Grendl asleep at the table. He's slumped back in his chair, three empty bottles of mead cluttered around him and the smell of alcohol spilling from his open mouth.
She's thought of everything.
When they shake him, he doesn't stir once, making it clear that whatever she did to him, it's lasted the better part of five hours.
"Little milk-drinking brat," Heimvar smirks as he and the others looks him over. "Can't hold his mead, not for shit."
His cold brown eyes find their way to me and he jerks his chin towards the door.
"Come on, boy," he says gruffly. "Her Grace wants to parade you out in front of the foreign guests."
I remember Rontu's smell and the warmth of her fingers against mine.
"Am I to bathe before the viewing?" I ask, suddenly uncomfortable. I don't want her to see me this way. "Surely her Grace would prefer-"
"Yeh bathed just yesterday, which is a helluva lot better than you deserve, Master Bastard." This new name pleases him, that much is clear. "Dust off them fine clothes from yesterday, if I was you. Though, thank the gods I en't."
This gets the guards all laughing again.
Two stoop to haul young Grendl from his chair while the other wait on me to finish dressing before clapping me in irons.
We walk up the dark, never-ending staircase, lightless but for the guards' lanterns. The stair is twenty stories beneath the caves of the Solitude shore. It's the only thing connecting the outside world to the lone pit-chamber that houses my cell. I can tell when we're nearing the top because I can smell the clean, ocean air and hear the gulls and the waves and the dock bells. Once we make it out of the darkness, I shut my eyes and bask in the sunlight.
Talos knows I've missed it.
The guards then break off into two groups, with the soldiers carrying Grendl heading towards the castle physic and Heimvar's group of three leading me towards the main hall. They lead me to my usual place, chained at the apex of the two staircases, and I stand there, worrying my lower lip and tapping my thumb against the balcony bannister.
Elisif soon arrives and perches on her throne, next to her stewart, while the rest of the court bows.
I'm growing impatient.
After she's finally settled, her steward takes his place before her. He introduces name after name of important international figures and then goes on to Skyrim's own Thanes and nobles before he makes the announcement I've anticipated since last night:
"The court now welcomes the Company and Person of the Ambassador of Taneth, Great City of Hammerfell, and Left Hand of Himself, the Magistrate of Taneth!"
My breath catches in my throat.
All eyes turn to take her in, her presence shuts it all down.
The last time I saw her, it was in complete darkness, at a distance, in beggar's clothes. The time before that, she had the face of a man and armor.
This isn't the woman I remember. This… this is a goddess.
Her chin is as high and stubborn, as it was then. Her poise and grace take my breath away. Way past gorgeous, she's striking.
Her gown is unmistakably of Hammerfell, made of spidersilk thread dyed a rich, royal blue and ivory, bordered in shades of green. The dress is light and form-fitting, with sleeves that taper to her elbow before becoming skin-tight from the elbow to her wrist. A belt of golden thread, encrusted with jade and obsidian cinches her waist.
Her figure has thickened through her hips, thighs and breasts. There's no way to mistake her for a man now; she looks more lethal than ever. Tawny brown skin is flawless, but for her most trademark scars. A sheer, blue veil covers the lower half of her face, but I can tell that her lips are painted black, like overripe fruit. And, though her expression is guarded; she knows what she's doing to us, her audience.
She knows none of us can take our eyes off of her.
The apples of her high cheeks rest just beneath those moon-like eyes, and a design of white dots lines the angles of her cheeks and the arches of her brow. Fat, jade teardrop-shaped earrings droop from her ears, calling all attention to those pale eyes.
Her rust colored hair is pulled back from her face in a waist-deep braid, travelling down her back. A deep blue headwrap covers the crown of her head while coins and bells that have been braided into its fringed edges tinkle softly. Her curve-toed brown boots whisper against the marble floor and her arms are loose, hanging by her sides, like she's floating.
This is her. This is the most beautiful woman in all the world.
But, she's not alone.
There's a man beside her, as finely dressed as she is, in scarlet and golden fine clothes clearly of Tanethian design.
The first thing I remember, is that I know him. Rahaim, from the Swindler's Den. The second thing I remember, is that he is the Magistrate's own son. The third thing I remember, is Grendl mentioning a courtesan accompanying the Ambassador.
That's when I notice the man's arm, and that it's wrapped around her waist.
Thanks for reading! I'm back and I'm gonna be consistent. In return, please R&R. I wanna know what you think!
