Chapter XLVIX - Bound By Death

"Hey! Imperial, hey! Come on the gods won't give us another chance!...C'mon, get up."

Fehn's eyes opened a crack, and she shook her head slowly, pain making her sluggish. Her head was ringing and she could hear someone calling for her,

"Ralof?"

She mumbled and slowly rolled over onto her back. The person she saw was not Ralof, it was a Nord man with the fairest blonde hair Fehn had ever seen - it was almost white. Thorald gazed down at her with concern on his familiar face. Fehn found herself smiling up at him, shaking her head, she gripped his hand as he helped her lean up - her left arm dangled uselessly at her side,

"Looks like they finally broke it."

Thorald observed cooly. Fehn nodded looking down at her limp arm,

"Yep. Hurts like hell. Sorry for the confusion again, Tho. You must be sick of getting the same greeting every morning."

Thorald chuckled and waved his hand, his eyes were blackened from various bouts of torture, and his fingernails dirty and bloody.

"Hmph, no worries, Imperial. One day I may actually meet this Ralof, hmm?"

Grief lanced Fehn's heart and she slowly doubled over and feigned greater pain in her arm so that Thorald would not see the sadness play on her face. She had been positively wracked with guilt ever since Morthal, with every second thought always returning to Ralof and the Stormcloaks. She guessed that the news would have spread quickly of Ulfric's defeat, and that did not sooth her. She blinked when she felt Thorald gently pat her on the back, looking up at him, his sympathy was apparent,

"It's nearly your time again - I only just got back a few moments ago and you were still sleeping."

Fehn groaned and let her head fall back. She had been in Thalmor captivity for three weeks now. With each week there came an even more brutal torture technique; this week's being, they clamped Fehn's arm into a strange wooden contraption at the beginning of the week, so that by the end, it was broken. The pressure had mounted every day, Fehn did her best not to cry out, but when she could feel individual fragments of her bones snapping, she yelped like a dog and bit down on her lip so hard she drew blood. The week before her arm was broken, it seemed that the Thalmor had opted for a more psychological approach and had gotten a spell-caster to delve into her mind, rifle through her memories, pluck anything sentimental from her mind and then proceed to conjure apparitions from the Imperial's past and have them stand before Fehn. She had gripped her hair and screamed when her father stood before her and offered her a hand up, she screamed even harder still when the familiar faces of Commander Maro and General Tullius drew their swords and proceeded to harry her.

The week before even that, the elves simply beat her every day and tried to get a reaction. Every question they asked Fehn, she always did the same; she remained mum. The Imperial had been trained within the elite ranks of the Penitus Oculatos, she knew that if she cracked and told them anything, then her usefulness ran out and she would be promptly stuck in the belly like a pig and thrown out over the crags to be claimed by Skyrim and her snows. Her cell-mate was a Nord man who went by the name of Thonar, as a rule, neither of them relayed much about their pasts, only their names and their one common trait; they were both Stormcloaks. During her time in captivity, Fehn had come to quite like Thorald, he was a soft-spoken Nord with fiery eyes which were made all the more flinty with each new black eye the elves gave him. His ability to remain true to his cause and stay at least light inspired Fehn very much, it also made her cleave to him a bit. Thorald did not seem to mind this although, and the two of them had spent many nights huddled together for warmth while the winds wailed outside. Every morning Thorald was taken out first for his slice of torture, when he was finished, the elves would haul his sometimes apparent lifeless body back and throw him back in the cell. Within the hour, they were always ready for Fehn.

Thorald did what he could to prepare her every day, no matter how banged up he was. Fehn was always ready for when he came back with a little cup of water - usually the only water they were given - and held it up to Thorald's lips until it reached half-way, then she would be taken out. After hours of pain and anguish, upon Fehn's return to their cell, Thorald would be waiting with the same treatment; comfort and half a cup of water. It truly was a miserable way to live, Fehn thought. Today was no exception, save that Fehn hadn't been awake for when Thorald had been brought back. Getting to her feet, Fehn stumbled and fell against the rough wall and Thorald gripped her to keep her steady. In the weeks since her capture, Fehn's already slight body had shrunk to the size of a child's, her hunger and thirst were usually at the forefront of her thoughts, followed quickly by an angst-ridden mind-set that she did not deserve food or drink after leaving her shield-brothers and sisters behind. Looking around with eyes which to Thorald looked haunted and dead, Fehn's breath came short when a huge golden-skinned male Altmer came to the cell. Swinging it open, he gazed in with eyes that shone like emeralds. Pointing a gloved finger at her, he commanded,

"You there, come!"

Meekly Fehn moved forward and shook of Thorald's hand. The moment she had a foot out of the cell, the barred door was quickly closed leaving Thorald alone to the task of surviving another few hours of another day alone and in the dark of their shared cell. Limping slowly in front of the elf, Fehn winced when he pushed her forward causing her broken arm to jostle around painfully. When they came to the familiar corridor which lead down to the bowels and to the torture chamber, they veered off into another corridor. Fehn turned back and eyed the Altmer confused, her confusion seemed to irk him, grinding his teeth, he pushed her forward again and walked her silently to a lavishly decorated room. Stepping inside, Fehn held her broken arm with her good hand and stared around the room like a backwater yokel, the tall Altmer who walked her to the room was waved away by the elf who sat at the other side of the room, a book rested in his lap. Waving Fehn forward, the elf motioned that she could have a seat. Slowly and carefully, Fehn lowered herself down into the plush chair and gazed steadfast into the Altmer's golden eyes. He was an old elf, with wrinkles and old battle wounds scoring his face. His long white hair was brushed back to show his face and pointed ears which stuck out a little more than the common Altmer. He was donned in one of the Justiciars uniforms and had pulled his own hood back. Pouring Fehn some wine, he slid it over to her and she sipped it silently, waiting for her captor to speak.

"You're looking a little thin, Imperial? That's not common of your fat-pocketed race."

Fehn ignored him as he chuckled at his own jest. Snapping his book shut, he leaned forward and gulped down his own wine greedily, Fehn watched him disgusted as wine trickled down his chin and plopped down on the desk. With a gasp, the elf finished his wine and poured himself another one, returning his eyes to her, he said,

"I am told that you are not responding to our methods of questioning."

His eyes darted to her arm and bloody face, flashing an ugly smile at her, he spread his hands and stated in a cheerful voice,

"My thoughts of course were; 'She's an Imperial! of course she would not respond to torture, no! All Imperial's have a quick mind, quick for personal gain. They are the best merchants of the human races, and the best politicians. They are also the wee-est and most resilient...' Those were my genuine thoughts, no sarcasm, Imperial. So it seems to me that you are more versed in the art of speaking than that brainless oaf you fight for, Ulfric Stormcloak. So tell me, what kind of man do you make him?"

Fehn sat motionless like a little block of wood. Staring blankly at the elf, she took a breath and sipped a little more of her wine before answering,

"He is a good man, it is an honour to fight for him. I find him compassionate and brave, unlike you sneaky Altmer. Skulking around old strongholds and torturing folk, you are the real descendants of evil and mistrust. I find absolutely nothing appealing about your race, frankly I think the world would be a better place if you all just dropped off the face of Tamriel!"

The elf eyed her, he was deathly silent before leaning over his goblet and countering,

"Yes, but I asked you what you made of Ulfric, not about me and my people. It seems I misjudged your intelligence, again, we elves give you Imperials far, far too much credit. No matter,"

Fehn watched him with eyes like ice as he got up and paced around them, holding his goblet in one hand and his book in the other. Coming to a halt behind Fehn, he leaned down and hissed in her ear,

"We have a friend of yours downstairs, I need you to take a look at him and tell me if he really is who he said he was before we killed him. Yes, we thought it better to just do away with him then and ask questions later. Ask you the question now, and so forth. Now, come along."

Fehn gasped as she was hoisted to her feet by her broken arm by a silent Thalmor warrior who must have entered without her knowing. She was thrown roughly down to the torture chamber and fell down by the table they used to draw and quarter their prisoners. The moment she struck the floor, she was hauled up again by the same warrior and roughly thrust over to another table were there was the body of a big Nord man laying upon it.

"Tell me,"

Began the old elf pointing at the man with his goblet,

"Is this Galmar Stone-Fist, general to the Stormcloak army?"

Fehn's eyes were like saucers as she gaped down at the unknown man. He had a fiery red beard, just like Galmar, the same sort of look; gruff and easily angered. Reaching out with a hand, Fehn softly touched the bear pelt which he wore. It was definitely not Galmar, but Fehn couldn't help but wonder who's intention was it that he look like him. The Thalmor could not have gotten a Stormcloak general's uniform and dress a similar looking Nord up as Galmar could they? Her mind raced, maybe Galmar had made it out of Morthal? What if they planted this man there to make it look like the general had perished...Fehn's hand was pulled away as the elf demanded,

"Well, dog!? Is it him or not!?"

Fehn's eyes jittered from left to right as she looked at the elf and then back to the Nord on the table. Making a decision, Fehn nodded to the elf.

"Y-yes, this man is Galmar Stone-Fist."

The elf smiled broadly revealing his yellow teeth, turning to the also smiling warrior, he saluted him with his goblet,

"Y'hear that! We got him, by the Eight, we finally got that bastard! Haha! Well, now since I am in such a good mood and you are no doubt wrecked with sorrow over the loss of your general, I think maybe another broken arm and then straight back to bed for you, eh?"

Fehn's stomach tightened, it looks like she was getting her own slice of torture today after all. After three hours of mind-numbing pain, Fehn was finally ushered back to her cell where Thorald awaited her return,

"You were ages!"

He gasped as she flopped down on the hay pile next to him and breathed heavily. Giving her the water, Fehn gulped it down and gasped. Thorald was watching her raptly, the Nord's brow furrowing when he heard the Imperial giggle in the half-darkness.

"W-why are you laughing, Fehn?"

Sitting up, Fehn's eyes were glistening with tears and a smile illuminated her face, gripping Thorald's arm with her nearly-broken right hand, she gasped happily,

"They had me identify General Stone-Fist's body!"

Thorald swore and snarled back quietly,

"And what the devil is so funny about that!?"

Fehn chuckled and shook her head, leaning in closer, she whispered in a voice that dripped with hope,

"The body was not Galmar. They had the wrong man."

Thorald's expression relaxed, gripping Fehn's trembling shoulders, he listened as she laughed some more and turned her tear-stained face to him,

"He might be alive!"

She whispered to Thorald in the gloom.

"He might be alive!"