A/N: Don't grow to expect updates this quickly, I only managed to get this up here as soon as I did because it's short.

CallumDaGrouch123: Thanks for reviewing, wasn't expecting that much from this old corner of the site. I didn't actually notice your own, similarly named story until I'd already posted mine... a facepalmworthy moment. Anyhow, the chapter is short, so is this one, and I normally prefer the long chapter myself, so expect longer ones in future. About Orcs, it's true, they are great, though ingame I normally use Redguards. I just thought writing about an Orc would be better because they have more potential.

Enough from me...

Chapter Two: Hope

Gorgoth grunted as he woke. His head was pounding less, the pain seeming to concentrate around the hole. He slowly opened his eyes. The light spilling in from the window was now at a different angle, telling him that he'd been asleep for a few hours and it was early afternoon. As he sat up, blinking in the light, his side still hammered at him relentlessly. He focused a healing spell on his head. The wound closed, and the headache ceased. Gorgoth wiped off the dried blood as he slowly stood, gritting his teeth at the pain from his ribs.

"Good time for an execution!" sung the Dunmer across from him. Gorgoth uttered a short prayer to Malacath to make his end slow and painful. Maybe a Dark Brotherhood assassin could skin him alive the day before his release. The Orsimer shook his head and stopped fantasising. It was pointless. Instead he focused on his magicka. The Silence spell was still there, but it had worn off sufficiently enough for him to be able to channel enough magicka to heal his shattered ribs. The huge Orc grunted as he felt his ribs restructure and put themselves back into place.

"Not often you brutes are seen using magic," mused the Dark Elf, having seen the light blue healing aura that had engulfed the massive Orsimer. "It's surprising sometimes to see a relative of the simple rock do something as complex as breathe, let alone cast a spell..." his voice trailed off as Gorgoth stamped over to the cell door, fists clenching and a murderous look in his yellow eyes.

"What's your name, ash-scum?" growled Gorgoth. The Dunmer drew back slightly, as though Gorgoth's very breath was infectious.

"Valen Dreth!" cried the Dark Elf with pride in his voice. "Remember it, I'll be famous some day!" Dreth continued rambling, unaware of how delusional he sounded.

"Well, Dreth," rumbled Gorgoth, spitting the name, "If we both ever get out of here, if you see me, submit. It may make your end less painful, and it would save me the effort of hunting you down." With a snarl added for effect, Gorgoth turned back into his cell, sitting back down against the wall. There was simply no point in being stoic on the exterior at the given moment; there was no one around to take advantage of any display of emotion.

Dreth seemed unfazed. He was probably accustomed to the threats, or just stark, raving mad. Possibly both. "I wasn't lying when I said you'd die in here, Orc!" he raved, waving his arms around, spit flying from his mouth. Gorgoth wondered if he was rabid, like many of the dogs in Orsinium. "You hear that? The guards are coming! For you!" Dreth's voice faded away into mad giggles.

Gorgoth raised his eyes to the door; there were indeed guards coming; the clink of metal boots on the stone floor of the corridor was unmistakeable to his trained ears. Well, if the end had come, he would face it on his feet, fighting to the end, like the proud warrior he was; only cowards ended their days shivering in fear, huddled up in the corner of a cell. The huge Orc hauled himself to his feet and stood in the centre of his cell, feet planted, fists ready for their last use on Nirn. Unless, of course, a necromancer found his body.

A guard walked into Gorgoth's line of sight, halting outside his cell. The Orc snorted; he could tell from the shape of their body that it was a woman. They thought to shame him by having a woman drag him out. He'd snap her neck like a twig. Then something gave the shaman pause. Her armour wasn't the standard Legion armour. It was enamelled, and looked not only more ceremonial, but more sturdy than normal Legion armour. He was looking at one of the Blades.

A second Blade joined the first, this one a man. Gorgoth got a glimpse into his helmet. An Imperial. Thoughts raced through Gorgoth's head. Taking on two Blades while unarmed might be a possibility for him, but why were they even here? Did they think that he, as a shaman, was part of a wider conspiracy? Or was it a prisoner mix-up? He couldn't tell from the face of the male Blade; he looked as confused as Gorgoth was.

The female turned her head to look at him. She had the eyes of a hawk, and her voice was as sharp as a whip: "What's this prisoner doing here? This cell is supposed to be off limits!" She turned to the other Blade, her body language clearly demanding a swift answer. A captain, then. By the way the other Blade struggled to provide a feeble excuse, Gorgoth surmised that his cell was important somehow, and he was a spanner in the works. He kept in his combat stance. He was ready to go down fighting. By now a third figure had joined the others, but was still in shadow; all Gorgoth could tell was that they were dressed in robes.

The captain shook her head in exasperation. "Bah. Useless Watch. We can't dwell on this, however. We need to get the Emperor to safety."

A less controlled man would have probably gaped as they realised that the Emperor of Tamriel was about to enter their prison cell. As it was, Gorgoth, whose control of his emotions was almost always impeccable, only quirked an eyebrow. The cell door swung open with a screech as its rusted hinges complained. The Imperial stepped into the cell, katana drawn. Gorgoth bent his knees slightly, feet apart, fists at the ready. But the Blade merely pointed with his katana. "You. Prisoner. Over there, by the window." Gorgoth complied, walking backwards, never taking his eyes off the Imperial's sword arm. The Blade nodded slightly, and lowered his weapon to his side. "Good. Stay there, and nobody gets hurt." Gorgoth had already turned his attention to the man who wielded the most power in Tamriel.

To the Orc's surprise, Emperor Uriel Septim VII was looking at this slab of green muscle with an expression of shock. The Emperor was an old man, lank grey hair framing a wrinkled face. But the eyes were full of an almost feverish intensity. Uriel pushed past the Imperial Blade and reached up to clutch Gorgoth's shoulder. "You... I've seen you..." he stammered.

The Blades seemed as confused as Gorgoth, all of them exchanging glances. The third Blade appearing in the doorway, a Redguard, hadn't escaped Gorgoth's notice. Uriel was staring into Gorgoth's eyes, studying his face. A slow look of horrific recognition crossed his features. "Then this is the day..." the Emperor released Gorgoth and stepped back. "Gods give me strength!" Uriel seemed to be wordlessly praying to the Nine Divines, eyes closed, lips moving silently. The Blade captain shrugged and turned back to examining the wall for no apparent reason.

Gorgoth decided to butt into the Emperor's internal monologue: "What's going on here?" It definitely seemed like an odd occurrence. Either way, the Emperor probably wasn't here to kill him.

Uriel's eyes snapped open. He looked a bit more rational now, as though he had thought the situation through and now knew how to deal with it. "Assassins attacked and killed my sons. All of them. And now I'm next." The Emperor said this with such calmness that Gorgoth felt perturbed. It wasn't every day a man faced his own death while knowing he had no heirs left, and the Emperor was speaking as though he knew that his fate was already sealed. Uriel continued: "My Blades are leading me through an old escape route, which, coincidentally, runs right through your cell." Gorgoth looked around blankly, seeing no escape route, unless they planned to somehow throw the Emperor out of the window.

However, that very second, the captain pounded her fist down on a brick level with her head. There was a grinding and creaking as the indented section of wall slid open like a door to reveal a dark passageway. Gorgoth raised an eyebrow, nodding in appreciation. He turned back to the Emperor.

"Maybe the Gods have placed you here, for a purpose that only they understand." Uriel seemed to be smiling inwardly at something. Gorgoth didn't get the joke.

"I go my own way," he grunted. "I'm no pawn to be pushed around by your Gods." The captain glared at the Orc as she lit her torch. No doubt they all followed the doctrine of the Imperial Nine Divines.

"We all have our own destiny," replied Uriel in semi-agreement. Without another word, he stepped down into the passage behind the captain. The Imperial blade sheathed his katana and followed.

The Redguard paused as he stepped past Gorgoth. "Looks like this is your lucky day," he grinned, a sparkle of mirth in his young eyes. "Just stay out of our way." With that, he too was gone. Gorgoth stepped over to the entrance of the passage, his black hair, arranged into a pair of long, thick war braids, brushing the dusty ceiling. Abruptly, a corner of his mouth turned up briefly - the equivalent of a broad smile on another man - and he walked over to his now closed cell door. Dreth was watching with wide eyes.

"I can get you out," said Gorgoth. Dreth was so pathetically enthusiastic he failed to notice the evil gleam in the Orc's eyes. "Trust me, take my hand, and I can get you out." Gorgoth stretched his arm almost as far as it could go, covering over half the width of the corridor. Dreth eagerly stretched and grasped it.

Suddenly, the Dunmer was flopping around like a slaughterfish out of water, his mouth wide open but unable to scream because of the sheer pain of every bone in his hand being crushed beyond recognition. Gorgoth's incessant training and natural sheer strength meant he could apply enormous pressure to something such as a Dark Elf's hand, and at that moment he was squeezing as hard as he could. The Orc, after a few more seconds, unclenched his hand and withdrew back into his cell. Dreth, his right hand now an unrecognisable pulp, was rolling around on the floor, moaning in agony. Gorgoth glared at the pathetic waste of life for a few seconds before turning back to the exposed passageway. His ticket out of here. His method of evading execution. His freedom. The massive warrior-shaman didn't look back at his old cell as he started jogging down the passage.