Author's Note: This is, so far, my favorite chapter of the story. I'mquite pleased with the action and story telling here, and I feel now, if ever, is the time for someone to review this. Tell me what you think of it, because it's new ground for me, and I'd like to know if it's a path were travelling again some day.

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Interrogation

The air was thick and musty in the basement of the chapel. A single lamp hung from the ceiling, it's light hardly adequate enough to illuminate the entire room. Instead, it only created a small globe of light, which played over the ceiling and onto the floor below. Everything else was swallowed up in darkness.

On the ground, sitting within the circle of light that sketched itself across the floor was a chair, and upon it, a single man. He was bound to the chair with tough chords of rope, so tight that constricted the man. Over his head was a filthy and disgusting pillow case, a veil that would both make his vision worthless and make his whole body retch as he breathed in the noxious odor.

He'd been like this ever since he woke up. His head was throbbing and the man was sure he'd been attacked from behind. Not once did he call out for help. It was useless anyways. This was an interrogation, and when being interrogated, you never showed a sign of weakness. Having a weakness meant it could be exploited, and if it was exploited, whatever vital information the interrogator wanted would be revealed. He wasn't about to let that happen.

And so it went, for a half of an hour, he sat there, waiting. Breathing in the horrible odor. Going crazier and crazier with the wait, but at the same time more and more resolved that he would beat this. He wouldn't betray his comrades by caving in. And if he was released, he wouldn't run back to base. He'd seen the results of running. It only led to another defeat. If he was freed, he'd kill himself, the first chance he got.

"You know what it's like to fight blind?"

The voice was barely more than a whisper. But every syllable was crisp and clear. It hissed liked a snake, and it's bite was filled with just as much venom.

"It's a nightmare, that's what it is." The voice had spoken again, this time from a different direction. Still with the same, sinister edge.

"You never know where they're coming from." Again, another direction. A footstep tapped lightly to the man's left. He braced himself for another verbal attack. But was surprised to hear it come from behind.

"Just when you think you know where they are," the voice said. "they turn the tables and take you by surprise."

A new sound made itself heard. The sound of a blade being drawn from it's sheath.

"Just when you think you know what's coming at you," the voice said. The cultist prepared for the stinging blow of a blade. Instead he felt something heavy collide with his stomach. "it turns out to be something entirely different."

Wind knocked out of him, the cultist gasped for air. His chest heaved in and out as his lungs tried to suck in air. But the blow had shocked his body, and no air would come. Combined with the horrible smell of the pillow case over his head, the cultist couldn't hold it in. He puked.

Putrid, hot liquid forced it's way up his throat and out his mouth. The pillow case made it hard for the vomit to escape, and with no way to remove the thing, all the cultist could do was feel humiliated as it dribbled down his chin and made it's way across his throat, staining his tunic. It only added to the horrible stench of his blindfold.

Hurt, and now disgraced, the man still didn't give in. He wasn't that weak. He could take more. He raised his head, chin held high.

"You think your strong? You think you can handle punishment like this?" Another blow to the stomach. The cultist retched again, this time even worse. "You can't. Your weak. You've failed, even before we've begun."

The cultist lifted his head high, yet again. He'd beat this person, even if it wasn't in combat. This was a battle that had no place in the physical world. A psychological war, waged between these two people.

"You think your a rock, strong and powerful. You think your unbreakable, don't you? Well rocks, boulders, entire mountains crumble eventually. Nothing is strong in this world. We're all weak, and we all break. You're no different. Already, the foundations are cracking. Like an ocean wave against a sea wall, it gets weathered down, and then it breaks apart and slides into the sea."

Upon these words, the cultist no longer smelled his own vomit anymore. He smelled the salty sea air instead. He heard the sound of the ocean waves as the tide rolled back in. Large, powerful waves crashed against a wall of rock that, though he could not see, he could certainly imagine. The sound was so real, so relaxing. All of a sudden, there was a deafening cracking noise. The sound of rock as it was split in two. The sea roared in triumph as great slabs of stone fell into it's now violent waters.

"Everything gets broken down with time."

The cultist silently cursed himself. He'd somehow been tricked by his interrogator. He'd been tricked into believing he was somewhere else, somewhere calm and serene. But really it was a trick employed against him so that he would break down. He was still reeling from the shock.

"Maybe you see yourself as a hero. A legend of old, who stood alone, unaided against a seemingly impossible enemy. But his courage and bravery withstood all, and in the end he came out the victor. People cheer for you as you pass by them, they delight in your triumphs. They fear no enemies, because they know you will stand tall, and cast them down."

Even as the words were hissed into his ears, the cultist saw them come alive in his mind's eye. He saw hundreds of people all around him. Nationality and wealth didn't matter. Men, beasts, and Mer stood side by side, cheering together. The wealthy and the poor intermingled, brought together for celebration. And they were all cheering for him. The cultist couldn't do anything but indulge.

He lifted his arm and waved to the crowd, unaware that his real arm was bound to a chair. He blew kisses to the women, some of which returned the favor. One even fainted.

"Why, even the king has called you into his presence."

Everything went dark. But before the man could even begin to register it, a new scene took it's place. He found himself kneeling, head bowed. Someone ahead of him was talking, but he really couldn't hear any words. Then he heard it.

"I dub thee, Knight. Rise."

The cultist rose, and looked into the eyes of a king. He was a great man, tall and proud. His robes were magnificent, and his crown splendid. A sword lay in his hands. He offered it to him. The cultist bowed his head and accepted it.

"Good. Now, I have a cuest for my young knight. There is a dragon that needs slaying, you shall go into it's lair, and with this sword, pierce it's heart. Then, when she is dead, bring back an egg for me to take as my own. Destroy the rest. Go, and serve me proud."

"A daring and noble quest. But surely such a brave knight as yourself can handle it."

The scene changed once again. Gone was the warm and bright sun, replaced with a dreary and cold day. Clouds hid the sun from sight, denying any warmth to the land. A fog had grown, and the winds gently blew, making the fog pass by as he walked on.

The man looked around. On either side of him, large stone slabs jutted out of the dead grass, names and dates engraved upon their faces. Tombstones. The man continued on, in wonder and fear as he walked through the graveyard. Finally, he came too one stone in particular.

It was not a pretty thing. Even a poor man's headstone was far nicer than this one. The slab was little more than a small boulder, set carelessly into the ground. Small scratches rested on the stone, and with a closer look, the man could read what it said:

A man lies here

The cultist was just wondering who in the world could deserve such a grave when he saw what rested at the foot of the stone. Though it's steel was rusted, and the handle worn, there was no mistaking it. It was a knight's sword. His sword, given to him by the king.

"Even heroes fail. And when they fail, they are abandoned completely."

The scene faded out around him, turning into blackness. Eventually, it was all black again. Tricked again, by this strange interrogator, who's voice hissed like a serpent. Once again, he'd been fooled into believing he was somewhere else. Now that he realized it, he cursed himself. He did not know it, but his head hung low. He was being broken down.

"Abandonment. That word is a fate no one wants to endure. Everyone wants to have a friend or ally that will stand by them, even when they face an army of thousands. Everyone wants to have someone to rescue them. But the truth is, when it's too tough, your friends bail, and leave you all alone."

The interrogator's words wove another scene. The man saw himself standing with an army behind him, facing down an even larger army. He heard himself say brave words, encouraging words. He saw the enemy charge. The ground shook, the air trembled. The man turned to his men again, to encourage them some more. Instead, he found nothing. Louder, the ground shook. Louder, the air trembled.

All alone. No one was going to help him. He had been abandoned, left to fight against thousands.

"This isn't right." man thought. "I am not on a battlefield. I am, I am somewhere else. The chapel, yes that's where I am."

Instantly, the scene faded away. It was all blank again. He'd found a way to beat this interrogator. All he had to do was keep his head straight. If he listened to the man's words, then he would fall prey to his trap, and he would get beaten down again. He wasn't going to let that happen. Instead, he laughed.

The man kept on laughing, as if something hilarious had been said. Suddenly a hard blow to his chin came. He tasted blood, and he let it dribble out of his mouth. And then he laughed again.

"I've got you figured out." the man said, finally calming down enough to speak. "You are a strange breed of mage. You don't use hand signals and magical energy to weave your spells. You use words and your mind. You break into other's minds, and view it like a book. That's what you were trying to do. Every time I saw an image, an image you crafted, my self-conscious was taken out of it's home; my mind. With an empty head resting on my shoulders, you swooped in and took up residence. With the time you bought yourself, you started digging for the answers you've been seeking."

'But I figured you out. I know you haven't found what your looking for yet, otherwise you wouldn't have started that image. I realized that, and I kicked you out. Now that I know your tricks, you can't get what you wanted anymore. I'll just push you out. Or maybe, I'll build a wall around my mind, so you can't get in even if you try.

"Walls can be broken." the voice hissed. "Picks and axes. Battering rams and catapults. Destruction magic. Yes, walls can be broken."

As the words once again worked their way through his ears, he saw a giant wall. He saw men with picks and axes, hacking away at the stone behemoth. A large booming sound, and he saw more men, carrying large battering rams. They all roared loudly with the effort it took, but they charged forward and slammed the large chunk of wood into the wall. He heard a creaking sound, and looked to find catapults, their counter-weights falling, the giant levers lifting up with a sudden and tremendous speed. As the lever hit a crossbeam, it's motion stopped, but inertia sent a large boulder it was carrying sailing into the air.

"Not right, not right. Not my mind, just an illusion. I'm not here!"

The scene faded to black again. The cracking of a wall was the only sound he could hear. Faint as it was, it rang loud and clear to him like a bell. He was still failing. The man was still breaking into his mind, and still delving deeper. Pretty soon, he'd strike gold.

"Hah! You see, I've beaten you again." the man scoffed, though he knew who had really won.

"Indeed. But too late, I'm happy to say. I've found some very interesting things about you my friend."

"I ain't your friend." the man spat.

"And what would you know about friends?" the interrogator hissed. "I already told you, you don't have any. They abandoned you."

Almost as if on cue, there was a rumble up above. Shouts, some frantic, some terrified. Then a clash of steel on steel.

"Barricade that door. We're not finished yet!" the interrogator's voice roared. It was no longer hissing. It was flat out yelling. But his next sentence was another hiss. "An empty field, devoid of any trees or buildings. The sky is dark, the air frigid. The grass is laden with frost, and a chill is upon the air."

Blackness succumbed to the field that had been described, but then it flickered, and went black again.

"I've beaten you." the man said. "I beat your words, so you can't break into my mind. Even if you could, you don't have the time. The Black Hand has come for me. And for you. You've lost."

"N-n-n-not tr-true! Not true! You haven't won anything, and you never will." The interrogator's voice was not hissing anymore. Now he was talking to the man, normally, without magic. This fact alone told the man volumes.

A loud boom sounded in the distance, from above. It was not the sound of a battering ram on a stone wall. It was the sound of a battering ram on a wooden door. The Black Hand were coming.

Splintering, cracking wood met the man's ears. They were coming through the door. Frantic screaming, inside the room. His own captives were panicking. Crossbows were being fired, swords rang as they were drawn, and clanged as they collided with each other, and blood splattered as swords sliced through a man. The sounds of battle grew louder, closer. It was all around him. He heard a loud scream sound from above his head, and only grow louder as the screaming came down towards him. It ended with a dull thud.

Something powerful grabbed his hair, and the man felt the cold steel of a blade on his neck.

"I can still kill you." It was the interrogator. He was whispering this. But his next words were a hiss. "I hate you with a passion. So be happy to know you will be the first and only person I do this too."

"I'm thrilled that I'll be your first kill."

"Shut up. Now, I'm going to take this nine inch, serrated dagger and slit your throat. The blood is going to spurt out as the pressure from the pumping of your heart forces it out. If your scared, it might go thirty feet. I've seen forty. After the spurt, the blood will simply flow out of your new wound like a river. The blood will flow down this black tunic of yours. It'll run down your legs, and make a deep, dark, crimson pool around your feet. You ready?"

The man saw everything the man said vividly and clearly. He saw himself and the interrogator, a smaller man than himself. He saw the man stiffen his arm, and jerk wildly. The blood shot thirty-five feet. It flowed like a mighty river. It ran down his legs. It pooled about his twitching body's feet. Exactly as it was described. Then it went black.

"You ready?"

His interrogator was still holding his head back, the knife to his throat. He felt the arm stiffen. Then something new happened. Something small whistled past his head, and it thudded into the interrogator. The knife was let loose, and it clattered to the floor. He was saved.

The battle died down around him. Arrows and bolts rained from above, and a few swords met. Finally, there was silence.

"Hail, who sits in that chair, bearing the mark of the Black Hand? Speak or be shot."

"A soldier of purity. A loyal Black Hand follower, such as yourselves, I presume."

"Right you are. Mer, untie him."

Hands pressed upon his face, and the stinking pillow case was ripped from him. Fresh, clean air. Bright, stinging firelight. They were sorely missed, and he gasped not in shock but in enjoyment. As his eyes adjusted, more hands pressed against the rest of his body. The chords binding him were cut loose.

The man rubbed his arms, getting his blood to flow more freely through his veins. He sat relaxed, but already, he knew what was next.

"What did you tell them?" asked a soldier. A platoon leader.

"Nothing."

"Nothing at all?" inquired the leader.

"Nothing."

"That is good. It would have been a shame to kill such a good soldier as yourself." the platoon leader said. His hand fell from his sword's handle.

"I would not celebrate yet though." the man said, softly.

"Why not?" His voice was nothing but ice.

"This interrogator, he was not like anything I've ever heard of. He had a unicue gift. He had a magical ability that affects the mind. Using his crafty words, he wove them together and spoke of worlds and settings, and with such description. His words took me to those places. For those precious few seconds, my mind wandered the lands he created. With my conscious away, he invaded my mind. He forced the information out of me, even though he did not speak. I do not know what he found. I fear the worst."

The darkened room, illuminated only by the single lamp, was dead silent. The only sounds made was the torch's flickering light, and a soft dripping noise from somewhere in the dark. Finally, the platoon leader spoke.

"You know the laws."

"Yes. Failure is death. I have failed you." the man hung his head.

"You were an honorable soldier. Misfortune found you this day. May the Gods have mercy on your soul."

Absolutely no pain was felt. Even as the sword sliced through his neck, severing the man's head. It rolled a few feet, and stopped to stare up at the lamplight. Shame was etched across the man's face. Before the blade swung, his last thought was what the afterlife held in store for him. Then it all went dark.

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"W-what is this?"

The foul smell. His vomit, his blood. He tried to move, but the cultist found himself tied down by an unseen force. It all suddenly made sense now. His brothers coming to save him from any more disgrace. The entire battle. It was all an illusion created by that snake of a man, that interrogator.

"You bastard. Find what you were looking for?"

"Yes actually. I know more than enough to bring your entire fanatical cult crashing down. You were an interesting one, I must say. A challenge indeed. No one has ever broken through my illusions before. But that last one, that one was too good. To think, I had to weave an illusion, within an illusion, just to throw you off. You've certainly given me quite the challenge."

"I'll kill you."

"Considering that you're all tied up, I don't think that will be happening. And besides, how would you know if you were fighting me, or another illusion?"

"Oh I'd know." the cultist spat.

"Of course you would. But I'm afraid, that won't be happening. Well then, now that I am finished with you, there's no need for low-life scum such as yourself to be infesting this Nirn anymore, now is there? Remember that lovely illusion of mine I create for you. The knife, and the throat, and all the blood. Well, this time, it's not going to be an illusion."

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"Jekhel, my friend. How did the interrogation go?" Peerha asked as he saw the man come through the door.

"It went well. You should sit down for this, because I've got a lot to tell you."