The progress of my recovery was truly spectacular.
I must be blessed, I thought bitterly, dragging my good hand along the rocky wall of the passage. Behind me, I heard Borkul the Beast shut the door.
Some god out there loves me, I continued with morbid humour. Or at least loves to watch me suffer.
I walked past a couple more cell doors built into the tunnel walls, flexing my injured hand and regretting just a little bit that I had given Borkul the Beast my shiv. Even though it was just a simple piece of scrap metal with one end wrapped in cloth, having any sort of weapon, no matter how crappy it was, made me feel that much safer.
Soon, the tunnel opened into a well-furnished room. There was a chest at the foot of a comfortable looking bed towards the back, and next to it, an old Breton scribbling calmly on a piece of parchment occupied a chair and desk. I slowed as I entered, footsteps instinctively soft, and waited for the King in Rags to acknowledge me.
It didn't take long, and I was glad at least that Madanach wasn't one of those assholes that proved their dominance by making you wait unreasonable amounts of time. He scratched one last sentence with his feather pen, dotted it with a period, and then swiveled in his chair to face me.
He was more impressive in person than I thought he would be. In my mind, he had been an old, frail man; scrawny, malnourished, with thinning hair and a hunched back from sitting over papers all day. The man before me was nothing like that. When he moved, I could see the veins in his arms shift above his strong biceps like miniature snakes. While he was nowhere near as big as his Orsimer guard, his broad shoulders might have put even a Companion to shame. His shoulder length hair was white as snow, with a thick mustache to match and piercing blue-grey eyes that stood out even more prominently against the dark bags under them. He had an aura that reminded me of Mercer Frey, and I was immediately intimidated.
"Well, well," Madanach said in a gravelly voice. "You must be the newest addition to the mines. I would say welcome, but I'm sure you would rather if I didn't."
His astute blue-grey eyes appraised me briefly, assessing every inch of me: my obviously tense stance, the way one of my feet remained pointed towards the exit, my archery-developed arms, the dirt in my tangled hair and under my nails, the way my rags hung more loosely off my body than I remembered, the narrow of my eyes and the unhappy curve of my mouth. My injuries.
His gaze was discerning to say the least.
"You look like a wild animal," he said, giving no indication of approval or otherwise. It was merely a comment. "Beaten and caged up by the Nords, left to go mad."
I scowled, and he laughed. Why did everyone here laugh at me?
"That's a much better look on you," he said. "A creature such as yourself should never wear such fearful expressions."
"I wasn't afraid," I scowled deeper.
"No?" he asked with a tint of an amused smile at the corners of his mouth. It faded with a sigh into an unreadable mask when I made no reply. "So, my fellow beast," he pressed on. "What do you want? Answers about the Forsworn? Revenge for trying to have you killed?"
I want to sleep. I want my bow. I want to severely injure all the guards in Markarth, and kill one in particular. I want to hear Delvin's funny accent and see Niruin's crooked smile again. I want a drink. I want to know who the man behind all of this is.
"I want my freedom," I said instead.
"Your freedom?" He seemed intrigued. "Yes, but even if you were to escape Cidhna Mine, your name would still be stained with all that blood. Even those you didn't actually kill like that troublesome Eltrys."
My stomach dropped at the mention of Eltrys. I had almost forgotten about him, which made the guilt on my shoulders feel that much heavier.
Dead. Dead, dead, dead.
"He had a wife, you know," I mumbled softly, eyes downcast.
"Hm? You'll have to speak up, girl."
I took a breath and looked him square in his penetrating eyes. "I said. He had. A pregnant. Wife."
He slowly crossed one leg over the other with infuriating poise. "So?" he asked simply. I couldn't help but feel like he was testing me. Pushing my buttons to see what kind of person I was and how I would react.
"So?" I spluttered, taking the bait as I felt anger begin to bubble in the pit of my stomach. "You have a lot to answer for."
"Do I?" he asked, and this time he was bristling. The volume of his voice rose ever so slightly, just enough so that I nervous shiver ran up my spine. "And what about you? What right did you have to meddle in my affairs? What right did you have to kill my people – Nepos, Tynan, Morven?"
I raised my chin, and I could see Madanach evaluating me, waiting patiently for a response.
The King in Rags, leader of the Forsworn, master manipulator and strategist. He had to be to do what he did. I knew there would be no way for me pull the wool over his eyes, and I felt no desire to anyways. So I answered truthfully.
"I had every right," I said.
"But was it worth it?" he pushed, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward. "Was your truth worth all the blood shed? All the suffering you and others are feeling now?"
I held his gaze for as long as I could, flexing and unflexing my injured hand. I wanted to say yes. Yes, it was worth it. But was it really? If I was being really honest with myself…
I had to look away. That was all the answer he needed.
"I didn't think so," he sniffed disdainfully, turning back to face his desk and picking up the pen. "You're one of us now, you see?" he said, dipping the feather in ink and beginning to write again, this time on a new piece of parchment. "You're a slave. The boot of the Nord is stepping on your throat. Maybe if you understood that, I could help you."
"I don't need or want your help," I said in a low voice.
"You are not the first to say that, nor will you be the last. There is a man named Braig inside these mines. Besides me, he's been here the longest. Speak with him. Tell him I sent you. I want you to know just how widespread the injustice of Markarth is."
And with that, he went back to his scribbling, and I knew I was dismissed with an unspoken don't come back until then. I couldn't tell if my irritation was rational or irrational, but my jaw was clenched and my nails dug into my palms nonetheless as I turned stiffly on my heel, leaving the King in Rags behind me.
"Good talk?" Borkul grinned as he re-opened the cell door for me.
"Shove it," I snapped, and his grin only got wider.
At least someone was having a good time.