Fate's Games
(A/N: Third and last up today. The scene in italics does actually occur in the game. I'm just not sure where.)
Tears
She came to Understone Keep clothed in rags. He scoffed. Just another prisoner, he assumed. Then he recognized her. The Dragonborn. He had often seen her around Markarth. She was in rags? He could have laughed. The Dragonborn now a mere captive! Words could not express his pleasure at the sight. So much for the great hero of legend. She'd been captured aiding the Forsworn in their escape. Her sentence was death, her choice was simple. What fool had given her a choice in the first place? Oh yes, him. Death or servitude… Needless to say she chose the latter. Of course she would. Who in their right mind would choose death? Death was what she deserved, though. He scoffed at himself. Why had he bothered? Her fate had been eminent, this thorn in the side of the Aldmeri Dominion would be gone, but for some reason or other he'd insisted on the choice. Some reason? Hah! He was fooling no one. He knew the reason he'd offered the ultimatum. She was a pretty little thing, and she would serve as a source of great amusement for him.
Flashback
"These Stormcloaks are nothing more than an armed mob. This war won't last much longer," the Jarl said to him.
"At least Ulfric's men are willing to fight for their principles, barbaric as they may be," he replied.
The Jarl looked coldly at him then turned her back. He scoffed and looked around. His eyes caught the gaze of a young woman watching him curiously. "What is it my friend?" he questioned. Friend. Hah! But he had to keep up appearances at this party.
She answered, "I need you to cause a scene. Get everyone's attention for a few minutes."
He started. He had never seen this girl before yet here she was asking him to aid her? Surely she was joking. But curiosity won out and he responded, "This is very irregular. I trust that whatever you're doing doesn't compromise my position in any way?"
"I promise. Just a joke I want to play on someone," she answered, persuading him.
"Hmm. Very well. I'm putting my reputation on the line for you," he said. Where would this go, he wondered?
His eyes scanned the party and fell on a man. Razelan was the name, and the inferior had a bad reputation as it was. He approached, victim selected. "How dare you speak of the Thalmor in such a disgusting manner!" he shot furiously.
Razelan, startled, looked up at him in shock. Quickly he answered, "What? I didn't… hmm? No, listen, you must have misunderstood… I would never openly insult your… That is to say."
Smoothly he bit, "Your insults and provocations have gone far enough! I'd kill you where you stand if I wasn't bound by my oath as an officer of the Aldmeri Dominion."
He was aware of eyes on him. The stranger was nowhere to be seen. Then Elenwen swept in, saying, "Razelan. And you promised to behave yourself this time. Remove him, he's disturbing the other guests."
"I protest! This is an insult to the dignity of my person! This time I'm completely innocent!" Razelan insisted.
Spotting the young woman returning he stepped in, saying, "Forgive me, Ambassador. I allowed this… fool to provoke me. The fault is mine. There is no need for further disruption on my account."
Immediately Razelan leapt in, exclaiming, "Absolutely not! I protest…" He trailed off as the fact he had just been saved hit him. Awkwardly he stammered, "…uh, that is, yes, of course. I still don't understand what just… oh, never mind.
End
Only later had he realized who she was. He'd regretted it ever since. He watched her approach him now, his servant, his slave. He inwardly laughed. She fully deserved it. She'd almost ruined him with that request.
She approached her master at his summons, kneeling before him. She hadn't known who he was when she first came to Markarth, but judging by the elven soldiers flanking him on all sides, he was someone important. It wasn't until later that she remembered him. The Thalmor Commander, the party… She almost killed him then and there. Oh how she despised the Thalmor; but she could wait. She would wait for the perfect time to strike. It had not yet come, but it would. Oh it would.
She had been sentenced to die. She supposed she couldn't blame the Jarl. After all, so many close to him had been murdered by the Forsworn, his father included. Part of her wasn't sure why she bothered to help them in the first place; but the stories they'd told her… She shook her head. On the brink of being sentenced to die, the Thalmor had happened to pass by the throne room. With sick amusement he watched the Jarl passing judgement. He would have gladly wielded the headsman's axe, she knew. He scowled down upon her as if she were nothing, trash, the lowest of all life. He hated her because she was not like him. She would never be like him. Then he gave her an ultimatum, and part of her screamed to spit in his face and be done with it all. Self-preservation had won out, however; but at what cost?
Now she was to serve him as a lowly slave? And she saw the way he watched her. For all his disdain he still could not truthfully say to any that he found her unattractive, that she was ugly. On the contrary, she was entirely pleasant to look at. He certainly looked. He looked often and enjoyed every moment. And she was bound to this Thalmor? She was his play thing? Well, she supposed that wasn't entirely accurate, for not once had he so much as trailed a finger along her spine or across her neck. Did it matter if he had? Because the moment opportunity struck, Ondolemar would die.
ES
Dragonborn. Hah! This pathetic creature was the Dragonborn of legend? How typical of the Nords to believe such nonsense. She was nothing but a woman, and now less. A maidservant in the Jarl's palace. A maidservant to the very one she despised with her whole heart. With smouldering eyes he watched her scrub the kitchen floor. She was tired, flushed. How wholly unappealing, yet he couldn't seem to take his eyes off of her. He hadn't been able to since the moment she entered into his service. He crossed over to her and she paused, but didn't look up. He kicked the pail of water. She gasped and nearly screamed at him, but that wasn't her place. Not now. She belonged to him. He was her master. He took her arm and pulled her up.
She glared at him with such hatred… It made him shiver. Try it. Try it, he silently provoked. She did nothing, though, but forced herself to look down at the floor and say through gritted teeth, "What is your bidding, master?" She practically spat the last word out venomously. He could have laughed at the wench, but he didn't. Why…? Because she was weeping… She was weeping tears that she herself didn't know she shed. But he knew. Oh how he knew. And he wondered very much. How could she not know? He released her arm and she rubbed it.
Inwardly she seethed. They were alone in the kitchen, no witnesses, no Jarl, no soldiers. Everyone was sleeping but them. He had given her everything but the knife with which to kill him. The fire glowed in the hearth, bathing them in an eerie light. Slowly she looked up at him. He met her gaze emotionlessly and smirked. Oh he could do so many things to her right now. Indescribable atrocities that no one would ever hear of… "Clean up and go to bed," he simply ordered. "For divines sake, it's two in the morning."
She looked at him in disbelief and suspicion. Really? That was his order? Perhaps the more confusing question was, why? Why was that his order? Or was she not even good enough to be his play thing? Wordlessly she turned on her heel and marched out. He watched after her. He heard the door close then looked at the floor. Only half done. He sighed in exasperation and knelt, picking up where she'd left off. He didn't hear her open the door to collect something she'd forgotten. She froze, however, on seeing him bent over on the floor and scrubbing. A Thalmor showing humility? For a moment she became confused, trying to puzzle out the situation. Shaking her head she gave up. She was tired of shades of grey, tired of being unable to read one who should have been so easy to see through… The Thalmor were evil. That was the only black and white left of her world. He would not take that from her as well.
ES
She entered his room, fresh from her bath. Never did anything frighten her more than this. Never had anything humiliated her as miserably. She remembered the first time it had happened. She'd been terrified. More terrified than she'd ever been… Terrified that he would ravage he, for he was sitting there writing some paperwork, and she… she was naked and vulnerable. It still was a wonder to her how he had hardly reacted. He'd looked up and paused to watch approvingly, a sick smile on his face and a look of pleasure in his eyes. She would have credited it against him except that was all he did, and it was as false as a wax figurine. It was acted, a petty trick meant to bring out just the reaction she'd given. Any other man would have been upon her in a moment. She knew her place in this land. But he'd done nothing.
Still there was fright, but never had he acted before. And when she had slipped into his bed for the first time—the only other place to lie was the stone floor and it had been freezing that night—he hardly made a move. He'd given her a glare and had moved over so as to be as far from the lesser race as possible. Now he didn't bother to even move.
She used to hesitate and begin to shake fearfully whenever returning to dress in his room, for everything she owned was there. Now she let the wrap fall and pool around her feet boldly, no hesitation. She looked over at him. He gave no reaction. He didn't even look up from the scroll he was scribbling in. She didn't understand why it angered her more than anything he'd done this night. In fact, it angered her more than anything had for a long time. So now she wasn't even worth the effort it would take to peek? She shook her head coldly at him then turned to the wardrobe to take out a nightgown.
She didn't see him look up at her quietly and cock his head, summing her up. Not with lust, but with curiosity. He turned back to his scroll and finished the entry. Rolling it up he rose and went to the wrap, retrieving it and tossing it into a basket. She felt fear welling in her as she searched for her nightgown. Where was it? Why was it gone? She paled on hearing a dark chuckle and nearly panicked. In fear she spun, covering herself with a gasp. Her bravery was gone and once more she felt like she had that first night. Would now be the time he acted, when her guard was down? With an amused smirk he suddenly thrust something at her. She caught it and looked. She gasped, breath stolen away. A shimmering nightgown made of some fabric she had never seen before. Wait… she'd read of it. It was an elven material, a gown only the hands of the elves could craft. Slowly she looked up at him, suspicious.
"Your regular nightclothes were atrocious," he remarked offhandedly, turning away from her. She watched after him a long moment then dressed. Once more she found herself trying to read him, to analyze his thoughts, the way he worked. Again she failed miserably.
ES
He was fast asleep. She was wide awake. Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. She felt him shift softly next to her and she shivered as he brushed close to her body. The gown was so light it felt as if nothing was there. Now would be the time. Now she could draw a dagger and be done with him. An elven dagger, perhaps? His own, maybe? Silently she moved from the bed. He shifted and she held her breath. Would he awaken…? No, for soon he settled. Quietly she went to his dresser and opened it. There, glimmering in what little light from the moon there was, sat the dagger. She picked it up and caressed it. Looking back at him she slowly approached.
She gazed down upon the Thalmor Commander, eyes cold. Yes. Sleep on, master, sleep on. She raised the dagger above her head, but all at once a sliver of moonlight from some hidden crevice reflected off of him, and she forgot to breathe. Until she heard the dagger clatter to the ground she forgot where she was, that she even existed. His pale skin seemed to glow, the moonbeams glistening and glimmering all around him. She'd forgotten, in all her dealings with the Thalmor, how beautiful the elves truly were, and the high elves in particular. How could such beauty hide such ugliness?
She found her hand, trembling, lightly land upon his face, trace his jawline, so perfectly crafted it was as if Dibella herself had blessed the High Elves long ago. But beauty was not something to judge by. Beauty meant nothing. She pulled herself away and picked up the dagger. She placed the tip at his neck… but she made no move. She couldn't bring herself to slit his throat… She couldn't bear the thought of watching the moon shine and reflect upon his blood as it dyed his flesh and clothing crimson. This was a life, a living breathing soul. She remembered stories of beauty driving the most cold blooded of murderers to spare a life, to fall in love. She'd scoffed at them all. Beauty was shallow, nothing. It was the inner being that mattered… She wasn't scoffing anymore… But this elf by no means had any redeeming quality except…
Except he had never so much as touched a hair on her head…Except not once had he struck her despite all the fury and anger she prompted in him. Not once had he cursed her or beaten her. Not once had the Commander let any other man attempt such a thing, and there had been times that that fate would have been hers if not for him. He had saved her life. He had shown to her, without trying, that this Civil War wasn't black and white, not any of it. He had taught her that there was no good, there was no bad; and even the wickedest group of all of those in Skyrim knew kindness. And every glance he gave her made her shiver, and every word he spoke infuriated her, but she never willed him to stop speaking. If only he would speak kindly to her, one more time…
ES
"Will you finish it or not?" he suddenly questioned, and she swore her heart stopped. How long had he been awake?! In terror she gasped. Before she could move his hand seized her wrist roughly, squeezing tightly until she cried out in pain and dropped the weapon. The moment she did he let her go. In terror she scrambled away from him as his hands lit up with spells of destruction. She cowered against the wall, watching him in horror and fear. He rose swiftly and she turned her head away and held her breath, waiting for the burning or the electricity to tear through her; waiting for an ice-spike to impale her upon the wall, leaving her to die slowly.
But no such action came. It would never come. He watched her cower there. She was silently weeping; tears she never knew she shed. Tears he had seen every night, every time she had worked so hard she could hardly move, every time she had been so belittled she felt so, so worthless, and every time the soldiers of the palace treated her as nothing but a harlot. Or rather tried to… They never spoke such things to her again, they never so much as tried to lay a hand on her a second time, they never stole from her what they did not have a right to; he was sure of it…She never knew when she cried, but he did. He wondered, what would happen if he mentioned it? "You're weeping," he remarked calmly. She looked up at him, pale and frightened. Her eyes widened in realization, then shock. Swiftly she scrambled to cover the reaction. "Don't bother. I've watched your tears every night since the moment you became a slave to me."
"Liar!" she screamed, accusing him. She couldn't believe him, she wouldn't… but something inside of her told her he had spoken no lie.
"You want your freedom, don't you?" he questioned coldly, and her eyes became longing, hopeful. He shook his head with a sigh. "So be it," he finally instructed, cancelling his spells. "You're free."
ES
She watched him in shocked disbelief, then hurt. "Free?" she asked. Why didn't those words make her feel so happy she could scream? Why didn't she feel like dancing and singing and racing through the doors without a thought? "Free…?" she repeated curiously.
"Yes," he answered, though yes was the last word he wanted to say. He wanted to fall to his hands and knees and beg her in tears not to leave him. But that was not the Thalmor way. They were better than that. She was nothing, worthless, dust in the wind. He turned to the bed, gazing at it as if it were the most interesting thing in the room. She was not worth the effort it would take to plead. She was not worth the tears that he felt pricking his eyes even as he was listing all the things about her he hated. She was not worth the life he felt like ending the moment she left his sight; his own. Never had he believed those words could be so painful. "But know, lady… that I would have been your captive, your prisoner, your slave, if only it meant you did not leave," he thought.
"What?" she breathed, and he froze and cursed himself a thousand times because he had actually said that out loud! He froze. What could he say? Could he still deny it? He never turned. He didn't have to. She approached him. She gently turned his head to face her and took his lips. In that moment he knew… He had his answer.