Daedric Debauchery
POV Magrakh, Chapter 11: Someone escaped Cidhna Mine
Magrakh's return to Cidhna Mine dredges up painful memories and guilt from a time even earlier than his bandit days. A troubled mind often results in poor choices.
Second Seed, 4E 197
There was no other way.
In a city such as Markarth, gripped by the powers that run it, the blood they squeeze inevitably trickles down to the gutters.
Asking about the Forsworn was like questioning an innkeeper about mice in the larder.
No one wished to acknowledge their presence, even when they lurked in plain sight.
More crucially, the guards haven't been under the Jarl's command for quite some time, steeped in corruption to their very core. No amount of gold could outweigh the value of spilled blood.
It was blood that led Durzol to Weylin, a reachman with Forsworn philosophies.
It was blood the Orc spilled when the reachman tried to stab him.
It was Weylin's blood, snaking down the sewers, that alerted all the predators hiding in the shadows of the law.
For blood Eltrys met Durzol under the cloak of night, within the solitude of a desolate temple; his father, once a Reachman and mine owner, had fallen victim to the Forsworn's violence.
Durzol sought answers too but also hunted for a man amidst the Forsworn.
The duo imagined themselves cunning and hidden from everyone's eyes, skulking through the night and gaining little bits of information like birds pecking the streets for crumbs.
The money that Eltrys offered was helpful, but it wasn't what drove Durzol to rummage through an Imperial spy's belongings. It wasn't gold that dragged Durzol's feet out of the gutter after a bunch of thugs beat him bloody to teach him a lesson about 'minding his own business'.
It wasn't Eltrys' gold that pushed Durzol to sneak into the Treasury House under false pretenses.
His personal aim didn't line up with Eltrys' anymore. Durzol had learned of the King in Rags, somewhere in Cidhna Mine, and desperately wanted to talk with him.
Who better than the 'king of the Forsworn' could help find the single Forsworn he sought?
But at the Treasury House, Nepos the Nose didn't tell him how to speak with his king. Much to Durzol's surprise, he revealed all the dirty secrets that he and Eltrys imagined but had no proof for.
The Orc sensed the subsequent slaughter coming and could escape, fleeing to the Temple of Talos to warn Eltrys.
There he discovered more blood and the body of an innocent who'd never witness his son's birth.
The guards dragged Durzol to jail with a promise: "nobody escapes Cidhna mine".
30th of Frostfall 4E 201
Today, the Orc bears the name of Magrakh, and as this new person he trudges through the cold stone and stale air of the largest mine in Markarth once again.
He shivers, certain at this point that Destiny does indeed exist, and that it likes poetic justice.
What other reason could there be for his return here?
Initially, he sought answers—those his mother could no longer provide, the ones he had hoped Madanach would have.
"Alright, here's the drill," a guard says with a bored tone, "I don't care if you're here for a week or five minutes, you're still going to put those muscles to good use."
A pickaxe is shoved between his hands, and his fingers instinctively wrap around the handle.
"I don't care if you're innocent, and I don't care if your Imperial girlfriend finds some gold to throw at us: no visits."
"We'll still take the gold, though," laughs another guard.
Soon he's left behind a locked gate in a large clearing he's very familiar with.
There are people around a single fire pit: men and women with hollow eyes and hunched backs.
He can already see who's going to be chatty and try to 'show him the ropes', and who is going to exploit his rookie status.
Magrakh avoids those chats entirely and, with his pickaxe firmly in hand, he walks down one specific tunnel.
The passage winds and splits numerous times, yet he had traversed these paths for months. No new mine shaft would divert him from memories steeped in blood.
Finally, he reaches the end of a shaft where a room once filled with comforts. There, an old man had welcomed him, conversing for hours.
But now, the shaft lies collapsed, and the secret passage leading to the Dwemer ruins below remains sealed.
The tiny spark in Magrakh that still felt like escaping, extinguishes at the sight. This must be Destiny showing him the path again, or the lack thereof.
Forget the vain hopes of sprucing up Pinewatch, making a family, and living a normal life again. For the first time in years, he feels like he's exactly where he belongs: in jail.
For the jail to be a mine, oh the irony.
He observes the wooden pillars of a new shaft as he walks further in, flinching at every shift of the earth above, still settling from the burrowing.
His mother died in the other Silver-Blood mine, but every mine is familiar when you've grown up inside them as a child.
Sometimes, when he feels down, like now, he almost wants to curse his mother.
Did she have to tell him about his father on her deathbed? Couldn't she have dragged that knowledge in the Ashpit with her, leaving him blissfully ignorant?
He squeezes his eyes shut and crouches to the ground, letting the earth and stone fill him with cold and lull him to sleep.
It's a restless sleep, interrupted many times by a crumbling rock, a shifting of the earth, or the skittering noises of mice.
Then, something sharp pokes his ribs. He startles, and his hands move before he's fully awake.
"Woah, calm down, friend," an old woman tells him, alarmed.
Magrakh stares at the wrinkled, leathery face of a short Breton woman, with a voice as frail as she looks. She's grayed and hunched by what seems to have been many years of hard labor but, more importantly, her face sports branching tattoos on her forehead and cheekbones.
A reachwoman.
She's smiling kindly as the Orc removes his grip on her wrist. "You ok, sonny?"
He's in jail, sleeping in the dirt, probably looking like shit, how could he be ok?
"Just dandy." He grumbles, making her laugh.
"My name is Jeanne," she offers him a hand to get up, which he doesn't take. "You should be more careful about leaving silver ore around."
At her nod, Magrakh looks behind him, where his pick lies among broken rocks, and between those he can recognize the familiar speckles of precious metal.
He doesn't remember picking at the stone, even less finding silver ore. Maybe he's still a bit drunk.
"If the inspectors saw you keeping silver ore around they would punish you, sonny," she explains, "and if the other inmates found you with it, they might call the inspectors on you. Some of those silly boys would do anything for a pat on the head."
This talk is just what Magrakh wanted to avoid. He doesn't need explanations about how Cidhna mine works, and he knows nothing comes for free.
The Orc expertly dislodges chunks of silver ore, making Jeanne raise her furry eyebrows in surprise. Then, he simply heads back to the collection cart, ignoring the woman.
On the way he finds other people milling about. Perhaps it's morning already, who knows down here?
"Hey," a sleazy Nord gestures to him, "I heard you're in for getting drunk and dirty at the Temple, is that true?" The man's face is gaunt and pale, dirtied with dust, but it glows with mirth as he speaks. "How did that go?"
Another Nord next to him is keeping a pick balanced on his broad shoulders. "I bet that's a story worth hearing about."
Magrakh pays them no mind and continues walking without much thought. He leaves the silver on the cart and heads back into another shaft.
While he's venting his frustration against the wall of a new tunnel, Jeanne appears from behind. "You're going to be exhausted soon if you keep that up, sonny."
"Mind your own business," Mag spits on the ground.
Instead of being put out, she chuckles. "Oh, you Orcs are always so grumpy. Worse than a Nord without their mead."
After a brief silence punctuated by the sound of metal against stone, Jeanne joins him and begins picking at the wall.
They don't speak for what feels like hours.
Cidhna mine might be a well-guarded stronghold, but its best weapon against the inmates is the isolation and impossibility to tell day from night.
Without means to measure time, it quickly loses its structure and significance. At times, it seems like only a few hours have passed since he arrived, while the next hour feels like days spent picking at the rocks.
"Listen sonny, you gotta eat something," Jeanne says at a certain point. "The food ain't much, I'll grant you, but you gotta take what you're given, or you'll get weak and sick quickly."
He knows she's correct, of course, but dreads the thought of once again finding himself around a fire with inmates, eating disgusting grub and swapping sobbing stories.
"C'mon–" she dares to place a hand on his elbow–"let's go grab a bowl."
He doesn't know if he's already feeling like a husk or if it's the matronly voice, but he follows Jeanne back through the shafts and into the common room.
The fire pit smolders with hot coals, offering little in the way of flames. Those who huddle closest are the oldest and thinnest, but there are also many individuals coughing and shaking as if sick, either from the cold or the dust.
Magrakh saw many succumb to sickness in the mines, and he knows well what little help miners by trade might find in a town, they'll find none here.
He tries not to linger on such thoughts but can't help remembering running to buy herbs and remedies from the Hag's Cure for his nana. Or the feeling of her frigid, bony hands as he held them.
"Hey, new blood," a man calls for him, "so it's true you pissed off the Dibella priestesses?"
"Shut up, Hrolfr," a woman hisses, "if he's really in for heresy, we better not hear about it."
Jeanne chuckles next to him. "If he had displeased our Lady that much, he wouldn't be alive. Stop fretting, Kara."
He tries to ignore the chatter and focuses on his bowl of… whatever the mystery soup is.
It's gritty, greasy, and the bits of bread in it taste like mold. Not that different from what passed for a meal when he was a bandit.
He closes his eyes and tries to imagine the wonderful fish soup Pelle made with mudcrab and perch in the Hjaalmarch.
"Wouldn't it be funny," she once said, "don't roll your eyes, just think about it, next time we're around a dead dragon let me cut some stakes before you get closer."
He remembers staring, disgusted. Mag can tell now that she was just trying to distract him from his own thoughts as they run away from Whiterun and his own responsibilities. But he'll forever deny that, to this day, he's curious what a grilled dragon rib would taste like.
"So does he have one of those funny names or shall we just call him 'Orc'?" A man from somewhere asks.
Jeanne chuckles. "Wouldn't that be confusing? 'Tis the third Orc, after all."
"No, it's easy," the man retorts with a manic sort of cheer. "There's the broody Orc–though this one is a gloomy lad too–the one-eyed Orc, and this will just be the ginger Orc!"
People laugh.
"Fuck you too," says someone, probably one of the other Orcs.
"Broody, Eyepatch, and Ginger. I like it!" Says Jeanne.
"Hey Ginger," a young man calls, "how long are you gonna be here?"
Magrakh gets up and leaves the common area behind to take refuge in the tunnels. He doesn't feel like chatting, not now that his life is ruined anew.
Somewhere along the way he finds a shovel, and when he's far enough, he turns to the Breton who has been tailing him, pinning her to the wall.
She squeaks and claws at the handle of the shovel that's pressing on her throat.
"It's just me, sonny!" Jeanne shouts.
"I know," Mag says, staring coldly at her tattoos, "and now you're going to tell me what you want."
"What do I want?"
"You're being awfully nice to someone you don't know," he says, slowly, trying to keep his anger from lashing out. "Your concerned old woman act is good but–"
"Act? I don't understand, what are you saying?"
He presses the handle down and Jeanne croaks, choking.
"What are your orders?" He hisses, inspecting often the position of her hands, fearing a needle or a shiv hidden somewhere in her robes.
"Please…" She gasps, eyes bulging out. "Help!" Her call is too strained to reach anyone's ears. Mag knows this very well.
This is the tunnel where he was cornered, years ago, by Madanach's bodyguard. The echos might carry far enough for some prisoners to hear, but nobody ever cares enough.
He loosens the pressure on her throat, anyway. Dead women tell no tales.
Jeanne gasps for air, pushing the handle away from her. "Why are you doing this?"
"Tell me what are your orders."
"I don't understand! It's the same as everyone else's…pick the rocks, report veins, bring back silver ore."
Mag pats her down for hidden weapons or notes.
"Keep your hands away from me!" She shouts and flails.
"No shiv?" Mag says after finding nothing beyond a bit of stale bread and a shriveling apple. "Who told you to talk to me?"
"You're out of your mind," she says after staring for a few seconds. "Let me go, you paranoid fucker!"
She tries to pry his arm away from the shovel, but it might as well be glued there.
"Let me go, or I swear I'll report this to the guards. They won't care two shits 'bout me, but they always jump on a reason to beat someone up!"
After studying her face for a long time, he comes to the realization that even if she is a Forsworn agent, she's too good for him to interrogate.
That's Pelle's forte; she's the one who always discerns what's in the hearts and minds of those around her.
What's the point of interrogating her anyway? He can't escape if Jeanne confirms his suspicion, nor can he report her. He'll have to watch his back for the rest of his life, or he could end it by snapping her neck now.
The realization of what he had contemplated hits him like a ton of bricks.
It had been a long time since he had done such things, and he promised himself not to be that person again. Did it really take so little to drag Durzol's shadow back to the forefront?
He released his hold.
Jeanne doesn't lose a second to run back where she came from, while Mag is left staring at the spot where he almost killed an old woman on the off chance she's a spy. He feels lost and dirty.
The shovel slips from his grasp and clatters to the ground. He clenches his fists and squeezes his eyes shut, only to snap them open at a sudden noise. Mag whirls around, scanning the area, but there's no one in sight.
Then, finally he realizes it was the wood creaking overhead.
There's a reason he abandoned the mines for good: after what happened to his mother, he could never bring himself to sit still beneath wooden beams supporting hundreds of meters of stone and earth.
This place is fucking with my mind.
He ventures deeper into the mine without torch or lamp, relying on his darkvision to guide him. However, there comes a point where even his enhanced vision fails in the absolute darkness. It's pitch black, so dark that he can't even see his own hands, though he can feel them trembling.
Gradually, he surrenders to gravity, allowing himself to sink to the ground until he's seated, leaning against the cold stone—the only tangible presence keeping him tethered to reality.
"It's ok, Mag," he remembers Pelle saying, "there are no enemies nearby, and the fire is already taking. You can hear it crackle."
The hollow echoes of crumbling dirt reverberate through the stone. The scent of damp underground fills his nostrils, and he tries to recall the sensation of a blanket enveloping him.
"The moon is big tonight," Pelle said, "well, Masser is, Secunda is just a sliver. But between them, they are shining enough to see the other side of the river."
Her ramblings were easy to follow and focus on, so he latches to those memories and tries not to lose his mind.
"Look Mag, if you squint you can almost see the arches of Bleak Falls Barrow."
He grips his aching head with both hands.
I'm an idiot.
All this time he wasn't even thinking of Pellegrina still being out there.
She spun another crazy story to cover for them, defending him from the priestesses and the guards who miraculously believed her!
To tackle alone a fort full of Forsworn… there's no way she's doing that! She knows they are more than just bandits.
She is most likely returning to Falkreath, but not to flee. No, it would not be like her. She's too loyal.
It's possible she's attempting to get in touch with Lydia, and perhaps collect money to hire mercenaries or string along some guards to assault the fort for her.
Mag nods to himself: this sounds like Pelle, who always takes the path of least resistance to achieve her goals.
She might even succeed parlaying in his favor, despite his reluctance to leave jail.
Their next meeting will be horrible, because surely she realized he's exactly whom the guards were looking for.
He should have informed her of his large bounty.
I'm a shitty friend.
Since meeting the girl, she's had to save his skin, provide food and shelter, supply coins, keep him company, and even prevent his mind from straying into painful memories.
Meanwhile, all he's ever done is harm others.
He even promised to help her improve her combat skills, but their lessons discontinued, and then delegated that responsibility to Lydia.
Only the Divines know where his housecarl is now, or if she's still alive.
To give themselves to Sanguine like that…
It was extraordinary any of them made it to Markarth alive, and a miracle he wasn't executed upon arrival.
His eyes snap open.
Maybe it really was a miracle.
What if Lady Dibella was who gave Pelle her powers? Mag thinks, sitting up.
He'll admit the girl is not priestess material, especially not Dibella's. She's more the kind of girl who burps in his face as retaliation for ignoring her questions, than a seductive agent of the Lady of Beauty.
However, who is he to say Dibella doesn't pick her champions for more than just appearance?
After all, Pelle puts a lot of passion in what she does, and she certainly appreciates the beauty of the world, often immortalizing it in drawings or paintings.
Suddenly, Magrakh punches the ground.
Dibella is the goddess patron of the arts!
It's possible Pelle wasn't even lying this time…perhaps Dibella really sent her a vision. After all, she knows the Sybil's name and even where she's held captive!
He shakes his head, ashamed of having feared Pellegrina to be puppeteered by a Daedra, when her otherworldly patron was none other than a Goddess!
He bangs his head on the stone behind him, twice for good measure.
Magrakh had silently cursed himself for agreeing to drink with Sanguine, but perhaps it was foreseen and necessary. They might have lost ten entire days of their lives, engaging in who knows what and where, but of all the places they ended up in Markarth.
He had arrogantly believed that Destiny sought to punish him for his misdeeds. Now, however, it's clear to him that Pellegrina was destined to reach the Lady of Beauty's Temple all along.
And he had even been keeping her from the Reach!
He bangs his head again.
This must be Divine providence, and his imprisonment must be neither the whim of fate nor mere coincidence, but Divine justice.
Magrakh sheepishly draws a flower in the dirt, closing his eyes and whispering a prayer. He apologizes to the Goddess, and thanks her for leading him where he belongs, protecting the world from a Dragonborn that was clearly never meant to be.
Yet, he also pleads for help, not for himself, but for Pelle. She was tasked with freeing the Sybil from a fortress teeming with Forsworn, all on her own! It's a test of faith, a test of truth, but in reality, it's nothing short of suicide.
"Your holy priestesses meant well, but they were arrogant to take for granted You'd intervene for Pellegrina's sake and Your Sybil's." He whispers, barely hearing himself.
"But please, help her. I'm not sure if she knows she's yours yet, but I assure you she's loyal to those who treat her well—" he snorts— "like a dog."
He asks Her to forgive Pelle's sins, and believe in her cleverness. She will have Her Sybil extracted from those monsters. He just knows it.
She just needs time to find resources and allies, and then another crazy plan will be hatched.
He bets, Magrakh thinks bitterly, that Pellegrina would have succeeded where he failed, right here in Cidhna Mine, years ago.
Mag was too arrogant, riding his desire for the truth without a plan beyond 'get in and talk to the man'.
Madanach, the thrice damned fiend.
What Mag wouldn't do to get his hands around his wrinkly neck.
Second Seed, 4E 197
Durzol thought he was being smooth, trying to bargain with a man who had commanded his people from the inside of the safest jail in the world with a bit of paper.
He had underestimated the skill and subtle manipulation required to kill, bribe, and command without ever lifting a finger; he had even been aware that the guards themselves were under his control.
"I don't care who you are," Durzol lied, "nor what you do."
He observed the disheveled appearance of the old man. King in Rags indeed.
"But I know you're the highest authority for the Forsworn, and all I want is to find one among you. If you help me, I'm willing to pay any price."
The Breton chuckled, a sound like grating chalk. "Ah, one of the reachmen hurt you, and you want to hurt him back, is that it?"
He hummed, eying Durzol and his new bruises, courtesy of Borkul, Madanach's bodyguard.
"No," Durzol said, "it's not like that at all."
"Oh?" The old man straightened in his rickety chair and propped an arm on the table, lounging not as a scrawny man in a dingy tunnel, but as a true king in his throne room.
"Do tell."
Durzol attempted to mimic Borkul's imposing stature, folding his arms to shield himself from the uncomfortable truths he was about to speak.
"The Forsworn I'm looking of Breton blood and I don't know his name, but I know what he looks like. Here's a hint–" Durzol shook his mohawk back and forth– "he's got hair this kind of red. Though, I suppose, they could've turned white by now."
The sleazy smile that stretched Madanach's jaundiced face slowly vanished.
"He's got one of those fancy face tats of yours, briars of color red or brown."
Madanach quickly recovered from his surprise and smiled. "I see."
"His eyes are green. Or amber, I'm not sure."
"I know, Orcs have a hard time telling certain colors apart," Madanach said. "You must be quite desperate to come all the way here to look for him."
Durzol raised his shoulders. "Better than going from fort to fort, dodging arrows."
The man laughed. "That would be even riskier. But why now? You're not exactly a young lad anymore."
"I'm still 26, for your information, and it's because my mother died recently."
At that Madanach looked up.
"In a silver mine much like this one; a shaft collapsed, and boulders trapped her," Durzol mumbled through the still raw grief, "she didn't survive long after they took her out."
"I'm sorry to hear that, lad. To bury one's parent is something inevitable, but tragedy shouldn't speed along that sad duty."
"This man, wherever he is, and if he's still alive–" Durzol ground his teeth, making the tusks click, pained by having to pretend affection towards his hated father– "he's all the family I've left."
Madanach nodded solemnly. "I understand. Blood is the strongest link any person will have in this dreary world."
He sighed, giving a forlorn look at the papers on the table. "And it's all that keeps us going even when there's nothing left to spur us forward."
Durzol sighed impatiently. "Can you help me find him or not?"
The man raised a hand. "Calm yourself, lad. Sit down. Let's talk."
The Orc looked around with suspicion, but despite the lack of another chair, sat on the floor. From down there, the scrawny old man almost looked imposing.
"What's your name, lad?"
"Durzol." He sighed.
The man nodded, and for the first time in his young life, the Orc noticed the distinct lack of the usual distaste from a human hearing an orcish name.
As if reading his mind, Madanach spoke. "We have the odd Orc among our ranks. Not as many as the Nords or the Imperials, but they can still find a home in our camps."
Durzol waited with thinly veiled impatience.
"I know you want answers and want them immediately. You probably waited a long time, and any other minute feels like an injustice. But surely you don't expect me to know every single reachman under the sun, my lad."
The Orc raised an eyebrow. Even if Madanach didn't know the man directly, he had enough influence to have him found.
"I know many of our sisters and brothers personally, but it has been a long time since I've seen any of their faces. Longer than you've lived, actually."
Madanach took a shivering breath and closed his eyes for a moment.
"However, as you probably know already, my reach goes far, and many are the ears that listen to me. If this man still lives, I will find him for you. For Oblivion, even if he has passed I might still give you a name." He chuckled.
That's what Durzol wanted to hear, so he nodded. "What do you want in exchange?"
The man smirked. "Right to the point, uh? I suppose that's fair. Honesty sure feels lighter and quicker than hours spent hamming and hewing, and days of exchanging favors. Luckily for you, you've also come at an opportune time."
The Orc looked up expectantly.
"Tell me Durzol, I assume you've been a miner in your mother's footsteps, but do you have any other skills? Like fighting, for instance."
"A pickaxe can pick rocks apart, and flesh and bone is softer than rocks," the Orc pointed out.
"I can also fight with axe and shield, but there's a distinct lack of those here…I don't know what you're thinking of, but know that I don't care if and who I have to kill. There's no longer a place for me in Markarth."
Madanach's smile widened from ear to ear. "Well, isn't that convenient? Listen carefully, Durzol, my time here is up. Things are changing, both inside and outside this city. The Silver-Blood might think they have us caught, like caged animals. They rarely see other people like anything else, in fact I imagine they didn't offer your mother any medical assistance…did they?"
Caught where it hurt, Durzol snarled.
Madanach was not offended, and sighed. "I thought as much. But we are much more than the animals they see us like, and much more than the individuals we are. Together, we are a force, a wave of wind that, as the blizzard rips trees from their roots, will rip the putrid blood from the soles of the Silver-Blood."
The man leaned forward, an eagle-like gaze boring a hole through Durzol's eyes.
"There's a plan in the making, carefully engineered for years. We were just waiting for the right moment. An occasion." He smiled. "And you, my boy, might just be what we were looking for."
That knowing little smile is what Magrakh will remember as shit goes down all around him.
He had stated he was ready to kill and had nothing to lose, but while it felt that ways as he said it, the feeling quickly changed in the bloodshed that followed.
He had been naive and swept away by emotions, whereas Madanach was a cunning old fox, ready to exploit his grief.
It started with his pickaxe plunging into the skull of a man who, he was told, was a spy for the guards.
Then came the explosion that rocked his heart, and the sight that stole his breath of three inmates pinned under rubble.
Madanach ordered to leave them behind and make a way into the Dwemer ruin below.
Next came the disgusting feeling of fur and bones wrapping around him, one of their armors.
When Thonar Silver-Blood was gutted in the streets, he thought little of it. Even if the best out of his family, he was still a leech and a slave driver.
But when Madanach incited his people to slaughter everyone in their path, he realized his road to revenge would be paved in the blood of many innocents.
He didn't care for the guards he cut down with an axe made of bones. Most of them were corrupt bastards who pushed people around.
But he won't forget the horrified face of Bothela, the apothecary, as she watched the streets be swarmed by her bloodthirsty kin. She spotted him among them, recognized the young Orc, but luckily for both she fled inside her home.
Nor the Orc blacksmith, who used to supply him nails for house repairs, came rushing forward to defend her scrawny apprentice. A skilled artisan, but not as skilled in using her creations.
His coworker too, Hathrasil, with whom he used to play dice with during lunch break, was left as a mangled body down a steep fleet of stairs.
Finally, came the order from Madanach to put down Durzol too, because after they crossed the gates he pleaded to leave the farmers be and run with the horses.
Then he recalls his mother slowly and painfully expiring in a bed, as Mag could only watch.
When he looks again, however, she's not helpless in bed but writing under rocks.
Magrakh rushes to free her, uncaring of breaking his fingers to dislodge the stones. But his arms are weak, and his hands are too slick with blood. So much blood, dripping from an axe made of bones.
He lets go of the weapon, but when he looks under the rubble he realizes it's not a collapsed mine, but the broken fort in Helgen, and the one being crushed is Pellegrina.
"Mag!" She screams. "Mag, where are you?!"
Her face is bruised, bleeding, and her eyes filled with tears. Just like at Ustengrav, when he left her on her own against bandits, believing she would be dead weight.
He tries to free her, throwing away a rock at a time…but after a while he notices the wet noises he hears as they fall.
That's when he understands he's been lifting corpses.
There's the bandit chief, Vankeeth, who had taken him in, and whom Durzol stabbed in the back.
The old drunk who his mom used to take pity on, giving him a piece of bread.
Cosnach, one of the Nord boys nana babysat and that he grew up with.
There are too many corpses. They burn and mangle, turning to charcoal as the smoke chokes him.
Blue flames like a wall in front of him.
The stone bricks melting overhead.
Red piercing eyes that stare deep into his soul.
Bex hin miin lir
Frostfall? Sun's Dusk? 4E 201
Magrakh jerks awake.
The deep darkness envelops him, and for a fleeting moment, he glimpses the afterimage of a white sky, with unfathomably long black wings starkly silhouetted against it.
He inhales stale, humid air in rapid, terrified gasps, shivering as his sweat freezes in the chill. Then, he vomits.
As he re-enters the common area, the sounds of the others toiling away in the tunnels fill his ears. However, he notices a woman by the fire pit, preparing something.
She's giving him the stink eye, so it seems Jeanne has tattled.
Between the nightmares, memories, and overwhelming guilt, Magrakh comes to the realization that he cannot last much longer in Cidhna Mine this time.
How much time has it been? A day? Two? A week?
He can't endure this any longer…
What's the point?
His tale has reached its conclusion. Pellegrina will carry on down her destined path, but he has already arrived at destination.
Why prolong the agony?
In the end, he arrives at the only logical conclusion.
He drops his pickaxe, walks to the massive gates, and asks for the captain.
"I'm Durzol gro-Dushniik," he says, "I want to confess."
In the next chapter, Pellegrina tries her hardest not to panic and assist her friend. This leads her straight into danger, and this time she's without her Earth's equipment, armed solely with guile.
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