Syls Amusements

At first I did not know where I was.

The words of a religious service echoed about me, maddeningly familiar.
Was this some rite I knew?

There was a cantor– a human lady with a heavy northcoast accent– but the cadence of her reciting-tone rendered her phrases nearly incomprehensible to me. This tongue-song was wholly foreign to me; I could barely recognize these words as Cyrodiilic.

How was it that I could anticipate each response?

Each phrase leaped unbidden to mind, like the quick flash of minnows darting through clear water. Where did this knowledge come from?

My own thoughts were sluggish and honey-thick, as if I were yet dreaming. Word for word, my lips could frame each versicle’s response, though I stumbled and hiccuped on the timing. No, she was not finished; that was merely the shift to the flexa; there was going to be another verse before the change to the mediant. Four more words for the termination and we were on to the next–

What music was this?

I struggled to comprehend.

I knew, instinctively, that I had never heard this rite before. I knew that this rite was wrong. Yet I knew by rote each and every syllable of the proper response.

Syllables and words that were almost comforting, despite the uneasy distaste I felt; I had felt this unease before. Familiar words that I had forced myself to review over and over again, no matter that they made me feel uncomfortable; a lie. Easy words to follow.

As easy to review as the short paragraphs laid out in a service manual.
In the chapter entitled: “Regarding Heresy.”

My eyes snapped open.

I was in the presence of the enemy.

“Don’t,” came a Nord-accented, feminine voice.

The same voice?

I gasped. I was too dry to scream.

“Don’t try to get up. You’re still very weak. Here.” The wet rim of a wooden cup pressed just below my mouth as my head was steadied. Was it a drug? Was it a poison?

My training drummed in my ears: Turn your face away. Do not accept it. You do not know what it might be– something to sap your will; something to eat through your flesh. My arms and legs ached from the rack; from the…

I was fading down to the darkness again.

As soon as the liquid touched my lips I sucked greedily at it, drinking in great noisy gulps. Oh, I was dying of thirst and it was not nearly sufficient. I choked and coughed. The cup was taken away, and I was chided for my haste.

A breath or two– I had control of myself now; I would not– When it was brought back to me, I succumbed again, trying desperately to grasp it. I could not move my hands. They were bound.

Laughter, peals of it.

Who were these people? What kind of terrible people allow their small child into a prison-chamber?

“Look at this, Yllga. He couldn’t even keep his eyes open yesterday. Could you hand me that towel?” Something wet, scrubbing at my cheek.

And– blackness.

“Bring that over and give it to him right now– I don’t wish to bring him up for too long.”

That was an Altmer voice. I had been warned of these people– the tainted ones; the recusants and unbelievers; the corruptors-of-blood; the betrayers who live to infiltrate us and– he had the uniform. A lie. A trick. The misbelievers steal this things, to lull us into complaisance.

Once more I refused.

The Altmer made an exasperated noise and got to his feet. “Give it here,” he said.

A firmer hand grasped my jaw.  “Open,” I was commanded, and I did, once the merciless thumb jabbed into the nerve plexus there.

Something cool and tangy was dolloped into my mouth. I should have refused. Food is the body’s strength and when one is wholly trapped, it is time to let the body fail. It is one’s duty to evade questioning by any means. I should not cooperate with this, this torment that they meant to do to me. I must try to get up. I must seek the escape; there, I could see it. A door. I strained to get up, but my legs were leaden, and my left wrist affixed. I could not get the necessary leverage–

“If you do not eat, you will die,” the mer said, annoyed.

That was as just as well, if it meant there could be no more questions. Strong fingers took hold of my chin and pressed down, painfully. More of the thick stuff went into me. I tried to turn my head, and was prevented.

“Swallow,” directed the voice, and I could not do otherwise. “Open your eyes again. Look at me. I want to know how you managed to bring yourself out of stasis.”

I did not wish to do as the voice said.

I tried to rid myself of the paste in my mouth; but had to gulp it some more of it down rather than choke. I shook my head wildly and coughed to clear my mouth, and spat. Now that it had been commanded that my eyes open, I kept them tightly shut.

Apparently I was a source of great amusement– the child again– but not to the voice; I heard him growl disgust.

The Altmer retreated: “If he’s strong enough to fight me like this, he’s probably strong enough to be left out of stasis. I’ll let you take over feeding him. He’s swallowing fairly well now. Thick liquids are better than thin; but no matter what make certain that he’s fully awake before you put anything into his mouth.”

And, more attenuated– “What IS this substance; I’m covered with it. Will it soak out in the wash? I shall have to speak with Suivari.”

The Nord woman again, rueful: “You really do make a mess, don’t you? Here.”

The wet cloth again, swabbing me down.

“That won’t do any good, Mama– it’s all over the bed.” “So it is,” said the lady, making a few futile swipes at the pillow. “I think I’ll try putting some honey in it next time. Waste of good skyrr, is what this is.”

“He’s just like a big baby, isn’t he?” The bed heaved, as though some large animal had jumped onto it. A mammoth. Or a half-ton sabrecat, perhaps.

“Yllga! Leave the poor man alone, he needs to rest. Come. I’ll let you help me pour out the next batch of skyrr.”

“Hello!”

My eyes slitted open. My head hurt. My mouth was impossibly dry. I was thirsty. I was being forcibly greeted by an impossibly small, brown-eyed child.

“This is Mathilde,” I was told. A doll was thumped up and down next to my face. “She’s a Breton,” I was told, in the same tones as if this were a confidence of deathly import. The doll, I noted, also had brown eyes. And a mule’s ridiculous lop ears. I wondered whether that were some sort of social commentary.

I was much too dizzy and sick for this. My left arm refused to move. With very great effort I heaved myself onto that my side, the world wavering and roiling as if I were on some hellish voyage. I keened and panted in terror whilst the vertigo claimed me.

The woman came in and insisted on administering more of the nasty substance to me, I faded back into fitful slumber. At some point even the stuffed-lump Mathilde must have gotten bored with me, for I noted that she had gone. I could hear the child playing at make-believe, with her doll and with her other things. I noted the odd little whistle of her breath.

When I woke again, I could hear the child again. She sounded like she had a bad catarrh. And she trundled about the room rather than running back and forth underfoot as a child that age ought to. With her slow and careful movements, she was five years old going on three hundred and seventy.

From what little I could see from my vantage, this was most definitely not a prison or a place of interrogation. There were pelts and carpets on the floor. Pelts under me. I could smell bread baking. And, holy sweet Mara, beef stew. This place smelled wholesome, like food cooking, and a place where washing was being done, and–

Relieved, I tried to sit up, and was at once restrained by the bond about my left wrist.

Fear washed through me. No! My first impressions had been correct; this place was all wrong. I needed to keep fighting.

I struggled and floundered before falling back again.

The dizziness claimed me, and then the black fatigue.

An hour later? Days later?

I opened my eyes again, to that serious little face. “My papa says that you’re a warning against offering hosp.. hosp… hostality,” said the child, with a degree of gravitas that a new-minted Justiciar could only dream of mustering. “He said always ask more questions before you make binding promises.”

Experimentally, I tugged my left wrist. The binding was solid leather and had little slack. I was caught. The buckle was on the side where I could not readily reach it. It was too stiff for my weakened fingers. There was no hope for it; I was bound fast. There was no way that I was going to be able to get free.

I gave it my best efforts.

“Talos wept, what a pain in my tail you are,” said the Nord lady, sometime later. “Yllga? Why did you not call out for me, child? Agh. How did you get your legs off the bed?”

After some struggling and heaving, she got my body back up on the bed, and straightened my limbs back into the position in which she felt they belonged. She stood still a moment, panting and holding her belly.

“You son of a boot,” she said, when she saw me watching her. “You were awake? You could have helped!” She leaned down next to my ear, and whispered “Next time I’ll let you hang there till your arms go black and dead and there’s nothing to be done for it but wait for the maggots to come.”

“Oooh,” said the child, impressed at her severity.

But a lady who said something like that in all earnesty would not be wasting further time on me. Would she? Certainly she would not be worriedly chafing at my hand to get its circulation to come back up. Nor would she take the time to tuck the furs all around me, and to re-settle the pillow under my head for my better comfort.

Despite all this tender care I had the distinct sense that this was not the first time that I had annoyed her.

Why couldn’t I keep my eyes open?

I had no idea what day this was. This was worrisome. I slept.

At long last these people forced a reaction out of me; I emitted an awful groan.

Would this torture never cease?

“Think I’ll try broth next,” said the woman, judiciously. “Skyrr takes some getting used to.”

I was out again.

Were they drugging my food? It didn’t matter; the woman didn’t let me refuse, and I was hardly awake long enough to protest.
Moments?
Hours?

My back and legs ached terribly.

I had been here some while. It was long past time that I set myself free. I sought for the buckle, and… It was too much effort, of a sudden. I needed to gather my strength. Carefully I eased myself back so as not to trigger the maddening, horrible disorientation and dizziness.

I shut my eyes for just a few moments.

Or days.
It could have been weeks.  

I really have no idea.

I had to piss.

This was going to be close. I managed to get fold my hand enough to slip it halfway out of the bod and pulled frantically at the buckle-strap. Loosened just in time, and thankfully there was the necessity-bucket kept tucked beneath the bed, it was right there…

“How did he do this?” said a querulous new voice.

Male, irritated.

An odd accent. I attempted to get a glimpse, through my eyelashes.  Dunmer? I didn’t think it was a human voice.

“At least he didn’t make a mess,” said a heartier male voice.

Nord, amused.

Even with my eyes shut I knew he had crouched down to have a look.

“No point in doing that strap up again, it seems. It just upsets him. Leave it for now.” That was a command.

“If you’re convinced he’s not going to get out into the cattle pen again and freeze half to death,” said the Dunmer, dubious.

“I’ll talk to him,” promised the Nord.

Together they heaved me back up onto the bed, carelessly tossing the furs back over me. The ropes of the bed creaked in protest as the Nord sat down beside me. His warmth felt good. Soothing. A broad hand patted my cheek.

“By order of the jarl,” the man said. “No leaving this bed until that elf wizard says you can. Use the bell. Understand?”

I realized that there was indeed a bell, that was the extra weight I had felt at my left wrist, beyond the restriction of the strap.

He wasn’t going to leave, I realized. Not until I opened my eyes and looked at him.

When I did, his hand stayed put, fingertips cupping my cheek. The room was dim, but the light from the fire limned his beard and hair; darkest copper-red, lit with rose-gold. Beautiful.

And that face– “I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” I promised immediately, and was treated to a broad smile.

Oh, that was unnecessary. I was already in trouble.

“Good,” he said. “Stop making such a fuss. Nobody here is going to hurt you. And you’re making a great deal of work for Malur and Thaena.”

He took my hand and examined where the leather had scuffed up my wrist. “I’ll leave this off,” he said, consideringly. “But I need your word that you won’t try to go outside. In this weather, that’s certain death.”

I agreed, happily, and let my hand slide into his. I looked up at him.

“Stay,” I urged.

He laughed merrily and pulled the fur blankets over me. And continued to laugh at me as he walked away.

“Seloth?” he called, still chuckling. “You’re not going to believe this…”

“I’m hungry,” I said immediately.

“Keep your shirt on,” advised Thaena. She brought over a small bowl.

“This is just the broth,” she said. “We can’t give you the meat and vegetables until they stew down a little more and I can mash them up. It will be an hour or so.”

I drank it off immediately. “Is there more?” I demanded. “Why do I have to eat this thin stuff? Can’t I have bread, or meat?”

There was a delicious thick potage on the table, and wedges of aged cheese, the very sight of which made my mouth weep. I would kill for one of those crisp apples, bursting tart over my tongue…  

“There’s bread,” she said. “Let me bring you some.”

She took my empty bowl and left the room. Would it be possible for me to get myself some of that stew? I could hear the broth bubbling gently in its kettle, and the hearth did not look all that far away. Maybe if I refilled the serving-bowl, Thaena would not notice that I had depleted it?

I was far too dizzy even to attempt to stand… but perhaps I could crawl?

Thaena came back in while I was still parsing the distances. I blinked at her.

Oh. She had taken the bowl away.

It would have been a futile effort nonetheless.

“Here,” she said, giving it back to me; it was bread sopped with goat milk, which should have been revolting. It was ambrosia. I wolfed it all down before she even had a chance to turn away.

“Does it have to be all wet with this stuff?” I asked. “Could I have the rest of the loaf?” And– “Is there any ham, maybe? Or cured fish? I want some of that stew–”

Thaena scowled at me. “You’re supposed to be taking liquids,” she said, severely. “That’s what he said. And I’m not going to bring that Thalmor down on us because you talked me out of doing as I’ve been told. I’ll get you some more skyrr.”

I groaned in protest.

“With honey,” she added. “And if you’re good, maybe some watered mead.”

Exceedingly watered mead, but I resolved to refrain from further complaint. As long as it wasn’t skyrr.

When she came back, I asked: “So how is it that Thalmor give orders here?”

I indicated the large Talos shrine by the railing, the one that I’d seen previously. The rite that I had overheard– that must have been a small family ritual, not the great convocation of my nightmares.

I drew my knees up, testing myself.

I would have to sit up in a moment. My back hurt from disuse, I realized. And my legs. All of my muscles felt weak. Even my hands, when I flexed them.

“The Thalmor don’t. The Advisor does. For you–as your physician. Also he says that he is still waiting on an official determination of whether there is to be a recognition of sovereign status or whether we’re going to be considered a province-in-rebellion and as such remain subject to the ban as outlined in the Haafingar Attachment,” Thaena said.

She said all of that straight out with no hesitation, just as easily and casually as a quick comment that it was snowing.

I blinked.

“Ahh,” I translated after a moment– “The Advisor’s not volunteering to stick his neck out one way or the other for the axe.”

Whether it be Ulfric Stormcloak’s, or that of his own superiors.

Thaena gave a little snort of agreement: “Ancano said that since Dominion evidently can’t tell its arse from its elbow– that he has no great confidence that its left hand knows what its right hand is doing. Says he’s waiting on specific orders.”

And that was the final piece of evidence that fell into place: these people meant me no harm. They had been telling me the truth.

For I well remembered when that question had first been asked, at one of Elenwen’s daily briefings: What should we do, about this rebellion? Skyrim’s Justiciars had been waiting on a response from Alinor for quite some time. Policy decisions take time. The Thalmor Advisor to the Archmage of the College of Winterhold was a lone operative, whose duties were supposed to be social and diplomatic. Even the most rabid of the sectarians would not expect a mer in a position such as this to strap on armor and attempt to conduct law enforcement duties on his own.

Would they?

But if someone had– that would certainly explain his comments.

How had he come to be so unguarded with these people?

And of course if a Thalmor mage was being allowed to see to me–or if this household were tending me on his behalf–then it followed that I was not, in fact, a prisoner. I regarded her more closely, this seeming-housewife, with a smear of flour on her tunic and her hair coming down from its messy pigtail.

“Where did you take your training?” I asked. Legal training, I meant. It was clear now, what she was here.

“Father’s knee,” Thaena said. “His sister was the law-thane for the Pale; and then my mother, and after she got sick it was me. Now I’m here with Korir.”

She finished with the foul paste that she’d been mixing up and handed it to me. They’d been cramming it into me for days; surely if cut open, my liver would bleed skyrr. This batch was orangey-grey with mashed cloudberries and lumpy with gods knew what else– it looked singularly unappetizing.

My stomach growled, and I no longer cared.

“This is really good,” I said, astonished. “What did you do differently?” It was embarrassing how badly I craved food once I tasted it.

I found myself sucking at the spoon and licking both it and the bowl fully clean, as if I were a starved cat.

Thaena was watching me, amused: “I put some soaked dried apple and toasted oats into it,” she said. “Thought maybe you needed something a bit more substantial.” She shrugged. “He said that anything we gave you had to be liquid. Let me mix up more.”

When I received my new batch of heavenly slop, I tilted the bowl, experimentally. The sludgy substance within considered for a lengthy moment and then consented to slide downhill. Grudgingly.

“Liquid?” I queried, in disbelief. If I overturned the bowl and shook it would take a moment or two for this stuff to fall out.

“None of it’s actually solid,” said Thaena, shrugging.

I looked up at Thaena: “Are you certain it’s a good idea to try to rules-lawyer a senior Thalmor official?”

“You have no idea,” she said, with a secretive little smile.

Thaena came back in a few minutes, to retrieve the bowl. “It’s good to have you back with us,” she said. “Ahtar said you were a clever one, when you–”

She tsk’d reproof.

I had already slumped sideways. Despite the quick flash when she’d said the name, it had become too much effort to raise my eyelids. I could barely feel her prising the empty bowl out of my grip.

The world faded.