Shades of Ending, set after the oblivion MQ Options

[Olen]

Well it’s been a while, a long while, since I posted anything. I have been writing, some stuff which was non-TES, a false start which I spent too long fighting… There’s also another ~80k piece which I’ve left on a hard drive in Scotland so I’m taking a hiatus. Anyway I decided I fancied posting something.

This is unplanned and unfinished. I prefer to write all of something with a lot of planning and then post, but this time I thought I’d just let it flow and see what comes. Hopefully it won’t be too unpolished and I intend to make it more episodic so if I do lose interest for a bit it shouldn’t matter so much. The plan is to post one section while I write another, that way any criticisms can be addressed as I go.

Anyway without any more waffle a short intro.

Shades of Ending

1.1 Questioning

The prisoner met Verus’s eye across the scarred table. The watchman swallowed. “It does not look good for you,” his voice was quiet. He knew he should feel disgust, hatred even for what the man had done. But it was tempered. Perhaps it was because the man had more brain than most of the scum they dragged into the Cheydinhal prison. Or perhaps it was because he understood why, though he’d never admit it. Or it could just have been the passing resemblance to his son. Same dark hair and eyes, and not so different features.

Damn he hated this place, the sooner the investigation was over the sooner he could go and see the real thing back in the Imperial City. Not that distraction like this helped.

The prisoner looked back, “I’m fetched aren’t I?”

Verus winced at the tone and nodded. “Ferir,” he said the man’s name, gave him that much respect, “double murder of Imperial guards only leads to the gallows.”

“And it doesn’t matter that it was self defence, that they were trying to kill me? Had already killed my friends. We didn’t attack them.”

“It doesn’t matter. And even if it did you’re guilty of enough else to string you up. Possession with intent to supply – don’t tell me that much skooma was for personal use, our mage says you’re clean anyway. Bootlegging. Smuggling. As little as I like it you had it coming.”

Ferir nodded.

Verus could hardly believe it, they were always full of guar apples. Fake bravado to start with which slowly decayed into pleading. There was fear there certainly, he reeked of it, it was in the way he sat and moved. There was pain too, but mainly Verus thought it was resignation in the prisoner’s voice when he spoke. “Can you at least tell me who you killed?”

“I’m not meant to.” The gaze from the dark eyes flashed fierce like glowdust on a fire. It was the same spark which had cost the lives of two of the Imperial Legionaries who had raided the smugglers cavern, and it caught Verus off guard.

“You have a family.” It was a statement. “The people in that cave were as close to family as I’d found. You come and kill them, and within the next couple of days…” His gaze dipped to the scored boards of the table in the interrogation room. It slid uneasily round the manacles which held him. “I just want to know if any of them lived.”

“The patrol killed five. A two humans, a man and a woman, two khajit and a dunmer male.” If you had better luck you’d have been in that list. Verus didn’t add the thought, its truth was too bitter.

The eyes screwed closed. “The dunmer, what colour was his hair?”

“Red.” Verus watched Ferir deflate. His eyes shut and he thumped his wrists against the table, the chain which held them didn’t allow space for it to make more than a dull thud. He muttered something Verus didn’t catch, and decided not to press.

When Ferir finally opened his eyes again they were bloodshot. “Have you got what you want now?” There was anger in his voice, but also sadness, enough to suppress the flames, if not entirely quench them. “You know someone got away, you’ve got our contacts. I’m in pain, several of my closest friends are dead. Have you done enough?”

Verus frowned, it wasn’t something he was used to. Lines about choosing this fate when he chose crime seemed flimsy, paper props for the tragicomedy which passed as justice in this town. Ferir hadn’t lied about the pain either, the man was a mass of bruises. The legionaries had worked him over, and who could blame them? He wasn’t the only one to lose friends. Occasionally his hands would sneak towards the lower ribs on one side only to be rudely stopped by the chain.

Not that they’d waste healing on a condemned prisoner. You should have died in that cave. Verus shook his head, trying to dislodge the malaise which had built. He stood, this was too discomfiting. For a moment he struggled for words, then gave up and offered Ferir a single nod before leaving.

[Olen]

HER - Nits fixed, as ever my utter reliance on spellcheck rears its head. I'm glad the flashback worked, I'm generally not a fan but opening with the raid wouldn't have set to tone I wanted. Survivor's guilt was the term I was looking for, I think you've hit the nail on the head there.

Blackie - glad you like it. There's certainly a good few parts to go yet and it's still flowing.

Subrosa - skooma does seem to appear doesn't it. It makes a good tension point, I also seem to have a knack for living in areas with that sort of thing, probably something to do with looking for the cheapest places. I'm glad you got the dream like feeling of the good memory, apparently I can still write. Fixed all but using 'rose' as the past tense of 'raise', 'raised' sounds odd to me.

Acadian - thanks. Hopefully filling in gaps in Ferir will continue.

Grits - I'm glad you like my version of Cyrodiil. I see the game as a sketch which is necessarily rough on which to add obvious uses for magic. You seem to have worked out quite a bit about Ferir, thanks for sharing, it lets me know I'm getting across what I meant to.

KC - He certainly was. As for where it's headed, well I'm really not sure.

Trey - can't say I've heard of 'Owl Creak Bridge' but I'm glad you're enjoying. And thanks for the welcome back.

All - Thanks for all the comments. The next part, I've made a word change you will spot, I hope it's not too jarring but I couldn't think of another way round it.


1.3 The Shadow of Hope

Ferir felt the ground fly up and hit him. He woke with a start and lay curled over for a moment breathing. The sour taste of vomit clung to the back of his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he’d flailed suddenly or not, certainly he felt like he’d just struck something. There was no reaction he could hear and the feeling the dream had left in its wake began to dissipate. He took a deep breath and winced at the stab from his ribs. A stamping boot had done it but he was fairly sure he could heal it, if he could cast a spell that was. He couldn’t manage so much as a flicker, probably it was the irons, but he couldn’t even feel any enchantment.

It didn’t matter. He glanced up at the high window and saw only darkness. With a grunt he rolled over and looked back across the dungeon. A lone torch guttered weakly in the corridor outside, it only served to make more shadows. The man in the next cell was a large dark blot in the gloom. He sat hunched near the door. His stool groaned slightly with every rock of his bulk like the ticking of an inverted pendulum.

Ferir stood. The action extracted a series of pops from his back and he half grinned. Enjoy the small things. They were all he had now. He felt a bit cheated, there should be some sort of marker to make the best of things he’d never know again. Last smile three days gone. Enjoy tomorrow’s walk. He shook the thought away.

Frek. It was heartfelt. It was the only word. He wanted to be angry, but who at? Who was to blame but himself? If only he’d known. Without a target he felt the flicker of rage moulder towards depression.

“Frek!” He shouted it this time and threw a punch at the wall. So what that it barked his knuckles? He didn’t need them. The pain sank in and fuelled the directionless anger. He raised his fist again.

He took a breath and lowered it. The force would have broken his hand and what was the point? He dropped back onto the bed.

What was the point? He could just do their job for them, the chains which dangled from the ceiling would make that easy enough. But he wouldn’t, perhaps the speculation wasn’t so idle but he wouldn’t do their job for them. That would be weak, and somehow it still mattered. Likewise the temptation to curl up in the corner and cry, he’d be damned if even a hint of the desire showed.

“I preferred you when you were asleep,” said the figure in the next cell.

“You won’t have to put up with me long.” Ferir gave a dry snort and felt his lip curl slightly.

The swaying stopped. “You’re right there.”

His tone was strange, not the flat darkness Ferir felt. Well not entirely, there was something else in it. Fear? Hope? Closer to some hideous amalgam of the pair Ferir decided. “What are you in for?”

“Couldn’t be much worse. Killed a guard.”

“I killed two.” The figure didn’t reply. “The guard seem awful friendly given you killed one of them.”

“I didn’t kill one of them,” there was venom in the man’s tone, “I am… was one. It was one of the bastards from the Imperial City I sixed.”

Too much emotion? Not quite, but too controlled. The man didn’t seem about to explode one way or another. Ferir thought he was right anyway, intuitions often were. The hushed conversation. The grotesque hope. “You don’t expect to die tomorrow do you?”

The rocking started again. Back and forth. Near and far. Ferir let it hang in the balance. For a while longer the man swayed. The pendulum’s creaks watched the time. “I don’t know,” he said at length. “You complicate things.”

“The three you were talking to, they might break you out?” The swaying stopped. Ferir continued, “Where would you go then? Out into the wilds? That’ll go well for you, a guard with the death of an Imperial agent on his head? You don’t look much like an outdoorsman.”

“Better chance than if I stay here.”

Ferir heard the fear. He knew how wild the backcountry could be, he knew it well. He paused, was this the time to try? Whoever the man was his accent couldn’t have been more Cheydinhal and he was a guard. Not the brightest one if he thought there was a shred of sanity in his plan. Still at least he had a plan. “You could have a better chance another way.”

The man turned and Ferir saw his silhouette. Short hair just reached cauliflower ears on a head which merged seamlessly into shoulders.

Ferir went on. “I’ve lived in the backcountry for years. I have a few contacts, I know enough of what to watch for.” He held up a hand to forestall any comment and realised that the man, whatever his name was, probably couldn’t see the gesture, “I’m perfect for your… friends too. They can lay the blame with me. It’ll be lost in the charges they’ve already hung on me.”

The rocking returned. Ferir hung on every movement, caustic hope etched through his conscious like rivulets of hot mercury. It filled his mind with the power to break his spirit. Hope like he’d never felt, it made him sick. This mattered. He cared how this went.

The rocking halted, so did Ferir’s breath. “Aye, they might like that. You’re a known mage right, they said they’d had to crack out the black irons.”

“Close enough.” Not exactly a lie, he dabbled, read books but he’d never been schooled in the arcane and it showed. He hardly understood how it worked. But that was a conversation for another time.

“The court will blame you. Since the crisis rogue mages have become the explanation of choice when we haven’t got a clue. The people lap it up.”

In the darkness Ferir smiled. That sounded like the law’s view on justice, and who was he to argue? They were the strong after all. The smile swept through the worry. Hope still clung like fungus. What if they wouldn’t help him? But if they did… If they did it would be him, his wits and strength pitted against the world again, and as far as Ferir was concerned there was no finer thing. Well not many.

“If we are going to disappear together I’d know your name.”

“Ruben. Ruben Sjorson. You?”

“Ferir.”

“You got no surname?”

“No.” He made sure his tone closed that avenue of conversation.


Time passed marked only by the slow death of the flame in its rusted iron bracket. No longer crawling towards the gallows, but the mingled hope choked the air and glittered like the eye of a spider. Their talk was fitful, mainly grunts. The atmosphere didn’t induce it. They were not well met in prison cells on the eve of rescue or death, and with pressing talk done silence crashed down. Ferir’s mind was stiller, he sat on the pallet, his half closed gaze flickered on the dance of the diminishing flame. The passing storm of the past few days had confused him, he had lost his centre. Perhaps a stiff drink would find it, but it wasn’t an option and he needed his wits.

The flame was little more than a blue glow when light tentatively shone down the corridor. Ferir blinked and returned to the present. Footsteps. More than one person but he couldn’t tell how many. His heart picked up a little. Let this go well, this has to go well. But it didn’t have to. He kept that thought ready, but he hoped it would.

Three men walked past his cell, all wore the knotwork surcoat of the Cheydinhal guard. One Ferir recognised as a jailor carried a bunch of keys.

“Evening Ruben,” said one of the other pair. He was as tall as the man he addressed but much thinner. In the torch light Ferir saw he had the same dirty blond hair.

“Gentlemen,” Ruben nodded back and stood. He said the word as if he’d heard it once and got the wrong idea.

“This is madness,” muttered the third guard, “Look Ruben I like you but it’s going to look damned suspicious for us.”

“It’ll look most suspicious for Arrand, and he’s clean right?”

“Yea we sent him off out the way, he’ll suspect but he wouldn’t tell.” Said the tall one.

“What about him?” the third guard, a dunmer, asked.

“He,” Ruben replied slowly, “Could be the solution to our problems, or your problems at least.”


This post has been edited by Olen: Aug 10 2011, 09:30 PM