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]

Haute - I think you might remain undecided about the characters for quite a while yet. I avoid moral black and whites, grey is more fun. I doubt the guard would notice, or care if they did.

Destri - I've always seen Cyrodiil as quite a dark place. Slums everywhere, a large guild of devil worshiping murderers working more or less unchallenged, various unpleasant cults, wilds infested with mad wizards and bandits... To produce that its going to have to be pretty grim in the cities too.

SubRosa - agreed on all nits, as ever. I *do* proofread, three times normally after redrafting. There will be more of Cyrodiil's underbelly.

Grits - The travellers were indeed Ferir and Ruben, and no they don't like each other. What happens there is yet to be seen (indeed I haven't written that far ahead).

1.6 Waking to the Wilds

Ruben woke with a sore back. He opened his eyes to a listless predawn light revealing the twisted branches of the half-fallen tree they’d collapsed under. Not long ago judging by the bone weariness which suffused his limbs and sat like bilge water in his muscles. At least it hadn’t rained. Wet clothes were misery and he’d still not opened his pack, he’d been too tired.

Through the exhaustion other emotions swirled. He was alive, he might even continue to be so. For better or worse, he thought and glared at the mouldering leaves he’d slept on. But he was an outlaw. It didn’t fit somehow. The him shaped hole in his ego rejected the term and shied away.

Brrp. Brrp. Brrp. The sound had been going since he’d woken and he only then heard it. Perhaps it had woken him. He pushed himself so he was sitting up and saw the man he’d escaped with. Had that been wise? Perhaps not, double murder on top of smuggling and skooma: the scum had the works. He also claimed to know the wilds though, and Ruben had heard enough stories never to want to go backcountry. For good or ill he was stuck with the dour man.

He’d called himself Ferir. Ruben was fairly certain of this, though it was hard to tell where the reality of the previous night ended and his nightmares began. The young man sat with his back to Ruben, his rough shirt hung oddly and a couple dark curls of tattooing showed between its collar and his short black hair. His right elbow moved back and forward rhythmically, with every push there was another rough sound. Puzzled Ruben stood and approached.

“Good morning,” he said.

The noise stopped. “Morning at least.” Ferir didn’t turn. Ruben walked round the log the other man sat on and saw why his shirt hung oddly; the front was tattered. Ferir met his gaze and as he did Ruben noticed his dark eyes were red and puffy. “The cloth had stuck to the wound, I’ve cleaned it but it needs healing.”

That explained the shirt, but not the eyes. Ruben decided not to ask, partly because something about Ferir unsettled him slightly and partly because he didn’t care. It wasn’t his business anyway. “Where do we find a healer out here?”

A dry smile curled on Ferir’s mouth but didn’t touch the rest of his features. “We don’t. I can do the magic, but not with these things on.” He tapped the file he was holding against the dark metal of the mage iron. The head of a rivet on one side was diminished. “I found a cairn bolete and this area’s thick with lavender. The mixture should stop the infection spreading but I’d need some better apparatus to do more.”

A bloody alchemist too. Who is this guy? Ruben pulled back the bloodstained tatters and looked at the wound across the Ferir’s chest. It had sliced into one muscle a little, that was going to hurt, likewise where it ran over the sternum. Otherwise it was shallow, but Ruben didn’t like the way the tanned flesh had puffed up red around it.

“Where are we?”

The rasping restarted. “Somewhere near Harlun’s Watch I think. You should know this area better than I do.”

“Never really left the city much, except once when I went to the Imperial City.”

Ferir shook his head, “Harlun is a large farming village, we’ll pass it soon I suspect. We’re not far south of the main road, I followed it long enough that our backtrail will be lost to traffic then made into the wood.”

Ruben nodded and pretended to understand. He didn’t know which questions to ask. How would they eat when the food in the packs ran out? Where were they going? What did they need? He knew going into the village, especially this close to Cheydinhal this soon would be foolish.

“What’s the plan?” he opted for.

“Disappear. They’ll search hard for a week. Give it a month and it will be a cold case and no one will care.” Ferir paused. He turned his attention back to the file and seemed to have finished but then continued, “If you mean today then I need to get these off. I won’t get far enough without healing, and you wouldn’t get that far without me.”

Ruben said nothing.

The rasping noise continued. “Is there something I can use as a lever. I don’t want to break the file but this might bend off now.”

The bag was heavy. It contained most of the standard kit Ruben had expected: a tarpaulin, supplies, a pot, a knife and some clothes. As ever the thing he was looking for was at the bottom, a small waxed cotton bag with a flint, and more importantly, steel in it. The steel bar was chipped, but thick enough to be strong and if it got bent who cared?

“This do?”

Ferir turned and nodded, “I’ll give it a try.” He put the file down and Ruben threw the steel. It was deftly plucked from the air. He pushed it along side his wrist and pulled ineffectively.

Ruben stood and advanced on him. “Want me to try?”

“Think you can do better?”

“Yes.” He was going to leave it at that but could sense Ferir’s irritation. “I’m stronger than you and have a better angle.” It was a simple fact. He grabbed the iron and sat down before Ferir could protest. “Tell me if it hurts.” He gripped the steel in one hand and the wrist iron in the other and levered up.

Ferir grunted and his arm tensed but he said nothing. Ruben pulled harder pulling with his back, the thin remains of the rivet bent, he pulled harder and got another grunt. Then the rivet burst and the hinge fell away. The iron landed on the ground, an incomplete black circle.

The sound Ferir made was more than a grunt, he rubbed where the skin had twisted away like damp paper under the steel’s pressure. “That hurt. A lot.”

“Can you cast?”

Ruben stepped hastily back as Ferir raised his right hand. A look of immense concentration twisted into effort, like someone with a full bladder trying to lift a heavy object. Nothing. He raised his left, blood dribbled from the fresh wound. The same look, except this time Ruben saw a dull glow run up it like an aura. It converged in his closed fingers then scattered white light. Ferir lowered the hand and rubbed the wound on his wrist. It no longer bled and looked a day scabbed.

“The bracer is absorbing it I think. It’s not efficient and I’m rubbish at casting left handed, but yes I can a bit.”

Ruben didn’t understand magic, all he knew was that mages were best avoided, at least the guild controlled them. Wild ones were a different matter.

Ferir was shaking his head, “It’ll take a long time though at the rate I can. Longer than we can afford.”

“If you hate casting with your left had why attack that iron first?”

“I could use my right hand.”

Was that the hint of a smile on Ferir’s face? Ruben decided to ignore it and sat quiet.

Ferir shook his head again, “Look it’s awkward, can you help, it would be quicker.” His voice dropped towards the end.

Ruben nodded and picked up the file. “That one?” He scraped it over the top of a rivet which was already marked.

“Yes,” said Ferir and allowed his arm to be manoeuvred.

Ruben worked with the filed for a time before either spoke again. When he did Ruben’s thoughts escaped almost by surprise. “So what really happened?”

“The Imperial Guard came,” Ferir muttered it, “we were guilty as they come, but I don’t know who tipped them off. They killed my friends, well one wasn’t there and another escaped I think. I got a couple of lucky hits in then got knocked out.”

“And they took you back to Cheydinhal?” Ruben was surprised.

“You don’t think I wouldn’t have rather died there than been hung? They spent the return trip beating the hell out of me. The officer only warned them off after he had to use a healing potion.”

“Damn.” Having exposed the surface of the sore Ruben wasn’t sure he wanted to break the silence.

But Ferir did for him. “You’d have done the same.” There was no accusation, he could just as well have been commenting on the weather.

For a moment Ruben thought it a comment on the brutality of the guard, both Imperial and local, but then he wondered if Ferir meant the killing. Either way, he thought. Either way he has a point. He continued filing. Eventually the rhythmic tedium pushed his curiosity past unease again, “Did you smuggle much?”

“We made skooma, well I did.” Ferir seemed glad of the subject change, and the distraction. “The stuff I cooked sold high, warm-sands they called it. Hrissa’s idea, she shifted it. As much as I could make, and with the kit we had that was gallons a day if I could be bothered and we had the sugar.”

Ruben said nothing. There was something dreadful about the pride Ferir had in his work. In the guard they heard about stuff, and warm-sands was bad news. It was strong, true, and because of that adulterated. But occasionally some would hit the streets pure. Last time that happened four people were dead before word got around.

Ferir must have sensed his feelings. The young man shrugged, momentarily throwing the file off track. “I was good at it,” he said as if that was explanation enough. Perhaps it was.