Chapter Text
At the leader's command, the man flips the switch, and the room plunges into darkness for a fleeting moment. Then, the blacklight's purple hue floods the space, transforming the dingy walls into a swirling kaleidoscope of pinks and purples. I refuse to dwell on the origins of these brighter colours.
The leader directs the light over my exposed skin, but I can't help but smirk at the futility of his search. There are no secrets concealed within the tattoos adorning my body—just remnants of old-fashioned teenage rebellion that escalated into a full-blown addiction during my time in the Army.
The blacklight breaks against the wall and the man curses, "Nothing! She's as silent as ever, even with the drugs pumping through her veins. Take her away, do what you will."
Two pairs of hands hoist me to my feet and drag me toward the door. One of the captors grins at the vile insults spewing from the other's mouth. Refusing to endure their predatory attention lying or sitting down, I about ways to escape as they pull me along. A soft hiss escapes my lips when the sharp glass from the broken light slices into my bare feet. Clad only in army-issued underwear, the chill of the night air sends shivers across my skin. For the first time in a long while, I feel utterly vulnerable and scared sh*tless.
My eyes track the shooting star hurtling toward us, and for a moment, I entertain the notion of making a wish upon it, until my drug-fogged brain registers that it can't possibly be a star. The laugh that escapes my lips startles even me, and as the missile with its strange white fire descends upon us, my last words echo through the evening sky: "I'll see you all in hell."
I close my eyes, bracing for the pain that precedes death. It takes a few seconds to register that the cold wind carries the salty smell of an ocean. I find myself on my hands and knees on a snow-covered ground beach. Lifting my head, I gaze across the ocean toward a dark castle on an island in the distance.
Where am I? This can't be hell, there are no fire pits of damnation, and this isn't the pearly gates of Heaven. My fingers find the pulse on my wrist, then my throat, to double-check. My heart is beating, and my lungs are working. I am still alive.
With a sharp inhale, I turn to my two captors, one on his knees like me, the other standing, a confused expression on his face. My eyes catch the glint of a dagger strapped to the kneeling man's leg. In one fluid motion, I snatch it and cut, deep and swift. His last action before his final breath is an attempt to stem the flow of blood from his throat.
The other man turns to me, his eyes clouded with confusion. "Where? What?" He doesn't even glance at his fallen comrade lying in the snow. I have to act quickly before he regains his senses. I jump to my feet, hissing as the cold bites into the cuts under my feet.
Voices ring out, and we both turn to see figures rushing toward us, clad in armour seen in television shows about ancient warfare. "What the..." Blue electricity arcs from several of their hands, and I collapse face-first into the snow, my body convulsing from the shock.
They lead us to a structure resembling an ancient fort, where a yellow-skinned man in a robe, are those Elven ears? awaits us. He speaks in my father's mother tongue, asking who we are and where we came from. A large man hangs from the wall, his body a bloody mess from torture, yet he manages a smile in my direction.
The Federation bastard died within minutes while trying to convince the Elf I had the answers. The Elf turns his attention to me his face contorted with rage and determination to extract the answers he seeks from me.
Profanities roll over my lips "Cut me loose, and I will cut your balls and feed them to you and the f*cking bastard behind you," I shout in anger.
The gold-clad figure speaks to the strange-looking man in a familiar yet alien language, and I frown. The words form in my mind, rolling over my lips. "I don't think you f*cking piss-skin freaks understand that I am not from here. I can't give you the answers you're looking for. Go waste your time f*cking a whor* somewhere."
The yellow-skinned man with his pointed ears smirks at my words, and I spit in his face as he steps closer to me.
"You can swear all you want, I will make you talk," he threatens. The taste of copper fills my mouth as I bite my tongue when the electricity from his hands strikes me. I think of home, of faces I may never see again before darkness takes me in its embrace.
Thorald Grey-Mane lifts his head at the crackling of lightning spells emanating from the Thalmor interrogator, coupled with his irritating voice bellowing at someone by the door, "I will end your miserable life."
"Your life just ended, you f*cking Elf," he retorts, a split lip beginning to bleed as he grins at the fallen Thalmor at his feet, an arrow sticking from his forehead. "Avulstein, I knew you would come. Brandr, Erik. Good to see you. I had hoped you would come, though I thought it was a hope born in the dark corners of Oblivion."
"Brandr got this strange feeling," Avulstein interjects his tone a mixture of annoyance and relief. "He said something is pulling him here, and what do we find? My stupid-assed brother thought going into the Thalmor Headquarters alone was a brilliant plan. What the hell were you thinking?"
Brandr wastes no time. He unshackles his friend and helps him to a chair, pressing a healing potion to his lips. "Who is the woman?" Brandr inquires, his gaze shifting toward a man and a woman hanging from their shackles. The man, clad in strange armour, is lifeless, his glazed eyes fixed on Oblivion, his face contorted with fear and pain.
"They brought them here an hour ago," Thorald begins, recounting the events. "The man kept shouting in a language I had not heard before and died within minutes. The woman smiled at me and did not utter a word until the f*cking Thalmor began torturing her. She has a strange accent, but man, you should have heard the profanities pouring from her mouth, even a sailor would blush.
"She overheard the Elven soldier and Thalmor speaking Aldmeris and said something to the Thalmor that got him all worked up. The only word I caught was 'whor*.' She spit in his face, and then he unleashed chain lightning upon her until she passed out. Not a word or a cry escaped her lips, only smirk at the bastard until she lost consciousness."
"How is 'whor*' the only word you heard?" Erik shakes his head in amusem*nt.
"They were speaking too fast. I couldn't exactly say, 'You two, speak slower, the Nord wants to know what you're saying.' And I know the word 'whor*' in every language of Tamriel," he clarifies, shooting a glance at his grinning friends. "Not for the reasons you think I know it, idiots. The word is usually followed by 'son of a' when it leaves my mouth."
My body throbs with more pain than I've ever experienced. Gritting my teeth, I shift my feet to ease the weight and cautiously open my eyes. The yellow-skinned man and his golden-clad companion lie at my feet, their eyes fixed on the ceiling, an arrow piercing the centre of the Elf’s forehead. "Damn fine shooting," I mutter to myself, raising my head to find four men staring at me, one of them the man who was held captive earlier.
"Where am I? Who are you?" I demand, scanning their faces. Gaelic, the freak spoke Gaelic to me. I repeat my questions in the same tongue, and the young redhead smiles, taking a step toward me. But the big redhead with a scar running down his face holds him back, his expression dark with a scowl. "Who are you, and why were you a prisoner of the Thalmor?"
"Thalmor? What or who is the Thalmor?" I retort.
The redhead gestures toward the dead Elf at my feet.
"I assume this yellow-skinned man with Elf ears is a Thalmor. Listen, I do not know where I am or how I came to be here, wherever 'here' is," I explain, shifting my weight and eyeing the smiling redhead. "Could you please release me from these shackles?"
He unlocks the shackles and helps me to a chair. There are no wounds on the man that hung from the wall. "How long was I unconscious? You have no wounds on your body."
He pulls a small bottle from a backpack and offers it to me. "Health potion. I think you need one as well."
"Who made this, Merlin?" I joke, but he frowns in response.
"I do not know anyone named Merlin, but I bought it from Arcadia in Whiterun."
I accept the small bottle filled with red liquid, eyeing it suspiciously before bringing it to my nose. An earthy scent, not unlike chalk and dried mushrooms. I glance at the men around me. Is the enemy of my enemy my friend? Can I trust them? I shrug and raise the bottle. "Slàinte," I toast.
The chalky taste makes me gag, but a warm sensation spreads through my body. The pain slowly dissipates, and I feel the cuts on my feet, tongue, and lip knitting together. "You have to be kidding me. Toto, I have a feeling we are not in Kansas anymore."
"Are you from a place called Kansas, Toto?" the young redhead asks, and I struggle to suppress my laughter. Why would he think I am speaking to myself in the third person?
"No, I am not from Kansas, but it is a place where I come from, and my name is Roisin. The Toto remark is from a book about wizards and witches. Come to think of it, do you happen to have a pair of ruby slippers hidden in your rucksack or a yellow brick road to get us out of here?" I chuckle when the four men look at me in bewilderment.
Brandr looks at the woman seated in the chair. She has short, curly blond hair, and her grey eyes brim with laughter. Tall for a woman, even by Nord standards, her body muscular like a warrior. Clad in strange-looking smalls, she doesn't appear self-conscious about her scantily dressed form. Her body is adorned with colourful body marks, featuring strange writings, designs, and animals.
"I am Brandr. These two lug-heads are Thorald and his younger brother Avulstein, and the man who can't keep his eyes off you is Erik."
Erik blushes and averts his gaze, attempting to ignore his friends' grins.
“You'll have to postpone your interrogation until we're out of here. A patrol of Thalmor and Imperials is on their way,” Avulstein announces, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and sheathing his sword.
Brandr turns to Roisin, “Strip one of these men and get dressed, we need to move.” He places a golden sword and dagger beside her. “Take these with you.”
“I'm not dressing in a dead man’s clothing.”
“We're in the cold northern parts of Skyrim, and you want to escape in your smalls and bare feet. None of our clothes or shoes will fit you. So, stop being stubborn, Peyt, and get dressed.”
I regard him for a moment before complying with his orders, “like a private,” I think, strapping the body armour of the Federation man over my chest. It's as if those blue eyes hypnotise you into doing his bidding.
Brandr hands me a pair of his socks when I refuse to use the dead man's.
Looking at the lightweight boots covering less than half my calves with disgust. “Your feet will freeze in minutes.”
The four men discuss plans to reach a city called Windhelm and the safest route to avoid Thalmor and Imperial patrols. I sigh, feeling like it's just my luck to find myself behind enemy lines with four unknown men in an unfamiliar place.
Two moons peek over the horizon at the ocean. Where am I? This is not Earth. I pinch myself several times. I am not dreaming. Hallucinations from the drugs? Another planet? Another dimension? Something deep inside me insists that whatever this is, wherever this is, is real, and I will find answers if I am patient.
Brandr mounts his horse and extends his hand to pull me into the saddle in front of him. "We need to move," he says, wrapping his cloak around us both before spurring his horse to follow the others, heading toward who knows where. My brain still reels from all that has happened in the last week, and I close my eyes, savouring the movement of the horse beneath me, my mind struggling to make sense of it all.
