Skyrim's Saviors

19: Liethel Duskraven

"You filthy traitor!"

The new leader of the Silver Hand strikes me across the face as hard as she can. She stands over me, looking down at me like I am worthless to her. She smirks, her gaze flicking towards where the rest of the Silver Hand members stand. She pulls a dagger from her boot, and walks over to her second in command.

"I think I need to make an example out of her," she snarls.

Cheers and murmurs ripple through the crowd. The Hand members are torn between wanting to see me tortured and wanting to congratulate me. I stare at each of them, searching for someone who will vouche for me.

I see no one who will.

The leader steps closer to me, a malicious look in her eyes. She smiles, and I realize she's enjoying this. How sick can you be?

She presses the blade down hard on my skin, and I hiss in pain, feeling my wolf side urging me to morph.

We could kill them all if we'd just morph!

Yeah, or be killed ourselves for trying!

The blade cuts deep into my arm, warm blood trickles down my arm, falling to the floor. The leader pulls her blade back, and I sigh. She narrows her eyes and slaps me across the face so hard I bite my tongue, drawing blood. She laughs.

"Not so tough now, are you, Liethel?" she snaps.

I look up at her, and spit blood onto her face. She roars with pure rage, and wipes the blood from her face with a towel one of her followers gave her. She then narrows her dark eyes.

"You're dead, bitch," she growls.

She cuts into my cheek next, one long line down from below my left eye. Tears well up, spilling over and into the fresh cut on my face. It burns even worse than the cut itself had. I wait until she withdraws the blade, then, as she leans down again, I surge up with all my might, smacking her head against mine. I hear her nose crunch beneath the force of my hit, and a dark smile crosses my face. I cannot go up anymore, as I am bound too tight. But I sit back down and glare fiercely at those around me.

The leader turns away from me, snarling.

"Hey, you hurt me, I'm going to hurt you back," I snap. "It's how I was raised."

"I don't give a single shit about how you were raised, Liethel. You betrayed us! To join the Companions! You fool!"

"I'm the fool? You're the one who let my father die!"

Her eyes widen as she faces me again. "That's what this is about? Your father's death?"

I growl at her, ready to unleash my wolf side. I don't care anymore, I've got nothing left to lose.

"Liethel, his death isn't our fault. If anything, it is yours."

"Oh, come on. Of course you'd say that," I say. "Just shut up and leave me alone."

She narrows her eyes. "I don't take orders from you, girl." She turns around, and says, "Someone, take her to the infirmary. Patch her up, but don't heal her. I want her to suffer with those wounds. Then, take her to a cell. I don't care which one. Get her out of my sight."

Someone grabs me, cuts the ropes around me, and four Nord males drag me down, down, down some stairs and into the basement area they call their infirmary. As they drag me forward, and set me down, they bark their orders at the healer, a female High Elf. She is very tall, curvy, her skin is a light yellow shade, her eyes are amber, and her hair is black and short.

She looks at me, a sad look crossing her face. She nods at the Nords, and they say they'll be out in the hall. She closes the door behind them, and faces me.

"I am Taaren Salingahl," she says. "Technically, I am an alchemist. But I have restoration magic at my side, so I guess that's why they keep me here."

As she walks, I hear clinking noises. I look down, and see her legs are chained together.  She follows my gaze and nods once. Sets her jaw and picks at her hair.

"So I can't run," she says softly.

She walks over to the other wall, where her potions and equipment, as well as her alchemy lab is. The bookshelves I see are filled with potions and alchemical ingredients. Taaren walks carefully as she makes her way toward me once again.

"Unfortunately, I am not to heal you, just give you some potions so you don't die or bleed out," she says.

"Okay," I whisper.

She works, pouring some liquids on my wounds, and some of them go down my throat. Then, the Nords come back in, and drag me away, taking me down some somewhat narrow corridors and into a large room full of cages, some look like actual cells. Some are completely closed off, and as I am dropped into one of the cages, the Nords laugh as I trip and fall, skinning my knee on the concrete.

"Have fun, Liethel," says the one Nord. They laugh, and then, they walk off down the corridor.

"Liethel?" a soft, nervous voice whispers.

I turn around and look at a Khajiit female. She looks up at me, her bright blue eyes boring into my soul. She's skinny, with black and white fur, and black dreadlocks on her head, with beads woven into her hair. She wears torn and ragged clothes, like you'd see a lot of prisoners wear. She flicks her tail and grabs the bars of her cage.

"Who are you?" I ask. "How do you know me?"

"I'm Adaira Tovikoni," she says. "I was raised by Nords, so I don't speak like most Khajiit, but I am now their prisoner. I am now nothing but their puppet."

I sigh and put my head back. "Yeah, me too."