Akash Inodou

Your life doesn't always start here.

If the description of death even slightly bothers you, you may want to not read this. Just a fair warning.

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I try not to think about them. To not think about what they've done to me and so many others, but when I close my eyes, their maddening cackles fill my mind. I remember the air adopted a grey hue as the smoke from the fires embraced the trees at an alarmingly fast pace. It carried a whiff of blood my way, and I gagged at the thought of my own blood being intertwined in the scent.

Their laughter was unbearable. It didn't even sound human, or in this case, mer. Mixed together with the shrill screams of agony, and the various dying gasps coming from the charred hunks of flesh that were once members of a peaceful bosmeri tribe; one might have mistaken this scene to be straight from Mehrunes Dagon's Deadlands. Flames scorched the once intricately woven branches and perfectly aligned leaves of the  naturally formed homes of these wood elves, causing the oak to become twisted and scarred as the heat and intensity broke through the bark, eating away at the insides. Generations spent creating a home for ourselves, to raise families and write stories of our own, turned to firewood in a matter of minutes. Children of the now deceased and dying were thrown around to members of the invading Thalmor force, to be used as play things and target practice. Those who tried to flee, died a worse death than those who fought. A mother lay dying as her baby was torn from her bleeding breast, and thrown to the ground with a sickening thud. The babe had no time to release a cry nor even a pitiful whimper, before the jagged mace of a High elven officer came crashing down onto its tiny skull, shattering it into a thousand pieces, as the mother's throat was slit for fun by a nearby soldier.

I had hidden. What else was I supposed to do? A small elf of only seven years old, trying to fight a horde of thalmor intent on spilling as much blood as possible? I was young, but not stupid.

Another bosmer, my father's apprentice in arrow making, was standing on a branch of one of the burning trees, desperately firing the few remaining arrows he had into the crowd of sun skinned altmer who reigned below. Without warning a lightening bolt struck out from the group, hitting the defending bosmer in the chest, causing him to fall ten feet to the ground. I prayed to Y'ffre in silent screams, begging him to spare the apprentices life; to make the fires go out, and the thalmor leave. No such relief came. My eyes were glued to him, unable to look away, as his body violently convulsed, and foam began to form at his pale lips. The mage who shot the bolt of lightening stepped toward the downed wood elf, grinning sickeningly at the dance of death being displayed before him. Raising his right palm, the Altmer grabbed the bosmer lad by his neck, pulling him into an upright sitting position, as his left hand crackled to life with static energy. Placing two fingers on the tan skinned elf's forehead, the thalmor mage sent a searing zap of electricity through the young man's skull. His body was sent into one final convulsion, before bright red blood spewed from his lips as his eyes rolled back into his head; only to be still forever more.

I lost track of how long I stayed in that bush, how long the thalmor were there, desecrating the deceased, torturing the few survivors. Eventually one of them found me, and dragged me out of the shrub by my ankle, holding me upside down while the bastard whistled to the others to come look at his "prize".

I remember the last thing I ever saw out of my left eye, was a firing squad of thalmor mages, each readying their choice of spell to use on the remaining children whose hands were bound behind them. The mage who was aligned with me, was using electricity. Shock magic. The same one who killed my father's apprentice.

Irony is a cruel mistress.