Chapter Text
Marcus knew these crumbling green roofs. He was in the Imperial City, under a brooding sky. But he’d lost his bearings in flight and got turned around. Marcus hesitated and looked back along his route, debating whether to retrace his steps. He could hear the dogs baying after him, and the shouting of his pursuers in the distance. Rain spattered over him, cold and harsh, and he began to move faster. Lightning cracked, far too close. Marcus' feet slipped on the slick tiles, and then his fingers, clawing for a grip--
Marcus sat up with a start. He was in Skald’s jail.
The ribbon-beaded broiderie linen sheet twisted about Marcus as he rolled over and whimpered, breathing terror; it was safe here, he told himself breathlessly, it was safe. He alone held the key. There was no one here. In his threshing, he accidentally kicked another decorative pillow to the floor, and the scent of lavender mingled with the soot of the burnt-out candles. Marcus panted, eyes shut, trying to settle his breathing and the frantic pounding of his heart.
It was not enough-- Marcus had to get up and walk. The cool inlay of the mosaic embedded in the wooden floor soothed his feet as he paced back and forth, alone in that too-large and too-lavish apartment. As the sky paled, he could see the rooftops of the Blue Palace, lapis-hued against the grey dawn. He could feel the perspiration along his back and sides beginning to dry; the nightshirt no longer sticking to him.
The sky was getting brighter now; it would be all right--
Pain sharp enough to cause him to see stars, as Marcus' own hair yanked at his scalp; he'd caught it under his arm somehow. Marcus ducked his head down and curled up tighter into the corner, trying to hide more of his face. He was at the Argonian Assemblage, praying that no one would set eyes on him tonight. Dully, he wished that his hair were not so much in the way. He wished he could cut it all off, but it would never be permitted. The welts on his legs still ached from his last transgression. Shuxulti’s raspy voice rose over the din. Marcus shuddered.
The woven rag of the rug under Marcus’ cheek felt wet where he had been sick-- but it was not so disgusting that he had to move right this moment. There hadn’t been food for a few days, so it was only bitter water. Marcus was on a rooftop someplace in the City, his eyelids painfully heavy with fatigue. It would be better, Marcus knew, if he didn’t move. He’d been told Caro's crew was out looking for him, again.
Anvil: Marcus' mouth was dry from the sugar and he was so tired; Marcus leaned against the too-warm brick and shut his eyes, just for a moment. He could not sleep now; the Argonians had their spies; they would know, but--
Marcus was in a ditch, under a layer of snowy brush, so cold that he could no longer feel his hands. Marcus knew that he should get up, should move, that there was danger, but he could not remember what the danger was. His thoughts had gone sluggish. Footsteps crunched nearer. Marcus burrowed in a little deeper.
With great effort, Marcus managed to slide out beneath a meaty arm and away from its grasping fingers. He was in somebody’s bed; in several somebodies’ bed. He managed to get down and scrabbled around on the sticky floor for his clothes. Too dizzy to stand, Marcus kept stumbling, pretending not to hear the now-querulous voice. The door. Where was the door? Frantic, he patted at the wall. He could not find it. A hand gripped his arm, and then the back of his neck.
Falkreath: Marcus was at a table in the rear of a smoke-filled tavern, sitting with his hood down and listening to the men talk. Monitoring the tone of the conversation, if not its words. It would be all right, he knew, to close his eyes. But he couldn’t rest. His heart was beating too fast.
Down in Riften's foul-smelling Ratway, Marcus curled his arms about another whore, seeking warmth. The two of them shuddered as the cold rain came down in sheets outside the iron-gridded window, filling the room with cold mist. Despite the chill, the other young man was running with sweat, acrid with skooma-stink; his teeth chattering, even as his fever rose. Marcus dug in his chin and clung tighter, willing the drug to pass off. Sometimes it killed like this. Marcus had tried healing magick already and it had done nothing; now he was spent and couldn’t even keep himself warm.
Anvil again; the Argonians were talking in their grumblings and hissings; Marcus was sure it was about him. No luck for Marcus this week or the last; it was the strap for him again. The Argonians wanted him to find a good patron. They were annoyed.
Bruma this time; Marcus was in the corner of the kitchen, small enough that he could stay out of sight under a bench while the women worked. He was not supposed to be here, but so long as he was quiet, they would all pretend that they hadn’t seen him. If Marcus moved or made a noise and got caught by the steward or the cook, they would have to put him out. The women all felt sorry for him, but not sorry enough to have to deal with--
Marcus laced his fingers behind the back of his neck, lying still and gazing up at the limitless expanse of stars, while the Khajiit spoke to each other in their own tongue. What did the cats mean to do with Marcus? It did not even matter. If Marcus went back to the City he was dead.
Riften, sitting on yet another musty bale of straw, waiting interminably in the Cistern with nothing to do. In an hour or two, Marcus would have to go back up to the house and deal with Vekel and Tonilia. They wanted to speak to him about his behavior again, and he was dreading it. Maybe he would go out again. He might as well, if they were going to yell at him anyway. And it would be easier than listening to them, to Vekel, to that voice which sounded just like--
Marcus was lying on his side, braced against a man who was not merely a man-- the dragon souls tussled and tumbled about inside of the Dovahkiin as he snored-- and below all of this, the unblinking gaze of the wolf. In the shadow of the predator, Marcus drifted into slumber.
Marcus' nose was tucked against warm fur and he was all wrapped up in a rug. The lady Khajiit’s tail flickered anxiously in sleep and came to twine about Marcus in swift embrace, even though he was not her kitten. He wished he were.
A backhanded slap woke Marcus from sleep. Angry voices. His ears rang from the blow, and from too much brandy.
Marcus sat up with a start. His shirt was soaked through with sweat. He drew three breaths and rubbed his thumb along the coarse canvas of the mattress, testing the sensation.
He was in Skald’s jail.
