Chapter Text
The cell was only large enough to hold a pallet to sleep on, and a bucket in place of a chamber pot. Raema had a sudden urge to slosh its contents through the bars of the cell door, and ruin the expensive rug that decorated the main room of the market. Instead she gingerly touched her swollen eye, wondering if it looked as bad as it felt. Ruining the rug would only earn her another beating, and maybe worse. She thought of Sarathram’s large bed upstairs, and shuddered. She had managed to discourage him last time, but if he was determined enough-- or angry enough...
She heard the trader's door open, and leaned forward to peer out of her cell. Sarathram was back. Her spirits lifted when another figure followed him inside. With a customer there, the trader would refrain from his usual abuse. And if she was lucky, she would be sold, and finally have a chance to escape...
She watched the stranger with interest. He was completely cloaked in black, and his face was hidden within the hood of his robe. Raema caught glimpses of black leather boots under the hem of his robe as he walked with Sarathram, examining the slaves in each cell. He had the characteristically deep, gravelly voice of a Dunmer, but Raema could not hear the words he softly spoke. Sarathram, however, sounded nervous, or frightened. This must be an important man; likely rich. She leaned back against the wall and waited.
“And what is this?” The stranger said, as he and Sarathram stopped in front of her cell. She eyed them sullenly. The cloaked man gestured towards her with a leather-gloved hand; the fingers were long and slender, rather graceful. “Surely you are not trading in damaged goods, Dranas?”
The slave trader bared his teeth. “Damage seems to be the only thing keeping this one in line, ser. I thought a Bosmer would fetch a good price, but it’s not the sort of merchandise anyone around here has much interest in. Especially with a temperament like that,” he added sourly. Raema wondered if she could reach the knife strapped on Sarathram’s leg, if she was fast enough.
“That is a Wood Elf?” the stranger sounded amused. “You ought to have her cleaned up a bit, Dranas. Maybe she would fetch a better price if your customers could tell what she is.”
Dranas Sarathram chuckled nervously. “You know I keep my goods as clean as I can, ser. But this one…a bucket of water tossed over her is all she’ll allow most of the time. I’ve half a mind to ship her out to the mines with the next group, just to get rid of her. Waste of food and space,” he added, and spat at her. Raema eyed the spittle on her arm, and decided not to bother with it. She turned her gaze on the trader, unblinking, and after a moment he sneered and turned away. “Now, ser, if you’d like some more time to choose, I’ll just go upstairs and draw up the papers for the purchase contract. It won’t be but a few moments.”
“Certainly,” the stranger replied with a gracious dip of his head. Sarathram hurried up the stairs, and the cloaked Dunmer moved out of Raema’s sight, perusing the other slaves once more.
A moment later he appeared in front of her cell again, staring down at her. Raema stared back into the black void of his hood, and wondered inanely if she was meeting his gaze, or if he was so horribly disfigured that his eyes were not placed naturally.
“Do you speak?” he asked suddenly.
“Go bugger a guar,” Raema smiled.
He made a sound that might have been amused or annoyed; a puff of breath that made the cloth of his hood stir. “You want to leave this place, do you not?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said pleasantly. “The service could be better, but I must say the food is fantastic.”
A chuckle sounded from the depths of his hood. “And if I take you home, what else can I expect from you, besides your sage advice and rapier wit?”
“I’ll kill you,” she offered helpfully, gauging the distance to his hood. If she could reach far enough, she might be able to get his eyes….
She realized he was laughing softly. “I admire your spirit,” he said. “I have no doubt that you would try. It certainly might be amusing, for one of us.”
Raema tensed, shifted slightly to be able to lunge at just the right moment-
The stranger turned away as Dranas Sarathram returned, carrying a pile of scrolls down the stairs. “My apologies for the wait, ser,” he began.
“It is no trouble,” the hooded Dunmer interrupted. “There is no need for the contracts. I will be taking the Bosmer.”
Raema stood and moved to the front of her cell, watching closely. She smiled in satisfaction as she watched Sarathram work through his confusion.
“Noble ser,” he said hesitantly. “If you truly wish to take the hellion, I commend you, but surely you understand the purchase must be properly recorded-”
“There will be no purchase,” the stranger broke in. “You were going to send her to the mines, a free bonus for the miners, were you not? Surely an ethical man such as yourself will have his conscience eased by giving her to a far gentler master?”
“But-”
“Dranas,” the man continued, and his voice had changed. It was lower, dangerous and soft. “You forget I have very little need to pay you for anything.”
Sarathram stared at the darkness in the man’s hood and blanched, turning a pale, sickly green. “Of- of course, my lord,” he stammered quickly. “Of course. I shall get her for you right away.”
The stranger stood motionless, watching Sarathram cross the room to Raema’s cell. The trader fumbled with his keys before fitting one hastily into the lock. As he swung the door open, Raema crouched and snatched the knife from the low sheath on his leg. While he stumbled backwards in surprise, she rose up, sliding the knife between his ribs in the same movement. His eyes went wide; she shoved him off the knife and turned.
The stranger was immediately behind her. Even as she was thinking that was impossible, that he couldn’t have moved so fast, he caught her wrist and twisted, quicker than her next thought. She heard the knife hit the floor, and cried out as pain flared up her arm. She froze, gasping, afraid to move, knowing her arm was perilously close to breaking in any number of places.
“An admirable effort,” the man said, sounding amused. “Futile, but impressive.” A slight pressure on her arm, and her knees buckled. He bore her down to the floor, one knee pressing into her spine. Tears streamed down Raema’s face. She could hear Sarathram’s breath rattling in his throat, slower and slower. The other slaves were silent, presumably watching.
“You will understand this,” the man said in that dangerous voice, all trace of amusement gone. “You belong to me. You are my slave, and I am your master. There will be no escape attempts. There will be no attempts to harm me. If your behavior becomes too great a nuisance, I will kill you. Is my meaning clear?”
Defiantly, Raema clamped her lips shut. Pain jolted through her arm, and she screamed.
“Is it clear?” He repeated calmly.
“Yes!” Raema cried out, and gasped in relief as he let her go. She slumped to the floor, limp, as he rose and went to Sarathram’s corpse. She watched as he took the keys from the trader’s hand, and tossed them through one of the cell doors. The slaves cowered away from him, making no attempt to pick up the keys.
“Get up,” he said, turning his hood towards her. Raema shuddered, but struggled to her feet.
“We will be traveling tonight,” he continued. “Find some clothing to wear.” He turned away, rummaging through the cupboards of food. Gingerly Raema tested her arm; it was sore, but not injured. She went upstairs and found some pants and a shirt in Sarathram’s closet. She dressed carefully, happy to have real clothing on her skin again.
She was surprised to realize it was raining as they stepped outside. She had no idea of the time, but it was late enough that even the red lantern at Desele’s place was unlit. The cold water on the cobblestones under her feet sent shivers up her skin.
“Keep up,” her captor rasped softly, making his way towards the town gate. Raema glanced hopefully around the town, wondering if anyone would see them. See what? she thought dejectedly. Another customer leaving the market with a new slave. No help there. As she plodded through the rain behind the cloaked man, the reality of her situation began to sink in. For all anyone knew, the stranger had legally purchased a slave. She was his property now, and no one would help her.
She was glad for the rain that hid the tears sliding down her cheeks, as she trailed after her master.
It seemed that they walked for hours. She had long since lost any sense of direction in the rain and the darkness, by the time the man finally paused and stared up at the sky. “We must go faster,” he told her, the first words he’d spoken since they had left Suran. He continued onward at a much quicker pace, almost a run, and Raema struggled to keep up.
After a while, she realized the sky was finally starting to lighten, even though the rain had not eased since they had started their trek.
In the pale light just before sunrise, the Dunmer stopped abruptly at a rickety wooden door set in the mountainside. Grateful for a moment's rest, Raema watched him pull out a key and unlock the door. When he opened the door and gestured her inside, she hesitated.
“It is quite safe,” he reassured her. “It has been locked since I stayed here yesterday.”
Raema ducked inside, and the man followed. The darkness pressed around them as he shut the door behind himself. Her eyes were just beginning to adjust when a flare of light made her squint.
“Take this,” the man told her, holding out a small lit torch. “There is a campfire farther in the cave. Light it.”
Wordlessly, Raema obeyed. Not far ahead, she did find a campfire, and a pallet laid on the floor. There was fresh wood on the campfire already, and she set to lighting it. The man joined her just as the fire caught, blazing life into the cave. She crouched on her heels and watched as the man moved about the cave, examining his belongings. It appeared that he was there often; there were chests and barrels of supplies deeper in the cave, and extra blankets stacked near the pallet.
“You must have questions. You may speak,” he said conversationally as he returned to the fire. “I know you certainly are capable of it.” She could hear a smile in his voice.
“Who are you?” she asked bluntly.
“My name is Assurjan,” he replied, sitting down on the pallet, across the fire from her. He reached up and drew back his hood, revealing a youthful dark elven face; his head was bare, but for a narrow topknot of black hair that trailed from the crown of his skull past his shoulders. His eyes were a solid milky white. “Ancient of Juraene clan.” As he spoke, his fangs flashed white in the firelight.
Vampire! Raema’s mind shrieked. She was frozen, speechless. She had heard of the unholy ones, as they were called in the cities, the undead vampires of Vvardenfell... but she had always been as skeptical as most other city dwellers.
“You need not fear,” Assurjan said. “If I planned to drink your blood or consume your soul, or whatever else you may be imagining, I would hardly have gone to all the trouble to bring you here first.”
Raema willed her heart to stop racing, tried to catch her breath. “Why…why am I here?”
Assurjan smiled. “What do you know of my kind?”
“Only that most people believe you only exist in…in nightmares.”
“Ah. Then this will require a more complicated answer than your last question did. You must be hungry. There is food in the bag; find something you like and I will explain while you eat.”
At the mention of food, she realized he was right. It seemed like days since she had last eaten. Feeling slightly dazed, Raema stood and looked through the sack that the vampire had indicated, finding bread, salted guar meat, and a small skin of shein. As she settled back on the floor of the cave with her finds, trying not to notice the way Assurjan’s unearthly eyes glowed in the firelight, he began to speak.
“It is true that, on the mainlands, vampires are nearly extinct. Many centuries ago, most were killed off by the Empress. She wished to destroy us, and she nearly succeeded. But some vampires escaped to Morrowind, and the Imperials did not follow. At that time, the Ashlanders were the only inhabitants of the island, and Morrowind was even more of a harsh, unforgiving wilderness than it is now. Here, we survived when others dared not try.
“There are three other vampire clans, bloodlines, in Morrowind: Aundae, Berne, and Quarra. At best, the clans are not on speaking terms; usually, they are at war with one or the other. I was a Berne.”
He paused, staring at the fire, and Raema felt a twinge of compassion for whatever memories he was reliving. Then the absurdity of it caught up with her. He was a vampire. Whatever was myth or truth about his kind, he was beyond her sympathy.
“We had…disagreements, the Ancient and I,” he continued after a moment. “The Ancient of a clan is the leader, a vampire with vast power and strength. Usually a young vampire, like myself at the time, is far below the notice of the Ancient. But somehow, I was graced with unusual strength, early. It caught his attention. He saw so much potential in me that he began to train me to be his second in command.
“But I disagreed with many of his methods, his decisions. I grew overconfident, and challenged his authority more and more. He dealt with it, harshly, but continued to give me more chances. I think he still hoped he could benefit from my power... Until he discovered that the new vampires I created were loyal only to me and had no ties to the rest of Berne. Essentially, I was creating my own bloodline. He ordered me destroyed, and I was lucky to escape unharmed.”
Raema thought this over as she finished her shein. “You were a threat to his power,” she ventured. Assurjan nodded.
“The Berne vampires have been hunting me since. They know I have been gathering strength, but not where. I am forming my own clan, the Juraene.”
“And…me?” Raema asked, half afraid to hear the answer.
The vampire smiled, flashing fangs, and she swallowed hard.
“You are to be the Hand of the Ancient.
“The title of Hand itself is an ancient term. Centuries ago, clan Ancients had servants, living men and women called Hands, rather like the Telvanni Mouths for the Councillors. A Hand was his Ancient’s voice in the living world; able to travel in daylight, speak safely with the living, and protect the Ancient. They fell out of favor after two Ancients were betrayed by their Hands. But Juraene Clan will have a Hand, and you are the one I have chosen.”
Raema blinked, trying to absorb all he had said. “And you trust me for this?” she asked, incredulous.
Assurjan bared his teeth, not quite a smile. “Not yet,” he said. “We have a bargain to strike first.”
In spite of herself, Raema snorted derisively. “A bargain? I thought I was your slave. Don’t you simply have to order me to do whatever it is that…that a Hand does?”
“In theory,” the vampire said evenly. “For example, I could order you to speak to me with more respect. But I cannot yet trust you with even that simple task, so I expect I may need to physically demonstrate why it is necessary for you to do so.” His eyes bored into hers.
Raema swallowed. “Forgive me,” she said softly. “I meant no disrespect.”
He ignored her apology. “Our bargain is this: If you can prove to me that you can be trusted to act in all capacities of a Hand that I deem necessary, then I shall name you Hand of the Ancient of Juraene Clan. Outside of your duties in that position, you shall enjoy any freedoms you wish that do not endanger the clan. And in time, provided Juraene Clan survives its formation and thrives, you shall be released from slavery and become a free citizen of Morrowind.”
Raema blinked. “And... if not?”
Assurjan’s expression did not change. “If Juraene Clan fails, due to your own actions or otherwise, you will find a much harsher and unpleasant life in whichever clan assimilates you. The rest of us will be dead and no use to you. If you accept and then betray me in an attempt to escape, Juraene Clan will hunt you down, and as an escaped slave you will find no help from the living. And if you refuse altogether, you will join the cattle, the slaves upon which we feed.”
“That doesn’t leave me much of a choice, does it?” Raema said bitterly.
“Unpleasant as it may be, it is still a choice; something slaves are rarely offered,” the vampire said, getting to his feet. “Lie down,” he said, gesturing at the pallet.
Raema froze, stricken, a new fear washing over her. Assurjan only shrugged. “Or sleep on the rocks. You need not worry; wherever you rest, you will enjoy your sleep alone. I have no need of it. However, we travel at sundown. I will expect your answer by then,” he added over his shoulder, striding away from the fire.
Raema sat for another moment, her head swimming. It was a choice, but not much of one. She half expected that her mind was already made up and simply refused to admit it. She rose and walked around the campfire to the pallet. After the stony floor of the cave, the thin blankets felt like feather pillows. She was bone weary, she realized, and laid down, pulling a spare blanket over herself. She was still wondering how she would be able to rest with all the strange turns her life was taking, when sleep claimed her.