"Death is nothing to us," Epicurus once said, "for when we exist, death is not; and when death exists, we are not."
Charming, really. Neat little bow to tie around the end of consciousness.
Except now I'm very much dead, and still here. Awake. Aware. Rotting slightly.
So either Epicurus was full of shit, or I've found the one exception to his cheerful little paradox.
Either way, I want a refund.
"What a wonderful way to start Tuesday." I sighed, pulling myself up from the metal floor I was lying on.
Sitting upright, back leaning on the metal bars of the cage I'm in, I took a deep breath.
It hurts.
A broken rib? Don't think so. The pain isn't sharp, it's dull. Bruised ribs then? Perhaps. Could just be bruising around the chest area. I would probably know more if I can remove this dirty and bloodied robe I'm wearing.
Still, that's a task for a later time. For now, I still need to know where I'm at.
I scanned my surroundings.
It was shit.
There's blood everywhere, staining the floor, the wall, the door, etc. Quite a gory sight, indeed. There also seem to be an entire pair of kidneys and a heart on the wooden table near my cage. It looks fresh, judging from the blood still dripping on the cobbled floor below.
I turn my eyes on the right where a sconce provided light. There's an array of questionable looking tools secured to a wooden rack, some of them looking like they've been used quite often, judging by the stain of blood covering them.
I turn to the left, where another metal cage is. There seems to be a person inside. Well, I think so. It's hard to know if it's a person or just a bunch of flesh and bones thrown in a pile.
The room I'm in looks like it's from the past—medieval era, perhaps? Did I time travel? There's a possibility. Who knew dying has an easter egg. That's neat.
First impression: a torture room. Had suspicions, but the torture tools on the wall rack confirmed it. That sucks. Why am I in a cage? Will I be tortured next? Where's everyone else? There's only me inside the room.
Quite a hard question to answer with my current situation.
I look down, scanning my body. The brown robe I'm wearing have gashes here and there, together with a big hole that looks slashed open with something sharp on the stomach. Oh, and there's tons of dried blood around it.
Crikey. Was I stabbed?
I run my hands down the area, feeling no pain around the vicinity. Well, there is some dried blood on the skin of my abdomen though. I was stabbed but probably healed. The lack of any trace of the wound is magical, however. Eh, who cares. I'm alive.
I finished checking my body, finding nothing noteworthy. I do seem to be wearing a beige-pale blue robe with a beige hood. It's quite dirty (and bloodied), but it looks decent.
In addition, there's a book and a couple of gold coins on the metal floor. The book has a rough cover, with a five-fingered flame sigil at the front. That seems... oddly familiar.
Wait a second.
I grabbed the book, examining it. I flipped to the first page, eyes drawn to the handwritten words at the center of the yellowed paper.
Sparks. The beginner book from the School of Destruction Magic.
Oh, this is Skyrim.
"That's...neat." I lowered the book, once again taking a glance at my surroundings.
So, this place is the torture room underneath Helgen, isn't it? And I'm the dead mage in the locked cell with the Sparks tome and a couple of gold coins.
"I've heard of waking up in jail. Not waking up as a corpse in jail."
What a joke.
"Fuck." I sighed, scratching my head. "Might as well roll with it."
I turned my eyes back towards the book in my hand. I flipped to the next page, taking note of the contents. The pages were cracked, signs of how old the book is. In addition, there's faint singes along the edges.
The script was handwritten, not printed. Obvious reasons. Still, it was elegant, almost reverent. The sort of handwriting reserved for prayers.
"To conjure lightning, one must channel Magicka from the soul through the hand, focusing the current through visualization of tension—conflict made manifest. The will is the wire. The storm is within."
I blinked.
"Poetic," I muttered. "Useless, but poetic."
I flipped to the next page.
"The left-hand draws. The right-hand releases. Magicka flows as breath: in, then out. Inhale intent. Exhale power."
Breath? Magicka as breath?
"This would either be genius or stupid." I muttered, pulling my hand onto my chest. Eyes closed, I took a deep breath.
I ignored the dull pain from the bruised ribs, attention fully focused on the sensation of breathing. There was nothing at first, just the usual sensation of air going in and out of my lungs. I did it again, eyebrows gradually crunching.
Huh?
Something responded, certainly. It wasn't the air in my lungs, that I'm sure.
What a bizarre sensation.
Like pulling open a door to a furnace. There was heat, yes, but more than that. A pressure. A quiet, coiled tension, sitting in the chest like a second heartbeat.
I focused on it. Inhaled.
And there it was. That second breath. Not through the mouth, but through something deeper. My soul, if we're being poetic. My power center, if we're being precise.
I reached my right hand forward and, with cautious focus, exhaled.
Lightning leapt from my fingertips in a sudden, stuttering arc—wild, unfocused, loud. It crackled across the stones and shattered a loose stone, which skittered into the corner.
I blinked at my hand, blinking through the residual static.
"Well..."
"That was horrifyingly satisfying."
I brought my hand back in, repeating the inhale. Quicker this time. Then the exhale.
The spark came cleaner this time, controlled. A single thread of electricity dancing between my fingers before fading out with a snap.
It felt good.
Not in the shallow, adrenaline-rush kind of way. This wasn't a thrill.
It felt like purpose.
The book hadn't taught me magic. It had only reminded me how to breathe.
Before I knew it, I was laughing.
This is addicting. The sensation of sparks coming out of my fingers. Live electricity dancing between my palms. God, this will drive me mad.
Before I can continue reading the tome, the stone roof gave a sudden groan. A massive crash resounded along the underground corridors of the Keep, followed by a sharp quake that rattled the torture tools on the wall and caused the fresh heart on the table to drop.
The door exploded inward in a blast of dust and splinters, the door flying out of its hinge.
Through the cloud of dust, a girl emerged, followed by a gruffy blonde man. Both had weapons drawn. The girl had a sword held with both hands, and the man had an iron axe on the ready.
It only took a moment for my brain to register who they are. The Dragonborn and Ralof. Quite a bold choice going with the Stormcloakds, but the Imperial did try to decapitate them as a welcome gift.
I already knew who Ralof is, so my eyes naturally darted towards the other person in the room.
She's a girl that seems to be in her late teens to early 20s, with dark auburn hair kept in a loose ponytail. Dust and some blood clung to her lightly tanned skin.
As I'm analyzing our resident Dragonborn, her amber eyes met my own, a cocky smirk on her face.
"What do we have here?" She sheathed her sword on her waist. "Someone's alive!"
"Kaela, wait." Before the girl can walk over, Ralof stopped her.
His eyes warily watched my figure in the cage as I stare back in deadpan.
"He's dangerous. No simple criminals are held in Helgen's torture chambers." The rebel followed, axe still drawn as he moved towards my cage.
I stifled a sigh, rubbing my weary face instead. The sudden action caused Ralof to flinch. The sooner I get out of this cell, the better. And as everyone knows, effective communication is key to every interaction.
"I assume you guys are Stormcloak rebels?" I began, keeping my tone level. "No need to be scared, I don't bite."
I really should've listened to communications class.
"Why should we believe you?" Ralof asked back, as the girl (Kaela, was it?) watched with sparkling eyes.
"You don't have to. You can just ignore me and keep going." I answered back, standing up.
It hurts. What is it this time? Sprained ankle?
Hmm. I can use this.
I used the bars of the cage to get myself up.
"As you can see, I'm injured. I just got a back massage with a hammer from some lovely Imperials." At least I think so. "I promise I won't kill you."
Really should work on my wording.
"Doesn't matter. We don't know you." Ralof stepped back, looking around the room instead. His eyes briefly caught sight of the pile of gore on the neighboring cage and hurriedly looked away.
"Are you sure? Looks like he hates Imperials too. Isn't that your thing?" The girl, Kaela, asked while examining the torture tools on the rack at the wall.
"He's an unknown. For all we know, he might have ulterior motives." Ralof answered, looting the barrels at the other side of the room.
Well, I tried.
"Alright." I sat back down (my left ankle still hurts).
"If you leave me here, I'll just find a way out later anyway. Fire, explosions, lightning—you know. Mage things." I gestured at my attire.
"That makes you more dangero—"
Before Ralof can finish, the sound of multiple boots running echoed around the corridor where they came from. Shortly after, a group of Imperials barged in, weapons in the ready.
"Rebels!" One of them notice the people already in the room and yelled. The others quickly caught on and grabbed their weapons.
There's about 7 of them, with one at the back wearing an officer's armor.
"Bastards! They're still alive." Ralof cussed, grabbing his battle axe.
"Oooh, enemies~" Kaela visibly grew happier, her sword already halfway through the motion to cleave the closest Imperial to her.
The Imperial luckily reacted quickly, blocking the overhead cleave from the feral girl. Sparks flew as steel met steel, with the Imperial groaning under the surprisingly strength of the opponent.
Unfortunately, his luck seemed to have run out. Kaela ducked under a retaliatory panicked swing and drove her blade into the Imperial's throat, twisting hard.
Blood sprayed across her cheek as he collapsed, gurgling.
"Ohohoho, you make such fun sounds," she giggled, ripping the blade free and splattering additional blood onto the already gory wall.
Ralof roared beside her, swinging his axe in a savage arc that split a soldier's skull like a melon. Bone fragments and brain matter splattered against the stone wall. He didn't pause, however. He turned with momentum, burying the axe into the next soldier's gut and dragging it upward until ribs cracked.
"Stormcloak bastards!" the officer barked, charging with three others flanking him.
The officer reached Kaela, slamming his shield into her side. She staggered but twisted with it, rolling to the side and slicing across the back of his knee. He fell with a grunt.
She leapt onto him like a starving animal.
"You look important," she hissed, pinning him down. "Let's see what color your guts are."
She plunged her blade down repeatedly. Once. Twice. Three times. The officer's screams dissolved into gurgling. She stood up with her armor and face dripping red.
"Pity," she sighed, flicking blood off her blade. "He had nice teeth."
Ralof took the brunt of a soldier charging into his body. He flew into the barrels, sending pieces of wood flying. The two remaining soldiers charged at the Stormcloak, yelling their hearts out.
Ralof was preoccupied with the soldier who charged into him trying to drive a dagger into his chest.
"I mean, I might as well..." I reached my right hand out the cage, aiming at one of the soldiers.
Lightning snapped to life, a line of purple-white electricity cracking in an arc.
The soldier seized up mid-step as the current tore through his armor. His body jerked unnaturally before collapsing in a smoking heap a couple of seconds later. The remaining soldier recovered from his shock and turned his bloodshot eyes onto me.
"You bastard!" He charged towards my cage, sword ready to pierce through the bars and into my vulnerable body.
He thrust the blade forward, sliding it between the bars with murderous intent. I twisted my body to the side, the steel scraping past my ribs by inches.
His momentum was his downfall.
Before he could retract the blade, I shot my hand out and grabbed his wrist, yanking it sideways. His forearm slammed into the iron bar with a wet crunch, bones snapping like brittle twigs.
He screamed, a raw, panicked sound. The pain was enough for him to drop his sword.
"Should've kept your distance," I murmured.
He tried to grab me with his left hand, eyes bloodshot as he did so. I lunged forward, clamping my teeth down on one of his fingers on his left hand.
There was a moment of resistance.
Then tearing.
He howled as I spit the bloodied digit onto the stone floor beside me.
"Hm. You scream better than you fight."
He tried to pull back, but I caught his broken arm again and twisted it through the cage bars. One sharp shove and I looped it around the iron pole, using the bones like rope. He was stuck, tethered by his own ruined limb, his face inches from mine.
His eyes were bloodshot, tears running down his cheeks.
"You flinched. Bad form."
I raised my hand again, fingertips humming.
The first jolt made him shriek. The second robbed him of breath. By the third, he was twitching helplessly, jaw slack, the stench of burned flesh joining the air.
I kept the current flowing until smoke coiled from his nose and mouth like incense.
Then I let go. His body crumpled, still smoking.
Ralof leaned against the wall by a broken crate, panting. Blood dripped from a cut above his brow, but his hands trembled more from adrenaline than pain. He successfully fended off the soldier who charged at him and buried his axe in the man's chest with a roar that sounded more animal than man.
He hadn't spoken since.
"Can you let me out now?" I asked.
"A second." Ralof replied, heaving.
Kaela, meanwhile, stood amidst the carnage, cheeks flushed and grinning wildly, like she'd just won a prize fight. Her armor was splattered red, and her blade dripped as she casually swung it side to side with a twirl of her wrist, painting streaks across the stones.
I exhaled slowly, watching Kaela with faint disapproval as she spun in place, dragging trails of blood across the floor with the tip of her sword.
"Do you always butcher them like livestock?" I asked from behind the bars, tone level with a trace of judgment. "It's very... undignified."
Kaela turned toward me, grinning, her face smeared with blood that clearly wasn't hers. "Oh, I'm sorry. Should I have asked them to die more politely?"
I frowned, leaning an elbow against one of the blood-slick bars, right next to the smoldering corpse electrocuted until his eyeballs popped. "I'm just saying, there's a certain art to restraint."
Ralof snorted, walking over with a pair of lockpicks in hand. "Coming from the man who turned that one into a torch."
"That was necessity," I replied. "Efficient. Clinical." I gestured toward Kaela's latest kill with a wave. "She's practically painting murals with their insides."
Kaela winked. "And yet you're still the scariest person in the room."
"I take offense to that."
The lock clicked open after a few tries. Ralof pushed the cage door ajar, stepping back warily like he half-expected me to bite someone again.
I stepped out, stretching my arms like a man just rising from a long nap. "Much better. That cage was starting to smell like regret and boiled leather."
I adjusted the cuffs of my robes, eyeing the carnage with a wrinkled nose. "Honestly, you'd think soldiers would have more pride in how they die."
Ralof scoffed. "You people are insane."
"You people?" I raised an eyebrow. "I haven't even done anything weird yet."
Kaela snorted, flicking blood off her sword. "Could've fooled me. Most mages don't gnaw on people."
I tilted my head, thoughtful. "I was improvising. Besides, it worked."
Ralof looked between us two, clearly weighing his life choices. "You're both lunatics."
"I prefer 'adaptive,'" I spoke, stepping over a corpse. "Lunacy implies a lack of control."
Kaela grinned. "You're fun. Hope you don't explode or something."
I clasped my hands behind my back, eyeing the cage I was just in a minute ago. "No promises."
Ralof groaned and started down the corridor again. "I'm going to regret this. I already know it."
I followed, the scent of ozone and singed flesh still clinging like a second skin. "Yes. But you'll survive. Probably."