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The Life of Arga

Chapter 3: Dark Designs

By Draconicon

Arga was possessed of mixed emotions when he finished bathing himself and tossed the remaining bathwater out the porthole of his cabin. On the one hand, he was no longer filthy, and neither were his underthings. For the first time in years, he was allowed a loincloth that didn't stink of sweat, nor dirty the air with the rank smell of sex, or urine, or other filth. He was clean, and he had forgotten how great a difference that made to an Argonian that had gone without it for as long as he had.

On the other hand, the burn marks from his master's hand, as well as the sigils that marked his groin, remained. As he had expected, simple water hadn't been enough to get rid of them, and he doubted that would be the case anytime soon. To remove a mage's mark required nearly as much power as applying it, and as foolish and horrible and cruel as his old master had been, the Telvanni wizard had sufficient power to bind him.

At least, so long as his ankle shackles maintained their grip. As Arga pulled his pants back on, he glared down at them, feeling the weight of the old steel pulling at him with every step. The strength that he had built up as a slave didn't matter. The limited magic that he had at his command without the wrist bindings was miniscule compared to what he would have if he could just get rid of those.

But without someone who knew metalwork, there was no point in wishing. He would find some help when he reached Skyrim, he'd decided. That would be his in.

Until then, he had bigger problems. The Altmer that had boarded the ship after him had to be dealt with. The elf might not be associated with slave traders, but he was still an elf. That meant danger, and until he was on Nordic soil, he had to treat every danger as seriously as possible.

He'd already made his plans. His shirt was cut into long strips, suitable for tying someone down and ensuring that they wouldn't immediately get out. Several longer strips had been tied into balls, not quite a foolproof gag, but good enough to work with. His knife, silver, would suffice to get through the worst of any wards that the Altmer might have cast.

For all his preparations, he knew that there would only be one chance. If the other mage managed to spot him, managed to stop him, he'd be exposed. Even if he wasn't immediately identified as a slave - and if someone saw his shackles, they'd know what he was, no getting around that after leaving Vvardenfell - then he would still be charged with attempted murder, held in the brig until someone could question him. There would be no sympathy from the Nords for what he did. They did not mind dealing with slavers, and they'd want the reward money.

No. He had to get this right the first time, and that meant total surprise.

Arga looked out the porthole. Night had fallen. Dinner would be served before long. Judging by the smell coming through the wall, Arga imagined that the elf was too deep in an alchemical experiment to bother coming out for dinner. He'd wait for the delivery, then make his move.

He didn't have to wait long. As soon as he heard someone knocking from the hallway, the Argonian got to his feet. Moving like a shadow, swift and silent, he opened his porthole and shimmied through to the other side. As he hung from the opening, baring the slaps of wave and wind, he timed the rise and fall of the boat. When it was just about to hit its peak among the waves, he leaped forward, rising, then falling towards the porthole of the elf's room. His fingers caught the metal rim...then slipped.

Arga jammed his fingers forward, a whispered curse cut off by the roar of the wind around him. Fire jetted from his fingers, cutting with his claws through the wooden boards just under the hole, and his fall stopped short. He panted, gritting his teeth as his tail was swept up in the waves, almost pulling him free, but he clung with all the desperation borne of anyone bound to slavery that had finally tasted freedom. This was his way out. He would not lose it.

Dragging himself upward, he managed to hook a claw into the porthole, and he gradually levered it sideways. Never far, just enough to let a little sound from outside in. Just enough to let the sound become normal, then a little more.

The elf had his back to the window, too busy nibbling at his food - fish, rich fish, from the smell of it - to notice that someone was sneaking up behind him. But then again, why would he? They were at sea. There was no chance of an ambush here.

Unless you were stupid.

Unless you were desperate.

Arga waited for the next wave, let it roar, let it crash against the side of the ship, and used the sound as cover. He ripped the porthole free, throwing himself through the gap, and hit the deck. He went flat on his back as the elf whipped his head around, knowing that the Altmer would only see the empty hole in the wall.

"By the Eight, how - Ugh. Damnable weather."

The gold-skinned elf got to his feet, and Arga kept moving, dragging himself under the other man's bed. It was a narrow thing, but he managed it before the elf walked into view, and he waited, holding his breath, his fingers tingling with magic just in case the worst occurred.

Thankfully, it did not. The Altmer waved his hand over the hole, bespelling it with a barrier of ice. Arga held his breath, feeling the raw power that filled the air. While not an archmage, the Altmer still had magic, and a plentiful pool of it, considering that he seemed no worse for wear for casting such a powerful barrier.

He would have to act quickly. Anything less offered a reprisal, and a deadly one at that.

With his magic charged between his fingers, he waited for the elf to sit down. The weight came down on the bed, light but still ever so present. The elf reached for his food and continued to eat. One heartbeat, a second to let him settle, and then Arga struck.

Lightning leaped from his fingertips as he grabbed the elf's ankles. Every tiny bit of energy he could push past the shackles around his ankles he forced through his hands, and the elf seized over him. The bowl dropped, but only to the bed, not rolling off. No sudden shouts, no screams. The lightning seared through the mage overhead, seizing the muscles, tensing them, tightening everything so that no scream could come free.

He knew that it would. He'd suffered it enough times.

Arga pushed the lightning for a full five seconds before stopping. The elf slumped back, and the Argonian waited, listening.

Silence...then a breath. The elf was still alive. Another breath, but no screaming, despite the pain that would be burning through him. Unconscious, then.

Now, the true work began.

He was shaking, but not from fear. It was anger running through him that left his fingers twitching, his eyes wide, his breath hot and fast. The Altmer hadn't woken up, and perhaps that was for the best. Arga didn't know if he would be able to hold back, to do this properly, if he saw that look staring back at him.

The elf was stripped, his robes and goods carefully stowed in the chest at the foot of the bed. What spare cloth there was had been pulled out and stuffed in the gaps between the cabin door and the doorframe, spreading out until it was sufficiently blocked for any noise that his captive might make. Mattress stuffing went into the cracks in the walls, mostly those that went towards his own cabin, just in case someone came to look for him.

With his knife hand still shaking, Arga reached out and stilled his wrist. He squeezed, almost bruising himself until his hand stopped trembling. The anger begged to be released, but he told it the same thing that he had always told himself.

Not.

Yet.

Every slave knew those words. When they wanted to run, they told themselves, 'Not yet.' When they felt the urge to lash out from an unfair punishment, they told themselves, 'Not yet.' When they craved the simplest of freedoms, to walk and talk and act like someone without the shackles did, they always told themselves, 'Not yet.' It was the lie that kept them sane, that let them believe that there was hope, somewhere, somewhen, at the end of the tunnel, that they would one day be allowed that choice and chance again.

His 'Not yet' wasn't a lie. Not anymore. Today...today, it would matter, but he still had to do it right.

The Altmer groaned. He would come to before long. Arga moved to the elf's throat, holding the edge of the knife there. Counting to three, he pushed his hand down on the mage's mouth, holding it there, keeping him from screaming or lunging upward.

"Stay down. I have a blade at your throat. If I feel one twitch, I cut. If I hear one spell, I slice. If you shock me, or hurt me, I'm close enough that any movement will slice through your vocal cords, maybe even leave you bleeding out. Understand?"

The high elf stared up at him, breathing slowly. His eyes were not wild, but focused, flicking to the hole in the wall, then to the door. They were the eyes of someone that wasn't afraid, someone that was defining the situation, learning his options.

Arga would not have it. He leaned in, blade slipping that tiny bit closer, drawing the first hint of blood from the golden skin beneath him.

"Do. You. Understand?"

The elf nodded, slowly.

"I know what you are. Not just a mage. You're a hunter. From the Dominion."

Confirmation came with the build-up of power beneath his fingers. Arga hissed through clenched teeth, leaning down until they were nearly snout to nose, tilting his hand.

"Think twice. One twitch, one muscle spasm, and you die."

The power surged for a moment longer, then faded away. The elf wasn't willing to try his luck. Not yet. He would wait, Arga knew. They always believed that they would have the last laugh against a slave. Against a beast.

Arga would prove him wrong with his very own spells. The Argonian flicked his tail, pointing to the side. He allowed the Altmer to turn his head, see the spellbook pulled free and turned to a specific page. It was turned just enough for the sigils to be seen from the bed, and the elf's eyes widened as his breath came faster, throat almost pressing itself into the blade.

"I can read. And I can cast that."

"Y-you - ulk."

"Careful...or we'll end this far too early."

They would have gloated. He was matter of fact. Forcing his breathing as even as he could manage, he glanced out of the corner of his eye at the spellbook. The enchantment that he had in mind mostly used runes, markings, rather than active magicka. Good, because the ankle shackles would have killed the power that he'd need for something like that. The runes would provide most of it, allow it to be maintained over time without him expending life-ending amounts of energy.

Provided that he could make them correctly, that was. He etched the first symbol into his mind, reminded of the time that his Dunmer master had experimented with this on him. It had been some time ago, but he still remembered the fires searing his scales. Ripping the elf's robe open, he pressed one scaly finger to the golden flesh.

"Hold still...Or I'll have to do this again..."

There must have been something to his voice that scared the elf into submission. Or maybe it was something in his eyes. Arga did not know, nor did he care in that moment. So long as the elf didn't fight back, he would take this no further than he had to...

You made me do this...

That was the excuse of the slave-holders, the masters, the elves. They always claimed that the slaves earned their punishment, the cruel treatment, the everything that happened to them. But this was different. He was just keeping it from happening again. And he'd been right. This Altmer was one of the hunters, one of those that would chase down slaves if they found out.

It's the only way I can be safe...

He gritted his teeth, forcing what magic he still had down his fingers. The tips burned with the heat of his fire magic, and he began tracing the runes. The elf stiffened, but didn't make a sound. The sickly-sweet smell of flesh crackling away almost made him stop, his stomach rolling in protest, but Arga forced himself onward.

He had to be safe.

He had to be safe.

He managed to finish the rune before his magicka ran out, and he turned away, panting for breath. There were others that still needed to be added, other marks that would supplement the core spiral and shape, but that one would form the center of it all. He lifted his knife away, and the barely-conscious, trembling elf didn't fight back. The rune wouldn't let him. Not now.

"Catch your breath. We have more...so much more...to do..."

Arga worked throughout the night, taking his time to ensure that he didn't exhaust himself. The shackles around his ankles consistently drained his Magicka alongside his own use of it, and if he cast one spell too much, he would not be able to stay conscious. As it was, he pushed himself to the edge again and again, trailing one rune after another over the elf's golden flesh, marking it in red and black with the very runes that the Altmer doubtlessly planned to use on those he hunted. He justified himself that this was merely turning the tool of the oppressor back upon them, but he still had to fight himself.

At the end of it, as the eastern light began to slow through the half-melted ice window, it shone on an elf that had been tormented for hours and an Argonian that had taken definite pleasure in the tormenting. He panted, the knife long since discarded as he looked at his handiwork.

The nameless elf could no longer move, the ties and twists that he'd threatened before cast aside. The gold-skinned mage laid there, spread-eagle, completely naked with twisting lines of black and red on his skin. The spiral that had started it all on his chest had spread like creeping vines across his body, creating spirals and shackles along the arms and legs, twisting down over the hips like puppet strings, and pressing up the back of the elf's neck through his hair to create patterns against his head, cages for the mind.

Some of them would be hidden by the elf's robes. The rest...the rest, he would order the elf to find an explanation for. That would have to suffice.

Arga leaned over the stiff form of his new...what would he call the elf? A slave? No. He wasn't a slaver. Never would be. Not even to those like this filth that deserved to know how it felt.

Tool?

Tool.

Tool worked.

"You are awake," he whispered, his breath quiet. "You can hear me. Nod."

The mage slowly did just that. His head all but creaked, and there was a cut-off whimper deep down in his throat, but he nodded. It worked. The spells worked. Relief that he didn't know he needed spilled down the Argonian's spine like water falling from the heights, and he barely cut off a huff of relief and nervous laughter. This was not the time. Not in front of him. He had to maintain this confidence.

"From now on, you will ignore Argonians. And Khajiits. The beast-folk are not slaves. They are not targets. We are better than that. And you will treat us as such. You will not tell anyone of our presence. You will not take action against us. You will not help others take action against us. Do you understand?"

The elf nodded.

"You will obey?"

A hesitation, a fight. The elf's muscles strained, fighting against the command...but he still nodded.

"Good...good."

It was done, as far as he dared do it. There were things that he wanted to do, terrible vengeance that he wanted to commit, but it was one thing to torture someone, and quite another to kill them.

In some ways, the latter was easier. However, the questions that would come up with a traveler that had gone missing partway through the voyage were not ones that he could deal with, so better that he put his trust in the magic. The runes and symbols should be more than sufficient to keep questions from being asked. The Altmer was bound, not just by the burned symbols on his body, but by his own Magicka channeled through them. Arga was half-sure that the only way that the elf would ever get free would be by finding a way to kill off his own power, and no elf would do that.

He was almost sure that wasn't possible, but as the elves had been the ones to create the Magicka-draining shackles he wore -

His eyes widened in a moment of clarity. All his work to take revenge had kept him from thinking to make the Altmer remove his shackles, and with the bindings he'd laid on the other man, that was clearly no longer possible. Too many restraints, too many possibilities of the magic going wrong.

Cursing under his breath, Arga stepped away from the bed. The sun was slowly illuminating the room, but it was still early. The crew wasn't likely to be active just yet. He had time.

"You will stay in bed for five minutes, then get up and get dressed. You will not tell, show, or reveal what has happened to you in any way. You will ignore me, and leave me alone, for the rest of the voyage."

The elf nodded, and Arga left. Nobody met him in the hallway, nobody saw the shackles bulging at the bottom of his pants, and he reached his quarters unseen.

That dealt with the threat...but not the sickness left behind. The Argonian grabbed the bucket in the corner of his cabin and proceeded to spend the next hour throwing up. The stink of burning flesh continued to sear his nose, no matter how much he told himself that it was justified.

He was not like them. He was not. After all, he wasn't keeping the elf. Even with the marking he'd left behind, they'd done worse to him, over and over again. This was far less than he could do. He swore it was. He swore.

And he puked.

The End

Summary: Arga's fears of the Altmer drive him to do something extreme, something that he probably shouldn't, but it is the only way that he can feel safe again, and know he can reach his destination without being captured and sent home.

Tags: M/solo, Nudity, Torture, Argonian, The Elder Scrolls, Arga, Skyrim, Ship, Bondage, Body Control, Series, Trauma, Slavery, Dark, Seriously Dark, I Warned You,