18+ Sons of Solitude: The Rescue

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Matt

The Last Pen Fighter
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This is my first Skyrim fanfic! It contains a spot of language or two, and some graphic depictions of violence and torture (after all, tis based on Skyrim!). Also, it is remarkably brief, as I do not have time to commit to a larger project at this time. However consider this an introduction to an idea and to some characters I will wish to revisit when I have time.
I hope you enjoy the read as much I did writing it!
*******
Sons of Solitude: The Rescue
Ferin Orfingar awoke feeling delirious and strange. His head was pounding as if an army of Stormcloaks were marching in circles around his skull. Everything was dark and blurry and, despite the absurdity of it, he could smell torches burning and could not ignore the unmistakable scent of damp air. He flexed his right hand, as it was just about the only thing he could feel aside from the headache, and was surprised to feel soft, warm fabric against the tips of his fingers.
Without warning a smooth hand wrapped around two of his fingers, pulled back violently, and broke them. Searing pain shot up his arm and brought him fully from his unconsciousness.
He was out of his armor in a torch-lit cave and being carried by two unpleasant looking Nords. There was a red-robed woman walking along beside them and judging by the twisted look of irritation on her face, it had been her garment that his fingers had touched moments ago.
All doubt was removed when she spat harshly, “Don’t touch me, you Imperial filth, or I’ll break something more valuable!”
Laughter echoed in the moss-lined cavern and Ferin’s cheeks flushed with rage. A comfortable and satisfying rage that forced thoughts of his bleak situation aside. The pain in his head and hand were all but gone, replaced by an anger that convinced his conscious mind he had the power to free himself.
With all of his fury induced strength he kicked and pushed at the two men carrying him. He managed to create some separation and start to wriggle free but suddenly all of the wind was knocked out of his lungs as he was tackled to the stone floor of the cave by one of the Nords. Ferin gasped for air but a forceful punch to his stomach forced the air back out again.
They did not beat him for long, but it was long enough. Blood ran freely from a severe gash along his jaw and his ribs felt as if each and every one might be bruised. Snot dribbled from his broken nose and fresh tears burned down his dirt covered face.
“Pity,” the woman said in a tone that might have even been construed as friendly had the situation been different, “you had such a handsome Nord face.”

Ferin sputtered and gagged for each breath he took as he writhed in pain on the floor.
She brought a gentle hand to the side of his face that was not bleeding out onto the cavern floor and continued in a tone that, given different circumstances, Ferin would have found seductive, “These high cheekbones and this strong chin,” she made a noise in her throat that reminded him of a horse sizing up a fresh bucket of oats, “what an impressive specimen of our culture you really are.
And then, you had to go and ruin it by joining the wrong side.”
Ferin had not seen her make any gestures but the two brutes returned and the robed woman turned her back to him. He was grabbed roughly by the shoulders and dragged to his knees as the other came around to stand in front of him. Ferin eyed the menacing iron mace the bandit had brought with him and wondered briefly what it felt like to be struck in the face by such a weapon.
“Tell me,” the woman spoke in that same warm, friendly tone that he had already learned to despise but kept her back to him. Her elbows moved back and forth as if she was fiddling with something on a small wooden table against one wall of the cave, “What are you and your little Imperial friends doing in this part of the Pale, hmm?”
He opened his mouth to reply but was not fast enough for his aggressors. A fist struck his cheek just below the eye socket. The blow knocked him back to the floor but he felt strong arms jostle him back up into a kneeling position. He watched through an eye swollen half-shut as his interrogator turned, a small but very sharp dagger pointed directly at him. Firelight danced off the polished glass dagger, drawing what was left of his ability to see toward it. He felt his hands shake with fear and had to battle hard to fight back his desire to sob like a newborn child.
The dagger represented a truth he had been trying to ignore ever since he awoke in this damned cave. A truth that even now the young Nord found difficult to accept.
I am going to die.
“Shall I ask again? Next time-…”
Her words trailed off into a series of guttural moans and a high pitched yelp. Ferin looked up just in time to see her tumble to the floor, the shaft of an arrow protruding from her neck. The small chamber of the cavern became a chaotic frenzy of motion. Ferin collapsed to the floor and stayed there, half wishing for the soothing embrace of sleep, but fighting fiercely to stay awake.
Voices found his ears but he could not make out the words. They could have been shrieks or screams as far as he could tell. As the seconds went by, the voices got more intense, even to the point of replacing the sharp sound of metal clanging against metal. Frustration found him as he battled both fatigue and his head wounds in an effort to interpret what he was hearing. His eyes failed to open when commanded and his arms refused to lift him from the floor.
Rough hands grasped his short sleeved arms almost immediately followed by a second pair of hands clutching his ankles. His eyes still refused to open but his midsection sagged as he as lifted from the ground. The raucous of the place they carried him from began to fade away. Ferin slowly found it easier to pick out individual sounds and finally, make out the words they were speaking.
“…they get him?”
“We never should have left him alone…greenhorn….”
He caught other bits of conversation as they carried him but nothing made much sense. The only idea he could latch onto was that the two disagreed over whether or not this was all Ferin’s fault. The notion betrayed their identities as his fellow Imperial Soldiers and it provided him a small source of comfort. Armed with hope, he struggled to remember what happened between when he tried to climb down from the lookout and when he awoke in the caves, but the memories simply did not exist.
Did I fall?
Numerous questions filled his mind and each one was more frustrating than the last. None were answerable. He fell into a fitful sleep shortly after the realization, his last thought one of a warm hearth in a large house in Solitude, far away from bandits and odd women with strange robes.
***
Ferin felt hot. It seemed every breath of the humid, smoky air did more to choke him than to rejuvenate his body. He coughed and was rewarded with a searing lance of pain through his chest. He cried out.
A voice responded, “Ferin?”
He blinked his eyes open and attempted to focus them on his surroundings but it was too difficult. Everything was a blur of color or a dark shadow. There was no sense to the shapes around him.
“Ferin, wake up, damn you!” The voice was urgent and, Ferin noticed, familiar.
He tried in vain to wet his crusted lips with a dry tongue before he spoke, “Legate?” The effort caused him to suck in too much of the heated air, forcing him to cough again.
His eyes watered, making it even more difficult to see but he could make out the figure of a person approaching him. A hand touched his shoulder and the Legate spoke again, this time his superior’s voice was soft, “Apologies for the state of the air in this chamber. There is a forge here and the men are using it to hone their weapons.”
Legate Tituleius’ tone changed again as he asked, “Can you sit up, soldier?”

Ferin said nothing. Instead he clenched his teeth and flexed his abdominal muscles. At first his body refused but Ferin was equally as stubborn. He fought the pain in his midsection and used his hands to press himself up to a sitting position. Once there, his head swam and he felt as if he might vomit. He pressed the back of his left hand to his lips and stifled the nausea.
“Good.” The Legate said calmly, “Now drink. I will have Tyr inform you of our current situation.”
He pulled the hand from his mouth and accepted a waterskin from the Legate, nodding his thanks. Tituleius responded with a wink before he spun around and stepped off toward the forge, his hand resting on the hilt of the sheathed blade hanging from a tight belt.
Everything he does looks official. Even when simply walking away from someone.
Ferin eagerly sipped from the waterskin as he rotated his body to allow his legs to dangle from the edge of the wooden table he’d been sleeping on. He inspected his arms and legs and found several bandages and wrappings that his fellow soldier’s must have used to dress his wounds. He gingerly pressed a hand to his chest and found that while he was wearing no shirt, nearly all of his torso was tightly wrapped in a thick red cloth. The sensation on his fingertips was familiar and it brought back a terrible memory of having his finger’s broken by that woman.
His eyes immediately went to the hand holding the waterskin and he gasped in surprise. Where two fingers had once been was nothing more than a pair of bandaged stumps. The Nord was shocked. He could have sworn that he had been grasping the waterskin with all five fingers.
“We had to cut those off, sorry, little Orfingar,” Ferin recognized the heavily-accented voice of Orson, one of his only friends in th Legion and a welcome sight in the midst of all this chaos and pain, “but there was no saving those fingers.”
Ferin looked up at him, a thousand questions burning in his mind. “What else can you tell me?” Words were becoming easier and he was eager to think about something other than the missing fingers.
Orson shook his head and said, “The Quartermaster will take care of that.”, as he left the small chamber.
Ferin was alone but he refused to look at his hand. Instead, he surveyed the room and tried to piece together what was happening. Several buckets lined the wall opposite him, most filled with bloody rags with the rest containing clean ones. Ferin wondered if this was a sign that they expected more fighting before this day was done. Equidistant from him to the buckets was a pile of Imperial Armor. It was stained with blood and pockmarked with dents but Ferin could see that some of the pieces belonged to his own suit. He curled one of his light brown brows in curiosity and started to lift himself up off the table.
Tyr Boran rounded the corner and entered the chamber suddenly, saying, “Whoa there, Ferin Orfingar, you’d best rest a little while yet. If you were to stand, the Legate might see a sword to your hand sooner than you’d be ready!”
Ferin found his mannerisms to be a bit boisterous as usual but he minded the Quartermaster and remained seated on the sturdy table. “Quartermaster, I…” Ferin began, but he was cut off by a wave of Tyr’s meaty hand.
“Save it. I have a lot to do so it’s best if we get you caught up quickly so I can get back to my duties. I’ll tell you what I know and be on my way.”
Ferin simply nodded in reply and reached for the waterskin with the hand that still had all of its digits.
Tyr turned one of the buckets on its top and sat down, his armor scraping against itself in places where Ferin could see it had been recently damaged in battle and no longer fit well. Tyr’s round, jovial face tightened into a look of impatience and started almost immediately with a question, “Do you remember marching into the Pale with us?”
Ferin moved his right hand to run his fingers through the tight blonde curls atop his head but stopped himself part way when he saw the bandages in his peripheral vision, “Yes. I remember the camp and being left alone. I found a lookout point but when I climb-“
“Right, yes,” Tyr interrupted him, his hands moving with every word he spoke as if waving them back and forth was helping him get the words out, “When the Legate went missing, it was because he’d been ambushed by a group of bandits hidden in a small cleft half-buried in the snow just on the other side of the ridge to the east of the encampment.
When we left to find him, we were ambushed as well. I suppose it isn’t surprising you couldn’t hear the sounds of the lot of us fighting. That blizzard only seemed to grow worse as the day wore on. The whole group of us…”
Ferin nodded as the Quartermaster told his story, but he began to worry that the news forthcoming would be terrible. Between the cave, the blood-soaked strips of cloth, and the way Tyr was sweating and chattering nervously as he continued Ferin was sure that something awful had happened. He grew pensive and missed some of what Tyr was saying.
“…and then bam!” Tyr nearly shouted the last word, bringing Ferin’s attention back to him, “We broke down the door into the cave! Of course, we were rushed by several of these well-outfitted bandits as soon as we came inside but Jharos; do you know Jharos?”
Ferin shook his head, “No.”
Tyr seemed unperturbed, “Well, Jharos managed to get a lucky shot with his bow into the exposed side of their Captain and they were pretty easy to mop up after that. Anyway, once we got through them, we found a small room with a pile of bodies in it.”
Ferin opened his eyes wide and quirked his head in puzzlement.
“Indeed, Orfingar, a pile of dead bandits. Probably seven or eight of the bastards in there. It made sense to us that they had been dragged in there so we followed a trail of blood deeper into the cave and we started hearing the sounds of battle! At that point, Orson recommended we pick up the pace, we did and wouldn’t you know it, we found the Legate! He was in this very room you are sitting in, slicing open the belly of some bizarre mage right on that table you’ve been sleeping on.”
The Quartermaster pointed at it wistfully and Ferin slid off of it to his feet. His eyes trailed over the dark surface, noting that it was difficult to ascertain the type of wood through all of the dried blood.
I wonder how much of that is mine…
“Anyway, Ferin, we set about exploring the caves and eventually found you there, busted and without your armor. We carried you back here and set you on the flattest surface we could find.
And, lad, that was two days ago.”
Ferin gaped at the statement and sank back to sit on the table as he processed the news.
Two days? I’ve been asleep that long? What are we still doing here in these caves?
“We’ve been fighting a group that call themselves The Black Claw Clan during all that time. And,” he pointed a thick finger at Ferin, “let me tell you, these guys aren’t your ordinary bandits. These sons’a bitches have armor as black as night and help from a self-proclaimed Blood Mage – whatever that is – by the name of Kerran.”
“Why can’t we leave?” Ferin asked the question hesitantly, as he did not want to come across as a coward, but if they really were up against a small army of well-armed and well-trained bandits then it seemed prudent to seek reinforcements.
Tyr folded his arms across his chest and shook his head, “They have closed off the only exits we know about and retreated to one section. The Legate thinks they have a way up and out back that way. In fact, we were about to assault it when you woke up.”
Ferin didn’t ask if that meant they would have left him lying on the table.
“Now that you are up, soldier, we need to get to work. Suit up and meet us in the room down that passageway behind me, got it?”
“Right…okay.”
He turned from the Quartermaster and approached the armor piled against one of the cave’s walls.
Tyr stood up to leave and said quietly, “Oh and, lad, we’ve lost nine. That means including you there are...”
“Seven,” Ferin finished for him and added as Tyr Boran rounded the corner once more,
“Seven sons of Solitude.”
“And one angry Legate!” He heard Tyr call out from the adjacent corridor.
***
The corridor was not lighted but the chamber at the end was. Ferin reached out with gauntleted hands and followed the rough cavern wall toward the light and the sound of voices emanating from there. He could hear cheers and excited chatter from his fellow soldiers and he suddenly wanted to be nowhere else in the entirety of Tamriel but that room. He picked up the pace some but had to stifle a cough. His lungs were still sore and several ribs throbbed painfully with each step.
But I am alive. I am alive.
“Still, I am alive,” he heard the Legate call out from the room that was now just a few short feet away, “and so are you all. We have one chance-“
Ferin’s entrance into the chamber caused the Legate to stop speaking. Ferin was surprised to see a smile crack the typically stoic features of his face. He smiled back.
“We have one chance,” the Legate continued, “to break free of this miserable cave but we must act quickly.”
Ferin looked around the room and noticed that to a man, everyone was looking at him rather than the Legate. In fact, nearly all of them were smiling and nodding as if he was now a part of some secret they all shared. Whatever that secret was, it seemed no one had told him. To make matters worse, Orson – a fellow Nord no less – began laughing heartily as he stood from his seat to embrace Ferin. The others followed suit; laughing uproariously as they gathered around him.
Even the Legate, his speech forgotten, joined in the raucous, patting Ferin on the helmet as if they were friends from long ago.
He was jerked from one side to the next as a second soldier pulled him into a sturdy embrace. A third replaced him and finally a fourth before someone must have finally noticed the bewildered expression on his face. They all backed off and began to reclaim their various seats around the room. All but one.
“Welcome back, Ferin Orfingar,” Orson said with a grin as wide as his shield, “to the land of the living.”
Legate Tituleius spread his arms out and signaled for everyone to quiet down. “Have a seat Orson, Ferin.” He stated curtly before turning and selecting a small piece of paper from a pouch.
Ferin located a small crag in the cave wall to lean against as the Legate spoke, “As I was saying, if we are going to get out of this place, we have to do it now. This,” he held out the parchment for everyone to see, “is a missive from none other than Kerran himself to one of his cohorts on the surface.”
“I recovered that that fine piece’a ‘telligence from the pocket’o one’a theirs myself!” One of the soldiers called out.
Several of the men laughed but the Legate ignored the outburst without the slightest hint of impatience, Ferin noticed, “In it, this Blood Mage claims to have a host of new sacrifices to use in some sort of grand scheme. I assume he means us, men, and I for one do not intend to play a part in anyone’s mad games.”
“Here, here!” Someone shouted.

No one said anything for a long moment until Tyr Boran stated flatly,” I believe it is safe to say we are all with you, Legate. Let’s hear your plan…”
Legate Tituleius began outlining his plan, however, Ferin Orfingar had difficulty keeping his mind from wandering away from what was being said.
What was so damn funny?
***
Ferin focused on metering his breathing as he and his fellow Imperial Soldiers moved down a long corridor. The cave system had proven to be longer than Ferin might have guessed. At the start of the Legate’s plan, Ferin had felt ready to exact revenge for the treatment he had received at the hands of these savage people. But now, each step came with more difficulty and each breath caused his battered torso a great deal of pain.
Thankfully, he and the others had a chance to eat some food before they started through the caves. The meal had given Ferin some strength, but that was already fading. Willpower would provide what he needed to continue, or he would fall right here in an unnamed cave in the Pale. Weak and unworthy of the armor he would rot to death in.
Rumination ended as Legate Tituleius silently signaled a halt. There were voices echoing quietly in the corridor. Ferin glanced back and forth between his comrades and noticed how gleeful everyone looked despite the knowledge that danger was ahead.
Or, he realized, perhaps because of that fact.
He had little time to reflect as Orson led a thunderous charge down the corridor, seven other armed and armored men following behind. Ferin’s blood ran hot and all pain became a thing of the past. He yanked a short sword from the sheath hanging from his waist with his uninjured left hand and checked the straps of the shield the Quartermaster had tied to his right arm as he tried to keep up.
This was going to be it. His first battle with the Legion.
The soldiers in front of him rounded the corner and Ferin steeled himself before following them. Without realizing it, he had closed his eyes and could see nothing at first. He took as deep a breath as he could, relaxed, and opened his eyes.
Almost instantly, he regretted that decision. As a son of Skyrim, Ferin Orfingar had seen death. He had seen animals killed in the hunt, the death of his mother as an adolescent, and even the remains of a storekeeper some adventurer had killed for spite. Nothing he had seen before prepared him for what assailed his senses upon entering this room of the cave. Men were grunting as they fought, swearing unfathomable oaths as they savagely attacked each other with maniacal abandon. The cloying odor of sweat and fresh blood permeated the cavern and was enough to spoil the air. Instinctively, he averted his eyes from the chaos only to find something worse to rest them on. Just to his right, smeared all over the wall of this room, was the flesh and blood of someone who had been smashed into the wall. He turned his eyes forward and tried to himself that this was no big deal. He could handle this.

One of his Legion comrades – Daren Rondfal, Ferin remembered – was standing directly in front of him, an armored bandit on the other side of him. Ferin caught movement in the corner of his eye as a massive elven warhammer flashed in the torchlight. He tried to warn Daren but no sound escaped his lips. The hammer connected with its mark, smashing Daren’s skull into dozens of small pieces. Warm, thick blood and other matter splattered the wall directly to Ferin’s left and coated his neck and bare arms. He lost track of his footing at the grisly sight and stumbled to the hard cavern floor, retching what little food he had eaten all over the feet of the now deceased soldier.
He nearly choked when someone grasped the collar of his breastplate from behind and yanked him to his feet. Ferin spun around to engage an assailant only to find Orson there, the body of whoever had been wielding the hammer lying directly behind him. “I’ll stay with you, little Orfingar, now move!”
Everything was happening so fast. He could barely keep track of the motion that seemed to come at him from every direction. A dozen emotions threatened to crack through to the surface and Ferin felt dizzy.
He took a faltering step forward and raised his shield to protect his head and neck. Something struck it and knocked him back a step. The hair on the back of Ferin’s neck stood up as the realization sunk in that someone was engaging him. He glanced quickly to his left and saw that Orson was tied up battling two more enemies. He would be no help.
Ferin forced himself to stop hyperventilating and drew in a deep, even breath. He blocked out the rest of the cave and forgot about his pain. He ceased hearing the shouting and sounds of battle. Nothing existed except his enemy, and nothing mattered except survival.
He stepped to the right and lowered his shield a small amount. His enemy was a Nord woman roughly the same height as he was but wearing an odd suit of black armor Ferin had never seen before. Her face was twisted into a knot of fierce rage and a chill ran down his spine when he noticed her spiteful gaze was looking directly into his own eyes.
What does she see? Fear? No! Not this time.
Ferin clenched his teeth and brought his sword to bear. Even offhanded, he felt confident in the short sword’s use. She was wielding a savage looking two-handed sword but he paid it no mind. It was a heavy weapon and clumsy if one got too close to their opponent. He lunged forward to close the gap and lashed out with his weapon to parry any attempt to stop him.
Pain shot up his wrist and into his chest as their swords met. Ferin nearly lost his footing due to the intensity of her blow but he swiftly regained his target and lunged for her again. This time, he dropped to one knee and angled his shield in an effort to get below her retaliation as he pointed his sword upward and jabbed.
Just as he felt his weapon puncture something, his shield was dealt a shattering blow and he was knocked backwards. Pain shot up his arm and he fell on top of the shield which had suddenly become too heavy for him to carry. He looked up in time to see the Nord woman fall backward, the tip of his sword embedded in the soft tissue underneath her chin. He watched transfixed by the sight until the pain in his arm told him that he was lying on it uncomfortably.
As soon as he rolled off of his arm and the shield below it, he noticed that his forearm was bent at an impossible angle.
“Now that, Ferin, is a broken arm.”
He turned his head and saw that the fighting had stopped. Four of his fellow soldiers as well as the Legate and Tyr Bolan stood around him. Relief washed over the young Nord in waves and he allowed his head to lay back on the stony ground. A smile began to spread across his face even as someone began to undo the knots that were holding his arm to the shield.
After a long moment of silence, Ferin Orfingar opened his parched, cracking lips and laughed. Orson removed the shield from Ferin’s limp arm and tossed it aside, his own laughter joining his friend’s. Soon, the whole group of soldiers were laughing as they helped Ferin up from the floor and started for the cave exit.
In between chuckles, Ferin heard someone say, “Well, I’m ready for supper, is anyone else?”
So that’s what is so damn funny.
 

DovahKaal

The Man in the Velvet Mask
That was very enjoyable. You have a way of bringing characters to life. I could even hear the red-robed woman sizing Ferin up in my head. Looking forward to more from you.
 

Matt

The Last Pen Fighter
Thank-you, DovahKaal. I am pleased you enjoyed the work. :)
 

Irish

Thane of Solitude
I like it so far, Matt. Can't wait to read more of your work. :)
 

Matt

The Last Pen Fighter
Glad you like it, Larry's wife. :)

I should make it clear that is this not a forum serial. At some point, I will write a proper story with these characters, but not at this time. You'll be one of the first to know when I return to writing within this genre, however, and it might be sooner than I think.
 

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