Chapter Twenty-Five

                                    

                                          
Ylva
                          
I remembered this prison all too well.
                          
The Thalmor had made some upgrades to their private torture chamber since I had been here all those years ago. The cells were now equipped with chains dangling from the ceiling, with shackles meant to hold a captive's arms high overhead. This was where I found myself, chained to the ceiling, arms stretched as far as they could be stretched, toes barely scraping the floor.
                          
The weapons racks were twice as big as I remembered. There were more whips and other tools of interrogation laid out on tables and desks around the room. The floors and walls, though, were still stained with blood and urine, and the air reeked of the latter.
                          
I gazed at the chains above my head, yanking at them for what seemed like the hundredth time. Just as the last ninety-nine times had proven, the irons held firm. I grunted, frustrated even though I knew that I would not budge them.
                          
I had to try, though. I could not just allow myself to be taken like this. I would not go down easily.
                          
The roughspun tunic covering my body chafed my skin, and the rough floor beneath my bare toes threatened to give me splinters. My armor and other gear were stowed in one of the evidence chests, but I had no idea as to which one it was. Not that it mattered at the moment. I could not reach it anyway.
                          
The door to the prison swung open with a faint squeak of hinges, and long, graceful footfalls descended the stairs in the adjacent room. I watched from my cell as Elenwen prowled into the room, a sneer on her angled face. By Altmeri standards, she might be beautiful; her eyes shone like golden coins, her long hair fell perfectly around her face and shoulders, her robes gave her an appearance of nobility. I could not see any of those things; all I saw was the yellow-skinned demon that signed my parents' death warrants. 
                          
One of the lackeys who had come with her opened the cell door for her, and with two long strides, she stepped inside. Even suspended from the ceiling, I was still shorter than her. She glowered at me, hand seizing my chin. "The mighty Dragonborn," she said, tone mocking. "Look how far you have fallen."
                          
I said nothing, electing to spit in her face.
                          
She backed away, expression twisting with disgust, and wiped away my salvia with a handkerchief she pulled from her pocket. "Well, that was rude." She stuffed the kerchief back in her pocket and motioned for one of her guards. He stepped toward, handing her a fireplace poker. She swung it around in graceful arches, all the while speaking to me. "I was hoping that I would not have to resort to such messy negotiation tactics. You see, all I want is for you to surrender. Concede. Admit that we, the Aldmeri Dominion, were right all along. How hard is that?"
                          
"I would rather bend my knee to Sithis than concede to you." I glared, long and hard, into her gaze. "Bitch."
                          
Elenwen stopped swinging the poker around her. I had not even realized that she was aiming for my ribcage until she struck me hard in the side. I gritted my teeth as white-hot pain streaked from the point of contact throughout the rest of my body. The blow took the breath right from my lungs, leaving me to gasp until I could breathe normally again.
                          
"I'll teach you your place, you cur," she said in a low tone, leaning in closer as she hit me again. "You will surrender."
                          
I winced, but I managed to keep my composure. No weakness. No fear. "What if I don't?"
                          
"Then I'll drag your children in here and make you watch as I cut each of their fingers off, one," She struck me again. "By," And again. "One. They will suffer for your disobedience."
                          
Through the pain, through the tears, a fire deep within my soul ignited. No one, not even Elenwen, could ever threaten my family like that. Not without paying a price. Before she could stop me, strike me again, or make another threat, I reared my head back, sucking in a deep but painful breath, and screamed, "Yol, tor SHUL!"
                          
The force of my Thu'um sent Elenwen flying through the air in a blaze of fire, reducing her to a mass of screaming hysteria as she rolled around on the floor in an attempt to extinguish the flames. Her guards rushed to help her, grabbing blankets to beat the fire down. All the while, I watched, triumph surging through me as a smug grin crept on my face.
                          
When the last of the flames were put out, the guards helped Elenwen to her feet. Her robes had done a decent job of protecting her body; there were patches of fabric missing, but the robes themselves were more or less unharmed. However, the same could not be said for her face. Half of her hair had been singed off, the other half choppy and burnt. Her eyebrows were gone, and patches of skin around her eyes and mouth were charred from the intense flames. Her left eye was swollen shut from the wounds.
                          
Snarling, spitting, Elenwen stomped to the weapons racks and grabbed a cat-of-nine-tails: a whip with nine strands of knotted leather. In the knots were shards of metal and glass. I had never seen one in person, only hearing of them from a few of my clients from years ago.
                          
"Turn her around!" yelled Elenwen, her guards scrambling to obey. They unlocked my shackles, spinning me around so I faced the back wall of my cell. Once my manacles were in place, the lackeys retreated.
                          
"You dare assault the Thalmor Ambassador? You dare challenge me?!"
                          
"That was just a taste, a glimpse, of the fury I will unleash if you dare lay one of your disgusting fingers on either of my children." I grunted and shifted my hands in the shackles. "If you're going to whip me, hurry up and do it."
                          
The whips cracked a second before the pain struck me. My nerves burst into flames the moment the leather, glass, and iron came in contact with my body. Tears sprang to my eyes, a cry threatened to rip from my throat, and every muscle locked up. I swallowed down my scream, closing my eyes, and bore it. I thought of my family, my friends, everyone who was counting on me, and I held on. I would not be beaten into submission. Not by anyone, least of all by the Thalmor.
                          
I lost count of how many lashes Elenwen gave me; my back was soaked in blood and I could no longer feel the pain. My tunic was torn to shreds, ruined beyond repair. My head lolled forward as the whip was laid to my back for the last time. Despite the agony coursing through my body, I sagged with relief. It was over. For now.
                          
"Maybe that will teach you your place," panted Elenwen. I cast a weak glance over my shoulder to see her sweating heavily, dark circles around her pain-filled eyes. One of her guards took her by the arm, while the other snatched the whip from her. He shook the blood and gore off the leather strands while the other led Elenwen away, no doubt to be seen by a healer.
                          
"I'll be back soon, Dragonborn," she said as their footsteps retreated. The second guard put the whip in its proper place before joining his comrade in helping their boss walk away. "This isn't over. I will break you."
                          
As the door to the prison slammed shut, I closed my eyes and hung my head. Then and there, I vowed to hold on. I swore to myself that I would do whatever it took to fight. I would never give them what they wanted. Surrender was not an option. After everything we had built, all the losses we had suffered, I would not be the one to bring it crashing down.
                          
"Oh, gods..." I gasped, lifting my weak voice up to them in prayer, "hear me now and grant me strength. Give me the strength I need to endure. I cannot do this alone."
                          
With a final sigh, I resigned myself to the silence, resigned myself to waiting for my next round of punishment, hoping that with each new level of pain and suffering, my resolve would stay firm. Skyrim could not afford for me to lose my resolve. The entire province was counting on me.
                          
No pressure, right?