Chapter Text
There is something oddly reassuring about being contained inside a cell. Underneath the Imperial City’s streets, she can hear the faint shuffling of feet, accompanied by the soft rhythmic rain that comes from the runny sewers, putrid stench rising into the air like puffs of smoke amidst the shuddering light of Sun’s Dawn that filters through the grates above her. Aside from the smell, it’s comforting, and even then, she considers herself to be quite fortunate it isn’t worse.
Her hand slips into the pocket of her trousers, finger skimming over the cool body of a single lock pick, quick at first before she draws it out longer, trying to discern if it’s really there. She doesn’t know if the guards had been careless or if they were really trying to let her free, given her history with lock picks. There’s only one barred gate keeping her from feeling Cyrodiil’s fresh air again, but Amelie merely chuckles before she drops the pick back into her pocket safely, patting it as though bidding a farewell.
It should be a tempting offer, and it still is, but Amelie can’t be bothered, not when she’s come to terms with the consequences of her actions; she always had. Besides, she thinks, my cell has no roof. I should be able to satiate my daily dose of nostalgia quite fine.
Though she imagines it might have been a frightful prospect once, death brings her no harm, now.
Amelie leans back against the slick, moss-covered walls, moisture cooling her skin and she hums in content, closing her eyes to listen to the cadence of the precipitation that falls from the ceilings. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven and she drums her fingers against her thigh to its beat, nodding her head slightly. She feels right at -
“Pale skin, snotty expression. You’re a Breton!”
-home. I spoke too fast, it seems.
She lets her vision return as she pushes herself of the wall, grunting underneath her breath before she shuffles to the gate, grasping the bar to pull her closer. She presses her face to the door, squinting for a brief moment, then taking two steps back, raising a brow as she does.
He’s grinning, but the delirium in his eyes, the creases on the edges of his lips, they’re a sure fire indication that he’s either well-earned his jail sentence, or he’s been hitting the skooma a few hours beforehand. Neither are good signs. Amelie turns her back on him, deciding it best that she stay well away from him, but he seems persistent, feet shuffling across the wet stones as the rattling of metal resounds through the hallway.
She sucks in a breath deeply, surprised, back tensing before she relaxes after her third heartbeat, brows furrowing. Don’t turn to him, don’t turn, don’t - and she turns just as his grin widens, as though it’s enough to crack his face in two (she swears she can see the crevices splitting his flesh where sunlight falls).
“The masters of magicka, right?” he questions, the octaves of his giggle afterwards a shrill thrill, causing her to cast a sideways glance and an errant curse. She ignores him, yet he seems to find it amusing to continue despite the silence. “What a lie, what a lie. You -“ his voice dangerously close to breaking, bars rattling as he rams his body against the gate. She jolts, turning to face him, watching his eyes widen when he says, “you’re nothing but a stuck-up harlot with cheap parlour tricks.”
The Dunmer’s chest quivers, legs shaking with excitement and mania. Amelie balls her hands into fists, trying to restrain the snarl that threatens to break, the growl that sits just below her throat escaping through gritted teeth. At least I’m still alive; that’s an achievement most can’t say they have, she nearly retorts.
“Go ahead, try your magicka in here. Let’s see you make those bars disappear,” he taunts, daring her, his words a smug edge. Narrowing her eyes, she strides to the gates, hands gripping the bars as she smirks, anger raging underneath and making all the hairs on her skin prick. If he so delights in trying her patience, he’d likely delight in seeing it run out, and oh, how it has left her.
“You really want me to practice here, churl?” she asks, her voice dangerous and cutting, and, for a brief moment, he seems genuinely taken aback, the hold on the bars limp before he tightens his hold and scoffs. Oh. “Suit yourself, then,” she shrugs offhandedly, loosening her grip on the gate, letting her hand drop to her side as magicka condenses on her open palm. If she’s dying, she’d at least like to take one bastard down with her. The magic grows hotter, brighter, until it combusts and when it does, Amelie thrusts her hand through the spaces in between as a fireball erupts, smouldering the air into embers as it snaps and crackles. The man across her flinches with an unceremonious yelp, immediately backing up, water splashing underneath bare feet and there is nothing but delight that wells up inside her, her toes curling. Yes. “‘The masters of magicka.’ Shall we put that to test, ashborn scum?”
At her words, the flames grow brighter, tongues flickering, sputtering for a moment before it roars as she wills her magicka to flow to the centre of her palm. She regrets, at that moment, that she hadn’t really taught herself how to form ice spikes, because that would be infinitely more useful against him than fire, given their race’s natural resistance, but she supposes that if she throws it to the bars, let it heat, he’d still get a nasty enough burn when he comes to contact.
Amelie draws her arm back while she aims, some twisted sort of satisfaction gnawing the back of her neck, ready to let the ball loose until heavy footfalls bear down. She tenses, still for a moment before she grunts, pulling her hand to her side, snuffing the fire as it passes between bars. She almost wishes she’d just charred him there as he wastes no time going to the gate, balance wobbling, snickering. “No? What’s the matter? Not so powerful now, are you Breton? You’re not leaving this prison ’til they throw your body in the lake,” he half-screams. “Oh, that’s right. You’re going to die in here, Breton! You’re going to -“
Oh, for the love of -
“Quiet, churl!” she snaps at him, teeth gnashing together, her voice vicious as she silences him halfway, stunning him. The steps above are hurried, quick claps of thunder that blanket hushed voices (or so she makes out), growing louder with each second. Too many for a patrol, too little for a squadron, so who are -
“You hear that?” he cuts her train of thought with a delirious laugh, pointing his finger up, tilting his head to the side as though he were catching their conspiracies. She takes a step backwards he starts to convulse, unnerved. “Oh, oh, ohhh,” he crones, “they’re coming, they’re coming! Coming for you!”
He howls, body wracked with convulsions as he brings his face against the bars, eyeing her with red irises, his giggles uncontrollable. Divines, out of everyone, why - and Amelie takes another step back, breathing a little uneven as his composure crumbles, drowning whatever thoughts she has, or would’ve, an uncomfortable chill settling in her gut.
She can do nothing but wait, now.