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I wasn’t awake, but I was conscious. That much was an improvement. Not being dead was a shock, but I couldn’t remember enough about what had happened to me to make that so much of a surprise. I was weak still. I couldn’t open my eyes. The only sensations I could effectively register were that of the rough surface beneath me and the smell of sweat. I began to open my eyes. The light was dim and flickering. A fire? And something dark beneath me. The sound of a large fire crackling and a low but powerful rush of air. The latter comes and goes regularly. Rhythmically. I emit a soft groan, and the sound from the air falters briefly, seemingly halted by my own little whimper. It resumes its regular ebb and flow as I drift back into unconsciousness.
When I regain consciousness I’m warm. Hot, even. Sweat has begun to blossom and drip from my bruised skin. The surface below me is smoother than before but much harder. The smell of sweat is my own now, no longer foreign. There’s cloth over me. Thick wool wicking the moisture from my body as it perspires. I open my eyes.
The fire in front of me is merely embers but the logs that had fed it, judging by their now apparently diminished state, were enormous, far larger than any timber someone should need for a fire. The embers were in a hearth. Except this hearth was at a scale exceeding any that should have existed. The most expansive and lavish estate in Mournhold wouldn’t be able to house a hearth like this. Although logically I knew it to be an exaggeration, I found myself thinking that the hearth could house Mournhold. I stood on the stone floor before the hearth, ash and dust brushed away in nearly a perfect circle around where I’d been resting.
I stand, pulling the cloth tight around my shoulders. One of my ankles aches with a sharp, piercing pain and I stagger instantly upon reaching my feet. I let out a hoarse gasp, falling back down to my knees. I look down at the bare skin of my leg. Bandages wrap up from my foot to my thigh. Strips of cloth as broad as my torso cling tight to my flesh and have soaked up traces of blood near my ankle. Broken, I assume. Badly, given the browning stains of old blood dotting the fabric.
I hear the creak of wood reverberating from across the room. Like a gale pushing the walls of a cabin to their breaking point.
“Don’t put weight on it, Sera.”
I flinch and gasp at the sound of the gravely, but booming, voice. My breath hitches in my throat and my heart pounds in my chest. I whip my head around towards the voice and fall back towards the embers. The looming figure in front of me stands dozens of feet above me, likely well over 100. I try to thrust myself away from him, but every panicked push puts weight on my bad ankle and elicits pained cries from me.
He rushes towards me and in the dim light I can see his pointed ears and dark skin. His eyes are a brownish red, like the old blood on my bandages. His dark hair stands nearly straight up in a mohawk, and I notice glints of gold on his ears and face. Small, delicate piercings.
“You’re going to hurt it more,” he says softly, one hand reaching towards me.
I squeeze my eyes tight and turn away from the approaching appendages, back nearly up to the edge of the hearth. The heat from the dying embers sends beads of sweat pouring down my back. I feel his fingers gently grasp my leg and straighten it out. He doesn’t touch my ankle.
“I can give you another potion in a few hours. The first one knocked you out cold.”
I open my eyes. My breath comes out shallow and quick. His is even and calm. I slowly look from his hand to his face. He looks concerned. He doesn’t look malicious or excited or curious. He just looks worried.
I sit tense and silent.
“Can you speak, sera? You don’t have to, I just want to know that you can understand me.”
I nod and gulp, shivering despite the heat. “Yes,” I whimper out. I sound pathetic.
He smiles. The lines around the corners of his mouth and eyes lead me to believe that he’s nearly middle aged. For a dunmer, whatever the number on that is it must be impressive. His smile disarms me.
“Good,” he says, sitting in front of me and crossing his legs. “The way I found you out there, I was convinced you wouldn’t wake up, let alone speak.”
I frown. How had he found me? What had happened to me?
“Do you remember anything about what happened to you?” His voice makes me jump. He gently brushes his finger along the top of my head, smoothing my hair down. His finger is rough but his touch is so light that it feels pleasant.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “You looked confused. I thought I’d ask.”
I think back. I only get glimpses of my past and they’re all vague. Sharp, stabbing pain. Tight clenched fists. Pressure on my body. Nothing past that. I shake my head.
“I found you on the shore in Seyda Neen. Had to fight off a mudcrab that was dragging you off.”
“Seyda Neen,” I think. “I’m not in Cyrodiil?” My frown deepens.
I don’t notice his hand gently cupping me until I’m already being lifted up. I’m wrenched from my memories, as vague as they are, and brought back to reality. I stare wide-eyed directly ahead of me, only blinking once I’m up at eye-level with him.
“You’re in Balmora now. Does any of this sound familiar to you?”
I stare ahead into his eyes until tears begin to slide down my cheeks. I tear my eyes away from his and break down. None of it sounds familiar. I’m in a strange country, I have no memories of how I got to this country, and I’m small enough to be held by an, apparently, normal man. But have I always been like this? I think back and can’t recall. I can’t even remember my own name. I know I’m from Cyrodiil. Except I don’t know that. I know that I’ve been there, that’s all. It’s overwhelming.
After a moment I feel him move but I can’t see what he’s doing through the haze of my tears. I feel something brush against my back once. And again. He gently strokes my back. He speaks softly to me, but I don’t listen to his words. The sound of his voice alone relaxes me. He isn’t going to hurt me. Whatever happened to me before, he won’t let it happen again. I don’t know how I know this, but I do.
I flinch again, softer this time, when I start paying attention to him again.
“I’m Malys. Can I call you anything other than sera?” I look up at him as he grins warmly.
I shake my head softly. “I don’t remember.”
His grin fades slightly. “That’s okay,” he says. His voice is quiet and even and kind. “If you remember, tell me. Alright?”
I don’t respond. I lean into his touch when he rubs my back again and think. I find comfort in the feeling that he’ll keep me safe.