Hi!!! This is my first story, inspired by a Skyrim session with too many pickpocketings gone bad... It's pretty much unfinished, but I'll continue if you guys think it's alright! Please tell me what you think!! ;*
*****
Njall served duty at the dungeon every Morndas, and these were not his best days. The nights that preceded such days were often filled with anger and frustration - even more so since his wife Finna had taken to the Cloud District, on the pretext of running errands, and did not reappear until well into the night.
Njall spoke to his friend, Joric, about Finna's comings and goings.
"She drives me insane," he'd explained, "and - by the Nine! - it wouldn't be as bad if we at least we fucked some when she comes back, but she's cold as ice."
"I'll tell ya this, Njall - if someone's liftin' your wife's skirt at night, it certainly ain't me," assured him Joric.
"I never suspected you, my friend - and anyway her bein' about has turned.. queer."
"Queer?"
"Queer, as in... y'know, queer," Njall pressed.
"Oh," Joric understood. "Queer like...?"
"Aye, like that woman Aela."
"Oh, Njall, I really don't think yer Finna would -"
"How's a man supposed to know?!" Njall cried out.
"Every word that escapes my wife's mouth is a reproach, or some sorta excuse - not for what you're thinkin', Joric, but for anything really -, and I feel like I sleep with a bleedin' statue everynight."
This was why Njall did not love his duty on Morndas, for his body was rest-deprived and unsatisfied, and his mind kept picking at the same bone over and over: what'd his wife be doing at the time? Whom with? And what tortured him most - why?
Today, however, was bound to be different. And here's why.
*****
Since he'd arrived at the barracks that morning, Njall had heard his fellows talk of an addition to the dungeon - a particular Nord woman who'd caused a terrible ruckus all the way in Solitude, and had been brought to Dragonsreach for containment until she could be sent to Cyrodiil, and there be thoroughly tried.
When he inquired, Njall was told the woman's unlikely story, and it went something like this. Apparently, the woman - who'd refused to yield her name, and was called simply Prisoner - had been caught with others' property inside the Blue Palace, in Solitude, and the guard had been summoned. None could explain what followed, but as soon as the guard was called and her detainer had turned his back on her, she cast a spell on him and sent him flying against the wall. The poor man tore a few stones off the wall, and so savage was the blow that he died in an instant.
Not content with murdering him, the crazed woman made herself at home in the room she'd been captured in; propping tables against doors, gathering whatever could be used as a weapon, barricading herself in the personal quarters of Jarl Elisif. A dozen guards were summoned then and many were murdered, as viciously as by a rabid beast, by the insane woman. It was not until two brave soldiers dared enter through the room's windows - shattering them first with stones from outside - that the woman could at last be overpowered.
She'd been quiet, ever since, in her cell at Dragonsreach unless someone mentioned her or called out to her. Then she'd answer with either no answer at all, an outright-preposterous comment regarding the guards' mothers ("all of them!") or a flippant expression that gathered cheers from all the men in the room.
Njall hadn't yet seen this woman, but it seemed to him that too great of a mess was being made out of her. What kind of person would lock herself up in the Jarl's residence and, avoiding capture, murder half a dozen soldiers before being overcome by their numbers? A lunatic is what she was - not a terrorist or a war-criminal, an agent of the Stormcloaks as they termed her. What purpose would it serve them?
He passed by her cell, and took a moment to study her. She was not the image of insanity - not, at least, by nature. She had a strong and chiseled face, with a wide nose and thick lips; her eyes were like two ambers spitting fire onto all she looked at, and under each eye ran a thick line of black war-paint, worn and made faint by time; and her copper hair she kept tied behind her head in a ponytail.
There was something - something to her eyes, and the way she rested her look on things. She looked calculating - but not cold: rather, as a caged beast weighing every small detail in her enviroment to aid her escape. Njall saw also irritation and displeasure: she knew as well as he did that there was no escape from the dungeons of Dragonsreach.
*****
Honmund was a good soldier and was beloved by his fellows: but he was not a good griever.
"Just let me get at 'er," he raved about the Prisoner, "and I'll make her wish she'd been killed by the boys at Solitude!"
It had so happened that Honmund's cousin, Gunmar, had been there the day the Prisoner was captured. The both of them used to work in Solitude's guard-force, until Honmund was sent south to Whiterun, along with countless other soldiers, to account for the newborn dragon menace. All understood Honmund: he felt he should have been there to protect his cousin, or at the least to die at arms by his side. But the Divines would not have it so, and this drove Honmund mad with revenge.
"Why - why'd she deserve a trial, huh? She killed seven people - all of 'em good men, with families to feed and widows mournin' 'em now! Why's she get so much longer to live than she deserves? Do them Thalmor want an example made outta her? To Oblivion with them! Our fallen comrades are example enough - she oughtta been gutted on the spot!"
Each word he spoke brought more and more to agree with him. Didn't her vicious crimes deserve an equally vicious punishment? Would their dead go unavenged - would they live in Sovngarde knowing no justice was done to them on Earth?
Njall passed by the woman's cell again. She had her back turned to him, and seemed intent on prying the stones out of the wall with her eyesight - so Njall let her be, for a time. Then he grew impatient, or maybe bored - or both. Taking out a small dagger, he rattled the bars of the cell and she turned her head, an expression of annoyance marking her face.
"Hey," Njall called, "is what they say true? Did ya really do that to all those men?"
She didn't answer for a while. She stood up, and leaned against the wall. Against his own will, Njall's throat went dry for an instant when he saw the woman's nipples poking through her thin yarn shirt. Then she crossed her arms over her chest, and Njall regained his self.
"What'd they say 'bout me, soldier?" the woman asked. She held her brow tall and her voice was coarse.
