Chapter Text
The wooden cart rocked unsteadily beneath them like restless waves in the sea. The prisoners wrists were bound so tightly together with coarse rope that only the most limited of wriggling movements of their digits were possible. The fibers of their bindings, as rigid as horse hair, pricked into their chapped skin, their shoulders grinding against each other with how closely packed the living chattel was.
Saahra’s pointed ears twitched. Her eyes felt dry, and weak with exhaustion. The road had been long and unendingly uncomfortable. The first leg of the journey had been characterized by her immense heartbreak. Being sold by her family was enough betrayal for many lifetimes, but how little they received for her was the worst wound of all. Her only fortune was that the black streaks in her fur that marked from the inner corners of her almond-shaped eyes down the curve of her snout hid the trail of wet tears streaming from her eyes.
At some point she stopped crying. It didn’t mean that her heartbreak as over, just that she had run out of tears to cry. The rhythmic clopping of the hoof steps ahead of the cart became a continuous beat in the background of her journey, a fragile aural tether holding to which she clung for the sake of her own sanity.
The weather was getting colder. Snowflakes sprinkled in the air around them, floating as weightless as fluttering ash. In Elswyr it never snowed, except on the peaks of very tall mountains. Saahra trembled against the feel of it. Glancing around the cart, she felt pity for the smooth skin prisoners who did not have the protection of fur, but especially the one Argonian whose scales were paling against the dropping temperature.
The foliage gradually changed from the low shrubbery and prickling cacti of her home climate into rugged greenery, with robust trees rising high above them, their leaves thick and sage in color. Saahra had heard talk of the snow-crusted land of Skyrim before, but she had never seen it, and nobody in her poor village had ever been there either. They hardly had enough money to survive in their homeland, let alone leave it. Those who did, did not come back.
The light in the sky was getting low again. Their breath plumed in thick clouds of white around their faces. Saahra’s nostrils were lined with painful cold on her snout. Across from her, the Argonian male hissed softly in pain.
The horse’s footsteps slowed to a stop, the wheels creaking beneath them. Discretely, Saahra looked ahead of the cart. It was difficult to see in the dying light, but the orange flame of the carriage driver’s torch illuminated just enough of the path ahead that the Khajiit could see they’d come to a halt in front of a towering stone gate and wooden door flanked by two armed guards. As they approached the driver, Saahra could see they were Nordish men clothed in fur armor.
“State your business,” ordered one. A steel longsword was sheathed on his waist.
“Product for the Jarl,” answered the driver. Even his voice bore the weariness of their journey.
As the guards walked around the bed of the cart, Saahra dropped her gaze to the floor. She heard the shuffling of their armor and the crunch of the snow beneath their boots. The flickering light grew around them as their torches came closer, the heat from the flames a welcome and delicious sensation, and Saahra could have cried when the warmth receded as the two men walked back towards the gate.
A heavy chain rattled as the tall door creaked open, the driver cracking the reigns and sending the horses forward and into the Nordish settlement.
The Khajiit could not help examine the inside of the foreign town. The dwellings were all made of stone with thatched roofs, and wood-fenced enclosures contained poultry, sheep, and even cattle. In the center of the city was a large lake, its surface hardened with ice. The entire settlement struck her as highly exotic, the conceptual opposite to the arid poverty of her previous life.
“Curiosssssity killed the cat, you know,” hissed the Argonian across from her.
Saahra was taken aback by the interjection. It was the first time any of them had spoken in days.
“We are as good as dead anyway,” she replied.
The cart stopped abruptly. Ahead of them, the driver stepped down from his seat and rounded the carriage of bound prisoners.
“Alright, out you go, the lot of you,” called the man, another Nord.
Daisy chained together, the prisoners leapt from the back of the carriage and onto the freezing ground. The soil was rock hard beneath their naked feet and as cold as ice. The sensitive pads of Saahra’s paws ached from the frigid temperature of it. The driver lead the group of slaves up the road and into the castle. This time, Saahra was afraid look up at the structure. It was the tallest thing she had ever seen, taller than the far away mountains of Elswyr. It loomed over the enslaved prisoners like a black and hungry monster, the thick wooden door its evil mouth.
The inside of the castle was dimly lit along its perimeter by flaming torches. Flanked on either side by twin spiraling staircases, the Jarl sat on his carved wooden throne. Reclined, almost lazy, he twisted a gleaming scepter between his fingers. In the deep orange light, Saahra could not tell if it was bronze or gold, just that the metal was precious.
Expensive, she thought.
The slave driver lowered his knee, his head bowed.
“Sire,” he greeted.
“Aye?”
The Jarl sounded almost bored. Saahra could hardly make out his features. The garments on his body seemed a blend of fine furs, mahogany ticked with black. The front of his robe was open, his chest exposed in a loose, open V.
He continued, “The bodies you asked for, My Liege.”
The Jarl paused to sigh then replied, “You can raise your head, Bedri, I won’t bite.”
The driver’s posture relaxed as the Lord rose to his feet, swaying his body from side to side as he stretched his arms above his head. He moved as though he was waking, slowly, from a deep and comfortable sleep that he would rather return to. Cautiously looking up from below her furry brow, Saahra could see that the Jarl’s body was lean, his muscles firm beneath his unscarred skin.
Young, she thought. Then, bitterly, And spoiled.
Those furs likely cost more than her family could earn in five years-- more, maybe.
Maybe they were made from Khajiit. Maybe he would make a coat out of her.
Anger boiled like a cauldron inside her, rose like steam into the backs of her eyes, and transmuted into tears. She clenched her teeth, her jaw muscles flexing, and let them stream silently down the darkened accent of her snout.
“Any females?” the Jarl asked, the spaces between his vertebrae popping as he twisted his back awake.
The driver answered, “Aye, 3. And 3 males.”
“And what did you pay for them?”
“10 gold for the females, 15 for the males.”
The Jarl’s heavy coat swung around his calves as he moved.
“So costly,” he replied, the words drawn and almost melodic, like he was not taking the matter as seriously as he could have.
The carelessness of it made the tears burn in Saahra’s eyes. Her life had cost so little, feeding her family for maybe a month, and this cheap bastard still complained of the meager gold he had spent.
A whimper trembled in her throat, escaping her teeth. The sound of it echoed against the stone walls, amplified by the cavernous space of the great hall. Her paw flew to her mouth as every set of eyes turned towards her.
“Silence, she-beast!” Bedri snarled.
Saahra could not help the sobs that shook her body, her narrow shoulders trembling as her despair ravaged her.
With panic lining his voice, the driver hissed, “My deepest apologies, M’lord, the bitch has not yet learned her place. I said silence--!”
“Now, now, Bedri,” the Jarl interjected, waving his hand in a lazy dismissive gesture. “Have some compassion, why don’t you? The poor thing has been through a lot. Haven’t you?”
Saahra did not answer. Sorrow filled her mouth like a fistful of cotton. She continued to sob, her tears trailing to the end of her black nose and falling fat and heavy onto her bound wrists.
The Jarl approached her slowly, the flesh of his naked feet slapping against the hard stone floor. The sound of it caused her to realize vaguely that the Lord was not wearing any foot coverings. She thought to herself that the Nords must have been so acclimated to the cold that even their bare feet did not feel the pain of it.
A hand touched under her chin, the Jarl’s index finger gently lifting her face so that their gazes met. One of his guards approached with the torch, the flame illuminating each to the other for the first time.
She was right to have guessed that he was young. He could not have been much older than his 25th summer. In her village, the High Priest and Priestesses were always crones with several generations already beneath them, and she had thought the same would be true everywhere else. Even in the harsh light of torch, which created deep dark shadows around his smooth face, she could see that his eyes were bright, the color of an icy sea, and he bore no sign of having been wounded in battle. He was practically a kitten!
The Lord looked down the length of her snout and into her large, emerald eyes. Tilting his head, he inspected her face, his thumb gently lifting the fleshy fold of her mouth so that he could look at her long front teeth.
“Hmm,” he mused. “A Khajiit female...wherever did you find such a creature, Bedri?”
“The edge of Elswyr,” the driver answered, his tone irritated as though disappointed in his master’s gentle interest.
The young Jarl’s touch moved from her jaw to the collar of her top garment, feeling the rough texture between his fingers, disceretly lifting the edge so that he could examine the fur of her chest, the place where her modest breasts curved outwards and brushed the coarse fabric.
The Nord withdrew his hand, sunk into his coat, and withdrew it, holding a metal dagger. The torchlight gleamed on the blade like liquid. Saahra gasped, certain her would puncture her, but the weapon instead slid beneath the bindings on her wrist, lifted, and cut them.
Saahra looked down at her paws, free for the first time in days, then back up at the Jarl.
Bedri stammered, “My Liege—”
The Jarl ignored him.
He ordered, “Guards, please take this Khajiit to the bathing chamber. Have the servants wash and cloth her, then bring her to my quarters. Take the females to the kitchen and have the servants instruct them on their duties, and take the males to where the laborers rest.”
“Yes, M’lord,” answered the guards.
The young ruler turned away from her and sauntered back to his throne. As he passed by the driver, he gave the man a grateful pat on the shoulder with his palm. Bedri’s face was stalled in an expression of surprise.
“A fine retrieval, Bedri,” the Jarl said, flopping himself back down in his seat. “I shall have to send you on every one of my errands!”
A guard nudged her in the ribs with the hilt of his sword, urging her towards another part of the castle. The driver still had the same look on his face when she turned away.
Warm water rushed down Saahra’s back and over her shoulders. She shuddered, both at the surprise and at the pleasure of it-- it was warm. For the first time in many days, she was warm.
The water shimmered and swirled with fragrant oils in the soft yellow candlelight of the washing room. Steam rose into her nostrils, soothing the dry and cracked passages. Her pointed ears twitched reflexively, droplets of water flicking onto the edges of the basin.
“Your ears, are they punctured?” asked the female servant, a Redguard.
Her arms crossed over her chest, modest, Saahra answered, “Y-yes...twice on each side.”
From behind her, the second servant, another female and an Argonian this time, gingerly slipped gold hoops through the old openings in the Khajiit’s ears. She could hear them jangling softly in her peripheral.
On the opposite end of the basin, the Redguard sunk a cloth into the warm water, squeezed out the excess, and offered it to Saahra.
“Wash yourself with this,” she said. “In your nether regions, as well.”
She hesitated, then took it.
As she ran the sudsy cloth over her fur, she asked, “What is the meaning of all this?”
“The Jarl likes you,” the Redguard said. “He must see potential in you.”
Swallowing, she asked, “Potential?”
The Argonian woman hissed, “Wassssshhhh yourself, my dear. You hairy types catch such a scent on the road.”
In a better circumstance, Saahra might have been offended. But her heart was pounding like a death drum, fear of her fate looming over her like a reaper.
She washed around her breasts, beneath her arms, and between her thighs. When she was finished, the two servants toweled her until her sandy-colored fur was light and fluffy on her body. They adorned her in a fine robe, an eggplant-colored garment whose fibers shifted to a royal blue in the light, and lead her to the King’s bedchambers.
The bed itself was so large that 5 people could have laid on it, with room for space in between. Sitting in the center of it, her back propped up by half a dozen ornate pillows, Saahra felt that she was sitting on a cloudy expanse somewhere in the heavens. The absence of sleep on her journey crept up on her markedly now, and despite her anxieties she nearly fell asleep where she waited.
On the far end of the room, the metal hinges of the door creaked, startling her back to awareness. She sat up on her knees, the bed coverings so thick that she sank down into them, her thick tail curled tight around the front of her body.
Her fear must have shown on her face, because the Jarl said, “Worry not, it’s only me.”
Taking a shaky breath, Saahra noticed that her ears were pressed down flat against her skull and she willed them to stand upright again.
The Jarl moved almost dance-like towards the bed, swaying as if to his own imaginary music. He had traded his heavy fur regalia for a thinner, though still very fine, emerald-color night robe. As he approached, his slender chest and lean calves exposed by the garment, Saahra could see that it was embroidered with gold thread, delicate illustrations of serpents winding around the fabric.
Saahra watched as the King reached the end of the bed, spun on the ball of his foot, and flopped onto the bedding. The fluffy blankets pillowed up around him, rising like dough on either side of his torso. She felt taken aback by his playfulness. She had expected him to be more stoic.
“You must feel much better after your bath,” he said, tilting his head back to look at her upside-down.
The Khajiit blinked, her mouth feeling wired shut, then nodded in response.
He smiled up at her, the expression taking her by surprise with how genuine it seemed, then flipped himself over onto his front.
He crawled a few paces towards her. “You must be hungry, ah...what did you say you are called again?”
“Saahra.”
“Saahra,” he repeated, saying the name slowly, like he was savoring it. Tilting his head, his long hair hanging around his face, he added, “Is this common for a Khajiit name?”
“Yes,” she answered. Then, “Your Highness.”
The young man smiled, then laughed in amusement. Saahra could see now that his canine teeth were pointed, much less than a Khajiit of course, but defined and sharp for a Nord. There was something attractive about them.
“Please, Saahra,” he corrected with a dismissive wave. “You are free to call me by my holy name, Ingmar.”
Taking a slow breath, she replied, “Yes, Ingmar.”
He shimmied forward another few paces on the bed, closing the gap between them further.
“But am I right?”
“About what, Your High-- I mean, Ingmar?”
Grinning, he said, “That you are hungry.”
Betraying her, Saahra’s empty stomach groaned. The sound embarrassed her and she averted her gaze.
Ingmar made an amused sound, a muffled laugh held behind his teeth. He barrel rolled over to the wooden nightstand, his emerald gown flowing open over his chest and belly, a flash of ginger pubic hair peering out from his robe, and plucked a tiny silver bell from its surface. The thin metallic sound jingled through the room, sparkling like a shooting star.
Apprehension tensed in her stomach and Ingmar must have sensed this because he said, “Relax, my darling, this is the good part.”
The heavy wooden doors swung open and a line of servants carrying silver trays entered the room. Candlelight slid across the convex metal covers, mercurial.
The servants placed the trays on the end of the bed, so numerous that it colonized nearly the entire final third of it, and removed the lids to reveal a feast so great and varied that Saahra thought it had to have been a mistake. This was a feast so grand that it eclipsed anything she had seen even on the most sacred holy days, even meals intended for her entire household.
Bread so fresh that steam plumed behind the covering as it was pulled away, with butter-- real butter-- and white cheese and jam; fresh fruit, as vibrant as jewels, soup with vegetables and meat; carved and roasted beast, potatoes, and wine.
Saahra didn’t think she’d ever had real wine before. She had tasted very diluted dredgings before and they had been transported so far on the back of a horse that the sun had baked it in its wooden cask and turned it sour. The Jarl picked up the long, heavy bottle and poured it into a glass goblet, nearly filling it to the top.
Passing it over to her, he cheered, “To you, my darling!”
Stammering, the goblet in her paws, she said, “I-- I don’t know that I can…”
Placing his hand reassuringly on her thigh, he interjected, “You are too modest. And too shy! A few goblets of wine should fix that for us. Please, drink!”
Saahra brought the drink to her mouth. The wine was as red as a ruby and glimmered like fresh blood. She tasted it, expecting to bristle against the taste, but was surprised instead by how velvety and rich it was. She took another drink, a bigger one this time, and gulped it down audibly.
The Lord was smiling. This clearly pleased him.
“It’s excellent, isn’t it?” he asked. “It’s imported from the Imperial City. Have you ever been to Cyrodiil before?”
Behind the rim of the goblet, Saahra shook her head. This right here was the farthest she’d even been from home.
Twirling his long index finger in the fur of her thigh, he continued, “There is a Dark Elf there who produces just the most fantastic drink you’ve ever heard of, I won’t go to anyone else. Please eat, darling, or that wine alone will sour your stomach.”
There must have been some truth to this, because Saahra was already feeling the heady effects of the drink. Her skull felt light and breezy, her middle blooming with warmth. She cautiously tore a nodule of bread from the loaf and nibbled on its edge with her front teeth. Instantly her mouth flooded with saliva, her eyes practically rolling as the crust flaked into her mouth.
“You must have butter with that dear,” the Jarl implored, pointing to the pale yellow form on the plate. It was then that Saahra noticed that the butter had been molded into the shape of a lamb. With a small rounded blade she carved off a portion of the lamb’s rump and spread it onto her bread.
“This is...very kind of you,” she said. The butter melted in her mouth and slid down her throat where it landed in her wine-filled stomach like a stone dropped into a lake. The presence of food after so many days without it seemed to awaken her hunger. She felt the need rising in her middle like a groggy animal. The back of her teeth began to yearn.
As she scooped jelly onto her bread, Ingmar replied, “It’s as much for me as it is for you. I have a specific...taste in my females.”
The sweetness of the jelly was almost electrifying. She swallowed it down, more quickly now, and took another piece of bread.
“What do you mean?” she asked, raising her goblet to her snout.
Ingmar’s touch floated to her tail, turning it gently between his fingers.
He explained, “I like a...feminine softness. Which you have some of, to be sure...but you could have more of. Fortunately, this is easy to acquire. No magic needed! I have never been any good at magic.”
Saahra tried the cheese. She almost moaned aloud. It was sweet and nutty and so delicious. She paired it with the jam, and the butter, all together on the bread. She may have actually moaned a little this time.
Giving her hip a light, painless pinch, the Jarl said, “This, for example, could be much softer. I like when it pillows out. And this…”
His slender hand slid over her midsection, the tight, flat plane of her belly.
“This looks best when it is very round. Very round.”
Swallowing, Saahra paused for a moment. When she had gathered her thoughts enough, she asked, “You want me to...get fatter?”
There was a moment where the Jarl simply smiled, almost as if he was embarrassed to answer, then he broke the silence with a laugh.
“Yes, I suppose you could say that! Strange, isn’t it? But not so strange, if one thinks about it. The fattest hogs and heifers win the prize, don’t they? And the fatter beasts bear the largest young. No?”
She nodded, took another sip of wine. Her head felt floaty, like it was hovering a few good centimeters away from her neck and shoulders.
She answered, “I...yes, I suppose that is true.”
Spearing a roasted potato with a fork, the Jarl sunk his teeth into its crispy flesh, thick rivulets of white steam pouring from the open skin. He lifted the bitten spud to her mouth and after a blink of hesitation, she ate it right off the utensil.
“Good girl,” he praised. “Now, enough talk. Let us enjoy.”